Thyra

The Tundra appeared at one of the Icewarden’s fortresses, a little ball of fluff shivering outside the gates. In those long-ago days, the Gaolers tended to look down on their smaller cousins, and normally they would have turned this one away. But he bore the marks of battle, and his eyes were dark with memories seared so deeply into his mind, even a Tundra couldn’t forget them. The Gaolers listened to his tremulous mumbles and then took him inside.

“Silas,” he whispered to them. “My name is...Silas.”

He looked round at the fortress, and his eyes cleared somewhat. He was an exalted warrior, after all. Despite the horrors he had faced, he would not break down so easily. Not after he had come this far. Not after what he had seen.

The rest of the Icefield needed to know.

“The Icewarden. I would speak...with our god....”

The Fortress of Ends was some distance from the outpost, and the Gaolers escorted Silas there. It took them some days to make the journey, and they noticed how Silas barely slept, how he always kept his eyes fixed on the darkest points of the horizon, wincing when auroras crackled through the sky.

Finally, he was brought into the Fortress of Ends. Down icy halls he went, till he could go no further: a wall of translucent glass rose before him. And then it blinked, a vast eyelid sliding down over the wall with a raspy noise, and he understood that he was in fact staring into the eye of his god.

As Silas prostrated himself, a blast of cold air blew over him. It was brisk and energizing, and for the first time in many weeks, he felt a semblance of calm.

“I greet you, exalted child. You have been gone for many moons. Your fur is heavy with the stench of death and fear.” The vast eye dimmed. “Your brethren will not be returning.”

“No, Icewarden,” the Tundra sighed. He shivered as a memory swept over him. The god noticed, of course, and he commanded, “Begin your report.” And Silas spoke...

~ ~ ~
In those early days, much of the Southern Icefield was unexplored and unclaimed. The Icewarden had been sending out bands of exalts to survey the lands and secure them for future generations. It was a perilous task, and not all the exalts returned. But following reports of a pale monster in the southern darkness, the Icewarden had sent more warriors to investigate. Silas had been among them.

The journey had been arduous. It had tested even the endurance of these hardened warriors. They were not too worried about the creature; most “monsters” they’d encountered so far had been nothing more than outsized beasts, their descriptions exaggerated by fear.

Nothing, however, could have prepared them for the creature that ended their journey. It wasn’t just a monster. It was an abomination. As Silas spoke of it, his voice faltered and grew faint. He spoke in between long pauses, in short phrases that sometimes didn’t make sense. But the Icewarden’s eyes shone again, and his massive nostrils flared. He inhaled deeply—so deeply that he didn’t just drink up Silas’ scent, but also his memories. The images drifted, one by one, into the deity’s mind.

All was darkness in the frozen south. Even the snow, pure white as it was, was barely visible. It crunched loudly beneath the dragons’ feet. They trod carefully, for some distance away was a huge, dark crevasse. They had been following it for some days, for out here, in the desolation, it was the only landmark they had. It stood out against the ground like a deep wound, lit by the occasional fitful flickers of auroras.

The crevasse ran alongside them. As the dragons lifted their heads, they saw how it curved so that it opened ahead of them instead. “We shall have to cross it,” they decided, spreading their wings.

Before they could complete the motion, however, something moved in the chasm. The light from the auroras glinted off something pale...something enormous.

It was vast. To the dragons, exhausted and confused in the near-total darkness, it seemed as large as a god. One moment there was a pale shape poking up from the chasm. The aurora briefly went out; the creature was beyond the rage of their lanterns, and they could not see it....

And then the aurora ignited the sky again, and the white beast towered before them, seemingly filling up the horizons and the sky.

It was all cold, unbroken whiteness, like the Icefield itself. Glints of blue shone deep within it—hints of the magic it held. Its many legs, each one longer than a full-grown Imperial, stabbed deep into the ground as it hauled itself out of the crevasse.

The dragons barely noticed those, however. They were staring, transfixed in horror, at the creature’s eyes: It had eight of them, all clustered together atop its thorax like nightmare fruits. They shone with a virulent green light of their own.

