The noise of the royal palace of Shadaria Veila seemed to dissolve into a viscous silence. Victoria sat at the massive wooden desk in her office, her gaze fixed on the window where the setting sun was lazily fading behind the horizon. Beyond the windows, endless gardens stretched out, hidden under a blanket of golden light, but instead of comforting her, they filled her with a strange sense of tension.
The last few days had seemed too quiet to her. Those who had once despised her rule had either disappeared or fallen silent. Even the most ardent opponents of the aristocracy avoided open conflict. The silence seemed deeper than any heated discussion, like a harbinger of trouble to come. Victoria placed her hand on the blade that hung at her belt. Its black hilt with crimson runes gave off a warm pulsation, as if obeying her breath.
"Why is everything so quiet?" — she thought. "The calm before the storm, or is this a cunning plan that I do not notice?"
Her thoughts turned to Dreydus. His latest proposal for a change in domestic policy still haunted her. It seemed that his ideology was thoughtful, but crude, like a tool cutting out pieces of the world for the sake of an ideal. Her gaze slid to a stack of letters on the table - still unopened. Among them, as she knew, were reports on his recent actions.
"His ideology is attractive, but... can Demonia afford such a price?" she whispered to herself, stroking the hilt of her sword.
Arkin, her royal advisor, also inspired doubts. He disappeared from the palace more and more often, leaving only short notes about the affairs of the aristocracy. Victoria did not know what to believe - his assurances of loyalty or the rumors that increasingly surfaced about his connections with aristocrats dissatisfied with her power. "Is he still with us?"
She ran her fingers over her tired face when there was a knock at the door.
"May I come in, Your Majesty?" Morgana's voice was firm but respectful.
"Come in," Victoria replied, trying to push her thoughts aside.
Morgana Scarlett entered, followed by Salistar Fennell. Morgana, as always, was dressed in black armor, decorated with crimson engravings - a symbol of her rank in the Order of the Demon Blade. Her green eyes sparkled with determination, and her long red hair was neatly braided.
Salistar, in contrast, looked much calmer. His dark blue cloak with the symbol of the scales of Demonia seemed almost invisible in the dim light. In his hands he held a scroll.
"Everything is ready for the execution, Your Majesty," Morgana began, bowing her head reservedly. "The Ephernites have taken their positions. The crowd had already begun to gather.
Salistar nodded, confirming her words.
"Your Majesty," he added, his voice soft but firm. "I will not pass judgment for you. The people must see their queen as a symbol of strength and justice. They must know that their ruler herself administers justice."
Victoria nodded, her lips forming a thin line.
"I understand. It is my duty, and I will do it."
Her gaze lingered on Salistar.
"Why is Amalia not here?" Her voice grew slightly colder.
Salistar merely chuckled.
"She believes that her presence is no longer required in this matter. Perhaps she is right. Execution is a matter of earthly justice, not divine."
Morgana, who had been silent all this time, suddenly stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, the people are waiting. We must go.
Victoria glanced at her allies for a moment. Their loyalty was unquestionable, but even among the most loyal she felt a strange tension. How far can I go to keep them believing me?
She rose from her seat, her cloak of crimson velvet sliding across the floor.
"Then let us go. Today I will show Demonia that sinners will find no refuge here any more."
Crowds of citizens filled the central square of Shadaria Veila. The stone buildings surrounding the square became silent witnesses to the assembled people. People whispered, waiting for the execution to begin. They looked at the huge platform with a reinforced guillotine and rows of chairs on which eight accused were already seated.
Victoria appeared on the balcony leading to the square. Her crimson dress, embroidered with gold threads, fluttered in the wind, and her eyes, deep and cold, scanned the crowd. Morgana and Salistar followed her, taking places on either side of her. Their presence emphasized the weight of what was happening.
Salistar stepped forward to make the charges read loud and clear. His voice echoed across the square.
"Listen, all of you who have gathered here to witness justice. Before you stand those who have betrayed the trust of our queen and our people. Their sin is great, and today they will answer for their crimes."
Victoria raised her hand, calling for silence. The crowd froze, waiting for her words. Her voice was hard, cold, and piercing.
