The Spell

They had arrived. The long and jagged forms of the black and gold Vokatian fleet approached.

It had been weeks in the making. Painstaking, laborious intel gathering and coordination, the stirring of the fervor of every reluctant citizen and every rebellious lone-wolf alike. This, and this alone, wielded the gravity that has drawn all of the Narka from all walks of life together, in a desperate bid to make the Vokat pay for their hubris. Since the first defectors brought signal of the inbound invaders, there had been a frenzied rush to formulate a plan that would, for the first time in Ingenseria's history, reject the Vokat, and show the galaxy that they were not infallible.

That was the Spell.

The bell tolled somberly but forcefully in the dead of night, signalling that it was time. Worried Narka emerged from their homes and flooded into the streets, carrying flashlights, lanterns and torches as they began to huddle around the High Church. One by one, as close as each could fit to the Church, they knelt, and in silence took focus. Concerned clamoring fell in favor of determined quiet, their collective gaze cast not at the approaching fleet, but instead at the highest tower of the Church. They made their connection with the High Priestess, as they had practiced, and channeled both as much faith and as much power as they each could give. All at once, Narka of all strokes, even those who defied the Priestess and reviled the Church, yielded all control and hope to one individual. For this moment, the minds of the Narka joined, and centered among them was the Priestess, who wasted no time wielding the power of Her people.

A grim chill wracked the city, and those in the tower witnessed its ornate glass begin to crack from the temperature shock. The aides, all knelt around Her, felt the chill; they wrapped cloth around their eyes so that they would not freeze, but their skin began to burn as the ice formed over it. Her breath was slow and steady. She felt the power of Her entire people at Her fingertips. She felt the ice creeping over Her skin; even as Her unprotected eyes began to freeze, She didn't dare flinch, consumed by unmatched resolve. Her fingers froze to Her scepter, and Her scepter froze to the ground. Her aides had long perished in Her presence by now, frozen to the ground as they knelt, but She remained stalwart. Their sacrifice would surely be remembered in the aftermath of the Spell. A squall of intoxicating cryokinetic energy consumed the room, swirling slowly around Her and channeling up through Her scepter.

Suddenly, the tower's windows shattered with enormous force, light flooding out. The Spell was cast, in all of its destructive brilliance.

As the frozen glass drifted out over the crowd on the wind, a baleful icy light screamed through the night sky, spiraling. It was so bright that it lit up the entire countryside as far as anyone in the city could see, so immeasurably cold that even at this distance those below could feel its unrelenting frozen grasp. The Vokatian ships halted, and quickly attempted a retreat, but before anything could be done the bolt connected with the flagship.

There was silence, again. Everyone was hopeful, as the light subsumed the sky. Not just their sky, but that of the entire planet, turning it into a beacon of cold, hateful light for a few brief seconds.

And the silence never left again.

. . .

Pillars of black smoke rose over the horizon over an endless blanket of thick, supernaturally pristine ice in the immediate aftermath. The Flagship rested, encased partially in ice and buried deep in the wastes, smoldering. The city too rested, its last moments enshrined in eternal ice.

Two days later, a single personnel carrier, still blanketed with rime, emerged from the city and vanished. Another day thereafter, the first Pykhoza pried open the doors of the Church, confronted by swathes of frozen creatures they looked nothing like and equipped with memories of a time to which they had never belonged.