And then beneath those eyes, an enormous mouth yawned open, showing jagged teeth like icicles. The roar that blasted from the creature’s mouth was so cold and shrill, it briefly froze the dragons in their tracks.

Only a half-second, but that pause was fatal. They blinked—and suddenly the creature was upon them, its two front legs stabbing forward.

Three dragons perished beneath that initial strike. The others quickly leaped to engage the creature. They were Ice dragons born and bred, blessed by the Icewarden himself. Surely their mastery of Ice magic would enable them to defeat this monstrosity!

But it was not to be. Their icy spells were absorbed by the creature or else deflected by its shiny carapace. It barely seemed to notice their magic. They could chip away at it with their claws and weapons, but chips of damage were all they caused; meanwhile the creature, with its prodigious strength, was inflicting horrendous injuries upon them.

It stabbed and slashed with its claws. As the dragons’ strength weakened, so did their resolve. And then, to their horror, the creature skewered one of their comrades on its talons. It didn’t fling the struggling drake away, as it had already done with the others. No, instead it lifted the dragon up to its toothy maw....

That was when the exalts realized they were doomed. They could not defeat this creature. Their only hope was to return to the Icewarden and implore him for aid.

“Fall back!” their captain ordered. They wheeled around in unison and ran, spreading their wings as they did so. The ground fell away beneath their feet as they began the long flight south—

And suddenly they felt themselves ensnared and yanked back towards the ground. They struggled as they fell, straining against the cords of silk that had wrapped around their legs and torsos. As they glanced back, once again they felt themselves overtaken by fear.

The pale abomination had ensnared them. They could barely see it; their lamps had been destroyed, and the aurora was now hidden behind roiling clouds. But they saw the gleam of the creature’s exoskeleton and its toothy maw. Its eyes burned malevolently in the darkness.

The captain struggled upright. Her back legs were still bound, but she reached out to her subordinates, stretching as far as she could go. She slashed with her front claws and teeth, fighting to extricate them from the deadly, silken embrace.

“Go!” she bellowed, as three of her smaller comrades managed to slip free. “Retreat! Our god...must know!”

The three exalts didn’t hesitate. They fled into the darkness, ignoring the groans—and, soon after, the screams—that echoed out from the darkness behind them.

Silas was one of those exalts. Somewhere along the way he lost track of the others, and it was some time before he became dimly aware that he was alone. His comrades had fallen behind....or worse. He ran on and on and on; the only lucid thought in his mind was of his captain’s words. He clung to them as a castaway clings to a broken spar, fighting to stay afloat in a sea that threatened madness.

He had to return to civilization; he had to report to his god....

And now his god had heard every word, examined every thought in his mind. Finally, when it seemed that the madness would overcome Silas at last, the Icewarden had mercy and closed off the memories the same way one closes a book. Silas sank to the floor, his face smooth, locked in the first peaceful slumber he had had in weeks.

The last memory drifted free, like a leaf falling from a tree. The Icewarden smoothed out the sound of it, and he heard the creature’s name.

Thyra.

The memories of the gods are infallible and long. It was such a short name, but it fit into the deity’s mind like a key turning inside a lock. The memories welled up—and the Icewarden recalled a clan setting out into the darkness, prayers for relief and aid.

The Icewarden’s attendants soon took Silas away, and the deity was left alone again. He stood in the darkness, his vast mind bent to the task at hand. He knew Thyra now—and he knew what he had to do.

~ ~ ~
The Icewarden issued his directive, and soon dragons were pouring in from all over the Southern Icefield. Not just exalts, but also mercenaries and volunteers from various clans. All of them eager to fulfill their deity’s order: Capture the pale beast of the South.

Some dragons were confused by this: “Why not just slay the beast? Surely all of us together can do it!”

But wiser dragons cautioned, “Sheer numbers alone do not guarantee a victory. The Icewarden must have a different plan.”

The expedition soon set out into the frozen south. Inevitably, they reached the chasm where Thyra lurked. It was there that they learned why the Icewarden had only told them to capture her: It was because they couldn’t defeat her. Despite the expedition’s overwhelming numbers, Thyra seemed invincible against all magic and weapons.

