[Malachi Novastia.]
I stood before an army.
A sea of black cloaks stretched across the horizon, each bearing that same accursed sigil, a mark they wore as if it were divine.
They clung to it with the fervor of worshippers, as though it carried meaning and worth. As though it were a crown of honor. But I knew the truth.
That sigil did not carry glory. It carried death.
It carried the weight of pitiful convictions destined for collapse. It was nothing more than the seal of their own inevitable failure.
That is why I raised my sword. That is why I took a step toward them. Not with anger. Not with hate.
Not with envy or fear. Not even with sadness. I moved for one reason alone, to prove them wrong.
The vow Nicholas had once carried, the vow to see justice brought to those who had taken everything, now rested in my hands.
His vengeance had become mine, his resolve a flame I refused to let die.
And so I marched forward with the quiet certainty that every strike I dealt would be for him as much as for myself.
The Golden Authority had brought this war to our gates.
Their hands had scarred every kingdom. Their greed had left cities in ruin and fields barren.
Trade routes choked under their control. Families were torn apart by taxation and conscription.
The air itself seemed heavier under their reign. Now they had marched on my land, my domain, bearing torches, blades, and blind devotion to a false idol.
And so I bore my own torch. Mine was the sword.
The first of them screamed curses, calling out to their deity as if its name alone could shield them.
Others followed, their battle cries rising together until zealotry itself became a tide crashing forward. I took one breath.
One step. The weight of the moment hung still in the air, the space between us tightening until there was no more distance left to close.
Then my blade moved, only once. A single swing, a movement so fluid it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.
Yet when the wind settled and the echo of steel faded, the army that had been sent by the Golden Authority was no more.
They had been unmade in an instant, their charge reduced to silence.
And in that silence, I stood alone. I exhaled, letting the weight of the slaughter fade into stillness.
To tear down those before me with such power, there was only one thing worth saying.
Did they really need to send three?
Far beyond the bodies, movement stirred. Shapes emerged from the veil of dust and heat rising from the earth.
They did not rush. They did not shout. They walked with the confidence of executioners certain of their verdict.
Three of them. The Saints. Each step they took pressed the air flat, their presence folding the world like a curtain.
Vernidict led, a long golden cape flowing behind him, his slim black armor polished to a mirror sheen.
A spear gleamed in his hand, reflecting light in a shade of black that should not have been possible.
His dark hair framed a face of knife edges and pale skin. Silver eyes measured me with the clinical chill of a judge.
He moved like a man who believed consequence and law were the same thing.
To his left, Freah walked with the easy arrogance of someone who had never been denied anything.
Her long blonde hair swayed with each deliberate step. Her green eyes glittered with mockery.
She wore no armor, only bold clothing and a golden silk wrap that admitted she cared little for protection.
She did not carry a weapon because she did not need one. She carried cruelty like a second skin.
Violence for her was performance, a private amusement played out in public.
Behind them, Stiffer came. He was the shadow between their lights.
Short silver hair curled at the ends, but his dull red eyes were the thing that settled in my chest like a stone. He moved like a thing that had learned the silence of killers.
A heavy cloak hid most of his frame, though a long thin golden blade blinked beneath the fabric. His presence felt like fate given a body.
They stopped a short distance away and the world seemed to hold its breath. Vernidict broke the silence, his voice calm and cutting.
Malachi Novastia, do you know how long we waited until she had left?
I laughed under my breath. What has it been, six months since she left my side? Taking Rosen was cruel of you.
Vernidict smiled, the sort of small thing that showed pleasure at a well-folded plan.
Maybe, he said. But that was Griffin's doing. Do not blame me. He simply cannot tolerate you.
I raised my sword. He wishes not to face me alone?
Vernidict scoffed and the moment of words was torn away by action. A fist slammed into my face and the world spun.
I tasted copper and dust. When I steadied myself, Freah stood there, smiling. No, little mutt, she said playfully. He just finds you amusing.
There is malice behind playfulness with some people. It is a cruelty that tells you you are permitted to suffer so long as their entertainment continues.
I wiped blood from my lips and felt my jaw harden. Then I moved.
Freah lunged, light and fast. I ducked low and felt her knuckles skim past my ear.
A spear whistled in from the side. I caught its shaft mid-flight, feeling the momentum and the thought behind it.
Using Vernidict's momentum, I swung him off balance and hurled him at Freah.
My sword was in motion, blackness crawling up the blade like a living thing. I leapt back and let the power coil around me before I released it in a brutal wave.
The surge roared forward and Freah met it with her bare hands. Her palms parted the darkness as if it were only silk. Her smirk widened. Pathetic.
Cold metal kissed my throat as Vernidict's spear tip pressed against my skin. I shifted space, tearing myself into the air above them.
I had to be emptier than the wind to move like that. Before I could collect myself, the heavens split.
A searing beam of light crashed down, slamming me from the sky and driving me earthward.
I twisted in the fall, catching myself just in time for Freah's fists to meet me.
Blow after blow cracked against my chest until my armor shattered under the relentless assault. Fragments rained into the dirt.
Her final kick drove breath from my lungs and blood from my mouth. A spear came again.
I ducked, swept Freah's legs from under her, and caught Vernidict as he lunged. With a pull I slammed him into the ground and the earth beneath him trembled.
I rose and the battlefield sprawled below like a map of my failures and my resolve.
This whole time I had been trying to call my Regalia, to answer its call and bind it to me, but it refused.
Whether it was their sheer raw power, some foreign strength I could not name, or a calculated suppression, my Regalia did not choose me.
It left me without the one anchor I had expected.
The refusal felt like betrayal. My sword hung heavy in my hand and the hunger to strike was a thing I had to temper.
If I faltered for even a heartbeat, if I let anger rule and not purpose, my body would never touch the ground alive again.