The flames danced beautifully against the night sky, twisting and coiling as if summoned by some ancient, vengeful god.
The castle of Eldoria, once a beacon of Arvandor's strength, now burned, its proud spires illuminated in hues of violent orange and bloodied crimson.
Malvoria watched from a high ridge, perched atop her midnight-black warhorse, the wind tugging at her deep crimson cloak.
Her grey eyes gleamed with satisfaction as the battle unfolded below her, every detail sharp and vivid.
It was even better than she had planned.
The humans had fallen into her trap so easily. They had rushed to defend the trade roads in the south, leaving their eastern flanks vulnerable.
Her forces had swept in like a tidal wave, tearing through their lines before they even knew where to focus their defense.
Now, Eldoria was hers for the taking.
Her lips curled in a slow, lazy smirk as she dismounted, her boots hitting the earth with a soft thud.
She rolled her shoulders, the heavy weight of her twin swords familiar and comforting at her back.
She had waited long enough.
Turning to her soldiers, who stood at attention, their eyes burning with bloodlust and devotion, she gave a simple command.
"Move."
And they did.
Malvoria strode through the battlefield with measured grace, the chaos parting before her like waves before a leviathan.
Bodies littered the cobbled streets, the scent of death thick in the air—burning wood, charred flesh, the acrid tang of spilled blood.
The castle loomed ahead, its once-imposing gates blasted open, twisted metal and shattered stone crumbling beneath her boots as she stepped over the wreckage.
A guard rushed at her.
Malvoria didn't break stride.
She unsheathed one of her swords in a single fluid motion, the obsidian blade humming with dark energy as it met the soldier's steel.
He barely had time to register what had happened before she twisted her wrist, parrying his desperate attack with ease before driving her blade through his chest.
He gasped.
Malvoria held his gaze as the life drained from his wide, fearful eyes, then kicked him off her blade. He crumpled to the ground with a wet thud.
The next guard came screaming, raising his sword overhead in a reckless arc.
Sloppy.
Malvoria ducked under his swing, her movements fluid, effortless. She stepped inside his guard and brought her second sword up, slicing clean through his throat.
Blood sprayed against the scorched stone walls. He gargled, clawing at the wound as he stumbled back before collapsing.
Another came. Then another.
It didn't matter.
She danced through them like a shadow of death, her blades carving through armor and flesh as if they were no more than parchment.
One tried to flee.
She threw her sword.
The blade sang through the air before lodging itself between his shoulder blades. He collapsed face-first onto the marble steps leading to the grand entrance.
Coward.
Malvoria yanked her sword free, flicking the blood from the blade with an irritated shake of her wrist.
The throne room was close now.
She stalked through the corridors, stepping over fallen bodies, ignoring the distant screams and the occasional flicker of movement in the periphery. The castle had already been breached; its fate was sealed.
Finally, she reached the throne room doors.
She didn't hesitate.
With a single powerful kick, the heavy double doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls with a deafening boom.
Inside, the fight was still raging.
King Thalor stood in the center of the vast chamber, his sword flashing as he fended off her soldiers. He was wounded—his regal tunic torn, his graying hair damp with sweat, his blade stained with fresh blood—but he fought like a man with nothing to lose.
Her men circled him, moving in coordinated strikes, but even in his desperation, Thalor was formidable. He blocked, parried, slashed—one demon fell, then another.
But it wouldn't last.
Malvoria let out a quiet breath of amusement before speaking.
"Stop."
Her voice, cool and commanding, echoed through the chamber.
The soldiers immediately halted their assault, their weapons lowering, their breathing heavy.
Thalor hesitated, his sword still raised, his sharp blue eyes locking onto hers.
Malvoria smirked.
"Leave."
The demons obeyed without question, backing away and slipping out through the ruined doors, their heavy footfalls fading into the distance.
Now, it was just the two of them.
A low chuckle rumbled in Malvoria's throat as she took a slow step forward, tilting her head. Her eyes swept over the throne room—columns cracked, banners slashed and burning, the grand chandeliers swaying ominously from the force of the battle.
Then, she looked at him.
"What a shame for such a beautiful kingdom."
Thalor exhaled, shaking his head as he straightened his stance. "Spare me your false sympathy."
Malvoria chuckled, tapping the tip of one of her swords against the marble floor. "Oh, but it isn't false. I truly think it's a waste. All of this—your people, your city, your legacy—gone, simply because you refused me."
Thalor's grip on his sword tightened. "You expect me to hand over my daughter like some bargaining chip?"
Malvoria raised a brow. "I expected you to be wise enough to know when to surrender."
"Is that what you call it?" He scoffed, wiping the back of his hand across his jaw. "You would have taken her no matter what I said. This was always your plan."
Malvoria gave him a slow, knowing smile. "Perhaps."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Why her?"
Malvoria's smile faded slightly.
"You wouldn't understand."
Thalor studied her, as if trying to unravel something hidden beneath her words, but he only let out a short, bitter laugh. "It doesn't matter. You'll never have her."
Malvoria rolled her shoulders, lifting her swords into a ready stance.
"You say that as if you have a choice."
Thalor mirrored her movement, raising his own blade.
The air between them thrummed with tension, the crackling of fire and distant echoes of battle the only sounds left.
Then, his voice dropped, quiet but unyielding.
"I will never let you have my daughter."