And so, unable to slay her, the dragons subdued her instead. They cast ensorcelled chains around Thyra, binding her tightly, and she was dragged back to the Fortress of Ends.

There, among other abominations, she was imprisoned. Great Gaolers were set to keep watch over her, but the struggle continued, for Thyra was a mighty beast, and the Fortress of Ends could not hold her. Again and again she broke out, always leaving behind a path of destruction. The losses soon became intolerable. Something would have to be done.

The next time Thyra broke free, the Icewarden once again sent exalts after her. Unlike before, however, these dragons did not carry chains. Instead, they carried powerful enchantments. Together they pursued Thyra back to the pitch-dark south, and there they brought their magic to bear. They joined their wills together and cast their spells in a single ringing voice.

The dragons felt the earth tremble beneath their feet. Ominous groans crackled up from deep within the ice. They took flight, obeying a voice louder even than instinct—the voice of the Icewarden himself. As they did, Thyra reached out to them, preparing to drag them back down.

But lightning-quick, huge walls of ice sprang up around her. They arced up, curving like rose petals, with Thyra nestled at their heart. Row upon row of ice walls, so that whenever she demolished one, more layers rose to bar her path.

And then snow began to fall.

It cascaded thickly from the night-dark sky, swirling in huge drifts around the growing prison. As the dragons watched, it adhered to the icy walls. Soon the transparent walls were completely opaque, the snow having melded with them. The dimly thrashing shape of Thyra was obscured at last.

And then she was gone, encased in a vast, chrysanthemum-like fortress of ice and snow. The dragons waited with bated breaths, but the Icewarden’s magic held true, and Thyra did not burst free again.

Yet they were not at ease, for they could still feel the earth quake as she struggled to smash apart her prison. Her malevolence hung heavily in the air. Thyra still lived; if there was a way to slay her, the dragons could not attempt it, and the Icewarden, if he knew what it was, did not speak of it.

They could only turn and fly back to their homes. They left Thyra behind, imprisoned but alive.

Thyra raged against the walls of her prison at first, but the Icewarden’s magic held firm, and the walls didn’t crumble beneath her touch. She soon settled down, brooding in the darkness, as she had done so many years before....

Time passed. Change came to the Southern Icefield, shaking the very land. It sculpted the ice around the snow prison, forming more crevasses and crags. The prison was weakened somewhat—not enough to free Thyra, but enough to create cracks through which smaller creatures could slip. Beastclans, searching for homes away from dragonkind, or the dragons themselves, wondering about this foreboding structure.

Inevitably they fell down into Thyra’s pit, where soon the floor became covered with their bones.

These small creatures carried magic of their own, and Thyra absorbed it. As her power grew and she became more familiar with her prison, she used her magic to reach out through its halls. Snow, ice, chips of bone—they clumped together into minuscule bodies and, animated by Thyra, they soon swarmed across the surfaces of the prison. An army of ice golems, each one a miniature of Thyra.

Queen Thyra, the world outside began to call her. There were those who managed to escape her clutches—the prison helped, in its way—and it was these explorers who spread that legend and gave her that name. Cold-hearted Queen Thyra, arachnid empress of an ice golem army. She held sway over a perilous landscape lit only by the dimmest auroras, a fearsome stretch of land where only the gods dared tread.

As the centuries passed and the memories of those long-ago days grew hazier, Thyra’s prison passed into the realm of legend. Most clans settled in previously mapped territories; few were those who braved the wilderness, and those who did disappear into Thyra’s jaws were written off as deaths due to the cold or natural disasters. Queen Thyra herself was nearly forgotten, and when she was remembered, it was only as a bogeyman from an ancient fairy tale.

But there were still those who remembered: the Icewarden, for a start. Thyra was not to be slain; the ones who could subdue her were not ready to face her yet. And so the god waited, biding his time...until, one day, they were.

~ ~ ~
It was the height of summer, and so the lands that were normally cloaked in darkness now received a little light. It helped the travelers see: There were seven of them, and while one of them was a Tundra native to the Icefield, the rest were dragons from vastly different Flights.

