In the grand royal dressing room of the Kenshire castle, with its high vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes depicting scenes of legendary valor and opulent tapestries that covered the stone walls, a scene less stately but equally as memorable unfolded. The spacious chamber, flooded with the golden light of late afternoon, was equipped with every luxury appropriate for royalty—plush velvet chairs, a long polished table cluttered with an array of grooming tools and cosmetics, and several full-length mirrors that reflected a chaotic yet comical spectacle.
Zabriel, still donned in his trademark mask and hoodie, clung stubbornly to a decorative gold and marble pole in the center of the room. Around him, Ellie—a robust and spirited healer with a streak of tomboyish defiance—and a couple of King Arshan's maids were engaged in a battle of wits and strength to coax him into the regal attire selected for the evening's banquet.
"Fuck, Zabriel. Let go. This is annoying me."
"No, no, Ellie, you grab his left arm!" shouted one of the maids, a flustered young woman with her hair pinned up high, dodging around as she tried to assist.
Ellie, rolling her eyes dramatically, responded with a gruff tone, "Huh?! Don't tell me what to do! Why don't you try wrestling a man who's built like a stone tower, Vera? It's like trying to move a mountain!"
"You see I'm trying!"
Amidst the laughter and chaos, another maid, a newcomer named Lissa, accidentally brushed against Zabriel's more private regions while attempting to fit him into the sumptuous velvet trousers that were part of his outfit. She blushed a deep crimson, stuttering an apology, which was drowned by the sudden clank of a dagger being drawn.
Ellie's eyes narrowed as she witnessed the unfortunate interaction, her jealousy flaring up momentarily in what would otherwise be a rather pressing situation. She turned towards Lissa, dagger in hand, her expression nonchalant but with an unmistakable edge of mock-menace. "Oh, Lissa, maybe you'd like a closer look at cold steel, eh?" Ellie teased but with a tone that held a feigned threat. "Die."
Lissa exclaimed, "No! Wait!"
With a dramatic flourish typical of one who spent more time in battlefields than banquets, Ellie chased the petrified Lissa around the room. The other maids ducked and dodged, their earlier efforts forgotten in the wake of the new spectacle. Guests' garb was trampled underfoot as the chase ensued, a mismatched dance of healer's agility versus maid's panic.
Catching Lissa by the grand fireplace, Ellie pinned her effortlessly against the wall, the dagger hovering theatrically inches from her face. Lissa's eyes were wide, her breath hitching as Ellie leaned in, a horrific laughter escaping her lips that was chilling yet undeniably fake.
"Got you! Maybe next time, you'll think twice about where your hands wander, hmm?" Ellie's voice dropped to a whisper, the blade drawing a delicate line down Lissa's cheek, never touching, her eyes glinting with mischief.
"W-Why are you acting like this? Do you like him or something?"
Ellie, flustered, replied, "W-Worry about your damn self! That's what I would like! Damn nerd."
As Ellie and the maids turned towards another distraction, Zabriel seized the moment to slip from their grasp.
"Where is he??"
"Find him!" Ellie scoffed. "Or you're all dead!"
His silent figure moved down the royal hallway, a stunning corridor adorned with the grandeur of past and present glories. It was lined with towering statues of the past kings of Kenshire, each sculpted from fine marble and standing sentinel over the domain they once ruled. Vaulted ceilings arched overhead, crafted with intricate mosaics depicting the mythical creatures and valiant battles that shaped the kingdom's history. Plush red carpets muted his footsteps, adding to the regal yet almost mysterious aura that enveloped the hallway.
As Zabriel admired a particularly fierce portrayal of King Artorius, renowned for uniting the northern tribes, the air shifted. From a shadowed alcove, Holt, a member of the elite Dragon's Heart Guard, lunged at him with a rune-etched greatsword—a deadly dance of surprise and malice in his eyes. His sword whooshed through the air, aimed with lethal precision at Zabriel.
"Got you now!"
But with an almost bored nonchalance, Zabriel stopped the descending blade with just a finger. A slight push, controlled yet infused with immense force, and the sword reversed its deadly course, plunging devastatingly down Holt's own throat. Blood gushed in a stark contrast against the polished tiles as Holt crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
Almost immediately, Zabriel extended his hand, a soft glow emanating from his palm as he knitted the torn flesh and stilled the flow of lifeblood. Healing Holt completely, he continued on his path without a backward glance, leaving a dazed and healed soldier in his wake.
Holt said, "Battle me!"
In the castle's armory, surrounded by racks of gleaming weapons and armor, Holt ambushed Zabriel again with a mace encrusted with blood rubies. The weapon swung in a wide arc, aimed to crush. At the last instant, Zabriel ducked, guided Holt's own momentum, and the mace ended up crashing into his face with brutal force. "You are my rival and my enemy, Zabriel!" Holt managed to gasp out, even as Zabriel calmly healed him, mere seconds before total collapse.
By the stables, as the scent of hay and horse lingered, Holt waited atop the rafters, leaping down with a spear that shimmered with a cold enchantment. Zabriel, seemingly caught off-guard, sidestepped at the last fraction of a second, catching and bending the spear back towards Holt. It impaled him against the stable wall. "Curse you, Zabriel, my nemesis!" Holt shouted, grunting in pain. Zabriel's healing hands were there again, mending the wounds he had just caused.
