Malvoria had always known rage.
She had grown up with it tucked between her ribs, sharpened into her bones. Rage was familiar. Useful. Predictable.
But what surged through her now was sothing else. Sothing colder than fury, hotter than hellfire. It had no na.
Because Elysia had been hurt.
She saw the blood first. The thin line staining her lover’s tunic, vivid against the dark fabric. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t fatal. But it should never have happened.
Zera stood ten paces away, red eyes glowing like cursed embers, ice magic coiling around her boots, the scent of winter thick in the corridor.
"Just shut up, Elysia. I do not care about you now. Just die already."
The words were a blade sharper than the one she wielded.
Malvoria stepped forward.
Elysia grabbed her wrist. "Wait—"
"No," Malvoria said, voice flat. "You’re injured."
"I can still fight—"
"I said no."
Elysia froze.
Because Malvoria wasn’t just angry.
She was cold. Controlled. Focused.
That was worse.
Malvoria unsheathed her blade slowly, the whisper of steel ringing like a death knell through the corridor.
Her eyes locked on Zera, and in that mont, there was no history. No confusion. No rcy.
Just target.
"Zera," she said quietly. "You’ll regret that."
Zera lifted her sword, unshaken. "I already regret not killing her first."
Malvoria’s lips curled.
Then she attacked.
No flourish. No warning.
Just violence.
She struck like a lightning bolt, her blade crashing against Zera’s with bone-jarring force. Sparks burst where steel t steel, echoing through the hall like war drums.
Zera staggered back but recovered fast—too fast.
She’d gotten stronger.
Malvoria didn’t care.
She pressed the attack, slashing high, then low, then spinning in a tight arc that nearly caught Zera across the ribs.
Zera ducked, rolled, summoned a wall of ice that cracked apart as Malvoria punched through it, bare-handed, runes glowing along her gauntlet.
Zera snarled. She twisted her fingers and sent a dozen jagged spears of ice flying.
Malvoria batted two aside, leapt over a third, took a shallow graze along her hip from the fourth—and kept going.
Her boot crashed into Zera’s chest with enough force to send the woman flying into a pillar.
The stone cracked.
Zera hit the ground hard, but she rolled up with a grin. Blood sared her lip.
"Finally," she said. "You’re taking this seriously."
Malvoria didn’t speak.
She lunged again.
Their swords collided again and again, fast and vicious, neither holding back. Malvoria’s strikes were brutal, ant to disarm or break bones.
Zera’s were colder—precise, surgical, laced with traps and feints and sudden bursts of frost that made the floor treacherous beneath them.
They fought through the corridor, past shattered vases, knocked-over statues, gouged stone walls.
Malvoria drove her knee into Zera’s ribs. Zera elbowed her in the jaw. Blood flew. Ice shattered. The temperature dropped as Zera unleashed another spell—a wave of biting cold that froze the air solid.
Malvoria responded by summoning her own magic.
Dark flas roared up from the cracks in the floor—crimson-black, hungry, elental. Zera scread as the heat clashed with her ice, steam bursting into the air like a storm.
Elysia shouted sothing behind them.
Neither woman listened.
This was a duel now. Not for love. Not for redemption.
But for vengeance.
Malvoria ducked under Zera’s next swing, grabbed her by the collar, and slamd her into the wall.
"Still feeling nothing?" she growled.
Zera choked, laughed. "More than you think."
She dropped her sword, fingers glowing blue, and blasted Malvoria point-blank with a cone of frost.
Malvoria went flying.
She hit the far wall hard enough to dent it—but she was already moving, flipping to her feet, charging again.
Zera raised a shield of ice. Malvoria smashed through it, sword first, eyes burning.
This ti, her blade found flesh.
A deep slash across Zera’s arm.
Zera hissed and stumbled back, but didn’t fall. She grabbed the cut, blood dripping between her fingers.
"You’re fast," she admitted.
"I’m furious." Malvoria threw her blade aside and surged forward with her fists.
Punch. Kick. Elbow. Headbutt.
Zera barely kept up.
Malvoria grabbed her wrist, twisted, and broke it with a sharp crack.
Zera scread and dropped to one knee.
And Malvoria drew back her fist to finish it—
Only for Zera to slam both palms into the floor and release a detonation of ice magic that hurled them both apart.
Malvoria skidded back, panting, blood trickling from her temple.
Zera stood slowly, wobbling.
Her broken wrist hung limp, but she summoned a new blade of ice in her other hand.
They stared at each other.
Chest heaving.
Blood on both sides.
Magic in the air.
"You’re good," Zera muttered.
"You’re done," Malvoria snapped.
She charged again.
Zera tried to block.
She was too slow.
Malvoria caught her by the throat mid-swing, lifted her off the ground, and slamd her into the floor so hard the tile cracked in a web beneath them.
Zera tried to cast—Malvoria drove her knee into her gut.
She went limp.
Malvoria drew her fist back again.
But Zera didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe right.
She was down.
Malvoria stayed there, straddling her, chest heaving, blood in her mouth and knuckles trembling. Her magic still swirled around her fists like fire and shadow, but she didn’t strike again.
Zera was unconscious.
Beaten.
And still beautiful in that ruinous, fallen way.
Malvoria looked down at her with pure fury—and sothing colder.
Pity.
But it didn’t last long.
Because she rembered the blood on Elysia’s tunic.
And the words.
"Just die already."
Malvoria stood.
"She’s done," she said, voice hoarse.
And behind her, Elysia was already moving forward—silent, watchful, the fire still flickering in her hands.
There was still a throne room ahead.
Elysia stepped beside Malvoria, gaze flicking from Zera’s unconscious form to the battered walls around them. Her hand brushed Malvoria’s arm—gentle, grounding.
"She’ll live," Elysia said softly.
"She better regret it," Malvoria growled, wiping blood from her mouth.
They didn’t speak further. The corridor ahead stretched silent and ominous, the throne room just beyond its gilded arch.
The air pulsed with Lucindra’s magic, heavy and coiling like smoke.
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