The outsiders’ leader was a Mirror, thickly garbed in robes that turned away the cold. She wore a crown of bones upon her head. Her pink eyes glinted as she spied the gigantic ice chrysanthemum glittering in the distance.

“That is where the beast resides, then?”

The Tundra nodded. “Indeed, that structure you see is the Snow Temple.”

There were two Skydancers among the group; the one in blood-red armor snorted derisively. “Call it a temple? When it houses a monster such as the one you described?”

Too late, one of her companions elbowed her. The Tundra’s face as he looked back, however, was grave. “It is called a temple,” he explained solemnly, “for despite the horror it houses, it has known the touch of our god, and it is our god’s will that maintains its strength.”

The travelers approached the Snow Temple. It became more difficult the nearer they came: Where once the land around it had been nearly flat, time had sculpted the terrain into jagged crags and terraces. The Snow Temple glinted atop the highest of these.

“This is where I must leave you,” the Tundra explained. “I have duties I must see to. You will find an entrance on the eastern side of the Snow Temple, and Thyra waits at its heart.”

One of the visitors, a Nocturne, frowned at him in confusion. “Won’t you wait until we’ve finished, so you can guide us back?”

The Tundra shrugged. “You know the way, I’m sure. And if you can survive Thyra, then you can survive anything.”

And with that, he turned and headed back the way they’d come.

~ ~ ~
It was quiet inside the Snow Temple and very, very dark. The ice walls were translucent, but there were so many of them layered against each other that they soon blocked off all light from outside. The dragons’ senses went into overdrive as they tried to detect threats—aside from Thyra, of course.

They headed deeper into the Temple. It didn’t escape their notice that they were always going down. Deeper into the darkness and the cold...

“Odd how the snow still gets in, though,” Elizabeth commented later on. She raised her head. “There must be more cracks up there.”

Beside her, Daincie let out a startled exclamation. “That isn’t snow!”

“Wha—?!” And then Elizabeth’s golden eyes widened. “Shade take it...!”

Thyra’s army had found them. In the beginning, her golems had been larger, about the size of a Fae each, but over time she had refined her magic, made them smaller and stealthier and more numerous....

They drifted down like fat snowflakes, clinging to the dragons’ armor and scales. The warriors tried to swat them away, but there were too many of them, threatening to overwhelm them in a veritable blizzard. As the dragonesses struggled, the ground rumbled beneath their feet. And they thought they could hear, very faintly, malevolent, mocking laughter....

Nightstorm snarled. She drew her vast wings tighter about herself—and suddenly she dissolved into a swarm of locusts. The dark insects tore through the corridor, shrilling angrily, and they ripped into the tiny ice golems, rending them limb from limb as Nightstorm herself would have done.

It was all over in a few minutes. The warriors stood gasping in the middle of the corridor, up to their ankles in piles of snow and ice. The locusts swirled together and coalesced into Nightstorm’s imposing form once more.

“We should keep moving.”

“Right,” said Elizabeth, drawing her sword. There were no more golems, but it was clear that Thyra was now expecting them, and they remained wary as they continued deeper into the Temple.

Mirage led the way, her four eyes probing the darkness. She felt the ice tremble beneath her feet....It was like being on a boat and feeling a whale rise beneath it.

A low hiss reverberated through the ice: “You wear a crown, too, I see. Would you claim this domain for your own? Ah, but this land already has a ruler, wyrm.”

“Get ready!” the dragonesses whispered to one another. They drew weapons or summoned magic, preparing to strike....Only Mirage was silent, still trying to peer past the ice to the form that lay beneath.

And finally, it revealed itself in an explosion of ice and snow. The monster burst up from beneath, her horrid mouth agape, her green eyes shining in the gloom. Cold-hearted Queen Thyra.

The dragons spread their wings, turning the fall into a glide...which became a charge. A blast of light from November briefly blinded Thyra, but before she could recover fully, Nightstorm was there. The Guardian transformed into a cloud of locusts, which blanketed Thyra’s eyes.

Mirage and Elizabeth were small, but this served them well; it was easier for them to dodge Thyra’s weaving legs. Daincie, November, and Taleth hung well back. They were more fragile, and their magic was best used from a distance, as offense or support.

