Victoria sat on her throne in the great hall, surrounded by a silence that seemed heavier than iron. The majestic columns supporting the ceiling cast long shadows in the flickering torchlight. A haze of oil hung in the air, mingling with the tension that was felt in every corner of the palace. Her fingers slid slowly along the hilt of the demonic blade that rested on the arm of the throne.
From afar, through the massive stained glass windows of the hall, muffled sounds were heard: first screams, then the echoes of explosions.
Morgana burst into the hall, her steps quick and determined.
"Your Majesty, the rebellion has begun. The city is burning."
Victoria looked up, in which a strange crimson light flashed. She took the blade in her hand and stood.
"They have begun something they cannot finish," she said, her voice low, as if it echoed the shadows that were hidden within.
Morgana nodded, but her eyes were troubled.
"We must go to the balcony. The people must see that you are here, that you are not afraid."
Victoria followed her. As she climbed the spiral staircase, she tried to focus on the chaos that was unfolding outside the palace. Her thoughts swirled around the recent events. The execution of sinners, the cries of the people, the betrayal... Perhaps I have done too little to hold this country together. Or perhaps too much?"
She paused at the balcony railing, overlooking the city. Shadaria Veila, once a magnificent capital, was now shrouded in smoke. Flames could be seen on the horizon, reaching upward, as if trying to devour the sky. The streets were filled with movement: rebel barricades, royal troops trying to hold back the onslaught, and citizens fleeing in panic.
Victoria watched the spectacle with indifference. Contradictions were boiling inside her.
"Why don't they understand? I am their queen. I protect them, even if it requires blood. Or maybe they are right? Maybe I have hidden behind my cloak of virtue for too long?"
The blade's whisper penetrated her thoughts: "Your doubts are their victory. Burn them all. Show who is the true ruler."
"Your Majesty?" Morgana's voice tore her from her thoughts.
"It will not change anything," Victoria said quietly, without turning around. "They are afraid. And fear is a tool that I will learn to control."
In another part of the city, in the dark hall of a ruined mansion, representatives of the rebel aristocrats gathered. Around the long table, under the light of a single candle, sat figures in expensive robes but with tense expressions. Among them, Arkin stood out, calm and confident.
"We must speed up our plan," Baron Hayward said, his voice shaking with nervousness. "The Queen will not stop if we give her time. She will destroy us all."
"Not just us," Count Marcellus interjected. "If she holds on to the throne, Demonia will lose everything. Her rule will destroy our economy and army."
Arkin slowly raised his hand, getting attention. His voice was clear but without unnecessary emotion.
"Calm down. The chaos in the streets is working for us. The barricades are up, Dreydus's troops have already begun the assault. The important thing now is not to panic, but to follow our plan. The royal forces are scattered, and their chain of command is already broken."
"And what about Dreydus?" — Baroness Leistre asked. — He will not stop at the queen. When Victoria falls, he will want to rule alone.
Arkin smiled, his gaze flashing in the half-light.
— Perhaps. But we will not wait for him to grow stronger. When Victoria falls, and Dreydus has exhausted his forces in the struggle for the throne, we will make our move.
He paused, looking around at the assembled group.
— Remember: the key to success is disunity. We have already begun sabotage: the weapons depot has been destroyed, the roads to the palace have been blocked, and our people among the army are pouring oil on the fire. Time is on our side.
His words sounded reassuring, but a shadow of thoughtfulness flickered in Arkin's eyes. "How long can I keep up this farce? And which of them will strike first when the truth comes out?"
Dreydus stood before his soldiers. Their faces were stern, many of them wearing the insignia of the Winter Alliance. He walked the line, assessing the readiness of his men.
"Today, we will change the course of history," he began, his voice loud and confident. "A queen who hides behind the walls of her palace is unworthy of this throne. She is weak, she has stained her crown with the blood of innocents and her own inability to rule."
The soldiers listened, holding their breath.
