"Vionette!" Roswell shouted, his hand flying to his hilt as he drew his own sword in a desperate reflex. "What do you think you're doi—"
He stopped mid-sentence. He looked down at his hand, and his heart seemed to stop. His sword, the one he had just drawn to protect his wife, had been sliced cleanly through the middle. The top portion of the blade fell into the red mud with a dull thud. Noa stood next to him, his hand already back at his side, his movement having been so fast it was invisible to the naked eye.
"Don't misunderstand, Livora Eryndor." Vionette spoke as she looked at his broken sword, her crimson eyes intensifying until they seemed to glow. "We won this war on our own to secure that territory. We stood in the mud while you watched. What made you think we'll give you a part of what we bled for?"
The Royal Knights rushed forward, but they instantly fell to their knees. Elina had released a wave of draconic pressure so dense it felt like a physical weight, putting them to sleep before they could even draw their weapons. Lina stood behind her, her own little sword drawn, her expression fierce and loyal.
Noticing the absolute futility of their position, Roswell forced himself to breathe. He lowered the broken hilt of his sword.
"Then, we won't oppose. Please, put your sword down."
"Y-yes. You can have it," Livora stammered, sweat beading on her forehead as she felt the sharp tip of Vionette's blade hovering over her life.
"No. I was just correcting your greed," Vionette said, her sword not moving an inch. "What you actually misunderstood was the idea that you were free. Aurelyth is no more; there is only Crimvane where it once stood. You are caught between our borders now, Roswell. Now, choose." She pressed the blade slightly closer. "Go to the underground with the ruins of Aurelyth, or rule beneath me as a part of a unified Kingdom."
Roswell stared at her in confusion. He had seen her protect her people; he had thought there was a bond between them.
"Why? We were allies. Why do this now?"
As he spoke, Vionette turned her head toward him. Her crimson eyes weren't dancing with the flames of amusement as they usually did; they were filled with a deep-seated anger.
"Don't you dare think I would forget," she hissed, her voice like the cracking of a glacier. "Don't think I forgot how your kingdom broke the treaty the moment our walls began to crumble in the past. How you abandoned us to the dark to save your own skin. I am letting Eryndor live only because I have a fondness for Nymira's shop and your kingdom's technology. Do not mistake my utility for forgiveness."
Roswell stared at Vionette, the realization sinking in like lead. To him, his past actions were a matter of survival—a calculated move to preserve his people when her kingdom became a sinking ship. Staying wouldn't have stopped the collapse; he had simply cut the ties to avoid the abyss.
But logic was useless here. Vionette wasn't being a diplomat; she was being dangerously unreasonable. To her and Noa, there was no "strategic" betrayal. There was only loyalty or treason. In their eyes, Roswell hadn't made a political choice—he had proven he was a crack in the foundation.
Beneath the cold steel and terrifying power lay a jagged truth: they weren't just monsters claiming a throne, but two teenagers who had been hurt in the past. Every demand was a frantic, desperate attempt to build a fortress where they could never be hurt again. They were so terrified of doubt that they chose to extinguish it entirely.
This was why they had accepted the [A Match Made in Hell] pact without resistance. They didn't need to negotiate; they had seen the same shattered reflection in each other. Their trust wasn't built on noble ideals, but on the mutual desperation to never be broken again.
"…I understand," Roswell finally spoke, the weight of his kingdom's future settling on his chest. "We will serve under the banner of Crimvane."
Without another option, he chose the only path that didn't lead to a graveyard, his voice cracking slightly under the sheer finality of his surrender. The air seemed to thin, the heavy weight of Vionette's killing intent retreating only slightly as she processed his words.
"Good choice." Vionette smiled in satisfaction and drew her sword back in a single, fluid motion that hissed against the scabbard. "I didn't expect you to agree so fast."
Livora, the victim of the scenario, exhaled a jagged breath after the sword's tip finally lifted from its place against her throat. Her skin was pale, marked only by the faint red indent where the steel had bitten in. She didn't even try to fight back against Roswell's decision; she had watched the slaughter on the plains. They had both seen what the duo could do, and to resist was not courage—it was a suicide pact.
What other option did we have? To kill ourselves? Roswell wanted to shout, the words burning in his throat like acid, but he held them inside.
He looked at his broken sword, the symbol of his shattered sovereignty, and felt a hollow ache in his chest.
"Are we really going to go down like that?" Livora whispered to Roswell, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of fear and a deep, maternal care for the people they were now handing over to a "Monster".
Roswell didn't answer immediately. He turned his gaze toward Noa, who stood like an unmoving shadow in the twilight.
"Even if we somehow gather up all of our knights," he said, his voice dropping to a low, defeated murmur, "do you think we can win against that dragon and that man?"
Livora looked at Noa, then at Elina, whose draconic pupils were still glowing with a predatory heat.
"…I don't think so." She bowed her head, giving up her last hope of continuing as a Queen who held the reins of her own destiny.
"And…" Roswell's gaze shifted from Noa to Vionette.
He watched her for a long moment, seeing the way she carried the weight of her entire army on her shoulders. He saw the "Zero Casualties" report still lingering in the eyes of the Crimvane soldiers.
"Maybe this will be better than we think." He curved his lips upward slightly, a bitter but hopeful smile.