“Are we making any headway?” Daincie called out as the battle raged on. Elizabeth shot her a grin back over one shoulder. “No, but it’s only a matter of time!”

The cloud of locusts swirled, and Nightstorm’s head briefly materialized. Her jaws closed on one huge leg, her fangs screeching across the ice before Thyra shook her off. The locusts buzzed away again, leaving cracks upon Thyra’s leg.

Daincie noticed this, and she shot a blast of magic. It crashed against Thyra, showering chunks of ice everywhere. The monster screeched in fury. “Fools, you dare defy Queen Thyra? You would assail Thyra within her own icy lair?!”

Taleth’s frills quivered. “A larger wound, preferably on her thorax—that would give us an advantage!”

The other dragonesses knew what she meant: Taleth was a master of Plague magic; right now, the wound Daincie and Nightstorm had inflicted was too small to be of consequence. But if they could inflict a larger opening upon Thyra’s carapace, closer to her heart, Taleth could contaminate her and erode her from within.

Mirage motioned with a jerk of her head. The swarm of locusts surged beneath Thyra—and suddenly Nightstorm was there. Her horns crashed against Thyra’s belly, forcing her up onto her back legs. A slam of the Guardian’s tail, and the great arachnid was teetering, about to fall....

Thyra snarled. Ropes of silk sprang from her spinnerets, and she hauled herself back upright. Her two front legs sliced down, and this time, Nightstorm wasn’t quick enough; her right shoulder was gashed open. She grimaced as her dark blood thickly spattered the floor.

She staggered backwards, and Thyra pursued her. That was when Mirage and Elizabeth dove down from above. Elizabeth stabbed her sword deep into the monster’s shell; the magic-enhanced blade drove through again and again with horrendous crunching sounds. Mirage followed, attacking with both her claws and magic.

Thyra slashed upward with her claws. “Pitiful worms!” she snarled, and Elizabeth and Mirage looped out of the way as the great legs scythed through the air. They buzzed in front of Thyra, feinting and swooping. The monster’s eyes rolled madly as she tried to focus on them.

More blasts of light, more darting attacks—angering her, distracting her. Enough for tiny Taleth to slip into the shadows and circle around the chamber....

Nightstorm ignored her injury and stood her ground. She spread her wings, presenting a larger target—but she would be more careful this time. Thyra bore down on her, rasping, “Your blood will feed my children. From your bones I will raise a new army!”

A quick, darting movement—and Taleth flitted back into the darkness. The contamination she had dropped into Thyra’s wounds ate slowly through her exoskeleton and into the soft parts beneath. It bored down, inexorably dripping towards her heart.

There was the scent of apples and cinnamon as November called up her magic. It washed over Nightstorm; suddenly the Guardian was healed, and she sprang forward to engage Thyra again. The battle continued raging, more viciously than before.

After hours of fighting, the dragons were growing tired. But also— “Does it seem like...we’re wearing her down?” November gasped.

“I believe we are. Look!” Taleth’s voice held a note of pride. Indeed, Thyra’s movements were less agile, her claws carving erratic grooves in the walls and floor. Her eyes were blinking more rapidly now.

Taleth’s sorcery was taking effect. Daincie focused not just with her eyes, but also with the artifact she carried: the Heart Diamond. With it, she could peer deep into Thyra and read some of her thoughts.

Thyra’s mental shields had been weakened by the battle. Where previously there’d been nothing but rage, there was now confusion. Strange things were leaking in, too. Images...memories?

“Mirage,” the Nocturne gasped, “there’s something strange about Thyra. She is...!”

“I know what she is,” the Empress growled back. And the memories broke through the long darkness at last—

~ ~ ~
The Nocturne crouched in the cavern alone...though once upon a time, she hadn’t been. Once, this cave system had been aglow with lanterns; it had echoed with the voices of dragons. A bustling group, a clan. A family.

Gone, all gone now, save for the Nocturne. A slim little beast, huddled by the pitiful remnants of her food stores.

She still didn’t understand why she was the only one left. Make no mistakes, she knew how: a combination of disease, starvation, and accidents had taken its toll on the clan. No, what she didn’t understand was: Why her? Why had the others been taken away, whereas she had been left behind? Why alone? Why her?!

