Like a snake uncoiling from its nest, Aren rose from his prone position. Marble dust and debris fell from his shoulders, littering the ground with the remains of the pillar that he’d struck earlier. Although he was still slightly concussed from the impact, the look of hatred in his eyes was plain for all to see.

The eyes of the Alliance council members settled on Princess Radeca’s advancing form, all of them confused and curious. The Radeca that they knew was a sheltered and studious princess who holed up in the library whenever she wasn’t made to attend social events.

The Radeca they knew could never be so bold, yet here she was, walking toward a man who was considered to be one of the best duelists in the entire Alliance, seemingly without a shred of fear in her eyes.

Radeca did not even deign to return their gazes. Instead, her eyes were focused solely on Aren. As someone who was still entirely new to combat, she couldn’t afford to take her eyes off of such a deadly opponent for even a second. 

Not only that, but she wanted to savor every moment of her long-awaited revenge against the man who had tormented her for years.

Was it petty? Yes. Was it befitting of a princess? No.

But Radeca wanted to do it anyway.

She wasn’t a perfect and flawless person. She was selfish, ignorant, and insecure deep down. She knew that much. That’s why she had to do this. To her, it meant more than just petty revenge. To her, this was akin to metamorphosis.

An internal revolution that would finally break her out of the cocoon of inaction she had been imprisoned in for the past decade or so.

In response to her determination, Aren merely laughed.

“You’ve certainly become bold, princess.” He spat the final word out as if it were an insult, but if Radeca took any offense, it didn’t show on her face.

Instead, she expressed her displeasure through action.

Raising one hand toward Aren, a globe of wind emerged before Radeca’s palm and compressed itself before shooting straight toward the Elven advisor. 

Tinged with the blue hue of mana, the pulsing sphere of rapidly rotating air shot toward Aren with incredible speed. It was the first offensive spell that Radeca had ever casted outside of practice, but it was nearly textbook perfect.

Aren’s feathered arm shot forward, the talons of his fingers outstretched as he sought to tear the sphere of air apart. He had reinforced his body with mana beforehand, and the nature of his transformation already afforded him some degree of increased durability, so meeting the force of the sphere with the force of his own strike wouldn’t pose any danger at all.

In theory, Aren’s response was a viable tactic, but in practice, he had made one substantial error.

Yes, Radeca’s spell had been nearly textbook perfect. 

But only nearly.

In fact, the sole deviation that her compressed sphere of air possessed wasn’t an error. Rather, it was an improvement.

The moment Aren’s talons touched the sphere, it unraveled in an instant, exploding outwards like a fiery detonation. Except this explosion had no plumes of flame.

Razor sharp blades of wind danced through the air in beautiful patterns, like a troupe of whirling dancers performing for Radeca’s very own court. They enveloped the space around Aren’s body within the span of a second, cutting into his flesh before he could even react.

Aren’s chest heaved heavily even as the razor wind finally abated, his vision blurry from the searing sensation of his wounds and the loss of blood. His entire body was covered in a multitude of incisions that varied in size and depth, and each one of them oozed crimson.

In truth, the wounds themselves were not as severe as they looked, for most of them were shallow. However, that was not the true intent of Radeca’s spell.

When the sphere of wind had unraveled and enveloped Aren, the battle might as well have already been over, for the air was no longer attempting to compress itself into a ball of deadly impact. 

Instead, the magic that was weaved upon it caused the air to rapidly expand as if attempting to tear apart all that was unlucky enough to be caught in its radius. In other words, even the slightest cut would’ve spelled almost certain defeat for anyone as the hostile winds forcibly extracted enormous amounts of blood from any open wound with each passing second.

Radeca stepped forward, the soles of her pristine heels dyed crimson with the splatters of Aren’s Elven blood strewn across the once-spotless floor of the council chamber, its bloody pattern resembling something of a macabre lotus flower in full bloom.

She stared at Aren with a cold and unforgiving gaze. The room filled with the chill of a moonless night, and not a sound was uttered.

Even in his defeat, Aren refused to fall. He stood, his breath labored as it slowly leaked out of his lungs like the droplets of blood from his wounds. To remain standing was his pride.

Slowly, Aren lifted his head to pit his blazing gaze against Radeca’s frigid. Yet, they blazed not only with hatred this time, but also a measure of respect. At last, the timid princess who was destined only to be used as a Catalyst stood proudly on her own. It was a sight that Aren never thought he would see in his lifetime, yet for some reason, he was glad to.

Perhaps it was because he was an Elf and patriot at heart. Even though his identity was that of Eagle, and even though he had betrayed his king to serve the mysterious entity who only called herself Dragon, he had only done so for the sake of saving his country.

It was strange. He should have felt bitter. He should have felt rage. But instead, his last thoughts were warm with relief. At last, he knew that—even though she was not the first in line—Radeca would make a fine queen if she did indeed inherit the throne.

Taking the sword offered to her, Radeca brandished it before herself. In its steel, she saw her own reflection: that of a princess who dealt death without hesitation or remorse. The emotionless gaze of her mirrored self stared back at her, glacial eyes boring into her own, cold as the very steel that contained them.

Radeca tightened the grip on her sword as she prepared to deal the final blow to Aren, the man who had tormented her for years and tarnished her reputation as a member of the royal family for reasons unknown to her.

Yet, she could not shake the image of that unfamiliar gaze peering back at her from the steel of her sword.

But why?

Was she wrong to seek revenge for the misdeeds that she had been dealt? No.

Did she feel compassion for the man? No. She had suffered too much at his hands to feel such things toward him.

The glittering blade swung downward in an arc of finality, and it was only then that she understood the reason for this feeling of malaise.

Thump.

The sound of steel clattering to the ground echoed throughout the otherwise silenced council chamber. It had followed the dull thud of Aren’s head, so the sword’s high-pitched ring was particularly prominent.

The crimson that now wetted the blade reflected a different Radeca as she peered down at it. What she was feeling was not remorse or compassion. It was hesitation, not out of fear of dealing death, but of a chapter closed.

After all, her long-awaited revenge was finally complete and the hostile emotions which came with that were now enclosed in that blade, buried by Aren’s blood. 

What awaited her now was a new beginning, free from the moonless night which once bound her.

...I did it. I really did it.

A brilliant smile blossomed on Radeca’s face as she looked toward Princess Sella, her only true ally who had remained staunchly by her side to this very moment.

Thank you, Sella. Wait for me, Ryuuko. We’re coming.