Elysia had seen war before on the fringes of her father’s kingdom, in the shadowed decisions of treaties and broken alliances.
She had seen its aftermath in villages burned to ash, in the hollow eyes of survivors. But this...this was different.
This was war in its rawest, most brutal form.
The mont they stepped into the corridor leading toward the throne room, the palace no longer felt like ho or sanctuary it felt like a battlefield carved from nightmares.
The walls trembled from distant detonations, and sowhere above them, stone crumbled like brittle parchnt.
Blood pooled along the cracks in the floor, slick and gleaming under the guttering light of enchanted torches. The scent was overwhelming smoke, sweat, tal, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of fresh death.
It coated the back of Elysia’s throat, thick as ash, and her stomach churned violently with each breath she took. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to gag.
Malvoria noticed. Of course she did.
"Breathe through your nose," she said, voice tight with control as they moved down the corridor. Her blade was slick with blood, and her eyes burned like molten steel. "Focus forward."
"I’m fine," Elysia managed, though she was definitely not. Every inch of her wanted to stop, to bend over and empty her stomach on the floor. But there wasn’t ti.
They passed the body of a demon guard, his horn split, his face frozen in surprise. Elysia recognized him. He had brought her fresh berries one morning when she couldn’t sleep.
She didn’t have ti to mourn him.
Another explosion rocked the corridor. The ceiling groaned, stones cascading like hail. Malvoria threw up a ward with a flick of her wrist, flas curling into a molten shield that vaporized the debris before it could hit them.
"Where are the others?" Elysia asked, breathless as they ducked into another hall—this one filled with shattered glass and smoldering wall hangings. "Your generals—your mother—?"
Malvoria paused only long enough to summon another sword from the air. The fla hissed and curled into shape in her hand like a beast eager to obey.
"I can feel Veylira," she said. "She’s fighting. Far wing, east tower."
"You can feel her?"
"She’s not exactly subtle."
Elysia might’ve laughed if her heart weren’t beating like a war drum. But she nodded, clinging to that information. At least Veylira was alive.
The deeper they moved into the heart of the palace, the more bodies they passed both demons and humans, so too burned or broken to identify.
So of them still clutched weapons in rigor mortis, eyes wide, frozen in their final mont.
And then, more rebels.
They poured in from a side hall eight of them, maybe nine. Their faces were painted in streaks of soot and crimson. One shouted, "There! It’s her—kill the queen! Take the human alive!"
Elysia’s blood ran cold.
Malvoria didn’t hesitate.
The flas around her flared as she raised both hands, the air warping with heat and fury.
Blades of fire materialized again ten, twelve, then twenty whirling around her in a glowing inferno.
The rebels charged, but Malvoria stepped forward like a goddess of vengeance, her swords launching from the air in sharp, perfect arcs.
One rebel’s chest exploded in fla. Another scread as a sword impaled his thigh, dropping him before a second blade drove through his heart.
They tried to scatter, but the corridor was too narrow and Malvoria too fast.
The swords obeyed her thoughts. They danced, burned, shredded.
Elysia pressed herself against the wall, shielding her face from the sheer heat. Her skin prickled, sweat dripping down her back, but she couldn’t look away.
Malvoria moved like the eye of a storm calm at the center of chaos. She carved through the rebels with ruthless grace, her own sword flashing between summoned ones.
One enemy tried to flank her; she caught his wrist mid-strike and crushed it with a flick of her fingers, then stabbed him through the throat before throwing him aside like a rag doll.
The last two rebels turned to run.
Malvoria raised her hand, fingers splayed.
Two swords answered.
They shot forward, silent as ghosts, and the rebels collapsed in unison, their bodies convulsing as fire consud them from the inside out.
The air reeked of scorched flesh.
Elysia stood frozen, the afterimages of the carnage burned into her eyes.
"Are you hurt?" Malvoria asked, stepping over the remains.
"No," Elysia whispered. "Just... overwheld."
Malvoria’s expression softened—but only for a second. Then it hardened again, the edge returning. "Stay close. We’re almost there."
They took the last hallway toward the throne room at a sprint. Malvoria led, cutting down two more rebels who hadn’t expected her to co through this way. Their blood painted the wall in wild arcs.
Elysia’s feet slipped more than once on the gore-slick marble. Her legs trembled, but she forced herself to keep going. Behind them, the sounds of battle grew more distant—muffled by the thick walls of the inner sanctum.
The throne room’s doors ca into view—twice her height, forged from dark ironwood and reinforced with runes. Normally guarded by six elite soldiers.
They were open.
Unnervingly so.
And the guards?
Gone.
Elysia stopped short, her hand shooting out to grab Malvoria’s arm.
Malvoria said nothing. Her jaw tightened, and she stepped forward slowly, blade raised.
Together, they entered.
The room was nearly silent, the hum of magic still resonating through the throne’s enchantnts. Torches burned low. The firelight danced across the obsidian floor, the polished stone now marred by ash and cracks.
And there, sitting atop Malvoria’s throne as if she owned it, was Zera.
She lounged with one leg crossed over the other, dressed in a sleek, black uniform that bore no insignia, her long brown hair pulled back tightly. She looked calm. Too calm.
Her blue eyes t Malvoria’s and then drifted to Elysia.
She smiled.
"Finally," she said, resting her chin on one gloved hand.
"You arrived."
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