"We will bring order. We will restore Demonia from the ashes," he continued. "And let this day be the beginning of a new era."
The Winter Alliance commander stepped forward, his face skeptical.
"Are you sure we have enough forces? Their army can regroup quickly."
Dreydus smirked.
"We have more allies than you think." The nobles of Shadaria Veila have already made their move. Their forces will start a rebellion inside the city, distracting the royal guard. While they weaken its defenses, we will strike at the heart.
He paused, then added:
"And when this is over, they will destroy each other in a struggle for power. And then we will take everything for ourselves."
The soldiers roared, raising their weapons in the air. Dreidus looked at them, feeling a wave of confidence wash over him.
"This is my time. I will end this queen and become the one who will lead Demonia to greatness."
They walked in silence. The 100 surviving fighters, clad in heavy armor, with shields, swords and spears, moved in formation like an impenetrable wall. In the center of the detachment, towering over the rest, walked Sigmund. His icy aura made the air around him frosty, and every step he took left behind frost even on the dry ground. His light silver eyes expressed nothing but cold-blooded determination.
Sigmund had already fought Amalia. He felt her strength, but he did not allow fear to take hold of him. "She is gone. The cathedral has fallen. Now only the palace and its defenders stand between us and complete victory," he thought, clutching the hilt of his sword.
Approaching the massive gates of the royal palace, Sigmund gestured for them to stop. Before them stretched a wide courtyard, bathed in the dim light of the moon. At first glance, it seemed empty. But Sigmund knew that this was a deception.
"They are waiting for us," he said, looking into the darkness. His voice was cold and abrupt. "Spread out. Archers to the flanks, shield bearers to the center. Prepare to attack.
The fighters' footsteps echoed in the empty courtyard. They advanced, looking around tensely.
And then a low rumble came from the darkness, like an animal's roar. Sigmund raised his hand, signaling for them to stop.
"What is that?" one of the fighters whispered.
The answer was the whistle of a sword cutting through the air, and a scream that was cut off mid-sentence. A Winter Alliance warrior fell to the ground with his neck ripped open. And then the darkness stirred. From it emerged the Ephernites - warriors clad in black armor, their eyes glowing with a crimson light. Their movements were quick and sharp, like predators preparing to pounce.
Morgana Scarlett stood at the head. She looked strangely calm, as if she were observing this chaos from the outside. Her crimson hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her face was lit by a weak, almost mad smile.
"Is that all you could gather?" she asked mockingly, slowly drawing her sword, covered in symbols of demonic magic. "Well then, let's begin."
Sigmund stepped forward, his sword glowing with an icy light.
- You won't last long here, woman. We've destroyed your priestess. Now it's your turn.
- Destroyed? - Morgana smirked, her voice like a sweet melody. - You only woke her. But I... I am your final stop.
Sigmund was the first to rush forward, his sword leaving a trail of ice behind him. The blow was precise and fast, but Morgana dodged as if she had anticipated it. She parried the attack with astonishing ease, her movements like a dance.
- You are too slow, - she said, turning away the second blow.
Meanwhile, the Ephernites had already entered the battle. Their armor, imbued with demonic energy, emitted a crimson aura. The warriors of the Winter Alliance, accustomed to fighting mages and monsters, felt their bodies grow heavy, and their blows become less accurate.
- Fight! — Sigmund shouted, turning and striking the nearest Ephernite.
But Morgana remained invulnerable. She moved too fast, her blade seemed to be an extension of her arm. Her blows were powerful and precise. Each time she attacked, crimson flashes illuminated her face, which was nothing but absolute calm.
Sigmund felt the cold of his sword weaken. "She is disrupting my magic... How is this possible?"
And then Morgana stopped. She raised her hand, and her demonic aura grew, consuming the entire courtyard. An unbearable heaviness hung in the air, as if space itself had become dense and viscous.
"It is time to end this," she said quietly.
