{Nicole Anstalionah.}
With news of Malachi's defeat at Madikai's hands, morale did not shatter, but thinned beneath a quiet and persistent pressure.
Fear did not scream its presence. It stretched through the ranks instead, subtle and constant, until even breathing felt heavier than it should have.
Malachi lived, and that mattered, yet the damage lingered all the same.
He was not the strongest among us, but he was close enough that his fall unsettled every assumption we had leaned upon.
His loss was a reminder that power was conditional, and victory had never been promised.
Worse still was the nature of the enemy himself. Madikai entered war like a passing thought, unbound by cause or conclusion, appearing only to test and withdrawing once satisfied.
He left the battlefield much as Rosen once had, savoring conflict rather than resolving it.
The man before me was different.
He claimed no kingdom, swore to no banner, and answered only to conviction sharpened into law.
He walked battlefields freely, testing strength wherever it gathered, unmoved by consequence or allegiance.
His victories were inconsistent. His defeats were many. Yet one truth cut through all of it with cruel clarity.
Malachi had lost to him in a duel without magic.
And Malachi was a better swordsman than I was.
Oliver, Justiciar of the Silent Court, carried himself like a verdict already passed.
Straight blonde hair framed sharp green eyes that measured rather than threatened, assessing without malice.
His olive skin showed no hesitation, his mouth set not in cruelty but in certainty.
The black and white military coat he wore was immaculate, severe, and unmistakably official. The sigil upon it belonged to no nation.
It belonged to authority itself.
When he drew his silver blade, long and narrow, its edge caught the light with unsettling clarity.
His posture remained relaxed, weight settled evenly, shoulders loose, each movement restrained and deliberate.
He would not let me pass.
Jennifer had already been given precise orders to hold the line and chart enemy routes. Her healing was too valuable to gamble here.
This confrontation was mine alone.
"Oliver," I said, steadying my breath as tension coiled through my chest. "Would you allow me to pass? I have a war to win."
He brushed his hair back and laughed softly, unbothered, as though doubt had never learned his name.
"Justice does not concern itself with your schedule," he replied. "I am doing Rosen a favor. The Silent Court stands with Uthopia and Fertical."
His gaze hardened. "You are an obstruction, Princess. Obstructions are corrected."
He moved without bloodlust, only conclusion. His blade slid forward in a perfect line, the thrust clean and exact.
I met it squarely. Steel rang as our weapons connected, the shock traveling clean through my arms.
He disengaged immediately, pivoting on his lead foot, turning the withdrawal into momentum.
The next exchange came without pause. Feints folded into thrusts, angles shifting with unnerving restraint.
Each strike was precise, economical, layered to overwhelm through perfection rather than force.
I grounded myself, lowering my stance, blade snapping back into guard after every clash. Each time I yielded ground by inches, never more, forcing his reach to extend.
When the pressure crested, I leapt back and curled my hand beneath me. Compressed wind detonated outward, stone shattering as dust screamed across the field.
Oliver slid back a single step.
He raised two fingers.
Lances of light tore forward.
I twisted between them as they bent in pursuit, light obeying thought with frightening ease. Light was among the hardest elements to command.
He wielded it like statute.
I exhaled sharply and gathered wind again, watching the angle of his shoulders, the rise of his blade, the rhythm of his breathing.
At the final instant, something shifted within me.
The spell changed.
Not in structure, not in form, but in intent.
The wind slipped forward altered, sharpened by something deeper, something colder.
It did not strike his defenses so much as pass around the idea of them, as though they had never been meant to apply.
Oliver stiffened, surprise flashing for the briefest moment as the force slipped through and cut cleanly.
The strain burned, but I did not falter. I had changed since Rosen. Potential meant nothing unless seized.
I would not lament. I was a princess. An heir of darkness. Light would be consumed.
"Wind Style Breaker."
Three massive arcs tore free from my blade, spiraling forward like collapsing crescents. The battlefield screamed as space itself warped beneath their passage.
For the first time, Oliver frowned.
He deflected the first arc with effort, the second scraping across his arm hard enough to crack light and draw blood.
The third struck full, driving him backward as his boots carved trenches into the earth.
I surged forward.
He caught my blade and stepped inside my reach, attempting to lock me in place. I pivoted, dropped my weight, and brought my blade down with everything I had.
He blocked. I drove my knee into his chest and twisted, kicking him aside as the bind broke.
He struck the ground hard.
I followed, blade sweeping down before snapping upward at the last instant. Steel grazed flesh, carving across his cheek and missing his eye by a breath.
He staggered back and wiped the blood away, studying me anew.
"You are more skilled than I thought."
I raised my blade. "I have obtained my redemption," I said evenly. "I must be greater than them all."
Something settled within him then, his expression smoothing into an eerie calm, as though a mechanism had completed its final turn.
"Such is the mark of justice."
The words carried finality, and fear struck me without warning.
My heart raced as my knees trembled. His blade warped, silver narrowing into radiant perfection as his armor sealed with light.
"Nicole," he said calmly. "Do not fear justice. Embrace it."
He vanished.
Pain exploded as his blade pierced my armor. I twisted just enough to live, but my chestplate shattered. The follow through drove the rapier into my left arm.
Agony tore through me. I tore free and swung upward without calling wind, relying on form alone as I staggered back.
Three vast birds of wind formed beside me, radiant and white, surging forward together.
His voice cut through reality itself. "That which is not sanctioned shall not reach me."
The birds collapsed mid flight, drilling into the earth like ash.
"My word is law. My word is truth. My word is reality."
Certainty crushed me. My legs failed and I fell to my knees, fingers digging into the dirt as my sword trembled.
He approached without haste. "It is not your fault. Few can stand against me."
I looked up, breath uneven. "You are right," I said quietly. "I am weaker. And I am jealous."
In that instant, clarity struck.
Not him. Not his law.
The imbalance.
Something coiled tight within me, sharp and exact. His certainty met its reflection and stalled.
Oliver froze.
His breath caught. His posture broke.
As I rose, he fell.
My blade caught the light like the sun itself.
"This is my redemption," I said softly. "Do you believe in resurrection?"
He laughed weakly, pride intact even as strength failed. "Arrogant," he murmured. "Impressive."
I brought my blade down.
Wind crossed space without crossing distance.
A single line of force passed through his chest, clean and final, as the world resumed its breath.