The Chronicles of a Scalebound Sage

Interlude WM [96.5] Princess’s Gambit Part 2

The skies above the battlefield were chaos, the closest thing to the Infernal a living being can get. It was a swirling storm of wings, spells, and blood. Wendigo wyvern knights of the combined Noble factions fought desperately against the surprise offensive of druids riding griffons and cockatrices. The wendigo force had been taken by total surprise by a much larger and well prepared invasion force. 

The two sides' forces locked in deadly spirals that sent riders and mounts alike plummeting to the blood-soaked earth below. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning flesh, the screams of the dying, and the thunderous roar of clashing magics. Above it all, a shimmering aurora rippled unnaturally across the sky, the telltale sign of a mana storm brewing from the overload of spells tearing through the battlefield.

Heimdall, a young wyvern knight of the Frostfang division, clung tightly to the reins of his mount, a slate-gray wyvern named Skarn. He was nearly frozen in place from the carnage his eyes saw. His spear, cracked and charred from deflecting fire spells, felt like dead weight in his hands as he scanned the chaos. Around him, his comrades were falling. A cockatrice rider tore through their flank, its venomous beak piercing a wyvern’s throat. A bolt of searing lightning shot from a druid mage atop a pegasus, a wyvern knight was struck, a hole burned through his form mid-air.

“We’re losing!” Heimdall shouted, his voice nearly drowned by the deafening roar of the storm. 

His wyvern screeched in agreement, banking hard to avoid a griffon slashing its talons toward them. He snapped into action as a blade of ice exploded overhead sending sharp shrapnel into him. Most of them were blocked by his armor but some managed to dig deep through the blue steel. He yelled a spell at the same time he pulled Skarn into place. The rider and the Familiar released a torrent of fire towards the mage that shot the ice spell.

Wounded but not dead the ice wizard fled only to be replaced by other wizards firing their own spells and forcing Heimdall to retreat or be overwhelmed. Below, the wendigo ground forces were faring no better. Druids wielded nature’s fury, entangling soldiers with roots that burst from the ground, impaling them with jagged stones. The druids in their ambush were already prepared with artillery magics before the fight even started. The wendigo warriors fought valiantly, but they were being pushed back, forced to give ground with every death dealt.

Then he saw it. A white shape streaked across the sky, moving faster than anything he had ever seen. For a moment, he thought it was a trick of the aurora, a fragment of light playing tricks on his eyes. That was proven wrong as it descended, the shape grew larger, more defined. A dragon. Not a wyvern, not a griffon, not some lesser beast of war but an actual dragon.

The battlefield seemed to hold its breath. Both wendigo and druids paused, stunned by the sight of the pale monstrosity cutting through the storm-laden skies. The dragon’s wings spread wide, blotting out the aurora’s shimmering light as it dived straight into the heart of the druid aerial formation.

“What… what is that?” Heimdall whispered, his grip tightening on Skarn’s reins.

The dragon tore into the druids like a winter gale through autumn leaves. Its claws raked through a pair of griffons, their riders screaming as they plummeted to the ground. It’s jaw ripped a rider off his mount in a shower of blood. Its tail lashed out, striking a pegasus mid-flight and sending it crashing into a cockatrice below. Druids scrambled to regroup, their spells turning toward the new threat, but the dragon moved with terrifying speed.

Then it opened its maw. A torrent of pale, withering breath poured forth, a mist of death that consumed everything in its path. A contingent of druids quickly went to contain the creature with shimmering shields. However when they approached there was a ripple in the air and the magic shields crumbled instantly. Right after the breath drained the life from both riders and beasts. The dragon’s anti-magic aura flowed outward, disrupting spells mid-cast, leaving the druids vulnerable as it descended upon them with claws and fangs.

Heimdall’s wyvern shrieked, its instincts pulling it away from the dragon’s aura. Around him, the surviving wendigo knights hesitated, unsure whether this monstrous force was friend or foe.

“Wendigo! Stand and fight!” The dragon roared. “You are warriors, born for blood and battle! Rally to me, and let us show these druids the fury of Yuhia!”

The voice was a booming roar, shaking the very air. He felt something else in the dragon’s aura something he felt only one other time. Heimdall’s eyes widened as realization struck him like a hammer.

“Lady Ingrid…” he whispered then drew in a breath and yelled. “The First Princess sent her, she is Lady Ingrid! Everyone the dragon is Lady Ingrid. The First Princess sent her!”

The name rippled through the ranks of the knights as the dragon banked sharply, diving through the enemy lines and scattering druids in every direction. 

“She’s with us!” another knight shouted, raising his spear high. “To Ingrid! To the Sword of Salstar! Regroup and move!”

A deafening war cry erupted from the wendigo forces. Heimdall spurred Skarn forward, his spear raised as he joined the charge. Around him, the other knights followed, their wyverns diving with renewed ferocity into the druid formations.

Below, the ground forces rallied as well, the sight of Ingrid’s dragon form tearing through the skies filling them with awe and determination. Ingrid’s presence was a storm unto itself, a force of nature that turned the tide of the battle. Her claws shredded enemy mounts, her breath drained the life from druids and beasts alike, and her anti-magic aura left the enemy mages defenseless. Everywhere she flew, the druids fell, their once-dominant position crumbling into chaos.

Heimdall fought with everything he had, his spear striking true as he brought down a griffon rider. Around him, the other knights echoed Ingrid’s name, their voices rising above the storm.

“Ingrid! Ingrid! Ingrid!”

The aurora above grew brighter, the mana storm reaching its peak as the wendigo forces surged forward, their cries of victory drowning out the druids’ desperate retreat.