"Today, we, the people of Demonia, will cleanse our land of those who chose their ambition and greed over caring for our lives. Each of them symbolizes the sin that feeds the chaos in our hearts. Today, I will tear that chaos out by the roots."
Her words hung in the air like a spell. The crowd seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the execution to begin.
The crowd froze in anticipation. The square was filled with a sense of dread and anticipation. Victoria stood on the balcony, her figure carved from marble, towering over the entire city. Her crimson dress swayed in the wind, as if the Darkness itself danced around her. Morgana and Salistar stood behind her, silent, like two guards at the gates of Hell.
Victoria glanced around at the assembled group. Her eyes, once so alive, were now dark abysses radiating cold. Something new was flaring within her, uncontrollable, like the wrath of an ancient deity.
She took a step forward, and the crowd held its breath.
"People of Demonia!" she began, her voice deep and powerful, filled with undeniable authority. "Before you stand those who have destroyed our country from within. Their sins are not just crimes, their sins are wounds inflicted on our land, our people, our faith!
Her voice grew louder, as if it were gaining strength along with the wind that began to rise in the square.
"You see before you the personification of betrayal, greed, cruelty and cowardice. Not only did they deprive you of the right to a just life, they tried to destroy the very essence of our nation! But I, Victoria de Luna, your queen, swear before you that this day will be the beginning of the end for those who dare to go against Demonia.
Her words fell upon the crowd like an avalanche. People began to whisper, some were delighted, some were afraid, but all were captivated by her presence.
She stepped forward, closer to the edge of the balcony, and pointed her hand at the accused.
"Each of them will be a reminder to us all. A reminder that sins are not forgiven. That betrayal is not forgotten. And that the crown of Demonia will not tolerate those who dare to desecrate it."
Victoria descended slowly from the balcony, her steps measured, but there was an inexorable feeling in them. The crowd parted as she approached the stage where the eight accused stood. The Ephernites formed a tight circle, guarding the place of execution.
The first to cross Victoria's path was Lord Cassar Elton, the former treasurer. Until recently, he had managed the kingdom's finances, but now he stood hunched over, his face grim, his eyes empty. He opened his mouth to speak, but Victoria silenced him with a gesture.
"Kassar Elton, your greed has poisoned our people. You have stolen wealth that should have been spent on bread for the hungry and weapons for our soldiers. Your sin is gluttony."
She stepped closer, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. The edge of the demonic blade seemed to glow with a crimson light. Her eyes, filled with sinister determination, bored into Eston's figure.
"There will be no simple death for you." Victoria swung her sword and, with the precision of a predator, struck, cutting off his arms. A cry of despair echoed across the square, but she did not stop. With the precision of an executioner, she pierced his heart, ending his life instantly.
Her dress was already stained with blood, but Victoria, as if not noticing it, turned to the next defendant.
Next in line was Baroness Mirelle Townsend, the slave owner. Her thin face and haughty gaze seemed like a mask hiding fear and helplessness.
"You, Mirelle, took freedom from others. You subjugated their lives for your own gain. Your sin is pride. You considered yourself above others, but today you will fall below all."
She did not use the sword. Instead, Victoria took the brand with the Demonia crest that was prepared for execution and slowly approached the baroness. Mirelle screamed, begging for mercy, but Victoria only smirked coldly.
The brand, white-hot, left a deep mark on her skin. The crowd shuddered at her screams, but Victoria continued until the baroness fell unconscious.
"Sins are not erased so easily, Mirelle," Victoria whispered, delivering the final blow with the sword.
Count Horace Belwood, Dreydus's predecessor, was shaking all over, his grey hair and wrinkled face making him look like an old raven.
"You have betrayed us, Horace. You have taken away our protection when you were responsible for the safety of the realm. Your sin is cowardice."
This time Victoria picked up his cane, the symbol of his former power, and snapped it in anger. Then, grabbing his collar, she threw him toward the guillotine and brought the blade down sharply.
Each execution was more brutal, more sinister. Victoria seemed to draw strength from their fear and screams. Her sword glowed crimson, as if it fed on the blood of those she killed. The crowd stood as if petrified. No one dared to utter a word.