She closed her eyes, and her body was enveloped in crimson light. The demonic aura from her sword began to flow out like liquid, covering the ground. The Winter Alliance warriors stopped, looking around in horror. Then Morgana stepped forward.
Her sword swung like a hurricane. Crimson energy spread out in a wave, burning everything in its path. Warriors caught in her strike fell dead before their bodies even touched the ground. Sigmund, surrounded by an aura of ice, was able to dodge, but even he felt his magic begin to dissipate.
"You are a monster," he said, breathing hard.
"No," Morgana said, stepping closer. "I am but a weapon in the hands of my queen."
She struck, and their blades clashed. Crimson light mixed with ice, causing the courtyard to burst into a blinding flash. But Morgana was stronger. Her next blow knocked the sword from Sigmund's hands, and he fell to his knees.
"Do it," he croaked, looking up. "You will not win. There will be others after me."
Morgana bowed her head, her expression an odd combination of pity and contempt.
"Perhaps. But you will not see it."
Her sword sank into his chest, and a crimson aura enveloped Sigmund's body, consuming his life. As the last Winter Alliance soldier fell, Morgana glanced around the courtyard. She stood alone among the pile of bodies. Her breathing was even, her gaze cold.
But her triumph was short-lived. The sound of marching could be heard in the distance. Another squad was approaching. Morgana narrowed her eyes as Dreidus's soldiers entered the gates, led by the Winter Alliance commander.
The commander paused, looking at her.
"You think your demonic aura will save you? We have already destroyed one of your 'angels.'" Now it's your turn.
Morgana raised her sword, her crimson aura growing once more.
"Then come. I will show you what true darkness is."
Morgana stood in the middle of the ruined courtyard, her sword glowing crimson, reflecting the moonlight. There was no sign of fatigue in her movements, but her breathing was becoming slower and heavier. A squad of fresh soldiers lined up in front of her, well-organized, armed to the teeth. The commander stepped forward, his armor shimmering silver, and in his hands he held a massive sword decorated with ice runes.
"You have proven yourself worthy of being called a monster," he said with icy certainty. "But this is the end of your reign, demon."
Morgana looked at him with a predatory grin.
"The end? No, this is only the beginning. I am but a part of the shadow that will consume you all.
The soldiers advanced. Their shields closed, creating a wall with their spears jutting out from behind them. The commander moved behind, his icy aura enveloping the closest warriors, protecting them from the remnants of demonic magic still lingering in the courtyard.
"Go," Morgana whispered. Her voice was quiet, but it seemed to reach everyone. "Make sure your lives are of some use."
She charged forward. Her sword arced, colliding with the first shields. A blast of crimson energy shattered them, sending several soldiers flying back. The rest did not flinch, and charged back. Morgana moved among them like a ghost, her blows swift and deadly. One by one, the soldiers fell, but their line did not break.
The commander raised his sword and shouted an order.
"Spread out! Flanking! Slow down her magic!"
The soldiers obeyed without hesitation. They began to surround Morgana, tightening the ring around her. She swung her sword, and another wave of crimson energy crashed down on the nearest warriors, but their shields, cloaked in ice magic, absorbed some of the impact.
The commander himself entered the battle. His sword met Morgana's blade with a dull sound that echoed throughout the courtyard. Their auras collided, icy and demonic, filling the air with the crackle of energy.
"You are strong," he admitted, continuing to attack, his blows powerful and precise. "But you cannot defeat us alone."
"You do not know who you are dealing with," Morgana replied, dodging his blow and counterattacking with incredible speed.
The battle continued, and the number of bodies around increased. The soldiers fought with desperate determination, knowing that if they did not stop Morgana here, their plans could collapse. Morgana, despite her strength, was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Her blows were still as powerful, but not as fast.
The commander again engaged her in close combat. This time he began to use his magic, freezing the air around them. Morgana was not deterred - her blade cut through the ice barriers, leaving crimson marks on the ground.
