Snow hissed against skin, then flesh.
Asmodea danced across the frozen field, her petals unfolding behind her like blood-dyed banners. Every step left roses in her wake—sharp, curling, edged in crimson.
"Co now, pretty blade," she sang. "Are you going to make sweat, or just prance around looking fancy?"
Kaaz didn't reply. He moved.
A slash.
Then another.
His attacks playful, lacking killing intent. Not yet. They were asured—testing. His obsidian blade-arm flicked in chanical arcs, carving strands of wind off her dress without touching her skin.
"Tch." She narrowed her eyes. "Silent types are the worst. At least Gorrhan flirts when he tries to murder you."
Kaaz's blade snapped up fast.
She ducked, feeling it sing past her cheek. A strand of hair split in mid-air.
"Your steps are shallow," he said coldly."Your blood is loud."
"You don't deserve him."
She froze.
Just a breath—but that's all he needed. His blade ca again, this ti drawing blood across her upper arm. A thin line, no deeper than a kiss—but it blood wide.
Asmodea stumbled back, vines snapping from her heels in panic.
"You think your love ans anything?" Kaaz stepped forward, black eyes gleaming.
"You bathe in his blood like perfu."
"But you were only made to be touched. Not kept."
Her fangs clenched.
Blood pulsed under her skin.
"You… bastard."
Kaaz raised his arm.
"Fracture."
The rune on his chest lit up—a glowing "3"—and the air scread as his blade began to spiral.
"Blooming Razor."
The world twisted.
Not with wind. Not with light.
With blades.
Thousands—paper-thin crescent edges—blood around Kaaz, spinning in precise geotric patterns. They orbited his body in silence, like petals made of obsidian and storm.
Then they moved.
One flick of his blade-arm—and the razors flew.
Asmodea leapt backwards, her vines flaring up in spirals, creating a wall of thorned roots—but they shredded instantly. The razors passed through, slicing cleanly with no resistance, no pause.
One nicked her thigh.
Another, her cheek.
A third passed her side, leaving a deep red kiss across her ribs.
"Haaah…!" she staggered, blood trailing down her side, soaking the edge of her dress.
"Your magic is slow," Kaaz murmured, stepping forward. His movents were too quiet, too balanced.
"Like a flower arranging itself before it dies."
Asmodea hissed, blood splashing from her fingertips. She slamd both hands into the ice—a bloom erupted beneath his feet, thorns lashing up like pythons.
"Bleed for !"
Kaaz didn't dodge.
The thorns struck like a whip, each one biting deep into his leg, his side, his neck.
"Got you," she whispered, eyes wild.
But Kaaz smiled.
His obsidian skin rippled and hardened.
Her thorns crumbled into dust.
Kaaz rushed forward and slamd into her stomach using his shoulder. The imnse force lifted her off the ground and sent her crashing into a frozen ridge, and her body slid down the cold wall to her knees while she gasped for air.
"You fight with passion," he said, blade dragging through the frost.
"But it's unfocused. It's shallow."
"That's not true!"
"You use blood to look dangerous. But I don't see danger."
"I see decoration."
Her breath hitched.
Blood trailed down her lip now, warm and wet.
Her vines trembled—not with rage, but with sothing colder.
Fear.
Asmodea coughed blood.
It speckled the snow like poppy seeds, blooming red beneath her knees.
Kaaz walked toward her with the rhythm of a clock. Unhurried. Precise. One hand behind his back, the other dragging his sword-arm, carving an arc in the frost.
His razors floated around him like a crown. Not erratic. Disciplined. Cruel.
"Your blood magic is beautiful," he said. "But it isn't yours."
She looked up—eyes wide, lips trembling—but not broken. Not yet.
"You act like a weapon," Kaaz continued, circling her slowly, "but you were made to decorate his bed."
"Shut up," she hissed.
"You're not his equal. You're a favourite. That's all."
"I said shut up!"
Her hand slamd against her thigh—blood sprayed from the wound, coiling into a dozen sharpened ribbons. They launched forward with a high-pitched cry, slicing toward Kaaz from every angle.
Kaaz moved. Just once.
A spin.
His blade-arm rotated with him, the razors spinning out like a black cyclone.
The blood ribbons fell apart in mid-air.
"Still shallow," he said.
She launched vines, and he cut them.
She surged forward, dagger drawn—he ducked it, elbowed her gut, then sliced a line across her collarbone as she fell back.
"Still showy."
She bared her fangs. Her wings twitched—torn, dripping.
"I'm not… done…"
Her voice broke.
She stood. Shaking. Blood running down her side, leg, and arm.
Her dress was shredded.
Her vines were brittle.
But her eyes still burned with determination.
"You don't get to decide who I am…"
"You don't know what he sees…"
Kaaz paused.
He tilted his head.
"Then show ."
He raised his sword.
And the razors stread forward—
—
anwhile, on another battlefield...
Scael's heel scraped across the frozen earth—sleek, asured, almost like a bow.
He pivoted.
A blur of black-and-blue spun wide and curved back in.
Clang.