When the last life was cut short, Victoria walked onto the stage, looking around the crowd.
— Remember this day. Sins do not go unpunished. From now on, all of Demonia will know that behind every lie, behind every betrayal, there is a punishment. I am its embodiment.
Her voice sounded like a final chord, after which there was deathly silence. Victoria, covered in blood, left the stage, her figure remained in the memory of those who witnessed this spectacle for a long time.
But in the depths of her consciousness, the demonic blade whispered again, its voice became a little louder, its grip a little stronger.
Victoria returned to the royal garden, where silence enveloped her like a veil of oblivion. A cold wind touched her face, washing away drops of someone else's blood. Her eyes were empty, but a storm was seething inside. She leaned against the marble parapet, looking at the city, which seemed to hold its breath after her speech.
A familiar silhouette caught her eye. Marquis Arkin stood by the fountain, his figure standing out against the dark horizon. Victoria approached slowly, her footsteps loud in the silence that had fallen.
"Your Majesty," Arkin began, bowing slightly. His voice was even, but there was a slight mockery in it. "You have undoubtedly impressed your subjects today. However, I wondered: have you impressed yourself?"
Victoria looked at him coldly.
"And what do you mean by that, Arkin?" — She asked, her voice almost a whisper, but with the sharpness of a blade.
Arkin turned slowly, meeting her gaze. His face was a mixture of sympathy and irritation.
— I speak of the truth, Your Majesty. The truth is that you asserted power today, but at what cost? These men were enemies, yes. But was their death so necessary? Or did you simply allow your blade to guide you?
Arkin's words cut through Victoria like an icy wind. She wanted to answer, but paused, considering his words. Finally, she stepped closer, her voice calm but firm.
— Maybe I have lost a part of myself, Arkin. But to protect Demonia, I am willing to lose even more. And if you do not understand that, then perhaps I need to reconsider your place at court.
Arkin smiled, but his eyes remained cold.
— Your Majesty, I will always be on the side of Demonia. But I still hope that you will find a way to preserve yourself. Because if you become your father's shadow, then I will not be the one to lend a shoulder.
He bowed and left, leaving Victoria in the garden. She stood for a long time, looking at the water in the fountain. A glimmer of crimson light lit up in her eyes — a reflection of the blade, which had now become her shadow.
Moonlight streamed through the huge stained glass windows of the palace, painting the corridors in soft shades of silver and crimson. Victoria walked slowly through the deserted halls, her thoughts wandering no less than her steps. The royal palace was huge, there was too much room in it for one soul. Her feet themselves led her along familiar routes — through the Hall of Triumph, where portraits of her ancestors hung, through the Gallery of Shadows, where marble statues of the ancient rulers of Demonia rose in silent grandeur.
Every portrait, every monument seemed to ask her the same question: "What are you doing to be worthy of us?"
But Victoria was not looking for answers now. Her anxiety grew with every step. Too quiet. Too calm. The echo of her heels sounded like the beat of her heart, echoing loudly in the emptiness.
She stopped in front of the portrait of Irfan. Her father, powerful and intimidating, looked at her with his stern eyes. His gaze seemed alive, as if the portrait itself knew her thoughts.
"Would you approve of me now, Father?" she whispered, her voice dissolving in the silence.
Suddenly, her gaze was caught by movement. A faint light, like the glow of a candle, was filtering through the arched doors at the end of the hallway. Victoria walked slowly towards it, her steps becoming quieter until she found herself in front of the huge double doors leading to the Cathedral of the Trinity of Archangels.
Victoria froze as she entered. The cathedral, built in honor of the three archangels, Athariel, Morinfael, and Entropiel, towered before her in its majesty. The great dome, decorated with paintings of ancient battles and saints, seemed endless. The central statue of Athariel, the embodiment of reality and order, glowed with a soft golden light. On either side were Morinfael, the embodiment of chaos, and Entropiel, symbolizing the end and eternal peace.
A figure stood near the altar, dressed in white and gold, strewn with fine silver threads. It was Amalia Wire. Her face, half hidden by a veil, radiated calm. Her hands were folded in a prayerful gesture, and her voice, barely audible, hummed an ancient hymn. She gave off the feeling that she was both here and somewhere far away, beyond this world.
