The moon was high over Berkimhum when Lara crashed into the throne hall.
She did not walk.
She did not slow.
She stord in, shattering the cracked doors with her shoulder, blood streaking her armor, her blade hot with mana and trembling rage.
And then—
She saw it.
The body.
Slumped sideways on the throne like a wilted statue. Robes soaked through. A jagged wound in his chest where blood had pooled like an ink stain across velvet.
"...No," Lara whispered.
Her blade lowered an inch.
The silence scread louder than any bell.
"...Father?"
She stepped forward, one slow bootfall at a ti.
No movent.
No breath.
No deception.
Her knees hit the stairs of the dais with a hollow thud as she reached the throne, trembling fingers reaching for his hand—the sa hand that had once taught her how to hold a sword. How to drink wine. How to lie to the nobles with a smile.
It was cold.
"...No," she said again, this ti breaking. "You were supposed to wait. I ...I hated you...I hated you but..."
Behind her, the broken windows wept in moonlight. Dust swirled. Magic still echoed.
She didn’t see the smirk that played on Irene’s face.
But she felt it.
The heat of presence.
The weight of arrogance.
The Pri stood at the center of the hall, her blade slick with old blood and her gaze hard as quartz.
"This was your price for peace," Irene said, tone flat. "He gave you war instead."
Lara stood.
Not with grace.
Not with discipline.
But with **fury.
Her sword hissed in her hand, blue-white energy spiraling along the edges like wildfire denied air.
"You—" her voice cracked. "—you ca into my ho. Killed my blood. And speak like it was a strategy?"
Irene’s posture didn’t change. Calm. Calculated.
"You’re a princess of a crumbling kingdom. I’m giving you a rcy your father never earned."
The blade in Lara’s hand trembled. Her breath shortened. Her eyes—glassy with tears, red with rage—locked onto the crest of the Empire burned into Irene’s armor.
"I don’t want rcy."
She lifted her sword.
"I want your FUCKING HEAD!!!"
The ground ’shattered’ beneath her as she launched forward.
Clang!
Their blades collided mid-air, power clashing with precision. Lara’s first strike cracked the floor under Irene’s boots. Sparks burst outward. The force of her rage t the elegance of a Pri’s training.
Lara twisted—struck low.
Irene parried, spun.
Lara followed—relentless.
Their swords scread against each other. Each swing was fast—too fast for untrained eyes. Blurs of steel, flashes of mana, the thunder of footwork across marble.
Irene ducked under a lateral strike—countered.
Her blade cut across Lara’s arm—clean and cruel.
Blood sprayed.
Lara staggered—but didn’t stop.
She growled—a sound primal and raw—and lunged again, her blade swinging in a wide arc that forced Irene back.
"You bleed," Irene said, not out of surprise—but calculation. Her eyes still aware of the mage.
"You’ll choke on it," Lara snarled.
They clashed again.
And again.
Each blow sounded like a mountain cracking.
Lara was strength. Speed. Hatred.
Irene was precision. Technique. Cold supremacy.
The Pri blinked behind Lara—struck from her flank.
Lara twisted—blocked.
Still too slow.
Slash.
A shallow wound across her ribs. Armor cracking.
Another blink.
Slash.
Her shoulder. Then her thigh.
She stumbled, and Irene raised her blade for a finishing blow—
Only to find her wrist caught.
Lara had taken the strike just to grab her.
And with a howl, she headbutted the Pri.
CRACK.
Bone t bone. Blood burst from both.
Irene reeled.
Lara tackled her into a broken column.
They crashed through it, stone erupting like an explosion, landing hard against the floor where Lara straddled her chest, blade raised high.
"THIS is for my kingdom!"
She brought the sword down—
Irene blinked away just in ti, the blade embedding itself into the marble floor, shattering it like glass.
You fight like a berserker," Irene said, voice sharp with disdain, blood trailing from her brow. "No control. Just emotion."
"Better than fighting without a soul," Lara snapped, lifting her blade again.
They circled one another, the light from the broken chandelier flickering over cracked marble, crushed thrones, and the blood of a king who may or may not be truly dead.
Lara’s breath ca in short bursts.
Her shoulder stung. Her ribs ached. A line of blood dripped down her thigh into her greaves. But she refused to falter.
Not while she stood.
Not while he was gone.
Not while this Pri bitch dared wear the blood of Berkimhum like a dal.
"Your stance is weakening," Irene noted, calmly adjusting her grip. "You’re bleeding faster than your pride can cover."
Lara grinned—wild, red-eyed.
"Then co see how I fall."
She charged again—faster than before.
Blade arcing like a cot streaking through the vault of heaven.
Clang!
Irene t the strike—but the blow pushed her back. Another followed. Then another. Lara was forcing her to move, every swing tid with a half-step, every angle erratic, unpredictable.
Irene blinked sideways—Lara anticipated.
The tip of her sword sliced Irene’s cheek.
A shallow wound, but the first blood Lara drew.
Irene’s expression cracked.
Not with pain.
With amusent.
"I see," she whispered. "You’re evolving."
She lunged.
Their swords t again—steel grinding against steel—until their hilts locked, both won pushing against the other, eyes inches apart, blades frozen midair.
"You’re not like the reports," Irene admitted.
"And you’re not like a Pri," Lara hissed.
Irene smiled. "Because I haven’t started."
Suddenly, she released the lock—not retreating, but dropping low.
Lara reacted half a second too late.
The flat of Irene’s blade smashed into her knee, sending her reeling sideways. The mont she stumbled, Irene followed up with a precise stab into her side—
Right through the weakened plate.
Lara gasped as the blade punched through flesh. She nearly dropped her sword. Her body buckled—
But then—
She roared.
Not from pain.
But from fury.
’Mana Strength.’
[Mana strength (A skill) Activated]
A surge of mana exploded outward from her, blasting Irene back in a concussive shockwave that shattered glass still clinging to the stained windows above. Lara ripped the blade from her side with her own hand and threw it toward the Pri.
Irene dodged it easily—but it wasn’t the sword that mattered.
It was the opening.
Lara hurled herself forward—limping, bleeding, seething—and tackled Irene to the ground.
They rolled.
Fists flew.
Elbows cracked ribs.
Knees slamd into joints.
They fought like soldiers no longer human—just pain and wrath and dying breath turned weapon.
Lara landed on top, blood staining half her face.
Her hands grabbed Irene’s wrists and slamd them down. Once. Twice. Again.
Then she raised a fist.
Irene blinked—and this ti, Lara followed.
Her punch hit air.
Her knee did not.
It caught Irene mid-teleport, smashing her back into the cracked floor.
Both won collapsed to opposite ends of the throne hall, heaving.
Exhausted. Bleeding. Alive.
Barely.
"Do you feel it yet?" Lara growled, forcing herself to stand.
"Feel what?" Irene rasped, wiping blood from her mouth.
"The rage of a kingdom." She pointed her blade forward. "The fury of a daughter."
Her voice dropped.
"The grief of a girl... who just lost her father."
The floor between them stead from residual mana. The stained glass was gone. Only moonlight and broken dreams bathed the throneroom.
Then—
A sound.
A sharp inhale from above.
Both turned.
Aurora stood on a shattered beam, her staff glowing once more.
Her gaze was focused not on them—but the throne.
The body.
Her voice ca soft.
"...You two might want to stop. Now."
Lara, panting, still poised for a final strike, blinked. "What are you talking about?"
Aurora smiled—tired, but sly.
"I think the king would like to speak now...."
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