Chapter Text
The horns of Ilragond wailed into the night, sharp and urgent. The sound carried across the city like a call to arms, waking the streets, echoing off stone walls, stirring every soldier from slumber and every citizen from their uneasy dreams. The war that had hovered like a shadow was no longer distant—it had come knocking nearly on their gates.
Elsa stood in the torchlit courtyard, her pulse thundering as Arynn passed orders to captains and lieutenants. Armor was brought out of the barracks, weapons sharpened, horses saddled in haste. The city, so alive only hours before with preparation, now shifted into a higher gear—a people not merely waiting but bracing.
She felt Anna’s hand slip into hers, small and warm. Anna’s voice was steady despite the tension in her eyes. “We can’t just stand by.”
Elsa looked at her sister, at Kristoff standing behind her with jaw clenched, and at Olaf, who clutched his little stick arms nervously but did not back away. Together, they formed a circle that no war could easily break.
But Crismar’s voice cut across the clamor, low and sharp, as he strode toward them. “No. This isn't your fight, Anna.”
Arynn moved beside him, equally firm. “He’s right. We thank you for what you’ve done—Arendelle’s aid, your friendship, your counsel. But this war is ours to bear. You must remain behind the walls where you’re safe.”
Elsa straightened. “Safe?” Her voice was cool, sharp as frost. “You think I can remain safe while you fight and fall? Do you think my power is only meant for show, or that I came all this way to stand idle when lives are lost?”
Arynn’s eyes softened, but she did not waver. “Elsa… you're not tied to Taris in any way. If you fell on our battlefield, I won't forgive myself. Nor won't I forgive Crismar for allowing it.”
Crismar’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward, closer, his gaze locking with Elsa’s. “You don't understand what this fight will cost. I’ve seen battlefields torn apart by fire and steel. I’ve buried friends, and I’ve lost more than I can even remember. You think you’re ready for that? To see men cut down before your eyes, to hear the screams of the dying? To carry the weight of those you could not save?”
Elsa’s throat tightened, but she did not break his gaze. She remembered his story—of Rina, of blood and vengeance, of ghosts that still haunted him. She remembered the raw pain in his voice when he confessed what his rage had done.
And still, she found herself answering, quiet but unshaken: “I’ve lived with loss all my life. I know what it means to hurt, and I know what it means to fear myself. But if I can protect even one person with my power, then I can't stand aside. Not again.”
Anna’s voice followed, strong with conviction. “We’ve fought before, Crismar. Against Hans, against the curse that almost tore our kingdom apart. We’ve faced fear, and we’ve come through it together. We won’t hide while you fight for us. We’ll stand with you.”
Kristoff cleared his throat, shifting uneasily but firm in his stance. “I don’t know much about wars or borders, but I know about standing by the people you care about. If Anna goes, I go. No question.”
Olaf raised a hand timidly. “And if you all go… well… I guess a snowman can be useful too? I can… distract them with hugs? Or maybe melt dramatically?” He paused. “Okay, maybe not that last part, but you get it.”
Despite the heaviness of the moment, a ripple of laughter broke from Anna, even Arynn’s lips twitching faintly. But Crismar did not laugh. His eyes swept over them—Anna’s defiance, Kristoff’s loyalty, Olaf’s stubborn innocence, Elsa’s steady resolve—and he exhaled sharply, as if the weight of their choice pressed into his chest.
“Listen to me, all of you. This isn’t a story,” he said at last, voice low, almost breaking. “There are no happy endings guaranteed. If you come with us, you risk everything.”
“And if we don’t,” Elsa countered softly, stepping closer, “we risk ourselves. You told me not all shadows are my own. Let me share yours.”
Crismar’s breath caught, the fight leaving him in that instant. He searched her face, as though looking for weakness, for hesitation—but there was none. Only truth.
Arynn looked between them, then at Anna and Kristoff, then finally at Crismar. Her voice was reluctant but resigned. “If they wish to stand with us… then who are we to deny them? They’ve already proven their courage. And to be fair, we'll need every strength we can gather.”
Crismar turned away, hands clenched at his sides. For a long moment, silence hung. Then, without looking back, he muttered, “So be it. But if you die, Elsa… it will be my failure.”
She shook her head. “No. If I die, it will be my choice.”
The days that followed blurred into ceaseless motion. The city prepared for war as if every heartbeat might be the last before the enemy’s approach.
