Footsteps pressed down in a heavy, rhythmic cadence, accompanied by the sound of metal dragging across the stone floor.
Stálmar, the Wolf King who had gained notoriety from the thunderous explosion at Grnnstjarna, capital of the Sterkburin Kingdom, was in reality a victim, grievously ravaged by that very blast.
More than half of his army from Dvergar's Holdfast had been annihilated in the blink of an eye. He had not only lost hearing in his left ear, but the entire left side of his body—both arm and leg—was crippled, deformed by blistering burns... It was fortunate he had not lost his left eye as well.
The dwarves had coexisted with the Underworld Kingdom for ages. The victory over Drekabani through a lightning raid had extended the dominion of Dvergar's Holdfast into the western reaches of Svartalfheim like never before. Now, the army remaining loyal to Stálmar was stationed at Eisenkrag Castle, the former royal palace of Drekabani, now under their control.
Stálmar dragged his body, which seemed to cling to barely half a life, along the cold stone corridor to meet the true supreme leaders of the army—the Unicorn Witches, who also resided within this castle.
When the Wolf King entered the witches' quarters, only two—one in blue and one in veronica-hued robes—were seated at the central table in the great hall.
Although Stálmar’s condition was no different from a corpse that could still stand and breathe, he replied with a steady voice, “I am well enough, Grandmaster.”
His mother had been a direct disciple of Frónza; thus, the bond between the Wolf King and this witch was as strong as blood.
“You should rest until you are completely healed,” Frónza said, casting her gaze to scrutinize the wounds covering his body.
“Thank you for your concern, Grandmaster,” the Wolf King replied, his voice laced with exhaustion. “But even if I rest, I will not recover further than this.”
He cleared his throat lightly, straightening his back and hardening his tone.
“I have come to report that the entire army has returned to a combat-ready state. The Drekabani soldiers who rose in rebellion have been wiped out.”
Frónza looked at him for a moment before speaking slowly, “You intend to mobilize the troops to invade the Kingdom of Sterkburin once again...” Her voice held a hint of hesitation; after all, Stálmar was the only son of Samantra, her first prime disciple.
“As for me, the sooner the better,” Stálmar replied plainly, though his eyes burned with urgency, as if he knew his time was running out.
“You already have a plan in mind, do you not?” Frónza asked knowingly.
“Yes,” Stálmar replied, bowing his head.
The simple act of bowing proved difficult for the Wolf King, as the left side of his body was barely functional.
The witch Frónza nodded slightly. “Good. I will discuss with the others how to coordinate with your plan.”
“In that case, I shall take my leave,” Stálmar said politely, turning slowly to depart.
However, before he could cross the threshold, a voice rang out from the corner. A witch in dark purple robes spoke without concealing her disdain, “Tch... in that state, he’ll probably die today or tomorrow, I suspect.”
Those piercing words did not incite the slightest anger in the Wolf King. This woman was, in a sense, an elder relative: she was a junior fellow student of his mother. Her name was Angria.
“Watch your tongue, Angria,” Frónza reprimanded openly, her voice loud enough for the Wolf King to hear.
“Hmph... All this time, it is you who should have disciplined her more strictly,” the voice of another elderly woman rang out from the room behind.
The atmosphere in the hall grew even more tense; the newcomer was senior even to Frónza.
She was Grimora.
Soon after, two figures appeared in the doorway. An elderly, rotund witch walked slowly, supported by a red-haired witch in black raiment.
She was Grimora, and her guide was Bjarka, the Dragon Witch.
Frónza wasted no time on greetings. “The plan to invade the Kingdom of Sterkburin must proceed,” she stated, affirming her support for Stálmar’s desire.
Grimora narrowed her eyes. “Do you still require the Apple of Ieunn from the Elf Queen Embla?”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
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“If I could turn back time...” Frónza spoke slowly, her hardened gaze wavering for a fraction of a second. “I would not have given her my word to wipe out all these dwarves.” Her hand clenched tight. “I would have chosen to risk my life and snatch the Apple of Ieunn from the Elf Queen’s hand that very day.”
The name Sigyn was not spoken, but everyone in the room knew well—that decision had caused their Master to die, sacrificing her body to contain the explosive power of the Ultra Untora magic and save her disciples. Yet, Sigyn could not have foreseen that her effort would be in vain; the blast of the Ultra Untora spell had killed Hj?rdí, another disciple, regardless.
“Everything has proceeded to this point. Are you saying we should stop now, Grimora?”
A voice rang out from the back of the hall.
Every eye turned. A white-haired witch holding a long staff of dark magic entered slowly. Her eyes were as still and deep as the abyss of night. She was Mistyra, and among all of Sigyn’s disciples, she was the eldest, holding the highest seniority among the nine witches.
Now, of the nine Unicorn Witches, only five remained: Mistyra (Witch of Poison Mist), Grimora (Witch of Night), Frónza (Witch of Illusion), Bjarka (Witch of Dragons), and Angria (Witch of Wrath).
“I will not decide for anyone else,” Grimora said in a low voice. “But as for me... I will not lay a hand to slaughter the dwarves ever again.”
The declaration was firm. It was the will Sigyn had once held—that seizing land from the dragons in Svartalfheim was for survival, not for the genocide of the dwarves born to this land.
Mistyra turned to the red-haired witch. “And what about you, Bjarka? What is your decision?”
