Princess Seraphina stood frozen on her balcony, her hand clamped over her mouth. The world below was a vision of hell, a tapestry of fire and screaming shadows.
Meanwhile
The fight between Roric and the Blade Master was a brutal lesson in hierarchy Roric was a master of his domain. He drew vitality from the stone itself, his skin taking on a bark-like texture, his movements fueled by the earth. He hurled sharpened splinters of wood like javelins. He made the floor itself buckle and snap, trying to trip the Blade Master. Vines, thick as pythons and studded with thorns the size of a man's thumb, erupted from the marble, lashing out with mindless, ferocious intent.
It was like trying to trap lightning.
The Blade Master didn't seem to run or jump; he pounced. He flowed around every attack, a specter of silent, lethal grace. He didn't block the wooden javelins; he sidestepped them, the projectiles shattering against the wall behind him. He didn't avoid the buckling floor; he used the shifting stones as stepping stones, his balance preternatural. The thorned vines found only empty air, or, when they got too close, were severed into harmless, writhing segments by a flick of an obsidian blade.
Roric roared in frustration, slamming his hands together. "WITHER!"
A wave of grey energy pulsed from him, a visible manifestation of stolen life. The lush tapestries on the walls instantly frayed and turned to dust. The polished marble beneath the Blade Master's feet cracked, its color leaching away to a dead, brittle grey. The wave hit the Tuner, and for a glorious second, Roric thought he had him. He felt the energy connect, the drain beginning.
The Blade Master simply grunted, a low, guttural sound of annoyance. He shook his head once, as if shaking off a fly. The Wyrm King's power, the essence of a primordial predator, coursed through him. It did not wither. It consumed. The decay magic sputtered and died against the sheer, violent vitality of a higher frequency.
The momentary lapse in Roric's assault was all the opening the master swordsman needed.
He closed the ten-foot gap in the blink of an eye. Roric, eyes wide with shock, managed to raise a wall of hardened earth. The Blade Master's lead blade, the Sunder-Claw, didn't slice it; it punched through it. The compacted stone exploded inward, and the follow-through, a backhanded slash from the second blade, opened a deep gash across Roric's chest.
Roric stumbled back, gasping. He was a Tuner of Life; he could feel his body trying to knit the wound, but the damage was infused with a predatory energy that fought the healing. He was losing. He could feel it in the sluggish response of the earth, in the fear finally piercing his vengeful heart.
With a final, desperate gambit, he focused not on attack, but on binding. He poured every ounce of his remaining power into the floor. "I don't need to beat you... I just need to hold you! ANCHOR ROOT!"
A single, colossal root, as thick as a man's torso and darker than midnight, burst from the ground. It didn't lash or whip; it enveloped. It wrapped around the Blade Master's legs and torso in a crushing, living vise, pinning his arms to his sides. It began to constrict, the sound of creaking leather and straining muscle echoing in the hall. For the first time, the Blade Master was held fast.
Roric grinned, a bloody, triumphant smile. "See? You're not—"
He never finished.
The Blade Master didn't struggle. He took a deep, centering breath. Then, he flexed.
It wasn't just a physical motion. It was a release of power. The air around him warped, shimmering with heat haze. The scales on his wrists and the back of his neck, previously subtle, became more pronounced, glinting like polished steel. With a sound like a cannon shot, the colossal root shattered. It didn't just break; it vaporized into a cloud of splinters and damp mulch.
The concussive force of the release threw Roric off his feet. He crashed into the far wall with a sickening crunch of breaking ribs, slumping to the floor, his connection to the earth utterly severed.
The Blade Master stood over him. He raised a blade. No words, no hesitation. A single, precise thrust through the heart. A final jolt, and it was over. He yanked the blade free and turned, his masked gaze searching for his charge
The sound of the fight—was a distant echo to Princess Seraphina, still frozen on her balcony. But the sudden, comparative silence that followed was somehow louder, pulling her from her horrified trance.
That silence was a lie in the hallway.
Amir was holding, but barely. The corridor was a charnel house of his own making. Bodies lay where his hand cannon had spoken. He was down to his last few rounds, his mind aching from sustaining illusions.
Kael was the last one standing. The traitor guard used a dead mercenary's body as a shield, advancing with cold, professional hatred.
"Your tricks are spent, boy," Kael snarled. "That big gun is almost empty. I can see it in your eyes."
Amir fired his last shot. BOOM. The round tore through the corpse, but Kael was already moving, lunging inside the weapon's range. Amir tried a feint, but his focus was gone. Kael saw through it, swatting the phantom aside.
The pommel of Kael's sword smashed into Amir's jaw. Stars exploded. He stumbled back, dropping The Iron Argument. A swift kick caught him in the ribs. He heard a crack, and white-hot pain lanced through him. He fell to one knee, gasping.
"You've got spirit," Kael admitted, raising his sword for the kill. "But spirit doesn't beat steel."
Amir looked up, vision swimming. This was it.
Swish—
The sound was softer than a sigh.
Kael froze, sword poised. A look of confusion. Then, a thin red line appeared across his throat. It widened. His head tilted, slid, and hit the floor with a dull thud. His headless body stood for a moment before collapsing.
