The Conqueror's Strike
The conqueror stood at the edge of the frozen plains, his gaze fixed on the stronghold of Laufey in the distance. The time had come to show the Jotuns that no matter how far they had fallen, they were still nothing compared to him. His shadow army had already begun their first wave of strikes, picking apart the Jotun scouts with cold precision. Now, it was time to make his presence known.
"Move."
The order was simple, but it carried the weight of a thousand lives, a thousand victories to come. The ground shook as his army advanced, their boots crushing the frozen earth beneath them. Igris, Beru, and Bellion had already begun their work—each one an extension of his will, each one a weapon in his hand.
Igris led the charge, his crimson armor gleaming like blood under the pale light of the Jotunheim sky. He was a living fortress, his sword an unstoppable force as it cleaved through the Jotuns with ruthless efficiency. The frost giants fell before him, their massive forms crumpling under the weight of his strikes.
Beru, ever the chaotic force, tore through the ranks with abandon. His wings beat the air, sending shockwaves through the battlefield as he wove through the Jotuns with a flurry of strikes. His hunger for destruction was matched only by his loyalty to the conqueror, and it showed in every strike, every kill.
Bellion moved with a calculating precision, gathering the scattered Jotun tribes and bringing them under his sway. He knew the value of information, of alliances. Every fragment of power that could be bent to their cause was worth collecting. No Jotun would be left standing, but those who could be useful would find themselves serving the conqueror's vision.
And through it all, the conqueror stood at the center of the storm, watching as his generals tore through the battlefield. His shadows moved in harmony, following his every command. There was no need for him to lift a finger. His army did the work for him.
The Final Approach
The battle was nearing its climax. Laufey's stronghold was within striking distance now, and the conqueror's army was unstoppable. His shadow soldiers had cleaved through the Jotuns with ease, but the stronghold itself remained silent. The Jotuns, realizing that their kingdom was falling, began to retreat to the fortress, clinging to whatever power they could muster.
The conqueror watched it all unfold, his smirk unwavering. He could feel the tension building—an electricity in the air, a sign that this was no longer just a battle for land. This was about to become something greater.
He was about to make his move.
"Igris." His voice was low, yet carried the weight of a king's command. "We advance."
With those two words, the battlefield exploded into motion. Igris led the charge once more, his sword raised high as he led his forces to the gates of the stronghold. The gates groaned under the weight of his strike, the walls of Laufey's fortress crumbling as his shadow army surged forward.
The time for subtlety was over. The conqueror would claim Jotunheim, and soon, the rest of this world would follow.