"You are here, Your Majesty," her voice was quiet, but it sounded like a bell ringing, breaking the silence.
Victoria approached her slowly, her gaze studying the majestic space of the cathedral.
"I sought peace, but I found you, Amalia," the queen said, her voice bordering on mockery and weariness. "Tell me, why are you hiding here when our land is engulfed in sin?"
Amalia turned to her, her eyes like shining stars, looking straight into Victoria's soul.
"Because, Your Majesty, the fight against sins does not begin outside, but inside us."
Victoria frowned, her hands clenching into fists.
"Inside us? Amalia, I fight myself every day, my decisions, my conscience. Are you saying that this is not enough?"
Amalia took a step forward, her movements fluid, almost inhuman.
"Your battles are only the beginning, Victoria. Great rulers not only defeat their enemies, but also find the courage to look into the very heart of their fears.
"Are you saying that I am afraid?" Victoria took a step forward, her voice growing firmer.
Amalia smiled, but her smile was cold, like the reflection of the moon on water.
"You are not afraid of enemies, not of losing power. You are afraid of yourself. You fear that the blade you carry has already become a part of you.
Amalia's words stung Victoria. She flinched as if struck. But instead of protesting, she closed her eyes, feeling something dark whispering in her mind. The blade hanging from her belt felt warmer than usual.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Amalia. This blade is a tool. A tool to save Demonia."
Amalia shook her head.
"A tool to save or a tool to destroy? It is not the blade that determines your path, but you yourself. But if you allow it to whisper to you, it will become your master, not your servant."
Her voice was soft, but each word hit home like a hammer on an anvil. Victoria felt her breathing quicken.
"And what should I do, Amalia? Do you want me to throw it away? To give up the power that can save my kingdom?"
"No, Your Majesty," Amalia replied. "I ask you only to remember: power that is not controlled becomes a yoke. And a yoke will sooner or later crush its bearer."
The conversation was interrupted. Amalia turned to the altar, her voice quiet again, like the whisper of the wind.
"The world hangs in the balance, Victoria. Order, chaos, and the end. Do not disturb it."
The queen stood in silence, her thoughts heavy as mountains. She knew that Amalia was telling the truth, but something inside her resisted. The dark whisper of the blade was barely audible, but its grip was growing stronger.
When Amalia left, Victoria was alone in the empty cathedral. She looked at the statues of the archangels for a long time, their silent faces seeming to comfort and condemn at the same time.
"Order, chaos, and the end..." she whispered, her voice lost in the grandeur of the cathedral.
Late at night, the streets of Shadaria Veila were filled with a roar. Explosions shook the city, and the bright flames of fires rose into the sky. Aristocratic troops and mercenaries began their attacks without waiting for dawn. The uprising had begun, and the noise of battle was carried far beyond the royal palace.
At that moment, Victoria stood on the balcony of her office, looking at the city engulfed in flames. Her heart was filled with anger, but at the same time, a strange feeling of determination was igniting in her soul. The demonic blade, as if sensing the chaos, began to pulse, pumping up unprecedented confidence and cruelty in her.
The silence of the night was cut by the sound of heavy footsteps. Morgana entered the balcony, her face tense.
"Your Majesty, the palace is surrounded," she said, her voice cold and collected. "A detachment of the Winter Alliance has taken up positions at the gates, numbering about one hundred and fifty. We are prepared to defend the palace at any cost."
Victoria turned to face her, her gaze full of determination.
"Prepare for battle, Morgana. Tonight we will show these traitors what true Demonia power is."
The noise of battle was approaching, and the palace was filled with anticipation of the coming battle. It was time for the final test for the queen and her loyal allies.
The heavy boots of the Winter Alliance soldiers sank into the broken stone of the palace courtyard. An icy wind, summoned by the mages of their company, cut through the air, extinguishing the feeble flames of the torches scattered along the walls. The palace towered above them, a silent monument to royal power, but now it was weakened, surrounded by chaos.