***

As the skies cleared of enemies, the tide of battle on the ground shifted in tandem with the aerial victory. The wendigo forces, emboldened by their reclaimed skies and the dragon that had rallied them, surged forward with renewed strength. High above, Ingrid in the form of her familiar torn through the druid aerial forces and circled once before folding her massive wings and diving straight into the heart of the enemy line.

Ingrid’s form shrank mid-plummet, the white scales folding back into pale skin, the massive wings and tail dissolving into nothingness. By the time she hit the ground, she was herself again, wreathed in a haze of anti-magic that rippled across the battlefield affecting only those she deemed an enemy. The impact was a thunderclap, shaking the earth and throwing druids and their summoned beasts off their feet as if a meteor had struck.

She stood clad in her armor plate metal interspersed with runic formulae that amplified her anti-magic. When the dust cleared, she was in the center of a shallow crater, her greatsword already in hand. The blade gleamed with blue steel, etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the presence of her anti-magic aura. Her glowing eyes scanned the battlefield, locking onto the druids scrambling to regain their footing.

“Wendigo!” she roared, her voice carrying across the chaos. “Show them what it means to step into our land. Leave none standing. Leave none retreating. Kill them all!”

Her declaration ignited the wendigo soldiers, their battle cries echoing hers as they charged. Ingrid didn’t wait to see the results. She moved swifter than any of the men, her greatsword sweeping through the air in arcs of death.

A druid mage raised their staff, shouting an incantation as vines burst from the ground, aiming to entangle her. The moment the spell crossed into her aura, it faltered. The vines withered and crumbled, the spell unraveling. The druid barely had time to gasp before Ingrid’s blade cut them down, the steel cleaving through both their staff and chest in one stroke.

Another mage attempted a fireball, but her anti-magic aura disrupted the spell mid-cast. The flame flickered, then detonated in the mage’s hands. The resulting explosion shredded their arms and sent their body hurtling backward, their screams drowned out by the thunderous roar of collapsing mana.

Each step Ingrid took was marked by devastation. Spells fizzled and backfired around her, mages falling prey to their own uncontained power as their mana cores ruptured violently. Amidst the chaos, something massive surged through the enemy ranks, a figure that stood apart from the panicked druids.

A figure loomed above the others: a druid warrior of the Falz clan. His broad frame, clad in sparse but sturdy armor, towered over his kin. Beside him lumbered an enormous blue spine bear, its jagged, glowing spikes bristling like a natural fortress of magical energy. The beast’s roar was a guttural bellow, its vibrations reverberating across the battlefield and even causing wendigo lines to waver momentarily.

The druid’s eyes locked onto Ingrid, and he pointed his war axe at her. “You’ve caused enough death today, beast,” he growled, his voice steady despite the chaos. “I will put you in the ground where you belong savage!”

Ingrid’s lips twisted into a feral grin, her canines flashing in the dim light. She didn’t dignify him with words; there was no need to converse with a corpse. Instead, she rolled her shoulders, loosening the tension in her body like a predator readying to pounce.

The druid and his bear charged as one, the ground trembling beneath their combined weight. The bear lunged first, its massive claws swiping toward Ingrid with terrifying speed. She ducked beneath the strike, her greatsword coming up to deflect the beast’s other paw. The impact sent a shockwave through her arms, the force of the blow nearly staggering her.

The druid was right behind the bear, his war axe aimed at her side. Ingrid twisted, narrowly avoiding the blade, but the druid was fast, faster than she expected. His gauntleted fist caught her across the jaw, sending her stumbling back. She tasted blood.

“Not bad,” she admitted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

Her aura flared, and she surged forward, meeting the druid’s next strike head-on. The druid was nearly her equal in strength which was a rarity for her. As an anti-magic mage Ingrid had to alway fight with her skill with the blade. Stripped of magic and suppressed with her spells everyone was alway just meat to be cut down. 

Ingrid was no fool; she knew that if she wanted to survive she had to be stronger, faster and more skilled in every way than her opponent. The druid may rival her in physical strength but not in skill. She was born for war, this was her playground, it was her teacher, and the purest expression of her ideals. With every fight she brought with her the experience of decades.

The spine bear struck again, its claws raking across her side, tearing through her armor and biting into flesh. Ingrid hissed, pain flaring through her body, but she retaliated without hesitation. Her greatsword cleaved into the beast’s shoulder, sinking deep into muscle and bone. The bear howled in agony, its massive jaws snapping inches from her face as she backpedaled to regain her footing.

The druid pressed the attack, his axe flashing toward her head. She parried it with her sword, the clash of metal ringing out like a bell. The force of the blow sent a jolt through her arms, but she held her ground, twisting her blade to force his weapon away.

With a roar, she drove her knee into the druid’s chest, forcing him back. Her greatsword followed, slashing upward in a devastating arc. The blade caught the bear across the throat, severing its head in a spray of blood.

The druid roared in fury, his grief fueling his next attack. He raised his hand, magic surging as he attempted to cast a spell—but Ingrid’s anti-magic flared, disrupting his focus. The spell shattered mid-cast, the backlash ripping through his body. His mana core erupted violently, streams of bloodied energy tearing him apart from within. Ingrid didn’t give him a chance to recover. Her blade struck true, decapitating him in a single, brutal stroke. 

Blood dripped from her wounds as she reached for a healing potion at her belt. She downed it in one gulp, the searing liquid burning her throat as her injuries began to knit themselves back together.

There was no time to rest. More druids surged toward her, their faces twisted with rage and fear. Ingrid tightened her grip on her greatsword, a savage grin spreading across her bloodied face. If they wanted to challenge her, she would show them the wrath of the wendigo.

With a battle cry that shook the air, she charged forward, her sword raised high. Today, she would carve their fear of the Forest Father into the very ground.