During a heavy downpour in the courtyard, the cobblestones slick with rain, Holt charged at Zabriel, dual axes in hand, screaming his defiance and rivalry. Zabriel, with a deft twist, grabbed Holt by the arm, turning the axes against their master. Holt was left pinned to the ground, axes blade-deep in the earth on either side of his neck. "Enemy, always and forever!" Holt roared as Zabriel healed him yet again, the rain washing away the traces of blood.
In the echoing expanse of ONE of the castle's grand dining halls, Holt sought a final confrontation, wielding a chained flail. The ball swung dangerously close to Zabriel, who caught the chain mid-air, redirected it, and wrapped it around Holt, crushing him against a pillar. "I shall never yield, Zabriel!" Holt exclaimed, struggling against the tight chains. As always, Zabriel unraveled the chains gently and healed the bruised and battered Holt, who lay gasping and defeated yet again.
Holt thought, 'He thinks he's soooo perfect doesn't he? I won't be humiliated. I'm a valiant warrior!'
In the vast expanse of the Kenshire Castle training grounds, a tension-filled fog seemed to hang in the air, thick with the scent of impending conflict. Holt, along with a squadron of the Dragon's Heart Guard, stood resolute, their armors glinting under the overcast sky. Even Gill was forced to be there.
Gill asked Holt, "Do I really have to be here?"
'I definitely picked the wrong time to come out and train before the banquet.'
"Yes! We got him cornered! Think about it, if you help me take him down, if you let me use you as a human meat shield—."
"No! That's a bad idea! I don't wanna do it!"
With a collective roar, they charged toward Zabriel, determination etched into every line of their faces.
As they approached, time appeared to stretch, each moment elongating as if the very air grew dense with anticipation and fear. The soldiers' breath became labored, their strides hesitant even as they advanced. Beads of sweat glistened on their brows, reflecting the stormy threat of the heavens above.
"Steady, lads... this time we have him..." Holt's voice trembled with a mix of courage and dread, his attempt at encouragement faltering in his throat.
'What's happening to me?? To us?!'
Then, Zabriel turned. His movements were a graceful yet dreadful prelude to the chaos that was about to unfold. His eyes, shimmering teal, flared into a deep, blood-red color that seemed to pulse with sinister power. In a blink, he was a blur of motion, his form barely perceptible to the naked eye.
"His eyes!"
Holt's heart pounded ferociously as Zabriel vanished and stopped abruptly before him. The air crackled with an almost electric tension. With a horrifying elegance, Zabriel's fingertip touched Holt's chest. A cold dread spread through Holt's body, and a tear of blood trickled from his eye, tracing a path down his dirt-streaked face.
Without a spoken word, Zabriel's hands moved with brutal precision. He reached into Holt's chest as if delving into the depths of his soul. With a gruesome finesse, he extracted the spine, manipulating it into the shape of a bow and arrow. The surreal horror unfolded as the dark green aura gathered around the newly formed weapon, glinting with malevolent energy.
The other soldiers said:
"Captain Holt!"
"Holt!"
"Our movements are slowed!"
"This has to be some skill!"
"It's our fear, our anxiety..he's using it against us."
"This was fucked from the start!"
The tension in the air reached a crescendo as Zabriel pulled back the makeshift bowstring, aiming the spectral arrow straight at Holt's divided essence. A moment hung between breaths—time itself recoiling from the impending brutality—before Zabriel released the string.
The arrow flew, an ethereal streak of green that hit its mark with lethal precision. Holt's body, under the surreal force of the arc, split horrifically into two, his torso separating from his legs, which crashed onto the ground with a sickening thud.
The soldiers around them gasped, frozen in a tableau of horror and disbelief. Whispers of dread swirled through the air as Zabriel settled his hands once more on what remained of Holt.
"He... he's not human..." one soldier muttered, aghast and shaking. "He really is as cold as they say…but didn't hesitate to heal him.."
"A monster... a guardian demon..." another whispered, unable to look away.
The glow from Zabriel's hands bathed Holt's ravaged form, knitting together flesh and bone, sealing together the brutal split as if it had never been. The dark aura faded, and the reddish glow dimmed back to a tranquil teal.
As Holt gasped back to his senses, whole yet profoundly affected by the day's ordeal, the soldiers slowly backed away from Zabriel, their eyes wide, thoughts racing with fear and wonder. A deep, unsettled murmur ran through the ranks, punctuated by Holt's heavy, ragged breathing.
Zabriel patted Holt on the head, and walked away, leaving Holt to scoff, "Don't mock me! I'm a valiant warrior of the Kenshire army! You're just a healer! A weird healer at that!"
Gill said, "He's insane…what was he before he became a healer?"
Holt grabbed Gill by the face, whining comedically, "Why didn't you help me?! Why didn't you cut his head off?!"
Gill responded, "I-I was slowed like everyone else! Yell at them too!"
"No! I'm yelling at you!"
"That's unfair!"