She braced her foot against the earth and bounded forward, closing the distance to the Five Lords in a blink. Surprise filled his face. The spinning shape of his own severed arm glimmered in his jet-black eyes. The limb regrew in a heartbeat, however, and he met her offensive with his own.
Their battle belonged to them alone. Their blades traced countless glowing trails through the air, and sparks showered where they intersected. Every clash produced a shuddering clang like an ear-piercing scream. The storm raged wilder, but neither combatant would yield an inch, and space itself tore as their power collided.
Liz danced with her blade in hand, elegant but fierce, wielding fire and stoking flame. By contrast, the Five Lords hardly moved, twisting on one leg and leaning back from a slash, then shifting forward and stepping through into a thrust. He deflected strikes from the most oblique blind spots as he brought his black blade down in a ferocious swing.
Their exchange was breathtaking. Fire and darkness devoured each other whole, only to be revived again with the next clash. Heat swelled, darkness cooled, stillness descended, and then the combatants’ own battle shattered the tranquility anew. Countless wounds opened up across their bodies, only to instantly heal again by the power of their Noble Blades. In a sense, it was a stalemate—neither Liz nor the Five Lords was able to strike a decisive blow—but neither dared slow their momentum. This was a contest of strength, not strategy. Both understood that if they paused to exploit some weakness, they would be overwhelmed.
In the end, Liz was the one to take the initiative. She swung down fiercely, a crude attack born of pure brute strength. The Five Lords caught the blow with ease, but she leaned in and sailed over his head. She landed behind him, slid her front foot forward, and stepped in, thrusting Lævateinn forward. Even then, the Five Lords remained untouchable. He spun his sword behind him, blocking her attack without so much as looking back. As if venting its fury at being denied blood, Lævateinn expelled a jet of flame, engulfing him in a swirling firestorm.
Liz did not wait for the flames to die down. It would take more than that to finish him off, she knew. She fixed her foremost leg, twisted her hips, and drove a fist into the heart of the blaze. There was an unpleasant crunch, like breaking bone, and the Five Lords flew clear from the flames. He landed hard on his back, moved for the first time by a will other than his own.
As he struggled to rise, a shadow blocked out the sun. The lion queen stood over him with fangs bared, valiant and mighty. He lifted his head just in time to see a kick come directly at him. He crossed his arms between his face and her boot, but the impact still launched him high with a sickening crunch.
“I’m not done!”
Liz struck the ground hard. Cracks radiated out from her fist and erupted with crimson flame, sending plumes of fire skyward with an explosive roar. Caught in midair, the Five Lords had no way to escape. The fire swallowed him whole.
Liz watched the sky blacken for a long moment. At last, she lowered her gaze. A puff of dust flew skyward a short distance away as something struck the ground. The Five Lords had fallen from the heavens.
She approached at a leisurely pace, crimson eyes gleaming like a lion about to finish off its prey. Halfway there, however, she stopped. The Five Lords had emerged from the smoke, covered in blood. He raised a hand. The air snapped, and lightning crackled about him. Liz brought Lævateinn to her chest and assumed a defensive stance, but the Thunder Sovereign’s fury never came.
“Hm?”
She sensed something above her and looked up. Mjölnir floated on high, wreathed in warding lightning. It slowly descended until it hung level with her head. The Five Lords watched impassively as she seized the handle.
“It seems Mjölnir likes me better than you.” Her lips curled into a smile. She had shown the Thunder Sovereign the strength it sought. “Now, how about this?!”
She thrust a hand toward the Five Lords, fingers spread, and unleashed Mjölnir’s fury. Raw lightning lanced unerringly toward him, tearing the air asunder as it came. Yet just before it struck true, it shattered upon a wall of ice. Gáe Bolg’s power protected the Five Lords from harm.
Liz took off at a sprint. “I’ll show you my conviction!”
At night in Aura’s room, Scáthach had taught her what each of the Spiritblades sought, what qualities she had to display to earn their allegiance. Lævateinn sought passion; Mjölnir, power; Gáe Bolg, conviction; Gandiva, strength of heart; and Excalibur, a vision for the future. And if that was so, the Five Lords was no longer worthy to wield them.
