Thank you so much for 200 collections! To celebrate, I'm dropping 2 chapters today — and for those of you on Patreon, there's 1 extra early chapter waiting for you. Once we hit the next goal on Patreon, I'll start releasing combo drops too. If you're interested, check it out: patreon.com/HenrikMDuskraven
POV – Tarhuna, Hittite Warrior | Northern Region
My name is Tarhuna. I am the son of farmers from Hattusa, and I was carved from stone, forged in the cold of the northern mountains. I grew up among basalt walls and frozen valleys, where snow fell even outside of winter, and where men learned early that the gods showed no mercy. We fought for survival, for honor, for Muwatalli — and now, out of fear.
When I turned nineteen, I joined Muwatalli's army and fought for him and what he stood for. He wasn't the greatest of leaders, but at times, he did right by the people. I served for four years and took part in battles and skirmishes alike. The blood, the pain, the suffering — all of it still haunts me. More than once, I considered leaving the battlefield behind. But something kept me going.
Tiya. Tiya...
One of the most beautiful women I've ever had the honor to behold. Her radiant smile captivated me; her almond-shaped eyes and breathtaking kindness made me love her more with every passing day. She was a peasant from a village near Hattusa, and I met her during a campaign. It was love at first sight.
Her smile never leaves my thoughts. After I met her, I was certain I would leave the army behind. I wanted to stay, to build a life with her. But my plans changed when our love bore fruit — the second love of my life: my little Neferet. I love playing with her. I love seeing her smile. I love my princesses.
And for a while, things were good — in their own way. A new war had begun this year. Muwatalli made the decision to strike at the Egyptians, and at first, everything seemed to go well. Victory after victory followed — until, a few days ago, something changed. The nights grew longer, animals fled the forests, and the cold… the cold was unnatural. It came from nowhere, creeping across the land like an invisible serpent. Even the veterans shivered, unable to say why. It felt like an omen.
Which brings us to today.
Today's dawn was unlike any other. The sky hung heavy and gray, as though it bore the weight of darkness itself. The ground cracked beneath our feet like thin ice. And even in the bone-deep chill, we were given new orders — to secure the Kazal Pass, a strategic route we suspected the Egyptians might try to take.
When we arrived, something was wrong. Everything felt… off. The enemy did not come in phalanxes. There were no drums. No war cries. No banners raised or spears lowered. What met us was… something else. At first, it was nothing — a void, the very absence of being.
Even the wind had stopped.
And silence fell so absolute that the clinking of the chains on my armor sounded like a scream. One of us — Karnesh, a brother-in-arms of two years, who had stood beside me through countless battles — froze mid-step, eyes locked ahead.
He was a hardened man, bearing scars on both flesh and soul. His skin, once sun-bronzed from countless campaigns, was now pale as wax. His face, usually steeled with bravery, twisted into a silent mask of dread.
Karnesh had always been the most superstitious among us. Around his neck he wore a carved bone amulet, claiming it protected him from ancient spirits. Even during rest, he would whisper forgotten prayers to the gods of the hills. We used to laugh at that. But now… now he stood motionless. Frozen — not by the creeping cold, but by a sense of doom none of us could yet see.
Then he pointed. His hand was trembling.
And I saw it.
A figure emerged from the mist. Alone. Moving slowly across snow that formed beneath his very feet, in places where only mud had lain moments before. Wherever he stepped, the ground iced over. Leaves withered. Life recoiled.
He was tall, cloaked in a dark mantle threaded with silver — symbols etched like distant constellations. His black hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes… they were blue. Not the blue of ocean or sky, but of the heavens just before a storm breaks. But the most terrifying thing was the aura around him — the very air groaned, as if the world itself were being crushed beneath the weight of frost.
He stopped just a few paces from us. Sixteen armed Hittite warriors. And him — only him. Watching, I summoned what courage I had left and spoke:
"Turn back the way you came — I shouted, my spear held firm — or death will find you here, stranger!"
He looked at me. And smiled.
The voice that answered was calm — clear as crystal, but sharp as a blade of ice. He spoke as one who already knew how the story would end:
"Your end has already come."
That was all he said. And then, I stared at him, fear clawing at my soul, and asked:
"What do you mean? — I growled, though my hand was trembling."
He didn't answer. He simply raised one hand. And there, in the center of his palm, formed a shard of ice — pure, honed, and spinning silently, like a fragment stolen from an eternal winter.
In an instant, he hurled it toward Karnesh.
The ice pierced through the bronze helm like cloth. Karnesh collapsed without a sound, eyes still wide, his face freezing from within as crimson blood cracked into ruby crystals.
With terror gripping me after witnessing it, I screamed:
"Defensive formation!"
But there was no time.
From the ground, spikes of ice erupted like treacherous spears, tearing through boots, legs, and shields. Men cried out, slipping, bleeding — like cornered animals, with no path to escape.
I charged him.
Screaming in rage — no, in desperation — I hurled my weapon.
Like a trick of magic, he froze it mid-air.
Just like that. A mere flick of two fingers, and my spear crumbled to snow — unmade.
Trapped in fear, in a failed attempt to fight back, I drew the dagger at my belt. It was all I had left.
