Elysia had seen Malvoria in battle before.
She'd seen her tear through rebel camps, walk through fire, stand unflinching before wyvern stampedes.
She had seen the Demon Queen wield her sword like an extension of her soul, elegant and deadly. But this was different.
This was precision.
Malvoria moved like an arrow released from divine tension. Her steps were silent, her blade barely singing through the air.
One by one, guards crumpled before her—not dead, but incapacitated, most with nothing more than a disarming blow to the temple or a paralytic nerve strike.
She wasn't killing them.
That alone told Elysia more than any whispered plan or spoken vow ever could.
Malvoria wasn't just fighting for her throne.
She was fighting for her soul.
Elysia moved in tandem beside her, cloak drawn tight, the red fire in her palms dimmed to embers for now.