Levia's tower shield caught the strike—barely. The shock rang through her arm, rattling bone. She dug her boots in, horned brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a line.
"Tsk." Scael twirled out of range, talon-feet slicing twin arcs in the frost.
"No counter? No glare? No insult? You're no fun at all."
Levia stepped forward, dragging her shield with one arm, spear angled low behind it.
Scael watched her co.
"You're quite loyal, aren't you?"
"The obedient wife. The guard dog. The one who waits her turn while the others climb into his bed."
She didn't answer. Her grip tightened.
He sighed theatrically.
"Oh, don't pout. You have a role. It just isn't... satisfying."
Then he moved.
His stinger-tail whipped toward her head, fast, deceptive. She caught it with the shield's rim, angled off the strike—but he followed through, flipping over her and raking a frozen claw across her back.
Her armour cracked.
She pivoted to stab—he bent low, his pincer catching the shaft of her spear with a screeching clash.
The fight was clean.
Deadly.
But wrong.
Scael wasn't trying to kill her.
He was performing.
"Let's fix the lighting," he whispered.
His chest pulsed.
Frost flared beneath his exoskeleton.
"Fracture."
A number glowed across his chestplate—a bold, icy "2."
He spun—arms out, legs dancing.
"Icicle Waltz."
The terrain changed in a blink.
Pillars of ice rose from the ground in perfect spirals.
Crystal reflections warped the battlefield—hundreds of Levia's reflections surrounded her, all with different expressions.
So wept. So smiled. So knelt.
"Look at yourself," Scael whispered behind her."Let's see what kind of shield breaks first."
Levia lunged through the mirrored pillars, her spear jabbing forward with unerring precision—
—only to strike nothing.
The illusion of Scael laughed beside her, dancing through a wall of light. The real one had already slipped behind her, tail coiled, pincers open wide.
She spun, raising her shield—
Too late.
CRACK.
His tail slamd into the shield's centre and sent her flying. She hit a jagged ice bloom with a grunt, her back armour buckling, one horn cracking against a jutting shard.
She didn't cry out.
Didn't groan.
She stood.
Bled silently.
"Even now…" Scael purred, his voice echoing through every mirrored wall. "No anger? No pain? Does he like you that way?"
She stepped forward, breath fogging, lips bloodied.
"Or maybe you're just dull," he mused. "You serve. You bleed. You obey."
A dozen reflections showed her stagger—her face twisted in different ways.
"Do you know what he whispered last ti he touched one of them?"
Levia didn't answer.
She charged.
Her spear cut a clean path through a wall of ice—but struck herself in reflection, and for a half-second, she hesitated.
That second cost her.
Scael's foot struck her ribs, then a claw swept her spear aside.
She slamd against her own mirrored image.
And cracked.
The reflection shattered into a web of fractures—each line glowing.
"You don't hate ," Scael said softly, crouching on a pillar above her. "You hate that he hasn't called you bed in weeks."
Blood dripped down her chin.
Her knees pressed into snow and glass.
"Say it," he whispered. "Say it out loud. You want him to choose you."
Her hand trembled, gripping the spear tighter.
But she said nothing.
She never did.
—
While the two struggled, after the demon queen's teeth unleashed their powerful attacks, Vinea faced the mighty Gorrhan.
Her steel weapon against his stone armour.
Sparks. A perfect slash from hip to shoulder, fluid and deadly—a textbook killing stroke.
And it didn't leave a scratch.
Gorrhan didn't even flinch.
He blinked.
Then grinned.
"That tickled!"
Vinea slid backwards, boots carving twin trenches in the snow. Her sword lowered slightly—not from exhaustion, but calculation.
She didn't breathe heavy.
But her eyes—silver and gold—narrowed just slightly.
"You don't dodge," she said.
"Why would I?" Gorrhan rumbled. His arms were thicker than tree trunks, humming with stored force."You're not strong enough yet."
Another step forward—snow trembled.
She moved again.
Fast. Precise. Fluid.
Three strikes. Throat. Knee. Eye.
Each one hit.
None of them mattered.
He caught her blade mid-swing with his bare hand, the stone fingers cracking only slightly, then crushed the steel, snapping it like cheap glass.
Her blade recoiled, warped. Her stance held.
"You're good," Gorrhan said, almost childlike. "I like you. You don't cry like the others."
Vinea stepped back, calm still in her limbs.
But blood seeped from her shoulder, her ribs, her thigh.
He'd landed only two hits, but each had shattered bone through armour.
"Don't you want to win?" he asked.
She said nothing.
He tilted his head.
"You're not glowing like the others. You're not… blooming."
He leaned down, just enough to et her eyes.
"Maybe he doesn't need all of you after all."
Her grip tightened. Her tail curled behind her, spear-shaped and twitching.
Then he slamd his stone fists into the ground.
The ice cracked.
She fell.
Her back hit the cliff wall behind her. A sharp breath escaped. She didn't scream.
She didn't move.
—
Asmodea, bleeding into the snow.
Levia, curled beside a shattered mirror.
Vinea, beneath a fallen ridge, sword shattered beside her.
—
No sound.
No light.
No help.
And no one is left to save them.
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