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The horse snorted as he stepped through the massive arch and into the throne room. A hare follows behind him, alert eyes scanning the room as his grip tightens on an enchanted bow. They brace themselves for the oncoming fight. A decisive moment is at hand.

The throne room is… empty. Jagged cobblestone and torn silken banners fill the room with an abandoned air. Dread lingers here in spades, the silence ringing loudly among the corners. The throne is vacant with dust its only occupant. The hare tilts his head, concerned. Where was the tyrant?

Undeterred by the strangeness of the situation, the equine monk steps forward, readjusting the glaive upon his shoulder. Their quarry had to be here somewhere. The deity that sent them on this journey had deemed it thus. In addition, Ruin’s influence here was clear. Their journey here had been arduous, filled with the echoes of incineration. They had slain a horde of blackened echoes on their way here. Each of them screaming in their final moments as the inferno claimed them as fuel. A Firekeeper had to be the cause, and the Frozen Tyrant fit the role perfectly.

As the horse examined the throne at the end of the room, the hare watched his surroundings from the center. Something was wrong. A profound sense of foreboding overcame him, the archer’s senses filled with flares of danger. The tyrant was here. She had to be.

Behind him.

The hare darted to the side, an icicle slicing into his cheek as it flew through the air. It would have impaled his head had he not moved just in time. The equine intercepted it with a quick slash of his glaive, slicing it in two and knocking each half to his sides before it could pierce him. Both men turned to the archway.

There, standing under the entrance to the throne room, was the Frozen Tyrant. She stood there tall and proud, arm outstretched and hand releasing a light mist of frost. The leopard had eyes burning with violet fire, glowing purple cracks lining her body. Her cape fluttered gently in an unseen wind as she settled her arm at her side.

Both Extinguished warriors readied themselves, the hare archer nocking an arrow while the horse monk flourishes his glaive. They examine the tyrant with steady eyes. She stands taller than them, even dwarfing the horse in size as she steps into the room. Her eyes are filled with a cold hatred that opposes the blazing wrath of the Ruin Flame burning within.

“What a loathsome lot.” She sneers. “Barging in here as if you own the place. The audacity is almost impressive. But your little adventure will now come to a close. For I, your end, am here.”

Frost surrounds the tyrant as she speaks, clinging to her clothes and fur. Spikes of ice grow out of her cape as she continues to walk forward. The hare does not flinch as she approaches. He merely adjusts his aim, arrow trained at her heart despite the difference in height. She finally stops right in front of him. The frost laps at his fur but neither his gaze nor his breathing waver.

The tyrant hums, impressed at the hare’s resolve. Her hand raises and the flurry of frost converges there. Whipping and dancing in the palm of the tyrant’s hand, it converges to form the rough shape of a sword’s hilt. The formation continues downward until a massive claymore of ice is formed. The tyrant raises the huge sword and rests it on her shoulder. It fits cleanly between the spikes of ice that have formed there.

“Let us put your resolve to the test, little one. Make this fun for me and last as long as you can.”

With lightning speed unbefitting of the claymore’s grand size, the tyrant swings her newly formed weapon downward at the hare. Before it can connect, the sword is blocked. by the horse’s glaive. He had launched himself forward to defend against the strike and protect his companion. Even so, his weapon shook against the tyrant’s raw power. She smirked, amused by the development.

“I was wondering when you would approach. Very well then.” The aura of ice surrounding her grows more intense as a feral grin covers her face. “Let us begin.”

And thus, the decisive battle is at hand.

The horse snorts and knocks the claymore to the side with a shove. His hare companion backsteps, shooting his nocked arrow at the tyrant as he creates distance between them. The arrow lands but does little damage as the ice armor around the tyrant prevents it from piercing much.

The tyrant swings her weapon with ease, wielding the claymore as if it were a light stick. The horse is able to defend against each strike with one of his own. He attacks in time to her rhythm, creating sparks of iron and ice. Such a display is oddly magical, each combatant’s movements filled with a fluid and graceful strength.

As the horse and tyrant are locked in melee combat, the hare dashes around the side of the room. He shoots arrows to aid his ally in the fight. The tyrant is pierced by a few, a low growl building in her throat as she realizes their strategy. With a forceful swing, she knocks the horse back with her claymore. He uses his glaive to defend and rolls on the ground once before bouncing back up. This opening is all the tyrant needs.

Lances of ice form in the air around the tyrant. She deflects an arrow with her claymore and sends the lances flying towards the hare. He clicks his teeth in annoyance. Then, with an impressive display of acrobatics, the hare cartwheels before leaping into the air, twirling gracefully and shooting two arrows while dodging each ice lance. They’re deflected once more by the tyrant, but the horse is on her within seconds and slashes into her side with his glaive.

Attention drawn once more, the tyrant swings at the horse and nearly cleaves his head clean off. He ducks under the swing and flourishes his glaive in an upward swing, cutting across her abdomen. The tyrant is moving again before he can get in another strike and once more they’re caught in a dance of blows. But it’s clear the horse is on the backend now as the force of her swings wear down his endurance.

“Efigo, nefile.” The hare chants, words of the ancient language spoken to bring forth power. Their taste is electric on his tongue and fills his body with their magic. His next arrow is coated in pink lightning as he knocks it and fires.

The projectile speeds forth as a streak of light, finally piercing the tyrant’s armor of ice to deal meaningful damage. She grunts and the horse takes the moment to strike as well, cracking the flat of his glaive against the side of her head. A considerable amount of frost is knocked free of her and she staggers for a moment from the blow.

