The wind howled through the timbered streets of Krovograd, a fortress of stone and ice cradled in the northernmost reaches of Vostradya's iron frontier. Above the high battlements, banners of frost-clad black and silver snapped violently, each gust carrying snowflakes sharp as glass.
The settlement's wooden and stone walls stood thick with frost, veins of ice snaking across the heavy timbers like the touch of death itself.
Snow fell, relentless and unyielding, carpeting the streets in a suffocating silence broken only by the crunch of boots and the creak of loaded wagons.
Soldiers in heavy furs and gleaming breastplates moved through the streets, their breath rising in pale plumes against the slate-grey sky. Behind them, thick-bellied carts rolled over the cobbles, laden with barrels of black powder, crates of Model 77 Zimorodok muskets, and stacks of leaden shot.
At the heart of it all, I trudged onward, the cold biting through my layers of wool and leather. My gloved fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of my sabre, its surface slick with frost. Each breath I drew turned to ice, misting and vanishing into the frozen air.
The rumors whispered across the ranks like a chill wind: Cryloids were on the move, emerging from the tundras and cursed forests where Mana Crystal corruption festered. Rumors, they said. But even rumors carried the half-weight of truth.
As I passed through the central square, I glimpsed the fortress' heart its keep rising like a frozen fang above the surrounding walls. From its towers flew the black sigil of the Tsardom, a wolf's head crowned with frost. I caught sight of the Krovograd Garrison: veterans hardened by skirmishes against Cryloid incursions and Norzeck raids. Their white-and-black tunics, half-shrouded by fur mantles, merged with the falling snow, broken only by flashes of polished steel and the glint of rune-etched sabres.
A column of troops moved alongside me, their boots pounding in cold unison. I recognized the rhythm of a marching cadence murmured low under their breathsa warding song against fear and madness. Their faces were stone, lips set and eyes locked ahead.
Our orders were clear: man the walls, load the cannons, and await further commands. Simple, they said. But in this land, simplicity was often a prelude to bloodshed.
Ahead, by the gatehouse, Komandir Mikhailov stood upon a frost-slick platform, his crimson cloak swirling in the wind. His voice cut through the storm like a blade.
Komandir Mikhailov:
"Товарищи! Вы первый рубеж обороны. За вами Вастрадия. За вами наша Царица. Не подведите!"
(Comrades! You are the first line of defense. Behind you lies Vostradya. Behind you, our Tsarina. Do not fail!)
The soldiers straightened, shoulders squared.
Soldiers:
"Так точно, товарищ командир!"
(Yes, Comrade Commander!)
I pushed forward, ascending the nearest parapet. The wind struck me full in the face, a blast of white and cold that snatched at my hood. From atop the wall, the world beyond was a sea of snow and jagged ice. Beyond the fortifications, the tundra rolled endlessly, broken only by skeletal trees and distant, flickering lights watchtowers and beacons straining against the storm's fury.
The sky darkened further, heavy with snow and roiling clouds. As I gripped the frost-slick stone, a tap on my shoulder drew my attention. Turning, I recognized Sergeant Petrov, his thick beard rimmed with frost and his eyes sharp beneath his fur cap.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Какъ поживаешь, братъ?"
(How are you faring, brother?)
I smirked, my breath misting between us.
"Как думаешь? Мороз съеден, но жив."
(What do you think? Frozen stiff, but alive.)
He chuckled grimly.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Это место не для слабых. Даже для нас, зимородков."
(This place is not for the weak. Even for us, the frostborn.)
I nodded, glancing over the battlements.
"Что-то идет, Петро́в. Я это чую."
(Something is coming, Petrov. I can feel it.)
Sergeant Petrov:
"Я тоже."
(I feel it too.)
The wind howled louder, carrying with it a distant sound like ice grinding upon ice. A shout rang from the far watchtower.
Watchtower Guard:
"Враг идет! Они здесь!"
(The enemy is coming! They are here!)
The alarm bell clanged, its iron voice echoing across Krovograd's walls. Soldiers surged into motion. Cannoneers rolled forth the massive Morozov field cannons, their barrels etched with frost-runes to resist the bitter cold. Musketeers formed ranks behind the battlements, loading their weapons with practiced ease. Magisters in furred robes appeared from shadowed alcoves, their hands already crackling with arcane light—threads of mana drawn from the air like veins of burning sapphire.
The storm thickened, snow descending like a shroud. And then, through the haze, we saw them.
Cryloids.
They emerged from the blizzard like revenants, their forms twisted and sharp, limbs encrusted with jagged shards of elemental crystal. Some gleamed blue and white, their bodies crackling with frozen mana. Others shimmered crimson and gold, veins of fire crystal burning beneath their flesh. Their eyes once human now glowed with an unearthly light. They moved in a shambling tide, their broken weapons and clawed hands raised.