"Hold your ranks!" Commander Sigmund Ldin, a mighty warrior whose voice sounded louder than the roar of battle, stepped forward. His figure stood out among the soldiers not only because of his massive armor covered in icy patterns, but also because of the glow of his aura. A chill emanated from his body, capable of freezing the water in the air. His presence instilled fear even in his allies, but his subordinates followed him without question - Sigmund's strength was a symbol of the Winter Alliance.
"First squad - clear the southern gate! Second squad, with me! Our goal is the Cathedral of the Trinity!" - his orders echoed, clear as ice needles.
The soldiers moved in unison, despite the dense shelling from the defenders. Morgana's demonic ephernites stood at the northern bastions, repelling attacks from all sides. Their dark armor and auras resembled darkness itself, they were enemies that were best not encountered in close combat.
Sigmund knew the battle would be long, but the squad's main goal was to take control of the cathedral. "If Amalia falls, faith in the queen will waver," he thought as he made his way through the ruins.
An infantryman from the second squad, Private Larix, was barely keeping up with the others. His shield was covered in scratches, and his shoulder was bleeding from a recent blow. He had never been a great believer in the cause he fought for, but now he had no choice. "Why am I here?" he thought, taking cover behind a fallen obelisk. "Why are we, soldiers of the Alliance, risking our lives for a cause we don't even know the full truth about?"
"Larix, keep up!" a soldier nearby shouted, pulling him by the collar. "If you die, your death will be in vain. And you want to go home, don't you?"
Larix nodded, swallowing. "Home. To the village, away from this icy hell." But when he looked up, seeing the majestic walls of the cathedral, he felt a strange uneasiness. "Something is wrong with this place."
The soldiers burst through the western entrance, blasting the massive doors open with magical blasts. The air inside was cold, but this was a different cold - not the usual winter frost, but the icy breath of death. Sigmund was the first to enter, his boots echoing across the marble floor.
The interior was eerily silent. Majestic statues of archangels rose to the ceiling, their silent faces watching the intruders. The soldiers began to scatter, scanning the room, but Sigmund stopped them.
"Stay together. There is more to this than just marble walls."
The commander's icy aura spread throughout the cathedral, freezing everything around him. He used his power to detect any activity, but even that was of no use.
And then a voice was heard.
"You have come to the house of the saints without repentance," Amalia Wire's voice was soft and ominous at the same time, like the rustling of leaves that foretells a storm.
The soldiers froze. Amalia stepped out from the shadows of the altar, her figure glowing with a faint golden light. Her face was hidden by a thin veil, but her eyes shone like stars, inspiring both terror and admiration. She stood straight, as if not noticing the warriors threatening her.
"Your audacity is commendable, but you have come to the wrong address. There is no victory here, only the end."
Sigmund stepped forward, his icy aura enveloping the hall, growing stronger with each passing moment.
"You have risen too high, priestess. Today you will fall."
Amalia smiled, but her smile was frightening.
— Fall? Can't you see that you are already on the edge? I do not fight for power or pride. I defend order. An order that you have broken.
A prayer escaped her lips. She raised her hands, and suddenly the marble walls began to tremble. The space around them began to change, to distort, as if the building itself had become part of her will.
— Atariel, grant me the power to direct fate. Morinfael, dispel their chaos with your will. Entropiel, let me show them the end.
The mages of the Winter Alliance squad began to scream, their mana flying apart, not obeying their commands. The space became chaotic, their spells disintegrating before they were complete.
And then she called her champion. From the shadows of the altar, a huge shape emerged — a demonic reaper, cloaked in black flame. With its great scythe, it cut through the air, cutting off the path to Amalia.
The soldiers charged, but even the best of them couldn't get close. The demon reaper scattered them like straw dolls. Amalia stood behind him, like an observer of a chess game.
Sigmund was the last one standing. His aura began to freeze the floor, even the reaper began to slow. He stepped forward, raising his blade, surrounded by ice magic.
"Your faith will not save you from my steel, priestess."
But Amalia did not waver. Her gaze met his.
"Your steel is only an illusion of strength. And faith... Faith is what changes reality itself."
Their clash began.
Sigmund rushed forward, his blade glowing with ice magic, each of his attacks freezing the space around him. The demon reaper, engulfed in fiery darkness, raised his scythe, meeting his onslaught. The clash of their weapons caused a burst of energy that shook the cathedral walls.
