Snow lay thick upon the world. It blanketed the ridges and valleys in silence, smothering every color until only white and gray remained. The sky was heavy, swollen with iron-dark clouds, as though the heavens themselves resented the passage of the Crimson Dominion. And still, they marched.
Boots sank into frost. Spears glinted with a red sheen. Standards of crimson light, conjured by mage battalions, fluttered unnaturally in the wind. The army stretched far across the frozen vale, an endless serpent of men, steel, and hunger, winding its way toward the Frostbound Kingdom of Kaerdrith.
But Kaerdrith would not fall first. Five duchies stood like gates before it, proud rulers who had clung to their independence for generations. Now, they would be the stepping stones.
At the head of the column, Seliora rode astride a black steed clad in crimson barding. She wore no crown, yet none mistook her for anything but a monarch. Her gaze was sharp as a blade's edge, cutting through soldiers and captains alike. Where she looked, silence followed. Where she spoke, obedience surged like instinct.
Behind her, the men muttered among themselves.
"How many kingdoms has it been now? Elyndral… three small ones… Verdant Vale soon…"
"And now frostbound lands. Gods curse it, the cold alone will kill us before the dukes do."
"Don't speak weakness. Didn't you hear the princess? Rest is for the conquered."
Their laughter was brittle, born of exhaustion, carried like embers in the frozen air. Seliora heard them. She let them speak until the murmurs grew bold. Then she reined her steed to a halt, turning her gaze back over the ranks. Her voice cut clean, low, merciless.
"You are tired. Good. The Dominion has no need for men who long for comfort. We march until conquest is complete. Rest comes only for the dead. Choose wisely which fate you prefer."
The men straightened. Not another whisper followed.
From the jagged cliffs of Ironfang Hold, the first duke made his stand. Vorenn Kaelgor was young and reckless, a wolf who believed steel alone could solve all problems. When the Dominion banners appeared beyond his cliffs, he sounded his horns and unleashed his warriors. They poured down the frozen slopes like an avalanche, roaring, shields locked, axes raised.
For a moment, the air trembled with their fury. Dominion soldiers staggered as the first wave struck, the clash of iron echoing through the canyons. Seliora did not move. From her steed, she watched the chaos with faint amusement.
Then a shadow slipped through the melee. The Hollow Dagger moved like flowing ink, sliding between warriors unseen, untouched. A single step carried her across walls. A single breath carried her through locked gates.
Inside Vorenn's hall, the young duke roared his defiance, fists slamming the table, rattling the blades of his captains. "We'll drive them back into the sea! Dominion dogs! They bleed as easily as we do!"
He never saw the figure at his side. A whisper of steel. A spray of red across frost. His words ended in a gurgle, his body collapsing over the table, staining his maps with blood. His captains froze, and the assassin melted into shadow.
Outside, Dominion horns sounded. The Ironfang line crumbled. Seliora, hearing the cries of panic, whispered with a smile, "Pride is the easiest prey."
The next duchy fell without a battle. Maeryn Veyla lowered her raven banners at once and welcomed the Dominion with feigned humility, her tongue sharp as honey, her words coiling like smoke. "I see where the wind blows," she said, bowing low before Seliora. "Why spill blood when wisdom can save lives? My lands are yours, Princess, if only you grant me a place beside your throne."
Her smile lingered too long. Her bow was too shallow.
Seliora lifted her hand, and crimson glyphs flared into the air, a circle of blood unraveling beneath the duchess's feet. Maeryn's guards staggered, their eyes clouding as though their veins were seized by invisible threads. One by one, they dropped their weapons and turned their blades toward their own lady.
The duchess's composure shattered. She stepped back, voice rising in terror. "Wait—what is this sorcery—"
Seliora's voice was velvet, cruel as a dagger's kiss. "Submission is not spoken, Duchess. Submission is lived. You may keep your tongue, if you can silence it."
Maeryn's mouth trembled. She said nothing more. The ravens on her banners fluttered in the frostwind, as though mocking her silence.
The third conquest bled slower. Duke Halvren Thrynn was no fool, nor a coward. His hall stood scarred by a hundred battles, its gates plated with shields taken from fallen foes. The old wolf awaited them with his men, unflinching, his white beard stiff with frost.
Seliora offered terms once. He spat on the snow.
"Crimson whores. You think frost yields to fire? I was breaking swords when your fathers were still boys."
Seliora did not rise to the insult. She merely gestured. The Hollow Dagger stepped forth, walking openly, silent, masked, her presence as unnatural as the void. Every man in the hall reached for his blade, yet none could touch her.
Halvren's eyes narrowed. He did not retreat. "You send a what...masked face very beautiful and alluring...to kill me? Come, then. I'll die as I lived, with teeth bared.What a perfect weapon Dominionhas created! Truly you are a monster . But you aren't the true monarch. Retribution will come. Just wait and it won't be long till you all die with the most painful death." He raised his axe. She slit his throat before it could fall.
The old wolf crumpled, blood soaking into snow at his hall's gates. His men faltered, eyes wide, and in that single heartbeat of hesitation, Dominion swept through them. Seliora spoke only one line as she passed the fallen duke: "Even the strongest howl fades when the throat is cut."
That night, Dominion soldiers sat around their frozen campfires. Flames cracked against the frost, casting long shadows on weary faces. They passed skins of bitter liquor, laughing too loudly, whispering too softly.
"Three dukes in one march…"
"And two more to go before Kaerdrith itself."
"By the gods, will it never end?"
Their words carried both pride and exhaustion. For every conquest fed their bellies, but also hollowed their hearts. Seliora passed among them once. Her gaze fell on those who slouched, on those whose voices trembled. She smiled thinly. "Dominion does not march for peace. It marches because only the ruthless endure."
No one spoke after that.
The Hollow Dagger stood in her shadow, silent as always. She felt none of the warmth of the fire, none of the weight of victory. And yet, when she heard the soldiers' tired voices, something faint stirred—like a crack in a frozen lake. A grief without name. A memory without face. But it passed, and she returned to stillness, as she always did.
The Dominion did not rest. Three dukes had fallen. Two remained. The Frostbound Gates were breaking.