Elsa trained with Crismar in the courtyards, frost sparring against lightning. He pushed her harder than before, demanding precision, control, strength. She stumbled, faltered, but rose again each time, determination burning in her chest. And in those hours of sweat and strain, she saw glimpses of his true self—the leader forged in fire, the warrior who commanded storms, the man who had buried love and yet stood still unbroken.
Anna worked alongside Arynn, organizing supply lines and tending to frightened civilians, her optimism shining like a beacon. Kristoff drilled with the cavalry led by Nadeen, his natural strength and quiet grit earning him unexpected respect. Olaf, despite his bumbling, kept spirits high, wandering between barracks with jokes and smiles that somehow eased the soldiers’ nerves.
And through it all, Elsa and Crismar’s bond deepened. Between sparring bouts and battlefield plans, between tense silences and quiet walks along the walls at night, they grew closer. Not yet lovers, but more than allies—two storms circling the same horizon, drawn inevitably toward one another.
On the eve of battle, the sky burned red with sunset. Elsa stood on the battlements, looking toward the distant plains where Egrador’s army would soon march. The wind whipped her braid, and frost spiraled from her fingertips, weaving in the air like restless spirits.
Crismar joined her, armor half-fitted, his expression hard but tired. For a long moment, they stood in silence, the city below them alive with torchlight and preparation.
“You should hate me,” he said suddenly, his voice raw. “For dragging you into this. For letting you stand on the edge of a war that isn’t yours.”
Elsa turned to him, her eyes steady, a faint frost clinging to her lashes. “I could never hate you.”
His breath hitched, and for once, he let himself look at her—really look at her. The queen of ice, radiant and unyielding, standing beside him on the cusp of fire and death. Slowly, almost without thought, he reached for her hand. She took it without hesitation, her fingers cool against his warmth, and for that instant, there was no war, no Egrador, no ghosts—only them.
But the moment was shattered by the blast of a horn. A rider galloped into the courtyard below, shouting to the guards. His voice rose above the noise, breaking against the walls:
“Scouts report movement! Egrador advances—they’ll reach the River Fal by dawn!”
Chaos erupted below. Arynn appeared, armor gleaming, shouting orders to mobilize. Soldiers scrambled, horses stamped, the city trembled with sudden urgency.
Crismar’s grip tightened around Elsa’s hand. His eyes, storm-dark, met hers with grim certainty.
“Time to go.”
And as the horns of war wailed once more, Elsa felt the world tilt—the fragile bond they had built about to be tested in steel and flame.
The River Fal was a black ribbon under the dawn sky, its banks shrouded in mist, its waters sluggish and cold. The land around it was flat, open—an unforgiving stage for battle.
From the ridgeline, Elsa saw them first: a dark tide rolling across the plains, banners of crimson and black snapping above thousands of soldiers. The Egradorian army marched in perfect ranks, shields gleaming, their sheer number enough to make even seasoned warriors falter. The thunder of their advance shook the ground beneath her boots.
Beside her, Crismar leaned forward in the saddle, eyes narrowed, jaw set. Lightning crackled faintly at his fingertips, his body taut as a drawn bowstring. Arynn sat tall on her white stallion, her braid shining like a banner in the wind, her armor catching the light of the rising sun. Around them, the combined hosts of Taris, Mellaren, Roseon, and Trimos gathered—tens of thousands of men and women standing shoulder to shoulder, the Four Houses ready to resist the storm.
And yet, to Elsa, it did not feel like enough.
Anna shifted nervously in her saddle, her sword far too large for her comfort. Kristoff adjusted his grip on his axe, his knuckles white but his gaze steady. Olaf sat wedged in a saddlebag, peering over the edge with wide eyes.
“This is insane,” Anna whispered. “Look at them—there’s so many.”
Kristoff grunted. “Yeah. But we’ve got something they don’t.” He glanced toward Elsa, a faint smile flickering despite the tension. “We’ve got them.”
Elsa swallowed hard, frost curling from her hands where they gripped the reins. The weight of expectation pressed against her chest, heavier than any armor.
Crismar turned to her suddenly, voice low but urgent. “Stay close to me. Don’t lose focus. You see an opening, strike—but don’t overreach. The field eats the reckless alive.”
She met his gaze, her fear reflected in his storm-dark eyes. “And if I falter?”
His hand brushed against hers, brief but grounding. “Then I’ll be there.”
The horns blared, deep and terrible. The air split with the cries of thousands, the clash of steel on shields, the thunder of hooves. The battle had begun.
And the world turned into chaos.
