[Short] Ash and Ivory
Ash and Ivory
The banners of House Valtieri, once proud and pure, hung tattered in the blackened sky. Their ivory sigils, once symbols of honor, were now stained with the blood of the forsaken. The air was thick with the rot of dead men and the acrid stench of burning flesh.
Lady Isolde Valtieri sat atop her pale warhorse, clad in armor that gleamed only where fresh blood had yet to dry. Her gauntleted fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, the once-ornate blade dulled by the gore of a hundred dying screams. The cold wind bit at her exposed face, but she did not shiver.
Before her stretched the battlefield—charred earth, broken bodies, and rivers of crimson soaking the land like the ink of some forgotten scripture. Beyond the dying embers of the last skirmish stood the remnants of the enemy army, their dark shapes wavering in the fog of war. They were fewer now, but still many. And though her own forces had dwindled, Isolde had no room for retreat.
Her father was dead, his throat cut by traitors in his own court. Her brothers, impaled upon the pikes of the Usurper’s vanguard. Only she remained—the last of Valtieri blood. The burden of vengeance rested upon her, and she bore it without trembling.
She turned in her saddle, casting a slow, deliberate gaze upon the soldiers who yet lived. Hollow-eyed men and broken things, more ghost than warrior, but they still clutched their weapons. They would fight, not because they believed in her, but because there was nowhere left to run.
“The hour is late,” Isolde called, her voice raw but steady. “And the gods do not ride with us.”
Silence. A few exchanged glances, but none spoke.
“Good,” she continued, spurring her horse forward through the ranks. “For gods are fickle things. They abandon men when blood soaks the ground too deep.” She gestured toward the corpses behind them. “Do you think the gods cared for them?”
A murmur. Some shook their heads.
“No.” Her voice sharpened, a blade against the cold. “The gods have left this field. And that is why we will win. Because only men and monsters remain.”
She raised her sword, blackened with ruin.
“No salvation. No mercy. No surrender.”
The soldiers did not cheer. There was no strength left for it. But they did move, tightening their grips, setting their jaws. The air filled with the sound of steel scraping against steel as swords were drawn, spears were leveled, and the tattered banner of House Valtieri was raised once more.
The enemy waited beyond the veil of smoke. They outnumbered her, and they still had hope.
But hope was a weakness.
Isolde did not pray as she led the charge. She did not whisper the names of fallen kin, nor did she plead for the dead to guide her hand. She was alone, as she had always been, as she would always be.
The first blade struck her shoulder, biting through armor and into flesh. She did not cry out.
The second came for her throat, but she turned just in time, feeling the whisper of steel against her skin.
She struck back, carving through flesh as if cutting through parchment.
Blood sprayed across her face, warm and thick, and she tasted iron on her lips.
The sky wept ash. The ground drank deep.
And Lady Isolde Valtieri, last of her name, gave herself to the darkness.