Melongrim looked out from the open window of her stone spire. The icy winds blew and howled. The chill would have been crippling to a woman now in her second century if she had mortal flesh to feel it. Emaciated hands clutched a foul magic brew she had been working on until something odd wrenched her attention away. She held it absently now as she peered out in to the night. Cold eyes burned in to the darkness—searching.
A shadow wavered and her vision locked on the aberration. It was well hidden. So well hidden she could not make out what it was which instantly meant it could be only one thing—her husband. She set the cup down and bellowed in to the wind.
“Didn’t I kill you? You should know better than to come to me now!”
The next few phrases twisted the tongue, mind and reality. The night sky cracked and a blazing star erupted over the snow covered slopes. The barren rock and ice surrounding her fortress bathed in searing light. The shadow leapt away and dived quite undignified in to a crevasse. A faint curse drifted up from the mountain to the witches ears. She cackled—a stereotypical trait she tried to avoid, but allowed herself the indulgence this time.
“Alaban! Brimkey!” she shouted. As each name was spoken a great hulking shadow sprang to being next to her. Each was well over 15’ tall, billowing evil with great gaping maws and vacant eyes. “Go fetch my husband and bring him to me.”
The two specter princes made no sounds and quietly slipped through stone, structure and night. Melongrim watched as the minions arrowed for the crevasse. When both disappeared in to the shadow a magic laden voice bellowed followed by inhuman harmonic screams. Alaban and Brimkey shot out of the cleft in opposite directions fleeing in to the night with the speed only their kind could achieve.
“I see you struck a truce with the Specter King! How much of your soul did you give up, Sustis? Have you any left? Why have you come dear husband?” The searing light faltered and the North Mountain returned to darkness.
The shadow scrabbled out of his protective hole. As he stood up from his hands and knees. “Greetings, Wife! You look ravishing as ever!” Tall and still handsome (if not for the shining black eyes and aura of death) he called up to her.
“Don’t try my patience, Dread Lord! You’ve lost my affections, loyalty and trust. You can not hope to beguile me on this mountain and I have not yet decided whether to allow you to leave yet. Now, why are you here?”
The shadow shifted nervously. “I have news you would hear.” He paused trying to find words, but gave up. “Luna is dead.”
Melongrim’s soul churned. The icy defenses paralyzed as old emotions tried to break through. A thousand deaths she planned for this man. A thousand revenges. Ten thousands torments. All of them deserved. She shook herself and recomposed her shields.
“I declare truce until dawn. Enter Sultan Sustis Ahlakim, Dread Lord and Husband.” The air hummed as magic again flashed on North Mountain. A numbness settled in to both of them. No actions of harm could be taken against each other this night as declared by the old magics. The gates of Shardholm split open. The Witch of North Mountain and the Sultan would mourn their daughter and plan how best to save their son.