I felt my throat tighten.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Готов?"
(Ready?)
I nodded
"Всегда."
(Always.)
The storm descended upon us like a living thing, its breath a cacophony of shrieking winds and swirling snow. Ice crystals scoured the walls, biting at exposed skin and clouding the air with a blinding white veil. The first cannon fired a deep, resonant boom that shook the stones beneath our feet. A Morozov cannonball screamed into the oncoming horde, exploding in a flash of fire and shards of broken crystal.
The Cryloids fell in heaps, limbs and torsos shattered by the impact. But they did not slow. The horde pressed forward, moving with an unnatural determination, their crystalline bodies absorbing the cold and the snow as if drawing strength from the storm.
Magisters chanted in unison, their voices weaving through the shriek of the wind. The air shimmered with gathered mana, strands of azure and silver forming intricate runic patterns. With a collective motion, they thrust their hands outward. A surge of energy burst from the battlements jagged spears of ice and arcing bolts of lightning. Cryloids at the front were torn apart, crystal shards spraying the ground.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Пошли их в ад!"
(Send them to hell!)
Our musketeers fired in unison, the sharp cracks of gunfire lost in the storm's roar. Black powder smoke mingled with the snow, forming a swirling haze of grey and white. The front ranks of Cryloids disintegrated under the onslaught, but more advanced from the storm behind them, their numbers endless.
One of the veterans beside me, Corporal Yegorov, gritted his teeth as he rammed another charge into his musket.
Corporal Yegorov:
"Они не останавливаются! Чёртовы твари!"
(They won't stop! Damn creatures!)
I look at him
"Они не люди, Егор. Они не чувствуют боли."
(They aren't human, Yegor. They don't feel pain.)
A fresh wave of Cryloids reached the outer trenches, their frozen limbs hacking through wooden barricades with terrifying strength. I saw one, a massive brute with a chest of deep azure crystal, raise a weapon that had once been a war axe, now fused with its arm. It brought the blade down on a barricade, shattering the wood like splintered bone.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Держите стены! Маги, приготовьтесь!"
(Hold the walls! Mages, be ready!)
The magisters obeyed, conjuring barriers of ice and glyphs of warding. The next cannon volley fired, striking a cluster of fire-crystal Cryloids. The explosion sent flaming shards in every direction, lighting up the blizzard with an eerie orange glow. Still, they kept coming, their forms reassembling even as limbs were blown away.
Petrov glanced at me, his face pale beneath his frost-rimmed hood, i simply nod at him grimly.
Before I could speak to him, the Cryloids reached the wall. They slammed against the stone, clawed hands scratching and scraping, searching for purchase. Their ice-rimed bodies shimmered in the torchlight, fractured and refrozen as mana surged through their crystalline forms.
A sharp crack echoed from the gate. I turned, my stomach sinking. Cryloids wielding frost-crystal began concentrating their magicks, their clawed fingers glowing pale blue as ice crept over the iron-reinforced wood. The frost spread rapidly, seeping into the grain and locking it in a prison of cold.
One of the soldier spoke
"Они замораживают ворота! Разбейте их, пока не поздно!"
(They're freezing the gate! Break them before it's too late!)
A team of grenadiers rushed to the base of the wall, hurling oil-filled flasks and lighting them with rune-etched torches. Fire bloomed along the base, consuming Cryloids in a rush of heat and light. But those wielding frost-crystal ignored the flames, ice magic intensifying as the storm fed them.
The gate cracked, groaning under the pressure.
Komandir Mikhailov (from the rampart):
"Мушкетёры! Маги! Цельтесь в замораживающих! Не дайте им пробить ворота!"
(Musketeers! Mages! Target the ones freezing the gate! Don't let them breach!)
I took aim, firing my musket at a Cryloid who was weaving a spiral of frost. The shot struck its crystalline skull, shattering it into fragments but already, the pieces began to reform. Another musket cracked beside me, and another. For every Cryloid felled, two more replaced it.
Sergeant Petrov (gritting his teeth):
"Грядёт конец, брат."
(The end is coming, brother.)
The gate shuddered violently. With a sharp, echoing crack, it split down the center. The massive iron bars holding it shut bent inward, brittle and slick with ice. The storm howled louder, as if voicing its approval.
The Cryloids poured through the breach.
The gate burst apart, its splintered remains crashing to the ground with a sound like the cracking of a glacier. A surge of Cryloids shards of ice and crystal fused with the remnants of once-human bodies flooded through the breach. Their eyes gleamed with elemental light, and their jagged limbs shimmered with the storm's fury.
