Erza sighed, long and heavy, and the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly. She let her arm fall to her side, and the Sword of Vael'Tharion began to dissolve, not like ice melting, but like mist rising from a lake at dawn.
The blade shimmered, fragmented, and dispersed into the air like water vapor, each particle glowing faintly before fading into nothing. It did not disappear.
It returned to where it had come from, to her soul, to the core of her being, to the place where her power waited for the next time she would need to draw it.
Isvarn felt the pressure lift from his shoulders, and he rose slowly, dusting off his fine clothes with careful, deliberate movements.
He did not speak.
He did not dare. One wrong word, one misplaced accusation, and his granddaughter would not hesitate. He knew her too well. He had watched her grow from a frightened child into a ruthless queen, had seen her crush her enemies without mercy, had witnessed her coldness turn armies to ice.
