Milly adjusted her stance, the heel of her boot grinding softly against the floor as if anchoring herself before an imminent storm. Her palms were slick with sweat against the hilt of her longsword, and her gaze narrowed on the woman perched above them like a judge awaiting the first swing of the gavel. The dark-clad figure raised her right hand high into the air, poised and steady, like a trumpet heralding judgment day. The tension in the room hung thick and palpable, heavy enough to choke on.
Milly's heart pounded within the confines of her suit, each beat echoing in her ears like distant war drums. She let out a dry, nervous chuckle, unable to resist the absurdity of her situation.
"This… This must be how Arthur felt when he faced her," she whispered, tightening her grip on the blade, the metal cold and reassuring against her palm.