Arrows darkened the sky, hissing past Elsa’s head. Shields clashed in the first brutal collision of armies, the sound of metal striking metal louder than thunder. Crismar raised his hand and lightning exploded from the sky, tearing through Egrador’s front ranks, scattering men like leaves in a storm. Arynn’s sword flashed silver, her horse cutting through the fray with queenly ferocity.
Elsa’s breath caught—then she raised her hands.Ice surged outward, a tidal wave of frost sweeping across the riverbank. Spears shattered against sudden walls of ice, arrows froze mid-flight and fell harmlessly. Where the river swelled too deep for horses to cross, Elsa froze it solid, creating a shimmering bridge that carried Tarisian soldiers across.
Cries of awe rose from the ranks of the Four Houses. But it soon turned to desperation as Egrador pressed harder. War machines rolled forward—massive catapults hurling flaming stones that shattered Elsa’s ice barriers. Columns of armored infantry crashed into the river crossing, their sheer weight threatening to break the line.
Anna rode close to Arynn, parrying blows clumsily but bravely. Kristoff swung his axe with grim determination, keeping the enemy at bay. Olaf, to Elsa’s horror, leapt from the saddle and began running around between soldiers’ legs, tripping enemies with reckless cheer.
Elsa stretched her power further, summoning jagged spires of ice that impaled advancing soldiers, walls that rose and shifted to protect her allies. But with every surge of power came a cost—the gnawing fear of losing control, of letting her fear feed the storm inside her.
And then she saw it.
The corsairs—black-clad raiders on horseback—charging from the flank, their banners bearing the serpent emblem of Rhazien. The man who had killed Crismar’s first love. The man who had shaped him in blood and vengeance.
Crismar saw them too. His face changed—harder, sharper, rage flashing behind his eyes. Lightning gathered in his palms, violent, untamed.
Elsa called out above the chaos. “Crismar—!”
But he was already moving, breaking from formation, storming toward the corsairs with fury in his stride. Bolts of lightning rained down, horses reared and screamed, men were thrown from their saddles. It was terrifying, beautiful—and dangerous.
Elsa urged her horse after him, frost exploding in her wake. She couldn't let him fight alone.
The two forces met with shattering force. Crismar cut through men like a storm given flesh, his blade crackling with thunder, his rage a weapon sharper than steel. Elsa froze spears mid-thrust, shattered axes with blasts of frost, encased riders in ice before they could strike. Together, they carved a path through the corsair vanguard—storm and frost, fire and ice, side by side.
For one wild, breathless moment, Elsa felt invincible. Felt alive.
And then, through the smoke and fire, a voice rose above the battlefield. A voice that made Crismar stop in his tracks, his blade lowering slightly.
“Crismar!”
Elsa turned—and saw him.
A tall figure astride a black stallion, armor glinting crimson, eyes like burning coals, and a long black beard falling down his chest. Rhazien. The corsair lord himself. He raised his blade, pointing it straight at Crismar. His voice carried, cruel and taunting.
“Nine years, boy. Nine years since you failed to save her. Come, then. Face me.”
Crismar froze, lightning crackling at his fingertips, his breath ragged. For the first time since the battle began, Elsa saw fear in his eyes—not of Rhazien, but of what he himself might become if he gave in.
Elsa reached for him. “Crismar—”
But Rhazien spurred his horse forward, his army roaring behind him.
The clash erupted like thunder cracking the world in half.
Crismar and Rhazien collided at the heart of the battlefield, and for a moment the armies, the shouting soldiers, even the crashing of steel and the roar of distant siege engines seemed to fall away. It was only them—two men whose histories were written in blood, whose eyes locked with nearly a decade of fury between them.
Rhazien’s curved blades sang as they struck, each swing fueled with a feral savagery born of piracy and conquest. His laughter was harsh, guttural, like a wolf tasting blood.Crismar met him with steel and storm. His sword caught the pirate’s strike, sparks flying, then with a sweep of his hand he summoned wind to hurl Rhazien back a pace. Lightning danced across his free hand, the storm answering the storm within him.
But Rhazien only grinned, his scarred face twisted into something both hateful and triumphant.
“You’re slower than I remember,” he taunted, circling. "All this time all you’ve gained is hesitation. Rina would be ashamed.”
Crismar’s teeth clenched. The name was a knife thrust into an old wound, one that never healed. Fury surged, and with it the storm—dark clouds spiraling overhead, the air humming with the promise of ruin. Elsa watched from only steps away, the chaos of the wider battle blurring into insignificance as her eyes fixed on Crismar. She could feel it—the unraveling of his restraint, the abyss yawning beneath him. And though she had faced storms, monsters, and spirits that could tear the world apart, nothing terrified her as much as the raw torment written on his face.