“Gáe Bolg belongs to Scáthach! And you’re going to give it back!”
As her foot crashed through the wall of ice, she grasped the Five Lords by the chest, pulled him close, and drove her fist into his face. The impact almost knocked him flying, but she pulled him back and hit him again, and again, and again. Finally, she slammed him to the ground.
“I’ll beat Hiro out of you if I have to!”
She would turn him back. She would restore him, no matter the cost. If it took years to find a way, so be it. She would rescue him from the depths of darkness and lift him back into the light.
“Clearly, I gave you too long a leash,” she said. “I won’t hold back anymore.”
“Terrifying indeed.” The Five Lords stood up, brushing the dirt from his black mantle. He smiled, suddenly more like Hiro than he had ever been. “Then neither will I.”
＊＊＊＊＊
Meteia watched in awe as her mistress overpowered the Five Lords. Liz had grown strong, she thought. Strong in both mind and body. It was hard to believe that young girl with tearstained cheeks had come so completely into her own.
Liz had never let herself cry in public, but her faithful white wolf had witnessed more than a few private moments of vulnerability. Losing her mother to the massacre at the inner palace had left her isolated at court, and though she had held her head high and tried to look to the future, many of the adults around her had resented her determination. The supposedly genteel nobility had preyed on her relentlessly, mocking and scorning her in an attempt to break her spirit. That had been a heavy burden for someone so young. She had never let them see her cry, but behind closed doors, she had not been so resilient. Many times, she had curled up in a corner of her room and wept into her knees, doing her best to stifle her sobs.
Meteia had been powerless to ease her suffering. Trapped in the body of a wolf, she was unable to console her, aid her, or even simply hold her. She could only watch as Liz struggled to find the strength to carry on. The sixth princess never let hatred twist her. She had grown to engage with others openly and amiably, holding no grudges against her tormentors. Yet Meteia had recognized that for what it was: a defense mechanism. Her smiles and good cheer had been all that kept her heart from falling apart.
“But meeting Hiro changed you.”
Mars might have been her inspiration, but it had been Hiro’s presence, Hiro’s guidance, that had truly stirred a change in her. He had been the first male figure in her life to speak to her as an equal, without ulterior motives, and the first to risk his life for her. It was no surprise he would find a place in her heart. After all the times he had come to her rescue, all the support he had given her, all the joys they had shared, how could she not have fallen in love?
“I’ll never forgive you for what you did.”
One day, without warning, he had vanished from her life. Without so much as a farewell, he had taken on a new identity and retreated to the shadows to spin his schemes. And once more, she had become that young girl crying in the corner of her room. She might have grown since those days, but the memories had never faded. If anything, the intervening years had only made the wound deeper when it came.
“I’ll never forgive you for making her cry.”
No sight was quite so sweet as the Five Lords sailing through the air. Let Liz hit him harder, Meteia thought. She had every right. Let him know just how cruelly he had hurt her, just how many tears she had shed over him. Hiro bore scars of his own, and he had closed his heart to kindness. No words would reach him. No plea would turn his head. So let her hit him harder—hard enough to make him taste the guilt of what he had done. Perhaps then he would understand. Waiting for him, trying to reason with him, was no use when his back was turned. If she wanted to get through to him, she had to grasp him by the shoulder and force him to look her in the eye.
“Show him no quarter, my lady,” Meteia whispered.
In the meantime, she would let nobody interfere. She set about cutting down all the monsters she could.
“Soldiers of the empire! Defend your Crimson Princess! Don’t let a single monster pass!”
The white wolf became a blur. She ran ever faster, cut ever keener, straining against her own limits as she bounded across the battlefield. A howl tore from her throat, a prayer that her mistress’s feelings would be answered.
＊＊＊＊＊
“You lack conviction.” The black-haired boy—Hiro Oguro, now—spoke coldly, his words a sharp-edged refutation. “You aren’t ready to cut me down.”
Liz flinched. Her face twisted bitterly. She had been caught dead to rights.
Her intentions had been so plain that even Hiro could see them. In a sense, he was grateful. It warmed his heart that she thought of him so dearly. Yet those feelings were futile, doomed never to be answered. After all, if he did not die, she would not survive.