“Efigo, cestro, fleuvux.” Another chant leaves the hare’s mouth. This time his bow is coated in electricity. The sound of crackling bolts fills the throne room momentarily and the hare readies himself in a firm stance. He knocks another arrow and his eyes glow a vibrant pink. At a speed normally impossible, the hare fires arrow after arrow, launching them forth like bolts of a storm. Each hit their mark, frying the frost on the tyrant’s body.

Having enough of the dual assault, the ice tyrant stabs her claymore into the ground and roars. The frost obeys her wordless command, sending itself spiraling outward in a flurry. The impromptu snow storm blows back the horse and deflects the rest of the hare’s volley. The tyrant then picks up her claymore and throws it at the hare like a boomerang. Not suspecting the makeshift projectile, the hare is struck. It explodes on contact, sending a cloud of snow everywhere as the hare is blown away.

With the hare dealt with for a moment, the tyrant turns to the horse as axes of ice form in her hands. She rushes forward as he stands back up, already swinging before he can balance himself. He dodges to the side in order to avoid the first swing. Two more come and he doesn’t have enough time to block them as they slice across his chest and stomach. He grunts at the wounds and raises his glaive to stop the fourth attack. More keep coming, however, as the tyrant trades some of her strength for more speed.

Eventually, under the assault of ice, the horse’s endurance cannot keep up and his weapon is knocked to the side. The tyrant raises both her axes and prepares to deliver a powerful blow.

“Efigo, vel!”

A barrier of lightning forms around the horse at the last second, protecting him from the devastating blow. The tyrant turns her head to see the hare on one knee, bow pointed to the ceiling rather than at her. His eyes are closed as he murmurs one more spell.

“Efigo, nefile, fleuvux, sethic, xin.”

When he finishes speaking, his bow and the arrow knocked upon it erupt into a violent display of rouge electricity. He then fires it into the ceiling above the tyrant. It connects with the roof and the electricity bursts outward, sparking to life a rune upon every point of contact. A bolt of pink lightning falls from every rune and strikes the tyrant below. The horse is spared from the volatile fury, the shield surrounding him absorbing all the damage that would be done.

Before the tyrant can recover from the rain of lightning, the horse is on the move. He readies his glaive and unleashes his strength, dancing forward with a series of slashes. Downward, wide, spinning, upward, each attack cleaves into the tyrant until finally…

“GYAAAH!” She yells as the armor of ice surrounding her shatters. Fragments of frost and rime go flying as the tyrant is brought to a knee.

“Efigo, ain, cestro!” The hare shouts. His eyes glow and a bolt of pink electricity strikes the horse’s glaive, setting it alight with volts of crackling lightning. The horse readies his now enchanted weapon before stabbing it into the tyrant’s chest. Then, he braces himself with both hands on the shaft, and rips the blackout of her with a fierce upward cleave. The tyrant falls back from the strike. Black blood seeps out of the new wound.

“GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” The tyrant yells with fury. Her eyes suddenly blaze with Ruin Flame. The violet cracks along her body glow brighter and emit faint smoke.

“You pathetic, vile, repulsive imbeciles! How dare you! HOW DARE YOU!”

The room is suddenly devoured in a blizzard as ice and snow radiate from the tyrant’s body. The hare and horse brace themselves as the cold lashes at their fur and clothes. They’re pushed back toward the entrance of the room, covering their eyes to shield them from the weather. It dies down enough for them to see, but the frosty tempest continues to swirl around them.

When both look back up at the tyrant, they see her stepping towards her throne. Her hand gently grazes the arm of the impressive seat. Ice spreads out from the tips of her fingers. It works its way around the chair, coating it in a rapidly thickening layer of ice. Icicles grow out of its sides and behind it, until the throne is one of frost and doubled in size.

The tyrant turns, taking her seat upon her throne. She breathes in, low and long, before releasing it as a cloud of misty frost. Her eyes lock onto two intruders, the Ruin Flame burning within her. She speaks.

“I am the Frozen Tyrant.”

The room heeds her words, ice forming on the walls as the indoor blizzard continues to rage.

“I have slain a million souls. I will slay a million more. For it is a ruler’s duty to destroy all that threaten their throne.”

The tyrant stands. Slowly, ominously. A calamity given form.

“My kingdom’s reign has lasted for a century. And I will ensure that it lasts a century more. None will usurp me. None will deny me. I. Am. Absolute.”

She extends her hand and a new wave of frost pushes outward, threatening to force the horse and hare further back. A noise from beyond the arch catches the horse’s attention. He turns just in time to see something fly past him and his companion. It lands firmly in the tyrant’s outstretched hand, A metal ring echoing across the room.

“Hark, Extinguishers. For the Frozen Tyrant shall rise once more.”

The tyrant soon rests the weapon upon her shoulder. It is a scythe, grand and regal. Almost as tall as the ruler herself. And seemingly just as cold. But as she speaks, even with the freezing winds surrounding the room, the scythe’s blade suddenly glows with violet fire. Seeing this, the horse and hare ready their weapons.

The tyrant extends her other arm to the side, opening it with her palm facing upward. As the violet light of burning ruin begins to dance and flicker along her scythe, the cold frost of her own magic forms into being above her palm. It rotates and swirls into being much like the makeshift snow storm surrounding them.

Fire and ice, ruin and frost. Wielded by one woman and her alone. She glares at the Extinguishers. Burning fury and freezing hatred in her gaze.

“You will be slain. Here and now. In the name of Ruin.”