The Chronicles of a Scalebound Sage

Interlude WM [96.5] Princess’s Gambit Part 1

The war for the Diredain Forest had shifted; the druids attack had pushed the wendigo forces from important holding in the northeast. However when reinforcements had gone to back up the wendigo defensive line the druids retreated and cut off the supporting force while launching a surprise offensive in the heart of the Ragnarsson Domain. The integrity of Yuhia was in a precarious  situation with the druids now deeper in wendigo territory and marching on the capital of Ragnarsson Noble Family. 

The voices of the war council echoed through the chamber, like the clash of blades on a battlefield. The room was dim, lit only by a roaring hearth and a handful of guttering lanterns suspended from iron chains above the central table. Maps and figures sprawled across the surface, their shadows dancing wildly with each flicker of the flames. The air was thick with tension, not from the gravity of the battle being fought miles to the south, but from the palpable disdain emanating from those seated around the table.

Representatives from each of the Royal Factions had come together in the middle of a power play to bring as much glory as possible to their family and to the Royal they represented. The room was divided into those that backed the First Princess Sigrun, First Prince Arnar and Fourth Prince Baldur the later of whom had been gaining more and more support.

“This position is untenable,” General Sten Torvaldsson muttered, stabbing a meaty finger at the southern flank of the map. “The druids are pushing harder than we anticipated, and our supply lines are stretched to their breaking point. Reinforcements won’t arrive in time. We need to fall back to Hylstad Keep.”

Sten was the leader of Forth Prince Baldur’s faction and a large nighthand wendigo with a long military record full of achievement and accolades. In any other room he would be the de facto military leader without reproach but here he was but one of many such people.

“And hand them another victory?” scoffed a wiry woman in blackened steel, General Solveig Brantendottir. “The druids are emboldened enough without gifting them the high ground. We hold the line until reinforcements arrive. If they die in the process, so be it—soldiers are replaceable.”

Ingrid’s eyes moved between the faces of the generals, her expression unreadable. She knew General Solveig personally, as she was the representative of the First Prince Arnar’s faction and a general of Salstar forces. A person hand picked for the job by none other than Ingrid herself. There was no comradery now however and Solveig looked at Ingrid as if she were a traitor that should be executed. 

Ingrid rolled her eyes. These were supposed to be the best strategists to defend the nation's interests in this conflict yet here they bickered like merchant wives haggling over spoiled goods. The royal succession had turned the unified front against the druids into an ever divided factions of squabbling idiots not fit for the role. It was a bitter irony that she, Ingrid, once hailed as the Sword of Salstar, was relegated to sitting silently at this table, treated as a decoration, a trophy of the First Princess’s triumph in a bid for support and power in the succession war for the throne.

Ingrid knew she was now a pawn for the First Princess to move. A failure of the Salstars that now moved against the interest of her Husband Lord Ulfar. In a way she was a traitor because of her weakness. Her gaze flicked briefly to the large iron doors, her thoughts already slipping beyond this room, to the battlefield where real decisions were made. The din of the generals’ voices receded into a dull hum, the drumming of her fingers against the armrest of her chair the only sound she could focus on.

“Ingrid.” The sharp tone dragged her attention back to the room. Solveig was staring at her, lips curled in a thin smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes. “What do you think, Lady Sword of Salstar? Or do you only speak when ordered?”

There was malice in every word she spoke. A ripple of laughter moved through the room, subtle but cutting. Ingrid’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding together as she forced herself to remain composed.

“I think,” she said, her voice low and measured, “that debating retreats and sacrifices while our soldiers bleed is cowardice. Each of us here can turn the tide of any battle alone yet we spend our time bickering.”

“Cowardice?” Sten’s laughter was a booming thing, his broad chest heaving with mirth. “Coming from a woman who couldn’t even hold her own title? Spare us the dramatics, Lady Sword. You are here because the First Princess pitied you, not because your opinion carries weight.”

Ingrid’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table. Her pulse pounded in her ears, but she refused to let her anger show.

Solveig leaned forward, her smile growing sharper. “You may have been Noble Salstar once but that is gone, Ingrid. Now you are a Salstar in name only, a failure reduced to a symbol, nothing more. A reminder of the Princess’s victory over you. If you’ve forgotten that, allow me to remind you. You’re here to sit, to listen, and to keep out of the way. Leave the war to those who still have relevance.”

The words stung, each one laced with venom. Ingrid bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. To argue would be to play into their game. She had no intention of letting these posturing fools dictate her actions. Without a word, she stood, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The room fell silent, all eyes on her as she turned to leave.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Solveig snapped, rising to her feet.

Ingrid didn’t stop. Her strides were purposeful, her shoulders squared as she moved toward the door.

“You don’t walk out of this council,” Solveig barked, her voice rising. “You don’t get to make decisions anymore. Stand down, Ingrid.”

When Ingrid didn’t respond, Solveig stepped into her path, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword. “You will not disgrace this council further. You will not disgrace Lord Ulfar with your failures anymore. You are here to represent the First Princess and do as you are told like a good little trophy.”