He let me come close. Almost like an invitation. His eyes locked onto mine — and for the first time, I saw something different. Not arrogance. Not cruelty. But weariness. And I heard him speak:
"You are not to blame for this war — he said, his voice low but steady — but I cannot let you remain in it."
He pressed his hand to my chest. The cold pierced through me. My heart froze instantly.
I fell to my knees. The world turned white. All color vanished.
And in the end, the only thing I heard was his voice — like wind through pine trees:
"Your king has made a pact with darkness. And I am the answer."
And that was the end of me...
[General POV]
After Morpheus entered the war between the Egyptian people and the Hittites, everything changed. His Vampire Guard—and Morpheus himself—wreaked havoc across the Hittite forces. Wherever they passed, the eleven men left nothing but ruin.
Almost no enemy soldiers survived. The only exceptions were those who surrendered or managed to escape by sheer luck. Civilians, of course, were left untouched. But everyone else—anyone who dared to fight—was slaughtered without mercy, in all manners imaginable.
Since his arrival in Hittite lands, chaos had spread like wildfire. The shadow of death stretched outward like a frigid mist, settling over every land it touched. He didn't bring just war with his blade—he brought something far worse: the freezing of life itself. Morpheus destroyed everything he touched.
He struck at every strategic point of the Hittite army, beginning with the Fortress of Nurkasha. It was a proud stronghold, nestled among the hills of Alazim, long a symbol of defense against invaders. For centuries, it had stood defiant. But it was the first to fall. Its once-impenetrable walls crumbled beneath the force of ice and shadow. Over four hundred warriors died there, unable to resist the supernatural power of the vampires. The shattering of spears on frozen stone was the last sound of resistance. Only the quickest and most cunning escaped, but their faces remain burned into my memory—the terror in their eyes.
Soon after, Morpheus moved toward the Camp of Tarhazi. In Tarhazi, where young recruits once slept peacefully beneath the starry sky, the heavens bore witness—for the first time—to the true horror the Vampire Guard could unleash. It was a swift, silent night assault. By dawn, all were dead—237 soldiers, with 19 missing. The cold had seeped into their very bones. There was no blood, only frost. There are no words strong enough to describe what was found. It was as if the night itself had devoured the camp.
And the destruction continued...
At the very heart of the Hittite Empire, at its summit of power, within the royal palace built of black basalt stone, a towering figure sat upon a throne—clearly furious over the events of the past few days. The man was pulled from his troubled thoughts as the door creaked open.
The door swung wide to reveal Khatuzil. He entered the royal hall with steady steps, though his body bore the weight of many winters and many battles. He was a man of advanced age, but his upright posture still spoke of the pride of a seasoned warrior—one of the most renowned in all Hattusa. His graying, thinning hair fell disorderly across his brow, lending him a solemn air. His face was marked with deep lines, each a witness to brutal conflicts past. His skin, once bronze, now wore the pallor of a man who had weathered too many storms—on the battlefield and beyond.
He wore thick furs, stained with blood and steeped in the chill of a recent clash. Khatuzil looked like he carried the weight of the moment itself, his expression as worn as his garments. His clothes, tattered and speckled with a blend of frost and blood, told the story of what he had just endured. What once were proud military decorations now hung heavy—no longer emblems of past glory, but burdens of a time slipping into darkness.
As he entered, the royal hall was consumed by a palpable tension. The king, watching with narrowed eyes, scrutinized every detail—Khatuzil's labored stride, his fatigue, and the war-worn face that bore the scars of a conflict spiraling out of control. Anxious for answers, the king fixed his gaze, waiting for the old warrior—who had seen more than most—to speak at last.
Muwatalli looked at him and said:
— Speak, Khatuzil. I've read your report. What do you mean by "a Warden of the Cold"? Is this soldier superstition, or a real threat? And is it tied to our recent losses? — His voice carried a sharp note of unease.
Khatuzil answered with all the reverence he could muster:
— Majesty, with all due respect—he is real. I saw him with my own eyes. A man... or something beyond that. I don't know his name, but I know this: wherever he walks, life freezes. None of our weapons can stand against him. And his troops... they're not human. They truly have the power to erase entire battalions without a trace.
Muwatalli listened to Khatuzil's brief account and asked himself aloud:
— And why now? Why does he appear just as we're on the verge of conquering Egypt?
"My lord, some say... he gave his answer himself."
Muwatalli furrowed his brow, intrigued.
"What did he say, then?"
— He spoke directly, my king. — Khatuzil hesitated visibly, reluctant to voice what weighed on him. After a moment of silence, he finally forced out the words:
— He said he came because "your king has allied with darkness." Those were his exact words.
Upon hearing this, Muwatalli rose slowly from his throne, eyes fixed on the void before him. His voice dropped, just above a whisper:
"Then... the pacts have been broken."
Khatuzil didn't fully grasp his sovereign's words, but he knew they signaled something grave. Trying to steer the situation toward action, he spoke again:
"Majesty, we must act. Summon the council. Gather the magi. Rally the loyal tribes. This war is no longer political. It is spiritual. We are fighting the end itself."
To be continued…
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[N/A] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!