Astarte stood a few steps away from Arthur and the World Tree, her silhouette framed by moonlight, which highlighted her beautiful figure, as if she were not a Demon King but a goddess herself.
The gentle night breeze stirred her long, beautiful hair, while the pale silver glow of the moon painted soft highlights across her elegant features. Even the undead lurking in the distance remained unnaturally still, as though unwilling to disturb the solemn moment.
She spoke without looking at him at first, her eyes fixed on the distant sky.
"Around a few years ago," Astarte said slowly, "the one who sent those holy knights and I clashed."
Her voice carried a faint weight.
"It was a grueling, difficult battle," Astarte continued. "Even for someone like me. But I didn't lose to that man... even as he used absurd powers one after another."
She remembered it.
Days of combat.
Spells, authority, divine light against death.