"You are just another victim in a long chain of mistakes," she said, her voice lower, almost a whisper.
The commander counterattacked, his sword gleaming with the power of magic.
"And you are nothing but a servant of the queen, who will soon fall herself."
These words hurt her. She froze for a moment, her face contorted with anger.
"The queen will not fall. But you will.
With that, she focused all her demonic energy. Morgana's sword began to glow so brightly that it seemed white-hot. She struck, and her blade passed through the commander's ice barrier, striking him in the chest. His armor cracked, and he fell to his knees, breathing hard.
But before Morgana could deliver the final blow, she heard a noise. Fresh troops approached the gate, led by Dreidus. His voice, loud and commanding, echoed throughout the courtyard.
"Morgana Scarlett! You have proven your strength, but your time is up.
She raised her head, her eyes meeting his. At that moment, she realized that she no longer had the strength to fight everyone.
"Well then," she whispered, clutching her sword. "Let's see how strong you are."
At that moment, a new battle for the palace began, and Morgana once again stood in the center of chaos.
Shadaria Veila, usually immersed in the fog and darkness of its alleys, was now ablaze. Burning buildings lit up the night sky, turning it into a blood-red canvas. The narrow streets, clogged with refugees, were torn apart by screams, the clash of weapons and explosions. The uprising engulfed the entire city, and its heart beat in the rhythm of the battle.
On one of the main streets of the city, leading to the royal palace, the rebel aristocrats and their fighters were erecting barricades. The primitive fortifications of broken carts, wooden planks and furniture looked fragile, but behind them were dozens of armed men. Among them flashed knights in expensive armor, merchants dressed in leather vests and mercenaries with foreign accents.
Count Roderick Darnell, one of the leaders of the rebellion, gave orders to his subordinates. His massive figure stood out from the rest. His scarred face and cold gaze betrayed a man accustomed to power.
"Reinforce the barricades!" he shouted, pointing to the empty spaces in the fortifications. "We must hold out until the main forces arrive!"
"Count, the royal troops are already approaching!" one of his men shouted, pointing to the approaching soldiers in black and red armor.
Roderick clenched his fists. He knew that this fight would be brutal. The royal knights knew no mercy.
At the other end of the city, at the bridge leading to the central part, another battle was going on. This bridge was strategically important, connecting the noble quarter with the military district. Here, a small group of the king's knights tried to hold their ground, to prevent the rebels from reaching the armories.
The commander of the detachment, Sir Garret Faulkner, stood at the head of his men. His sword, covered in blood, glistened in the light of the burning houses. Garret's face was exhausted, but determined.
"We will not retreat," he declared, turning to his men. "If we lose this bridge, they will break through to the armories, and then all will be lost."
The rebels began to advance. There were more of them, and their onslaught was furious. Arrows and bolts fired from the opposite bank tore through the line of the king's knights. One of them fell, struck by an arrow, but the rest stood firm.
Garret raised his shield, shielding himself from the arrows, and shouted:
"Forward! Throw them back!"
The knights rushed forward, clashing with the rebels. The battle was fierce. The mercenaries hired by the aristocrats fought with fury, but the royal knights beat them with their discipline and skill.
Meanwhile, in the residential areas of the city, the citizens tried to survive in the chaos. Some supported the rebels, shouting slogans against the queen, others hid in their homes, fearing to be drawn into the massacre.
In one of the squares, a group of rebels tried to attract the crowd to themselves. Their leader, a young man in simple clothes, stood on a box, waving his hand.
"People of Demonia! Can't you see that the queen is destroying us? We must free our city from her tyranny!"
But not everyone in the crowd agreed with him. An old man in tattered clothes shouted:
"And what do you propose in return? Another tyrant? More destruction?"
The young leader fell silent, unable to find an answer. The crowd began to disperse, leaving the rebels in disbelief.