Komandir Mikhailov:
"Сдержите их! За Вастрадию!"
(Hold them back! For Vostradya!)
A roar erupted from the defenders as they surged forward, spears, axes, and muskets raised, forming a desperate line of resistance at the shattered gateway. But the Cryloids crashed into them with relentless force. Crystalline claws tore through fur and leather, splintering shields like twigs. Blood splashed onto the snow, darkening it into crimson slush.
I gritted my teeth, drawing my sabre from its scabbard as the first Cryloid reached me. It was a thing of frost-crystal, with shards protruding from its shoulders and a maw of jagged teeth. It swung a frozen limb at my head, but I ducked, my sabre slicing through its torso. Fragments exploded outward, but the pieces quivered and began to pull back together.
One of the commander roared near the broken gate
"Чистить их! Рубите кости! Не дайте им собраться!"
(Cut them down! Smash the cores! Don't let them reform!)
Sergeant Petrov fought beside me, his sabre whistling through the air as he hacked into another Cryloid's neck. Sparks flew where his blade struck crystal, and a sharp crack rang out as the creature's head split in two. Yet even then, its body convulsed, icy limbs reaching blindly.
Around us, the melee descended into chaos. Musketeers abandoned their firearms, drawing sidearms and blades to fend off the relentless tide. Magisters unleashed desperate spells conjuring walls of flame, frost-shattering shards, and bolts of raw mana but even as they felled dozens, more Cryloids surged through the breach.
The storm intensified, snow driving into our faces like needles. Amidst the confusion, I glimpsed a towering Cryloid, its body infused with deep crimson fire-crystal, advancing through the ranks. It swung a massive crystalline hammer, crushing defenders like dolls. Flames flickered along its limbs, melting the snow beneath its feet.
Sergeant Petrov (shouting over the din):
"Огненный кристалл! Держись!"
(Fire crystal! Hold your ground!)
I stumbled back as the creature's hammer crashed down where I had stood. Stone shattered, sending shards flying. Petrov lunged forward, slashing at the beast's knee, but his blade glanced off, sparks flying. The Cryloid backhanded him, sending him sprawling into the snow.
"Петро́в!" I roared, leaping to shield him. My sabre struck the creature's arm, and though cracks spiderwebbed through the crystal, it barely slowed.
The monster lifted its hammer once more
and then a Morozov cannon boomed, the shot slamming into the beast's chest. The fire-crystal Cryloid exploded in a rain of molten shards, dousing us in a wash of heat that steamed against the snow.
For a heartbeat, we had a reprieve.
Petrov coughed, dragging himself upright, his fur mantle scorched and splattered with blood.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Спасибо, брат. Но это только начало."
(Thank you, brother. But this is only the beginning.)
The Cryloids pressed harder. Their numbers seemed endless ice-crystal variants gliding forward with shards bristling from their spines, lightning-crystal ones crackling with arcs of wild energy, earth-crystal giants pounding the ground with fists of jagged stone.
Musketeers fired into the mass, their shots vanishing into the tide. A squad of magisters unleashed a combined spell a lattice of frost and flame that engulfed dozens of Cryloids. Yet for every one destroyed, more clawed their way forward.
A sudden, piercing scream rose from the inner settlement. I turned, horror tightening in my chest. Smaller Cryloid swarms quick and vicious had breached through side alleys and hidden paths, attacking civilians huddled within the walls. I saw a woman clutching her child, her face pale with terror, as crystalline claws closed around her.
My voice was hoarse as I roared
"Нет! Они внутри!"
(No! They're inside!)
Komandir Mikhailov (desperate):
"Отступаем к цитадели! Держите проходы!"
(Fall back to the citadel! Hold the passageways!)
The remaining defenders formed a ragged retreat, firing as they moved, covering civilians who fled toward the keep. Petrov and I fought back-to-back, blades flashing, our breath ragged. My arm trembled from exhaustion, the weight of my sabre feeling heavier with each strike.
Cryloids surrounded us. One leapt from a pile of broken bodies, claws raking for my throat. I barely ducked, feeling its icy breath scorch my cheek. Petrov's sabre flashed down, severing its head in a burst of crystal splinters.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Держись, брат! Мы не можем их пустить дальше!"
(Hold on, brother! We can't let them through!)
The snowstorm thickened, whirling around us like a living shroud. Distantly, I heard the last cannonfire falter, the crack of muskets growing sporadic. Cries of panic echoed from the inner walls as the Cryloids swarmed deeper into Krovograd.
The sky darkened into night, yet the storm refused to abate. In the gathering gloom, the Cryloids' elemental eyes burned brighter, like stars fallen from an uncaring sky.