Standing behind him, the Blade Master lowered his obsidian blade, its edge clean. He looked down at the kneeling Amir.
"Your footwork is a disgrace," the Blade Master rasped. "But you held the line."
He reached down, not to help Amir up, but to pick up the fallen Iron Argument. He tossed it into Amir's lap. "But you held the line. Now, reload. Kid
Amir fumbled with the heavy weapon, his ribs screaming in protest. He was dizzy, his jaw throbbed, and each breath was a hot knife in his side — but he was alive. They both turned toward the ornate door to the princess's chambers. As amir somehow stood up in his feet.
The Blade Master takes a step forward, one obsidian blade raised to either break the lock or slice the door itself to ribbons.
SHHHKK—
Before he can make contact, the door flies inward.
Not a gentle open. A frantic, desperate yank.
And standing there, silhouetted against the soft lamplight of her opulent prison, is Princess Seraphina. Her face is pale, streaked with tears, her eyes wide with a feral, terrified panic. And in her hands, raised over her head like a club, is a large, ornate, and undoubtedly expensive porcelain vase.
She doesn't see the legendary warrior. She doesn't process the scene of carnage. Her tear-blurred vision locks onto the first figure in the doorway—the one crouched on the ground, covered in blood and grime, fumbling with a massive gun.
An Intruder
With a wordless, strangled cry of pure survival instinct, she brings the vase down with all her might.
CRACK-CH-THUNK.
It doesn't shatter prettily. It explodes against the side of Amir's head in a shower of ceramic shards and expensive dirt from a long-dead flower. The impact is solid, blunt, and utterly humiliating.
Amir's world, which had already been tilting, does a full, nauseating spin. He doesn't even have time to grunt. He just slumps over sideways, his head ringing like a cathedral bell, his last conscious thought a bewildered: ...a vase? Seriously?
He lands face-first in the plush carpet, out cold.
The Blade Master stands frozen for a full second, his blades still held in a combat stance. He looks from the unconscious form of his rookie
Meanwhile
Seraphina who is now standing there, panting her chest heaving.
A beat of profound, awkward silence hangs in the air, thick with the smell of blood, smoke, and shattered porcelain. The Blade Master slowly, deliberately, lowers his swords. The mask tilts slightly.
Relax….…We are form THE HARMONIC INQUISITION We are trying to save you.
Seraphina's breath hitched. Her wide, terrified eyes darted from the terrifying masked man to the man she had just brained with her home decor. The words registered slowly, cutting through the adrenaline-fueled panic. Inquisition? Save me? Her gaze fell upon the grimy, unconscious young man. He didn't look like a royal guardsman. He didn't look like a soldier at all. He looked... ordinary. And she had smashed a vase over his head.
The reality of her action crashed down upon her. "I... I didn't..." she stammered, her voice a fragile whisper. The feral panic in her eyes was now replaced by a dawning, horrified guilt. "Is he...?"
He'll live….I think so but not sure the Blade Master stated flatly, his tone was offering no comfort, only fact. He took a single, smooth step into the chamber, his boots silent on the carpet. His masked head swiveled, taking in the room—the opulent isolation, the single, large stained-glass window. "The castle is compromised. The King and Queen are in imminent danger. We need to move."
His words were a bucket of ice water. The King. Her father. The image of the flames seared back into her mind, overriding her personal shock.
My parents I mean The king and queen she breathed, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. Where are they?
Unknown. Our primary objective was you." The Blade Master gestured with a blade toward the unconscious Amir. "He nearly died holding that door for you.
The guilt twisted deeper in Seraphina's gut. She looked at the young man, really looked at him. The dust and blood caking his clothes, the painful angle of his jaw, the fresh, blooming bruise on his temple where her vase had connected. He had been fighting for his life for her, and her first act was to knock him out cold.
A new resolve, sharp and cold, began to crystallize within her. The crying princess was gone, shattered along with the porcelain. The reality of the coup demanded something else.
"Then we must find them," she said, her voice steadier than she expected. Then she looked back at amir who was laying cold on floor she looked at blade master and said what should we do now ? he is unconscious
The Blade Master let out a short, grunt-like sound that might have been the ghost of a laugh. You two stay here its quite safer then entire castle I will look for king and queen myself. Do me a favor and look after him. He tossed a small, hard leather pouch onto the floor near Amir. It landed with a distinct rattle of glass. "Smelling salts. Use them. It will wake him up in 5 minute and don't try to follow me. When he wakes up get out of the castle quick as possible
Seraphina tried to insist but she knew that she was vulnerable and she cant fight…before she could say anything Blade master was already gone
Silence descended, broken only by the frantic beat of her own heart.
Seraphina was alone with the man she'd concussed. She knelt, her fine silk dress soaking up the grime and ceramic dust from the floor. Her hands trembled as she picked up the pouch, fumbling with the drawstring. She had never tended to a wounded person before. She had never needed to
Pulling out a small vial of sharp-smelling crystals, she uncorked it, her heart pounding with a bizarre mix of urgency, fear, and apology. She leaned over Amir's still form, the absurdity of the situation not lost on her She brought the vial under his nose.
"Forgive me," she whispered, to both him and the gears of fate.