He spoke confidently, arrogantly even, as if assured of his own superiority. When confronted with pride such as his, Claudia could not help but want to break it. A sadistic instinct stirred in her chest. You are not as strong as you believe, it whispered. Allow me to show you.
“I am Claudia van Lebering, queen of the Kingdom of Lebering.”
Come, then. Come and feed the frost. She plastered on a smile so her true feelings would not show. It was gentle and pure, devoid of hostility, but it did not reach her eyes.
“The woman who will cut you to ribbons.”
The smile turned lascivious as she expelled a rapturous breath.
＊＊＊＊＊
A scarlet flower burst into bloom as Lævateinn traced a spiral across the field. Blasts of heat swept the monsters’ lines, swallowing them whole like some fiery serpent. It was winter, but the battlefield was as hot as summer. The combatants sweat as they fought.
Meteia glanced back, and shock ran through her. Imperial heavy infantry were engaging the enemy almost by her side.
“They’re keeping pace...” she murmured. “Without so much as a Noble Blade between them. And at such speed too...”
The sight itself was not a surprise. Such scenes were commonplace in war. But anybody who had watched this battle from the beginning would have been just as astonished. Liz had led the cavalry of the first cohort in a thunderous charge at the heart of the monster horde, and even now, they were bearing down on their target with fearsome speed. But the second and third cohorts following them were composed of light and heavy infantry. Meteia had assumed that most would fall behind the riders, but no—they were keeping up, leaping valiantly into the fray as if their energy was limitless.
A shiver ran up her spine. What was inspiring them so? Why were they pushing themselves to such lengths? She looked around, and then she found the answer: Not far away, a lily flew high and proud on a crimson field. The standard-bearers were so grievously wounded they could barely stand. Their breastplates were dented, and blood dripped from the joints of their armor. Even so, they gritted their teeth and kept the banner aloft, standing firm as if their feet were rooted to the earth. There could only be one reason they were fighting so fiercely—they were so loyal to the Crimson Princess that they would defend her sigil with their lives.
Meteia considered ordering them to fall back, but denying them this moment would break their spirits forever. They had steeled themselves for this. It had taken true courage to choose their duty in the face of fear. Yet while that would have been commendable in a training exercise, this was war, where the weakest fell first. Even now, monsters closed in on them, sensing easy prey.
With a scowl, Meteia dropped the reins and spread her arms wide. They were foolish, but they were brave, and they needed her help. Yet she never had a chance to intervene. A tongue of fire snaked out in front of them, snatching an oncoming monster in its jaws, and plunged into a knot of foes, exploding into a pillar of flame.
Sparks swirled. Charred flesh rained down from the sky. Meteia spun around in surprise. There was the figure of her mistress, silhouetted against the fray. Liz did not look back, but the set of her shoulders spoke eloquently enough: I will leave none of my soldiers behind.
In Meteia’s mind, the past overlaid with the present. “Lady Rey...” she breathed. “Truly, you live on in her.”
Rey had fought in much the same way, refusing to let her allies come to harm. If Liz had declared that no one would be left behind, it was only right for Meteia to show the same resolve—to lighten the weight on her mistress’s shoulders so that she could face her final battle at the peak of her strength.
“Stand back,” she growled. “I’m in a fighting mood today!”
With a feral grin, she surged after Liz, slicing apart the monsters around her with invisible threads. She had failed to protect her mistress in a past life. She would not fail again.
“We’re almost there, my lady!” she cried. “Save your strength for your own battle. I’ll take care of the rabble!”
Liz lifted a fist in reply. At that moment, a hooded figure appeared in her path. His red blade looked a little like Lævateinn from a distance. Rather than searing crimson, however, it was a sinister, gory scarlet.
Meteia sensed what he was at once. “A primozlosta!” she hissed. She saw Liz ready to pull on her reins. “Ride on, my lady! This one is mine!”
She lifted her arm, and Fragarach appeared in her hand. She grasped the hilt tightly and leaped from the saddle, surging past Liz in an astonishing burst of speed.
“Your battle is with me!”
With all her momentum behind her, she unleashed a ferocious overhead slash. A metallic clang split the air, and the ground buckled beneath the primozlosta’s feet. A dust cloud flew skyward as the earth split apart.
“I know you,” the primozlosta said. “But it cannot be... Meteia?”
His surprise was clear in his voice. With their eyes plucked out by Mars long ago, the primozlosta had to rely on senses other than sight, and as far as he and the rest of the world knew, Meteia had died a thousand years ago. No one could blame him for doubting his senses. Nonetheless, his momentary confusion gave Liz the chance to slip past.
“Well guessed,” Meteia said. “Maybe I’d even congratulate you if I could tell who you were under that hood.”
“So it is you,” the figure said. “I am Ceryneia, once one of the primozlosta.”
The name plucked at Meteia’s memories, which flooded back easily once she pulled on the thread. Ceryneia had left a distinct impression on her.
“I remember you,” she said. “And how Hiro and His Majesty left you slinking away with your tail between your legs.”
Around the time Artheus had begun to expand his influence, the towns and villages near his base of operations had come under persistent attack from bandits. Recognizing the threat they posed, Artheus had assembled a task force and ridden to the settlements’ aid, only to find it was a trap laid by Ceryneia to lure them into a zlosta ambush. Hiro’s quick thinking and Artheus’s strength had turned the battle around, dealing the primozlosta a stinging defeat. Given how fiercely he was biting his lip beneath his hood, the shame was evidently still raw.
“I thought you fell by Hydra’s hand,” he spat. “Through what cowardly means did you escape?”
He lashed out with the scarlet sword, but Meteia swung Fragarach up, knocking it aside. Sparks sprayed. A charred stench seared her nostrils.
“A dishonorable attack,” Meteia said. “But that always was your specialty, wasn’t it?”
Ceryneia bridled. “I will cut off your insolent head.”
Meteia snorted. “Not if I cut off yours first, you miserable lapdog.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the two clashed. Ceryneia’s face twisted in rage. Fuelled by shame, his anger burned bright.
“I have learned much since that day!”
Spurred by his resentment, his scarlet sword swept toward Meteia. She ducked and thrust out with Fragarach, but he sprang back, just barely escaping harm. He grinned as he saw her blade fall short.
“My Lord has gifted me Ipetam! So long as I carry it, I will not fail!”
Meteia narrowed her eyes coldly. “Is my name all you remember about me?”
Fragarach’s segments detached with a metallic clatter. The blade extended, impaling Ceryneia through the chest and emerging from his back. The force lifted him off the ground, leaving him looking down at Meteia with his legs dangling in midair.
“Agh... Ghk...”
Blood spewed from his mouth as he clutched at the blade. He tried to pull it free, but his efforts were in vain. Fragarach’s arrowhead-shaped segments grew disjointed when the blade extended, and the barbs made them next to impossible to pull out.