Bjarka paused. The hand supporting Grimora clenched tighter. “I will follow my Master,” she replied softly. “Whatever she says... I say the same.”
She was not a woman of many words, nor one who sought attention. However, on this battlefield, she was the Dragon Controller—and dragons were the most formidable force in the eyes of the dwarves. Without her, the witches' military might would be significantly diminished against a dwarven army amidst a battlefield of dragon fire.
“Bjarka, your Master told you to decide for yourself. Or is it that... you do not desire the Apple of Ieunn to preserve your youth for eternity?” Mistyra said in a flat voice that carried crushing pressure.
Bjarka felt fear toward this elder, and shrank behind Grimora’s massive frame.
Grimora turned to Frónza. “Tell me, Frónza. Can we truly trust Queen Embla to willingly hand over the Apple of Ieunn as promised?”
Frónza went still before replying, “When I think back to that time... now even I am not sure if that Elf Queen is worthy of trust.”
Her palms felt ice-cold as the weight of her past decision crashed down upon her. Wiping out the dwarves until extinction—it went too far. Moreover, it ran completely contrary to the path Sigyn had intended.
“Frónza,” Mistyra called her name slowly. “If the Elf Queen turns out to be untrustworthy, you must share the responsibility.” Her voice turned chilling. “Do not think that... I will merely curse you to become a swan and let the matter end there.”
Mistyra’s teasing words were not something her sisters could laugh off. Throughout the life of the Poison Mist Witch, she had proven time and again—her words were sacred, and always ruthless.
“In that case, I withdraw,” Grimora said. “May you all achieve the success you desire.”
As Grimora finished, Bjarka began to guide her massive body out of the hall.
“Grimora, you must think carefully,” Mistyra said. “Among us, the one who would benefit most from the Apple of Ieunn... seems to be you.”
“Right now, I have something I desire more than blossoming youth,” Grimora turned to face Mistyra without fear.
“And what is that? Tell me,” Mistyra asked, narrowing her eyes in derision. Throughout their lives, these two had been rivals in both magic and beauty.
Grimora locked eyes with her senior disciple and articulated her answer slowly: “Ultra Untora.”
Silence fell upon the hall like a heavy stone.
“What did you say... Ultra Untora?” Angria interjected, shaking her head; she was certain no one remained who could cast that spell. What Sigyn had created as the Ultra Untora was an inversion of magic energy that should have been impossible.
“It is a pity you did not see it,” Grimora said. “When Master cast that spell, I saw everything... That which is impossible twisted everything.” She smiled thinly. “If you had seen it as I did, perhaps... you would be no different from me now.”
“You have gone mad, Grimora!” Mistyra shouted. “That spell claimed the life of Hj?rdí, our junior sister! Have you forgotten?”
Grimora remained unmoved. “From now on, my life is dedicated to proving that Ultra Untora is not merely a legend. And one day... I might be the one to cast it again.”
Grimora’s words were a spark falling into the depths of Frónza’s mind, for she too had seen Sigyn cast that spell. A power beyond words. A power that could kill even gods.
Deep in Mistyra’s heart, however, was the one thing she could not accept—among them all, she was the only survivor who had never seen Sigyn cast that grand magic. She never spoke of it, but the jealousy was buried deep, silent and gnawing.
“If in the end, only the three of us remain,” Angria spoke to pull them back to reality, “The war must be planned more carefully than before.”
In truth, Angria knew the details of this war better than anyone, for she was in secret contact with Lylith, a Valkyrie general from Asgard. If this were merely a battle between dwarves, Asgard would not interfere. But if they knew that behind the scenes lay a pact between witches and High Elves, intervention would be immediate.
“There is no need for any plan,” Mistyra said coolly. “I will release the Poison Mist to devour them until they are dead. No one will survive my mist.”
“Your Poison Mist is too dangerous,” Frónza countered. “It does not distinguish friend from foe. And now there is no Hj?rdí to control the wind. If a mistake occurs, we may suffer more than the enemy.”
“So troublesome,” Mistyra swore. She did not care who was friend or foe, as long as the enemy was destroyed.
“And do not forget,” Angria said flatly. “If we do not support that Wolf, they will never win.”
Her voice was harsher than usual when mentioning the son of Samantra—the former senior disciple who was once closer than kin, before she chose love over their bond.
“This war must end with Stálmar’s victory,” Frónza said firmly. “Exterminating the dwarves is impossible now. But a leader who submits to the Elves—that is what I will present to Queen Embla in exchange for the Apple of Ieunn.”
“Before, there were six of us. Now only three remain,” Mistyra noted. “When you made the agreement with the Elf Queen, how many apples did you promise?”
“Twelve,” Frónza replied. “Originally, I thought to divide them equally. But now...”
“Then it is... four each,” Mistyra interrupted. Her eyes gleamed—not with sorrow for lost comrades, but with satisfaction at the increased share.
Ending her declaration, the Poison Mist Witch walked away, leaving silence to blanket the hall.
Angria stood up in anger. “In the end... we haven’t planned anything at all!” She, too, stormed out.
Left alone, Frónza sighed deeply. ‘They are always like this—arrogant, believing in themselves above all else, never bowing their heads to anyone, even each other.’
She rose slowly, letting out a soft chuckle. “Heh...” Then she murmured the final complaint:
“All this time... it is Master who should have disciplined us more strictly.”