Heath met Xierra's stare without blinking.
"You may have a boy wielding anti-magic," he said calmly, ice gathering thick around his hands, "a dragon at your side, or some peculiar spell craft—but it will not be enough." His lips curled faintly. "The blades will continue. You will have to endure longer if you wish them to live."
The air screamed again as more shards took form.
Asta surged forward, sword a blur. Inari followed, frost evaporating beneath his heated breath. Shard after shard fell, yet the pressure never eased.
"Damn you!" Magna roared, hurling explosions into the encroaching mist.
Behind him, Rhein laughed—a sharp, breathless sound. Heat rippled along his arms, pain flaring as his own magic burned him from the inside out. He glanced down briefly, noting blistered skin and reddened knuckles, then forced his attention forward again.
"What a great first mission," he muttered, sarcasm stretched thin over grit.
Magna barked a laugh, though sweat slid cold down his spine. He leapt again, detonations cracking through the air. "This is bad news," he called out, "but real men don't turn tail and run!"
Rhein raised his hands, teeth clenched as agony lanced through his arms. "Flame Magic: Kýmata Fotiás!"
Fire surged outward in a rolling wave, devouring mist and ice alike. Visibility returned in fragments—broken rooftops, trembling villagers, comrades still standing. The shards dissolved under the blaze, hissing into nothing.
Rhein exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging for just a moment before he straightened again. "And here I thought patrol duty was supposed to be relaxing."
Above it all, Xierra remained poised—eyes sharp, mind racing—already calculating their next move, refusing to let this end in blood alone.
It was going to take everything they had to keep the villagers alive.
Magna knew it the moment another surge of frost screamed through the street, and he answered it with fire drawn from fumes and stubborn will. His arms ached, mana scraping dangerously close to empty, each spell pulled from a well that refused to refill. The explosions he sent forward were rougher now, less precise—but they still held.
Barely.
From the corner of his vision, he caught flashes of the battlefield unraveling. Inari had already retreated into his fox form, smaller but no less vicious, claws tearing through ice with feral determination. Xierra stood a few paces ahead of Asta, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths, her grip on her weapon trembling despite her refusal to loosen it. Asta himself looked one misstep away from collapse, jaw clenched, arms screaming as he continued to swing.
And Rhein—
Magna's mouth twisted into something almost like a grin as he glanced at him. The royal-born Magic Knight's arms were a mess of contradictions: blistered red where fire had kissed too close, pale and numbing where frost had bitten deep. Anyone else would have been screaming. Rhein just gritted his teeth and kept moving.
It must have taken her an absurd amount of mana to keep this up, Magna thought, eyes flicking briefly to Xierra. And that idiot royal... he's really holding it together.
But thoughts didn't stop the fear from creeping in.
They were outnumbered—six enemies who fought like Magic Knights, with a leader who hadn't even revealed his full hand yet. Xierra had taken down several already, sure, but that only made the silence afterward heavier.
Then—
"Hyaaahhhhh!!"
Asta's roar tore through the haze, raw and furious. He poured everything he had into a single swing, anti-magic screaming as it tore through shard after shard, the ice collapsing in a glittering cascade. For a fleeting moment, hope sparked.
Magna clenched his jaw.
Will this be enough? That bastard's still holding back. This turned into one hell of a mission—for four rookies, one of them a stubborn idiot with no magic.
Fire spiraled from Magna's palms again, colliding with frost and detonating into a chain of concussive bursts. He locked eyes with Heath across the wreckage, heat blazing in his stare as loudly as the flames around him.
"It just happens that I'm a lowly commoner myself!" Magna shouted, voice cracking with heat and conviction. "And I'll protect them!"
Rhein stepped in beside him without hesitation.
A crimson spear formed in his grip, unstable, its glow flickering as if it might collapse at any second. The spell drained what little mana he had left, a fresh page etching itself into his grimoire with quiet finality.
"I'm with you," Rhein said, breath tight but steady. "I may be royal-born, but I won't let you slaughter them for nothing. I wouldn't be able to face my brother if I stopped here."