We fell back through the streets of Krovograd, the cold and the storm clawing at our faces as we stumbled toward the inner citadel. The cry of the wounded mingled with the howling wind, a dirge that echoed against the towering walls.
I caught sight of Komandir Mikhailov at the citadel gate, blood streaking down his face as he barked orders to the remnants of his command. His voice cracked from shouting, but he stood firm, saber in hand, his stance daring the horde to challenge him.
Komandir Mikhailov:
"Закрыть ворота! Приготовиться к последней защите!"
(Seal the gates! Prepare for the final defense!)
The gates groaned shut behind us, heavy beams dropped into place. The last few civilians merchants, children, elders were ushered behind the barricades of overturned carts and barrels hastily fortified with ice-magic runes. Women with frostbitten hands clutched makeshift weapons, their faces pale with determination and fear.
Petrov leaned against the inner wall, his breath ragged. His left arm hung limp, blood soaking his sleeve.
Sergeant Petrov:
"Мы не доживём до рассвета, брат..."
(We won't live to see dawn, brother...)
I look at him in the eye as I say
"Тогда умрём, как воины."
(Then we'll die as warriors.)
The first Cryloids reached the citadel gates moments later. Frost-crystal variants clawed and slammed into the thick wood, their attacks rhythmic, relentless. Mana pulses from their jagged limbs sent shockwaves through the iron bands, and frost crept inward from every strike.
Above, magister unleashed their last spells. Arcs of crackling mana lashed down, searing through the mass of Cryloids. One unleashed a column of white flame, incinerating a swath of the horde. But the strain of constant spellcasting had taken its toll.
Many of the magisters collapsed, mana-drained, their bodies convulsing with exhaustion.
A Cryloid titan, formed of deep indigo crystal shot through with veins of lightning, stepped forward. Its massive fists slammed into the gate with shuddering force.
Ice-magic users scrambled to reinforce the wood, their hands weaving glyphs of strengthening, but the titan's blows shattered the runes as quickly as they were cast.
The gates shattered, splinters flying inward. The Cryloids surged into the citadel like a tide of jagged ice and death. The last line of defenders met them head-on musketeers firing at point-blank range, sabres slashing, axes cleaving. Crystalline limbs smashed through shields, sending men and women sprawling.
I found myself face to face with one of the fire-crystal variants, its maw glowing with embers. It lunged at me, claws arcing down. I rolled aside, my sabre biting deep into its flank. It screeched, a sound like shattering glass, but didn't stop. It slammed me against the wall, its weight crushing the breath from my lungs.
Petrov appeared out of the chaos, his sabre plunging into the creature's back. The fire-crystal hissed and twisted, lashing out with a jagged claw that ripped through Petrov's side. He collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.
I screamed
"Нет! ПЕТРО́В!"
(No! PETROV!)
I staggered to my feet, driving my blade into the creature's core. Crystal shattered, embers flaredand it collapsed in a heap. But behind it, more Cryloids flooded in. I dragged Petrov's limp form back, his blood staining the snow.
The citadel courtyard was a nightmare of sound and fury. Defenders were cut down one by one, their bodies broken and frozen in the snow. Cries of pain mingled with the shouts of the dying. The Cryloids advanced relentlessly, their elemental bodies absorbing spells and gunfire alike.
Mikhailov fought at the front, his sabre a blur as he cut through one Cryloid after another. He bellowed a war cry, then fell beneath a rain of claws and crystal shards.
I saw a mother huddled against the inner keep wall, shielding her child as Cryloids closed in. A last cannon its barrel glowing red-hot fired one final shot, blowing apart a knot of advancing Cryloids. The shockwave flattened friend and foe alike.
The storm, impossibly, grew fiercer. Snow slammed against us like hammers, and the Cryloids' glowing forms seemed to multiply in the blizzard, elemental eyes burning brighter against the darkness.
I knelt beside Petrov, my hands trembling, bloodied and cracked from cold. His breath was shallow, his lips blue. He opened his eyes one last time.
Sergeant Petrov (whispering):
"Мы... не... выживем..."
(We... are not... surviving...)
His body went limp.
I rose, numb, gripping my sabre. Around me, the last defenders fought desperately, but the line was collapsing. The Cryloids poured over barricades, dragging the wounded into the snow, cutting down the last resistances.
The storm swallowed the last of the light. Darkness fell, broken only by the glimmering, inhuman glow of the Cryloid horde. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one a cloud of frost.
I stood alone amidst the carnage, the world around me a maelstrom of ice and death. The Citadel of Krovograd was no morejust another ruin beneath the Land of Endless Winter.
As the Cryloids surged forward, their elemental forms converging on me from all sides, I whispered the last thought that clung to my mind, the only truth that remained as night claimed the battlefield:
"We are all dead."