The duel raged. Rhazien pressed forward, blades flashing with brutal speed, one strike nearly grazing Crismar’s throat. Crismar countered with a burst of flame along his sword, the steel glowing white-hot. He struck back with a fury that shook the earth, sending shockwaves across the ground. The air between them burned with heat and crackled with electricity. Yet Rhazien never faltered. His eyes glimmered with cruel delight.
“Ah, there he is. The Datrian butcher. The exile. Show me what you truly are, Crismar. Show them all!”
Memories bled into Crismar’s vision. Rina’s scream. The night fire. Her body falling to the sand, lifeless. His hands—his own hands—stained with blood as he cut through Rhazien’s men like a beast driven mad. The exile. The banishment. The endless years of wandering.
Now, face-to-face with the man who had started it all, that fury poured back like a flood.
He struck harder, faster, his sword an extension of wrath itself. Lightning seared across the battlefield, wind howled like a predator, and Rhazien staggered under the onslaught. For the first time, the pirate’s grin faltered.
Elsa’s heart pounded. She knew—knew—that Crismar was seconds away from giving in, from crossing the threshold he had told her about in whispers by firelight. The ghosts of his past were no longer shadows—they were steering his hand.
Rhazien fell to one knee under the weight of Crismar’s assault. A slash across his shoulder sprayed blood, his left blade clattering to the ground. He spat crimson into the dirt, sneering up at the man towering over him.
“Do it,” Rhazien rasped. “End it. Prove me right.”
Crismar raised his sword high, the storm swirling with him. Lightning coiled down the blade, white-hot, brilliant enough to blind. His breath came ragged, his jaw tight, his eyes wide and wild. He saw nothing but Rina’s lifeless face. Nothing but Rhazien’s grin. Nothing but the abyss.
“Crismar!” Elsa’s voice cut across the tempest, sharp as breaking ice.
But he didn’t hear.
The blade began its descent.
And in that moment Elsa moved.
Her hands spread, magic flowing through her veins like a river of stars. She wove ice faster than thought, a surge of shimmering frost exploding into the air. In the blink of an eye, a wall of crystalline ice rose between Crismar’s descending sword and Rhazien’s throat.
Steel struck ice. The sound was a bell cracking, a scream of metal meeting frozen truth. Lightning skittered harmlessly across the frost, discharging into the air with a boom that shook the field.
The impact jolted Crismar a step backwards. His eyes blinked, dazed, as if waking from a nightmare. His sword was buried in Elsa’s ice, not in Rhazien’s flesh.
“Elsa…” His voice was hoarse, disbelieving.
Rhazien, still bleeding, staggered back, laughing despite the blood running down his arm. “There it is,” he spat, retreating. “You’re weak. Always were. Always will be.”
And then, as if the world itself conspired to deny closure, shadow erupted across the field. Black smoke coiled like serpents, thick and oily, wrapping around Rhazien’s broken form. A voice—distant, alien, echoing with power—murmured words Elsa could not understand. The smoke lifted him, shielded him, and in seconds both pirate and darkness were gone, swallowed as though the earth had erased them.
Crismar staggered, chest heaving, staring at the empty space where his enemy had stood. His hand trembled around his sword. He looked at the ice still glowing faintly with frost, the barrier Elsa had created, and then at her.
For a moment, the battlefield vanished again—not in fury this time, but in the quiet weight of what had just passed between them. Elsa’s hand still glimmered with frost, her chest tight, her breath ragged. She had saved him—not from Rhazien’s blade, but from himself.
“I had to,” she whispered, almost apologetically.
Crismar’s voice broke when he answered. “I know.”
But the storm in his eyes had not vanished entirely. It churned still, trapped, restrained only by the fragile bond between them.
Anna’s voice cut through, calling Elsa’s name, reminding them the battle still raged beyond. Arynn’s commands rose above the din, marshaling her soldiers to push back a new assault. Kristoff and Olaf appeared at the edges, alive, battered, waiting.
Yet Elsa could not move. Neither could Crismar.The frost barrier between them began to crack, pieces falling like shards of glass, melting into the trampled dirt.
And in that shattering silence, the ground trembled.
A sound rose—low at first, then growing into a roar. It was not Rhazien. It was not the clash of armies. It was deeper, older, more terrible. From the horizon, fire bloomed against the sky, and a shape moved within it, vast and monstrous.
Elsa’s breath caught. She knew the presence. It was not of man. It was a spirit.
The duel was over, but the true danger had only just begun.