Explosions were heard everywhere. The royal troops were trying to regain control of the streets, but the rebels, well prepared and organized, used sabotage tactics. They blew up bridges, set fire to warehouses, and set up ambushes.
One of these warehouses exploded with a terrifying roar, lighting up the sky. The flames engulfed neighboring buildings, and people fled, screaming in terror.
Arkin, watching this chaos, stood on the roof of one of the buildings in the center of the city. His figure, wrapped in a cloak, seemed dark and mysterious. He watched as his plans were put into action.
One of the leaders of the rebellion, Baron Ralph Thurstein, approached him.
"Arkin, did you organize all this?" the Baron asked, looking at the burning streets.
"Organized?" Arkin asked, not taking his eyes off the fires. "No, I just directed the flow in the right direction. They did the rest themselves."
The Baron frowned.
"You think you can control this?"
Arkin turned to him, his face impassive.
"Control is an illusion, my dear Ralph. But chaos... Chaos always follows those who know how to control it.
The Baron wanted to say something, but stopped when he saw Arkin disappear into the smoke.
The city was sinking deeper into chaos. The royal troops, the rebels, and the citizens were all mixed up in a mad whirlwind of battles and destruction. Everything indicated that the rebellion was just beginning, and its outcome was unknown.
Dreydus stood in the dim gallery, leaning against a massive column. His eyes, like a sculptor's chisels, carved out every detail of the battle unfolding in front of the palace. The broken bodies of Winter Alliance fighters littered the stone-paved courtyards. Morgana towered over them, radiating unbridled power. Her demonic aura, thick as darkness itself, shone with crimson highlights, and with each blow she mowed down the ranks of her opponents.
"She will defeat them, it is inevitable," Dreydus muttered, straightening up. "But her time is running out."
He could not afford to waste precious minutes. If Morgana held off the Winter Alliance fighters for too long, the rebellion would weaken and the royal army would have time to regroup. He turned abruptly and headed deeper into the royal palace, his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty corridors. One goal pulsed in his mind: Victoria. Only her fall would ensure the success of the revolution.
As Dreydus passed through the bas-reliefed hall with stained glass windows depicting the myths of the trinity of archangels, he froze. Before him stood the tall figure of Salastar Fennell, the High Judge. His eyes, piercing and bright green, seemed to see through everything. Salastar's robes of white and crimson velvet, symbolizing the balance of justice and power, fluttered behind him.
— Dreydus, — the judge's voice sounded like a clap of thunder in a stormy sky. — You have gone too far. You are breaking not just the laws of the kingdom, but the principles of Demonia itself.
Dreydus chuckled, drawing his sword from its sheath. His voice was cold and sharp as a blade.
— Judge. You speak of laws, but look at this kingdom. It is drowning in the chaos created by your queen. Demonia needs order, and only I can provide it.
Salastar looked at Dreydus intently. His hand, shrouded in light, extended forward, and a magical sphere began to form around him, filled with symbols of ancient laws.
— Order? You speak of order, breaking every oath you have made? You are but a distorted reflection of that which you despise. And I am the embodiment of true order.
Salastar was the first to fight. His voice echoed throughout the hall:
"Laws of Three! Tame this madness!"
Magic chains woven from light rushed towards Dreydus, wrapping around his body. The general tore them apart with a jerk, the sword blazing in his hands. He rushed forward, bringing down a blow on the judge. The shield of crimson light took the blow, cracked, but remained standing.
Salastar raised his hand, and dozens of magical runes formed around him. They began to spin, emitting blinding light. One after another, spells fell on Dreydus, but he, as if not noticing the pain, continued to advance.
"Your laws are weak, judge! They cannot stop a man with a true goal!"
Their fight moved to one of the walls. Dreydus, gathering all his strength, brought down a blow, destroying it. Huge stones fell, and both opponents found themselves on the roof of the palace. The wind blew their robes, and the sky, lit by the fires of rebellion, served as a stage for their final act.