The generals watched with a mix of amusement and curiosity, clearly expecting Ingrid to back down. Ingrid’s lips curled into a tight smile, a flicker of something dangerous in her eyes.

“You think I need permission?” Her voice was cold.

Before Solveig could draw her blade, Ingrid moved. Her hand shot out, gripping the other woman’s wrist in an iron vice. With ease she forced Solveig to fully sheath her sword, her mouth opened in a sharp gasp, her free hand reaching for her magic, but nothing came. Ingrid leaned in closer to the woman, her glare silencing any further retaliation.

The air in the room changed, heavy and oppressive as Ingrid’s anti-magic aura flared to life. Solveig’s magic fizzled uselessly, and her knees buckled under the sheer pressure of the suppressive force. The sound of her armored body hitting the floor echoed through the chamber. Ingrid loomed over her with a form that seemed to take over the room now. 

Ingrid’s voice dropped to a growl. “Never forget this Solveig. Your position does not make you strong. Discipline does. Resolve does. I have the power to do what needs to be done and the strength to choose my consequences.”

She released Solveig’s wrist, the general looked at her with murder in her eyes but did nothing. The room was silent, the stunned faces of the other generals speaking louder than words ever could. Ingrid turned away, her steps echoing as she reached the door. Without looking back, she pushed it open and stepped out. The sound of the doors slamming shut behind her was satisfying, but not enough.

Let them mock her. Let them scheme. She would take the fight to the druids herself and prove, once again, why she had once been called the Sword of Salstar. Once she left the chamber she heard the sound of the factions inside scrabbling. She needed to get out soon.

“Stop her!” Sten’s voice boomed from inside the chamber. “Guards, detain Lady Ingrid!“

Boots thundered down the stone corridors behind her as soldiers scrambled to obey. Ingrid’s steps quickened; she had no intention of killing their own and would avoid it as much as possible. She refused to be caged, not by their mockery, not by their orders, and certainly not by insecurities.

“Ingrid, halt!” A soldier shouted.

Ingrid’s lips curled into a grim smile as she ignored the command. Her path led her to the wide balcony overlooking the fort, the bitter wind biting at her skin as she stepped out into the open air. Below her stretched the sprawling encampment, flickering torches illuminating rows of tents, watchtowers, and the towering walls that marked this bastion of wendigo strength.

Alarms and shouts erupted as guards spilled out into the courtyard below, their weapons drawn but their movements uncertain. They knew who she was. They knew what she could do. None of them wanted to be the fool sent to detain her if she truly wanted to leave.

“Ingrid, don’t you dare!” Solveig’s voice was closer now “This is treason! You will stay and—“

Ingrid turned sharply, her gaze glinting with a fire that could burn through steel. “You are free to stay and talk until the druids burn this fort to ash. I will not.”

Ingrid stepped onto the stone railing of the balcony. Her boots scraped against the edge as she turned to face them one last time, her hair whipping in the wind and then she leapt.

Gasps and shouts erupted from the soldiers below as she plummeted, but before she hit the ground, her body began to change. Bone-white antlers extended and curved into jagged spikes. Her arms elongated, muscles rippling as her pale skin darkened into the ashen hue of the Wither Dragon’s form. Her body twisted unnaturally, her legs becoming sinewy and taloned. Her jaw extended into a monstrous maw lined with obsidian-like teeth.

When she hit the ground, it wasn’t with a crash but with the eerie grace of a predator. The transformation was complete and she was a blend of primal power and cold majesty. Her wings, tattered yet vast, unfolded with a deafening snap, blotting out the torchlight as they stretched wide. Her claws gouged deep into the stone, and her long tail whipped behind her like a living weapon.

The soldiers froze where they stood, weapons trembling in their hands. To their credit none ran which filled Ingrid with some pride. She jumped up and over the increasing soldier presence around her. Her claws sank into the reinforced stone of the tower she climbed with deliberate slowness. She reached the top, her silhouette monstrous against the moonlit sky. Her glowing eyes, twin orbs of icy fire, swept over the stunned crowd.

“I am Ingrid!” Her voice was thunder, shaking the very walls of the fort. “Sword of Salstar. Warrior of the Wendigo. These titles mean nothing without strength. I will not be your trophy to be paraded and mocked. I am not a relic of conquest. I am a blade, forged to spill blood and tear through the enemies of our people. I ask one question: where is the slaughter? That is where you will find me. In the blood of the druids!”

Her wings snapped open with such force that the wind howled, scattering loose banners and knocking several soldiers to the ground. She stood tall, her terrible form framed by the cold light of the moon.

“I will show you the strength that they fear. I will carve our enemies into ruin.” Her eyes locked onto the generals as they came into view. “You will see that I am no prize to be kept. I am the weapon that dares to be wielded!”

With that, she leapt from the tower, her wings catching the wind as she surged into the sky. The force of her takeoff sent a shockwave through the courtyard, scattering dirt and ash. She ascended like a shadow of death, her wings casting ominous shapes on the ground below as she soared southward toward the battlefield.

The soldiers watched in stunned silence as she vanished into the distance, her roar echoing over the fort like the call of some ancient beast.

Then, one by one, they began to chant her name.

“Ingrid! Ingrid! Ingrid!”