"Your greatness is but an echo of delusion, priestess!" Sigmund shouted, pushing the reaper back with his shield. His icy aura continued to freeze the space around him, pinning the reaper to the ground.
But Amalia stood still. She folded her hands in front of her, as if oblivious to the mortal struggle before her. Her voice echoed throughout the cathedral, filling it with sacred silence.
"Strength without purpose is but emptiness. Fates have already been rewritten, and today you will meet yours."
She raised her hands again, and the light emanating from her grew stronger. Like invisible threads of fate, her magic pierced the space, changing the very perception of reality. Sigmund's blades seemed to touch Amalia, but each time they passed through her, as if through a reflection in water.
"What is this... magic?" Sigmund hissed, his breath turning to steam. He knew that something more than simple spatial manipulation was at work against him.
"This is a gift from Atariel. Fate is not on your side, child of ice."
The Winter Alliance soldiers who remained standing tried to get around the reaper, but every step they took became a struggle. The space around them felt like tar. The mages' spells flew into chaos, not reaching their target. Sword strikes collided with invisible barriers.
"Hold on!" one of the officers shouted, trying to rally the men, but his words were drowned out by the roar of magic and the screams of the dying.
Meanwhile, Sigmund continued his attack. His blade glowed ever brighter, and the ice magic began to freeze even the demonic reaper. With each blow, the reaper's scythe grew heavier until he fell to his knees, completely frozen in ice.
"Now you are alone!" Sigmund gripped his sword with both hands, preparing for the final blow.
But Amalia, without changing her expression, whispered:
"Morinfael, let chaos consume them completely."
The floor beneath Sigmund's feet exploded, throwing him into the air. He fell, hitting a column, but immediately rose, his gaze blazing with determination.
"Do you think chaos will stop me? I am a weapon of ice and order."
Sigmund rushed towards Amalia. His blade pierced the walls of chaos, and his aura grew stronger. But Amalia only looked at him, as if she knew the outcome was already decided.
When he was a step away from her, she raised her hand. The space around her distorted, her figure began to double and triple, turning into something impossible for human perception.
"Entropiel, let me finish their journey."
With her words, the reaper broke free from the ice, his fiery scythe rising into the air again. Sigmund turned, trying to parry the blow, but the reaper's force was devastating. He threw the commander deep into the hall, his armor shattering, and the ice on his sword cracking.
The Winter Alliance soldiers, seeing their leader fall, began to retreat. Fear gripped their hearts, but no one dared to give the order for a full retreat.
Sigmund, lying on the ground, raised his head. His gaze met Amalia's, and for the first time he felt something akin to resignation.
"You have lost, warrior. But know that this is not the end for your people. Fate has merely changed the direction of their path."
Amalia raised her hand, and the space around Sigmund began to shrink, as if it were about to tear him apart. But suddenly, through the gaps in the chaos, light burst into the cathedral, interrupting her magic.
Sigmund could barely see the light breaking through the chaos, but his mind was clouded by pain and fatigue. The Winter Alliance soldiers, frozen in terror, felt a slight warmth penetrating the cold, distorted space of the cathedral. The light tore through the shadows, and for a moment it seemed as if Amalia herself had trembled. But her voice remained firm as a bell:
"The play of light and darkness will not change what was meant to be. My work will end here, as it was commanded."
Her figure regained its stability, but her calm was clouded by a strange uneasiness. She raised her hands to the heavens, offering up another prayer. A glow began to form around her, but this time it was not golden, but darkish, with shimmering crimson shades.
"Morinfael, take their chaos. Entropiel, give me the strength to complete their path."
More shadows rose from the altar. Their images were unclear, but the cold and darkness that came from them seemed almost tangible. These creatures began to move, attacking the soldiers, who were barely able to defend themselves. Their blades passed through the bodies of the shadows without causing them harm.
Sigmund, barely able to stand, stepped forward, clutching his cracked sword. His icy aura enveloped the blade, but his breathing was ragged and his movements were slow. He knew he was up against a force beyond his capabilities.