One of the robed men lunged forward, desperation written into every frantic movement as he threw himself between them and Heath.
The spear pierced straight through him.
Scarlet bloomed across cloth and flesh, fire devouring what ice had spared. The body fell, smoking, the silence afterward sharp and awful.
"That's... brutal," Xierra murmured nearby.
She nudged Rhein lightly at the side, then frowned as her gaze dropped to his hands. The skin was raw, blistered, and trembling despite his attempt to hide it.
"You're really not supposed to be pushing yourself like this," she reminded, feet slightly limping as she closed the gap to him.
Rhein huffed a laugh and lifted one ruined hand. "Nah. This is normal. Happens more than you'd think." His grin faltered when he noticed her wince as she stepped closer. "More importantly, are you all right? You keep worrying about everyone else, but you're barely—"
"Oh, please." She cut him off with a tired smile, gesturing pointedly at his hands. "Look at you. They look worse than I do. Probably feel worse, too."
They pulled back together, regrouping while Asta and Magna took the brunt of the next assault. Rhein stayed close behind her, watchful, noticing the uneven drag of her steps, the way her balance wavered when she thought no one was looking.
When she stumbled, he caught her by the shoulder.
"You should rest," he said quietly. "Your friend and his senior can handle things from here."
Xierra shook her head, brows knitting tight, defiance burning brighter than the silver glow still clinging faintly to her magic.
"No," she said. "I can't. I shouldn't." Her gaze drifted toward the villagers huddled behind them, trembling but alive. "Not when everyone here is risking their lives to protect them."
Rhein's frown came quietly, swallowed by the clamor of orders and the crackle of unstable mana in the air. No one noticed it—not the Magic Knights bracing themselves, not the villagers huddled together in terror. But it weighed heavily on his face all the same.
His chest throbbed, each pulse thrumming with a dull ache that had nothing to do with the burns crawling up his arms. Xierra stood ahead of him, posture unyielding, her silhouette sharp against the veiled landscape. She looked carved from resolve, as if exhaustion had learned to fear her rather than the other way around.
She was pushing herself again. Past the limits of reason. Past what any command or captain would ever ask of her.
And he was barely standing.
The sting of scorched skin flared every time he shifted his weight. Blisters had long since broken, leaving raw patches that screamed with every breath. His legs felt hollow, like they might buckle if he let himself think about it for too long. Faintness gnawed at the edges of his vision, but he forced himself to remain upright, stubborn pride locking his knees in place.
Still, his eyes kept drifting back to her.
Why was she like this?
How was she like this?
Rhein had never loved combat. Even now, with his magic vibrating weakly beneath his skin, he couldn't claim the same hunger for battle that so many Magic Knights carried like a second heart. He had been dragged into sparring sessions more times than he could count—Leopold's loud challenges, his brother's relentless insistence, the Vermillion name hanging over him like an unspoken expectation.
Somewhere along the way, he had learned to appreciate fighting. The discipline. The art of movement and restraint.
But passion? Obsession?
He didn't have that.
He wasn't the best at magic. He wasn't the best at fighting.
Half the time, he still wondered how he'd ended up wearing the Crimson Lion King's mantle at all.
Connections—that was the easiest answer. Fuegoleon's respect. Leopold's stubborn loyalty. A family name polished by generations of fire and a blue blood's authority. Maybe someone had spoken on his behalf. Maybe no one had bothered to say no.
Nepotism, wrapped neatly in crimson and gold.
His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides.
They refused to obey him now, stiff and swollen, pain radiating through every joint. When he tried to curl them into fists, they trembled violently, strength draining away like water through cracked stone. His nails scraped against damaged skin, breaking what little barrier remained.
Warm liquid slid free.
One drop fell.
Then another.
They struck the earth soundlessly, darkening the dust beneath his boots. He stared, distantly aware of the growing stain, of how easily his blood left him—as if his body had already decided this was where it ended.
His breath shuddered.