After seeing how they cared for their people, how they had turned a supposed impossible win into a reality—and even winning it with no casualties for their own side—Roswell found a strange, paradoxical faith. He realized that if he did not harm their people but joined them, if he became a part of their "unreasonable" sanctuary, only salvation would be served.
"Hey big sis," Lina walked towards Vionette and grabbed the hem of her dress, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Is that also part of the strategy?" She was eager to learn about Vionette's 'tactics'.
Vionette, after sheathing her sword with a definitive clack, looked down at the shorter girl. The cold, lethal mask she had worn for Roswell vanished instantly, replaced by a soft, almost maternal warmth. She placed her hand firmly on Lina's head, rubbing her hair slowly as if trying to smooth out the chaos of the day.
"It's a different kind of one." Vionette smiled, a expression that was both beautiful and terrifying in its implications.
"Oooohhhh…" Lina widened her mouth into a perfect "O" shape, nodding as if she had just been handed the secret to the universe.
Unlike Elina, whose mind was often as vast and empty as the sky, Lina understood the things Vionette thought with an alarming ease. She could read people deeply—it was the same perception that had allowed her to notice Noa's loneliness four years ago. She was a child who could watch Noa's sword training and learn the rhythm of death at a pace that made even veterans uncomfortable.
Under the cute, round face of the little girl, a combination of a mastermind and a monster was slowly being forged.
Every second that continued in the land of Mythara, a new story was being created, ready to overrun the old world like a rising tide.
"…" From the side, Elina watched the interaction in silence, her mind a complete blank.
She blinked slowly, her draconic instincts satisfied by the victory but her human intellect struggling to keep up with the political gymnastics. She just wanted to know when the food would arrive.
He was already calculating the gold he could make from the merchant stalls and the chance to finally see his girlfriend back in Blackmoor.
***
In the capital city of Aurelyth, the atmosphere was a suffocating mix of anticipation and joy. Civilians gathered in the central plazas, their voices a low hum like a hive of bees. They expected to see the heralds of their King, Kahen, returning with the head of the Crimvane upstart. There was no world in their minds where the armed, glorious Aurelyth could lose to the smaller Crimvane forces.
Then, a voice shattered the peace.
"EVERYONE GATHER UP!"
The shout roared through the city streets, echoing off the stone walls of the villas. The civilians turned, their faces expectant, but as they looked at the messenger standing atop the herald's platform, their expressions curdled into confusion. The knight wasn't wearing the sigil of gold and white. Instead, his chest plate bore a sigil that looked like a drop of blood carved into the shape of a flower—a crimson rose.
"That insignia is… Crimvane?"
"Why is a Crimvane knight here? Where are our men?"
At first, they denied the reality before them. They assumed it was a trick, or perhaps a lone scout captured and forced to speak. They walked closer, guarding their hearts with gossip and nervous laughter, their eyes searching the horizon for the Aurelyth banners that surely must be following.
The knight waited until the crowd was thick and silent, her eyes cold beneath her visor. She opened her mouth, and her voice carried the weight of a falling mountain.
"Citizens of Aurelyth, I stand before you as a messenger direct from the crown of Crimvane."
The people began to whisper, a frantic, rising tide of questions. How could a royal knight from the enemy kingdom stand in their capital, unharmed and bold? The only possibility was a nightmare they weren't prepared to dream.
"Aurelyth has lost the war. Kahen is dead, and your armies are purged. This land is now under the absolute control of Crimvane."
"!!?"
Eyes widened until they looked like they might burst. The rejection they had held onto was crushed under the simple, brutal truth of the messenger's presence. The kingdom they thought was eternal had vanished in a single afternoon.
"Aurelyth… lost?"
"…How? We had the numbers… we had Caldris…"
Fear, cold and sharp, began to spread. In a lost war, the historical precedent was grim. They expected the smoke of burning homes, the chains of slavery, and the edge of a sword. They began to back away, looking at the "Crimson Rose" knights, fearing she will harm them.
"So from now on," the knight continued, her voice devoid of pity, "Aurelyth, now defeated, and Eryndor, having agreed to serve, will unite with Crimvane. From this day forward, all three shall exist as one kingdom, known by the name Crimvane."
The words hit like wildfire, burning through their joy. But the heaviest anchor, the one that truly broke their spirits, was the mention of Crimvane's ally.
"Eryndor surrendered?"
"Why? Didn't they work together to take us down?"
"How did Eryndor fall too?"
The conclusion was terrifyingly simple: Crimvane had not just won a battle; they had devoured two kingdoms at once. The messenger from Crimvane wasn't just a herald of defeat; she was the herald of a new world order.
The knight stepped back, and another took her place, his voice carrying a strange, unexpected lilt.
"People of the united kingdom! Hear this clearly! Princess Vionette invites you to a festival in celebration of the newly united realm. This gathering is to welcome all citizens into one fold and to honor the bravery of all who stood on the field. Attend in peace—for the Princess has decreed that none who come shall be harmed."
With the message delivered, the knights turned in unison, leaving the stunned crowd behind. Their boots rang out with metallic finality as they marched toward Aurelyth's castle, intending to scrub away the lingering shadows of the old King. Every hall was being cleared and every banner replaced, making the fortress "ready" for the moment their rulers finally arrived to claim what was theirs.