On the roof, the battle reached its climax. Dreydus, despite his brute strength, gradually overwhelmed the judge. Salastar's wounds grew deeper, but he did not retreat. His eyes burned with determination.
When Dreydus finally knocked the sword from his hands, the judge fell to one knee. The general raised his weapon for the final blow.
"You are too weak to be a judge in this world, Fennell. Rest in peace."
But instead of fear, Salastar smiled. His lips began to whisper an incantation.
"Demon of Chaos, you are a witness to all. Archangel of Order, you are a guide to truth. I, Salastar Fennell, pronounce my final judgment. Let all be destroyed, so that order may be restored.
His body began to emit a crimson light. An aura enveloped him, transforming into the figure of Atariel, the archangel of order. Dreydus, sensing danger, jumped back.
"Are you mad, judge! Do you want to destroy everything around you?"
Salastar looked up, and only an iron will was read in them.
"Only order can rise from the ashes of chaos."
The spell ended. A flash of blinding light illuminated the palace, and then an explosion followed. A wave of destruction engulfed the roof, scattering debris to the sides. Salastar disappeared, incinerated by his own magic. Dreydus managed to jump back, but even his face reflected a shadow of shock.
When the smoke cleared, the palace roof was a ruin. Dreydus stood on the edge, his cloak torn but unharmed.
"Fool," he whispered, looking at the spot where Salastar had stood. "But he gave me the path to victory."
The general turned and walked deeper into the palace. His goal remained the same: the throne.
The silence of the throne room seemed to absorb every movement, every breath. Victoria sat on the throne, her arms crossed on the armrests, her back straight, her gaze fixed on the distance. She tried to concentrate, but the chaos beyond the palace walls was louder than her thoughts.
The golden rays of stained glass spilled onto the marble floor, distorted by the crimson reflections of the nearby fires. The throne room, once a symbol of grandeur and order, now felt like a cage. Victoria gripped the armrests, her fingers unconsciously stroking the ancient carvings.
"Morgana, what would you do?" Her voice was quiet, like a whisper.
There was no answer. The Queen glanced at the dark corners of the hall, where her loyal knight usually stood. But Morgana was gone. No one was there.
The thought made her shudder. Only she, alone, against the whispers of the blade, the lonely weight of the throne, and the thousands of voices of the people demanding justice.
She stood up, letting her robe fall softly behind her. Slowly, as if in a trance, Victoria began to walk around the hall. Each step echoed dully. She turned her gaze to the stained glass windows depicting the archangels. The faces of Atariel, Morinfael, and Entropiel, though motionless, seemed to look at her with reproach.
"I do not understand..." she whispered, looking up at Atariel, the Archangel of Order. "What role am I to play? Queen? Tyrant? Demon?"
Her hand reached for the blade hanging at her waist. It was silent, but its presence was like a hot coal on her chest. Victoria drew it, admiring how the crimson runes flared, reflecting her face. In that moment, she noticed that her eyes on the blade looked alien - too hard, too sharp.
"What do you want from me?" she almost shouted, addressing the blade. Its silence cut sharper than any words.
But then her thoughts took a different turn. She began to remember the moments that led her to this place. Her whole life seemed a series of choices that turned out to be only losses for her. Her father, Astaron, her own innocence, all sacrificed on the altar of the throne.
She paused at the window, looking out over the rebellious streets of Shadaria Veila. Smoke rising into the sky mingled with the crimson glow of the sunset. Below, fire and fury raged. Her people, her subjects, whom she had sworn to protect, were now at war with each other.
Victoria ran her hand over the glass.
"Isn't this what you wanted, Father? You believed in the power of blood, that power should be absolute. But why do I feel so weak?"
She remembered his face. Irfan had always been strong, inspiring fear, but Victoria had never seen doubt in his eyes. And now she saw it in hers.