The cold crept further in as the lantern at her side burned low. It hammered heavily at the doors of her heart. Time passed, deep in the darkness; she didn’t know how much. But one day, her icy heart broke—

And the cold crept in.

It spoke to her in a voice like velvet: “Why not find a new clan? Go outside and find other dragons. There surely will be more. Gather them close in your embrace...”

“Yes...” whispered the Nocturne. She held up her claws, and the meager lamplight cast long shadows upon the wall. Lengthening and distorting them like icicles...or knives....

The voice spoke with deceptive warmth: “Open your heart to us, and we will grant you power greater than any you’ve ever known. You will be able to gather up all whom you hold dear and hold them close, so close that no one will ever come near them again....”

Time slipping past, not just days but weeks. The lone Nocturne crouching in the dark. Listening to that voice...and answering back—

“Yes...I will do as you ask.”

And the lamp went out, never to be lit again.

It was some time before other dragons came to the cave. They plunged into the darkness, and gasped in horror at the frozen bodies lying contorted upon the floor.

And then their terror trebled as a pale nightmare rose from the coldest depths of the caverns. They screamed and pleaded for mercy, but their voices went unheard—drowned beneath a word that echoed, over and over again, within the creature’s brain as it gathered them close in its arms. Wrapping them in so many layers, in white silk that solidified into polished stone, strong enough to shield them from the world.

“Mine.”

~ ~ ~
But that had been many centuries ago, and the Shade’s hold had since grown weak. Thyra, having been sealed off from the rest of the world for so long, was no longer useful to it. It let her slip from its grasp—and the battle shattered its hold on her entirely.

With the resounding crack! of a fracturing glacier, Thyra’s carapace broke apart. A vast, chill wind rushed through the Snow Temple, making the very walls sing. It sloughed much of the snow off the walls, and light filtered in at last.

The dragons stared, astounded, at the monster’s remains. Its shell lay in pieces like mechanical parts, just limbs and joints scattered across the floor. In their midst was a tiny form, as pure white as the ice encasing her had been. A Nocturne.

“Thyra?” the warriors whispered. And Mirage told them, “The true Thyra.”

Not a cold-hearted beast or a monster, but a dragon—lost and alone, driven mad with grief. The Shade had taken hold of that madness and twisted it, drawing upon her inner darkness to give her a form just as terrifying.

But now that the Shade had left her, she could think clearly again. She inhaled deeply as she stood up—her legs wobbled beneath her. She stared, almost fearful, at the warlike party assembled before her.

“You were the ones who...fought against me,” she realized. Her voice was a but a shadow of the monster’s now, more like a faint breeze whispering through icicles. “Have you come to...slay me?”

The dragonesses exchanged looks. There was a steely rasp as they sheathed their weapons. Mirage stepped forward, her crowned head held high.

“No, Thyra. We have come to recruit you.”

~ ~ ~
The journey back to civilization was somewhat awkward, not just because of the prior battle but because Thyra hadn’t given her answer yet. Much time had passed since she’d been transformed; during that time her awareness of the world had been hazy. It came back to her in bits and pieces now, unwelcome scenes rising from near-forgotten nightmares.

Her heart grew heavy with grief again—but this time, it was for those who had suffered at her claws. Not just warriors but also innocent travelers, searching for shelter from the cold. She had wanted power with which to protect others. Instead, the Shade had turned her into the instrument of their destruction. As she considered this, her heart warmed again—this time with resolve.

By the time the coastline of the Southern Icefield came into view, Thyra had made her decision. She cleared her throat. Her traveling companions looked expectantly back at her.

“I will join you,” she said at last. It wasn’t final yet: There would be tests to pass, further trials to face, before she could become a full-fledged member of the Council of Crowns.

But she would face them with courage. Her life here in the Southern Icefield was done, and it was time to start over somewhere else. She was wise enough to realize that it was a mercy she’d been set free from her prison—and that there was a reason these warriors had been sent to aid her. The time of regret was over. The time for redemption was now.

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
all edits by other users