"Will you fight to the end, soldier? Or will you leave with some of your pride?" Amalia asked, her voice mocking but weary.
Sigmund smiled, his lips chapped but his voice confident.
"Pride is not in leaving. It is in standing until the end."
The commander focused, his ice magic beginning to gain strength again. Frost filled the hall, freezing the shadows and freezing the space. Even the reaper began to slow, his fiery scythe covered in frost.
"I am the cold of the Winter Alliance. You cannot stop me." Amalia looked at him, her face calm but her eyes filled with regret.
"Your faith is strong, but it is misguided. You fell not by my hand, but by your own pride."
She extended her hand, her fingers glowing. Her magic began to distort space again, this time with greater force. The reaper rose, his movements quicker despite the icy bonds.
Sigmund lunged forward. His blade collided with the reaper's scythe, causing a flash that blinded the soldiers. The commander's ice magic froze everything around him, but the reaper continued to advance, throwing Sigmund back with each blow.
The soldiers tried to help, but their attacks did not reach their target. Amalia watched the fight, her face calm but her figure losing stability. The magic she used was draining her body.
— You don't understand that you've already lost, Sigmund. Your power is just a tool. It cannot change what was meant to be.
Sigmund rose to his feet, gasping. His ice blade cracked, but he held it.
— What was meant to be... is just a word for those who are afraid to fight for what is theirs.
He lunged forward, one last time. His blade pierced space, meeting the reaper's heart. He collapsed, his body disintegrating into shadows that vanished into thin air.
Amalia staggered, her eyes widening as she realized that her champion had fallen. She raised her hands, trying to pray again, but her strength was gone.
Sigmund approached her, his blade shaking in his hands. He raised it, ready to strike.
- You did not defeat me, priestess. You were only an obstacle.
Amalia looked at him, her eyes full of sorrow.
- I was not your enemy. My fight is not with you, but for this world.
The blade lowered. The light surrounding Amalia faded. Her body slowly collapsed, and her eyes closed.
The soldiers slowly gathered around. Their faces were grim, but there was hope in their hearts. They had won, but at what cost?
Sigmund knelt, his blade crumbling to dust. He looked at Amalia's body, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. She was an enemy, but there was truth in her words.
- She was not an enemy, but a victim.
But there was no time to think. The battle continued outside, and their task was not yet complete. Sigmund stood up, his voice firm.
"We move on. The cathedral has been taken, but the war is not over."
They left the hall, leaving Amalia's body in the silence of the cathedral. The light from the archangel statues slowly faded, as if mourning the fall of its priestess.
Sigmund left the cathedral, but his thoughts remained inside, among the shadows and light he had just conquered. His men followed him silently. Each soldier's face reflected a mixture of relief and dejection. They understood that their victory in this hall was only the first step in a long and bloody struggle.
Outside, Shadaria Veil was ablaze with rebellion. The streets were filled with chaos: soldiers of the Winter Alliance fought with detachments of the royal army, and rebel nobles led their bands in looting and destruction. The fires reflected off the city's tall towers, turning the crimson night into a nightmare.
"Commander!" one of the officers ran up, his face smeared with blood and dirt. "We need to decide where to go next. The royal troops are regrouping in the city center. Our losses..."
Sigmund raised his hand, stopping him.
"I know. We can't afford to get stuck here. The cathedral was important, but our goal is the royal palace. If we don't kill the queen, all this will be in vain."
The officer nodded, but his gaze stopped at the cathedral behind Sigmund.
"Do you really think we... we made the right choice? Killing her..."
Sigmund didn't answer right away. His eyes looked somewhere into the distance, but his thoughts kept returning to Amalia. Her words, her look... All of this left a mark on his soul.
"The right choice? We fight for our people, for our home. But it is not for us to decide what is right and what is wrong. History is written by the victors. And I intend to write it in blood.
He turned and shouted loudly:
"Forward, to the palace! Not a step back! Today we will either win or fall as warriors!"
The soldiers shouted back, and their cries echoed through the streets of the city. The war continued, and the fates of Demonia were only just beginning to intertwine into this bloody pattern.
Soon they would meet Victoria, and everything would become even darker...