A private sparring match between the two strongest swordsmen in all of Granfell.
It was meant to be kept secret, but, through word of mouth, news spread across the ranks of serfs, soldiers, and then, Granica's civilian population. They were afraid, and on edge, ever since the battle front shifted - hungry for entertainment to distract them from the war. Even the paupers and army chaplains came to peek at the grand confrontation, disregarding their ever-important duty of begging for alms.
Princess Marielle and Grand Duke Anthelm stood in the fortress’ courtyard a great distance away from each other, holding dulled training swords. The princess, wielding a single, long and slender blade with a rounded tip. And the Duke, with twin blades that each split into a cleaving edge and stabbing point, like the tongue of a snake.
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“Bahahahahah! Let’s see how strong that dragon really was, to be defeated by the likes of you!”
Anthelm Granfell lost his patience, unable to keep up the appearance of a refined aristocrat any longer. He’d been waiting for this opportunity for the better part of his youth. A chance to finally settle the score with the mutant spinster he’d come to revile more than his worst enemies.
At the Governor’s signal, the duel began with a flash.
Marielle and Anthelm’s silhouettes blurred, then stretched into infinitesimally thin lines. The sound of explosions rang out, but besides torrential wind, nothing seemed to have happened.
Dust and racks of training weapons flew in all directions. And flashes of colorless light and star fire burst in and out of existence at the courtyard’s center.
“Well done. You grew up to be a fine swordsman.”
Marielle’s distorted voice buzzed mysteriously as she manifested back into existence, five steps away from a winded Anthelm. The both of them were in tatters – clothes ripped to shreds and weapons chipped in several places.
“But you lack precision.”
She suddenly spun, and, before the Duke’s very eyes, her body transformed into a whirlwind. It was a movement that defied reason – a technique she plundered from the Dragon of Calamity.
“Urk!”
He caught strike after strike on his shorter, cruder weapons. Each blow sent tremors up the princess’ thinner blade, and caused it to wobble in her grasp. Using this opportunity, he dashed forward, and struck with both blades, as blood power poured out like a tidal wave.
“…”
Her bizarre dervish dance continued, as she simply fell out of his attack’s path, and grasped her sword with both hands before ramming its pommel into the Duke’s exposed armpit.
“Gh-aah!”
Before he could react, unbelievable pain shot through his body, and his right arm went limp. It had been dislocated.
“Fuck! I’m sick of your fanciful tricks! Even if this fortress falls today, I’ll crush you!”
An explosion of palpable, blood curdling energy burst out from his body, leaving cracks across Anthelm Granfell’s skin. As though being enveloped in water, the onlookers became unable to breathe and struggled to remain standing, while the Governor wisely ran for his life the moment his guest swore.
“A… r… y…o…u… g…o…”
Anthelm couldn’t hear what the princess was saying through his own aura, which was as dense and crude as raw petroleum. However, something in her demeanor caused him to take a step back.
Unfathomable and strange, an energy, like death itself, shot as a miniature electric discharge through the aura. He had finally remembered why Marielle had been excluded from court affairs and family gatherings for so long. It was because she did not only have blood power, but also a different, unpalatable thing.
It was a thing akin to witchcraft, and the esoteric arts practiced by clergymen. An underdeveloped power that was rejected even by its wielder, herself, and never progressed further than the most elementary stage.
“Sorcery!”
The Princess’ black eyes adopted a sinister depth, and blood ran down her nose, free-floating in Anthelm’s aura field like water in the absence of gravity. He felt his aura field shake and contract, and his head grew hot and heavy. As though a myriad needles pierced his brain from the inside, he fell and began to scratch at his scalp, until the bizarre heat and nausea overcame the Duke completely.
“Urp-augh-agh!”
He vomited, but the discharge that came from his mouth didn’t simply fall down in splatters. It wriggled and fled into the grass. He’d thrown up a ball of writing snakes. Before the aura field had time to full dissipate, Anthelm fell on his back and screamed, pulling miniature serpents out of his nose and mouth. At the same time, Marielle herself was shaky on her feet, as she struggled to maintain the Body of Effervescent Fulcran and her unskilled attempt at sorcery, both.
‘SNAP!’
With a sound akin to a whip crack, Anthelm’s aura field collapsed. No fewer than a hundred people had lost consciousness or fell ill, and the gawkers, soldiery and fortress staff could do nothing, except to lay them out on their backs and run, looking for a healer or apothecary.
“Urp… This…”
“Anthelm, how childish can you be?! Those people were about to die!”
“It's their own damn fault for coming here, you witch!”
“I am Marielle Granfell. I was stationed here to kill monsters. And if you throw away your dignity and become a monster, I will kill you, too.”
She spat out cold words that dripped with venom, and turned away from Anthelm’s near-catatonic form, making her way down to the soldiers’ accommodations.
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“Your Excellency. The fiends’ advance force is set to arrive in 10 hours.”
“…”
“They number six thousand subhuman skirmishers, three thousand human-faced demons, two hundred great demon beasts, and eight hundred winged fiends.”
“Shelter those who can’t fight in the fortress and chapel. I will take charge of harassment, while Rollo and his men will take command of the garrison and act as rapid response force. Knight Marielle.”
“Yes?”
“Ugh... I need you to use that power of yours to get rid of the winged monsters. Can you do it?”
“I will.”
“Good. Then this meeting is dismissed.”
The Duke of Dusk, ruler of Western Granfell. His complexion was a little green and his eyes and cheeks shrunken, but, nevertheless, he could still do his job. A (subdued) commanding presence and decisive orders brought the moody warrior elites together enough to execute a simple defense plan.
At such a time, while the enemy was marching towards them, the best thing a fortress garrison could do was rest. There was no way to improve their defenses further, and the only way to seize an advantage against sheer numbers was to prepare well and get a good night's sleep. So, as soon as the roles and responsibilities of each nobleman in the fortress were sorted, he rushed out of the meeting room and locked himself in his quarters. Perhaps he lamented his previous decisions. Or maybe, he schemed, looking for new ways to trample on Marielle’s pride.
Whatever the case might be, her mind was already elsewhere.
“Annie. Do you know who’s leading this army?”
“Demon Lord Ide, your Highness.”
“Demon… Lord?”
“It seems our enemies have adopted this naming tradition. And of the many “Lords”, Ide is the one that controls fiends.”
“But, isn’t Ide a saint’s name?”
“That is… Perhaps it’s best to ask Abbess Collette about this…”
Something about the recent events troubled her greatly. The sudden invasion. The dragon’s bizarre behavior. And, most of all, the sinister reason for her dispatch to Nagan-Tal. And yet, she was apprehensive to go around asking questions, for one simple reason.
The strange inhuman gaze in Rollo Nagan’s eyes, that seemed to trace her every movement. And the disquieting shapes, at the very corner of her vision, that seemed to grow more restless with each passing day.