"Who am I? Am I a tool? Or am I still Victoria?" Her voice trembled. She looked at the blade again. "Tell me, why did you choose me?" Why do you whisper to me what I do not want to hear?
But it was not the steel that answered. It was her own voice inside, low as a shadow's whisper:
"You want to be great. And you know that to be great, you must sacrifice everything. Even your soul."
Her heart sank. The words, though they belonged to her thoughts, sounded as if they were not hers. They resonated with the blade, which flared for a moment, and then fell silent again.
The doors of the throne room swung slowly open. Their heavy creak echoed in the majestic hall, like a harbinger of something inevitable. Victoria, standing in the center, turned slowly. Her gaze met Dreydus's cold, tenacious gaze.
He stepped forward, his boots thudded dully on the marble. The majestic hall, lit by the crimson light of sunset, seemed cold and empty. Dreydus was calm, his posture confident. His dark armor gleamed, framing his figure like black obsidian. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, but did not draw it, as if to demonstrate that he did not consider it necessary to draw the weapon yet.
- A throne covered in ashes, a smoking capital, a people in chains. Isn't this what you dreamed of, Victoria? - his voice was sharp, like a whip crack.
Victoria stood motionless, blade in hand. Her steely eyes were impassive, but something much deeper and darker raged inside. The blade in her hand quietly pulsed with a crimson light, its runes seemed to whisper something that eluded perception.
- You are silent. Of course, what else is left for you? Tell me what you see when you look at this throne. Hope? Salvation? Or perhaps only your end?
Dreydus continued to approach, his figure a shadow that enveloped everything around him. He stopped a few steps away from Victoria, his lips twisted in a cold smile.
- You know it was inevitable. You are not strong enough to hold on to power. You do not even understand that your own actions have fueled this rebellion. Torture, executions, the demonic blade in your hands... You are not a queen, you are an instrument of chaos that cannot be stopped.
He took another step, like a snake coiling around its prey. His voice became quieter, almost a whisper.
"But I can fix this. I can save Demonia from you. You will become a symbol of what happens when the crown goes to the weak."
Victoria listened to him without saying a word. Her gaze remained fixed on him, but her face was inscrutable. Dreydus expected that his words would cause anger, that she would scream, try to justify herself, or accuse him of betrayal. But instead she simply smiled - coldly, barely noticeably.
She stepped forward, and her voice sounded low, like a rumble of distant thunder.
— You speak of salvation, Dreydus. That you can correct my mistakes. But you are wrong about one thing. It is you who came here to die, not me.
Dreydus narrowed his eyes, his hand involuntarily tightening its grip on the hilt of his sword.
— You have completely lost touch with reality, Victoria. Look around you. The uprising, the ruined streets, the rebellious aristocrats. All this is the result of your rule.
She raised the blade, the crimson light emanating from it filling the throne room. The runes on the blade flared, ominous symbols began to flow across the steel, as if alive.
— Be silent, Dreydus. Raise your sword. I am no longer interested in listening to your accusations. I will give you what you deserve.
Dreydus froze. His face distorted - a mixture of surprise, rage and... admiration. This was not the Victoria he knew, not the girl he had once openly despised. This was a queen who had embraced her darkness. Her voice, her bearing, even the very air around her, was terrifying.
"Do you truly believe you can defeat me?" He drew his sword, gleaming and black as night. "I will give you one last chance, Victoria. Abdicate the throne, and I will spare you."
She laughed, but there was no joy in it. It was a cold, harsh sound that made Dreydus tighten his grip on the hilt.
"One last chance? Do you think I hold on to this crown for power? You have not understood anything. I am Demonia. And I will destroy anyone who stands in my way to prove it."
Her words echoed through the hall, and in that moment Dreydus realized that he had already lost the first round of this battle. But this only fueled his rage.
They froze, standing opposite each other. The crimson light of Victoria's blade collided with the black glow of Dreidus's sword. In that moment, the air between them seemed to thicken, ready to explode.