Something blurred his vision. He drew in air, deep and sharp, only to realize his breathing had been unsteady long before that moment. His heart pounded wildly, each beat erratic, refusing to settle no matter how much he willed it to calm down.
Fear settled into him like a living thing.
Not the fleeting nerves before a duel. Not the pressure of expectation.
This was different.
"What...?" The thought was cut short before it could fully form. What am I cowering away from?
His eyes widened, confusion twisting into something raw and unfamiliar. Rhein had never known this kind of fear—this hollow, paralyzing certainty that power alone wouldn't save him.
He had always been strong. At least, strong enough. Stronger than commoners. Stronger than most who didn't bear noble blood. That much had been drilled into him since childhood.
And yet—
For the first time, strength felt unbearably fragile.
Truly afraid.
His gaze drifted away from the battlefield and toward the villagers clustered behind them. The mist clung low to the ground, curling around their ankles like grasping fingers. Faces peeked through tattered cloaks and trembling hands—wide-eyed, pale, frozen in place.
They shook openly. No shields. No spells. Nothing but faith placed into strangers wearing cloaks and crests.
They were helpless.
The words were spat bitterly in his mind, dredged up from an earlier truth spoken without mercy. Heath hadn't been wrong. Compared to nobles and royals, these people had nothing. No training. No mana reserves worth mentioning. No safety net.
And yet—
Rhein's brow furrowed.
Something about that conclusion felt rotten. Incomplete. Like a lesson he had never been taught because no one thought it necessary.
The blood continued to drip from his palms, steady now, indifferent to his thoughts. He clenched his fists harder, teeth grinding as pain surged through him in sharp protest. Every instinct screamed for him to step back. To close his eyes. To let someone else take over.
But he didn't.
His gaze locked onto Xierra.
She was moving again, closing the distance toward Heath and his men, each step deliberate despite the exhaustion weighing her down. Her presence shifted the air around her—not loud, not boastful, but resolute in a way that demanded attention.
She wasn't running toward glory.
She was standing between danger and everyone else.
His voice broke when he finally spoke, the words slipping out more like a breath than a command.
"Why...?"
The mist swallowed the sound, but he kept going, eyes never leaving her form.
"Why are you pushing yourself this hard?"
His eyes followed the streak of crimson that was Xierra as she surged forward, vanishing into the blaze without hesitation. She ran headlong into chaos, sword raised, its light sharp and unwavering—too bright to belong to someone already bruised and bleeding. There was something almost hopeful about the way she moved, as if she believed, truly believed, that cutting through the ice would also carve a path forward for everyone behind her.
She looked fearless.
Valiant, even.
Rhein's breath caught as she struck.
The ice fractured beneath her blade, splitting apart with a shrill cry, shards scattering like broken glass caught in sunlight. The way she stood—feet planted, shoulders squared—wasn't reckless. It was practiced. Familiar. Every shift of her weight flowed seamlessly into the next, her grip neither rigid nor loose, as though the sword were an extension of her pulse rather than an object she held.
She moved like someone who had danced with death before.
Even as fatigue tugged at her limbs and scratches marred her skin, even as her crimson robe hung in tatters from countless near-misses, her form never wavered. She cut through the battlefield with an elegance that bordered on reverence, blade gliding through the air as if inviting fate itself to step closer.
From behind Magna's roaring detonations and the hail of ice that Asta shattered apart with brute force, Xierra slipped between chaos and silence. She brought her sword down again—
—and was stopped.
A wall of ice surged upward, thick and unforgiving, sealing her away from the enemy line. Frost hissed as it settled, a cold barrier dividing breath from breath.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Xierra exhaled through clenched teeth.
Then, slowly—almost fondly—the corners of her lips curved upward.
The sensation flooding her veins was unmistakable.
Familiar.
Exhilarating.
Her body screamed in protest, heat blooming beneath her skin where exhaustion and mana collided. Every muscle burned, every breath scraped against her ribs, and yet excitement thrummed through her like a second heartbeat. This was the edge she had learned to balance on—the space between control and collapse.
Her grimoire fluttered open beside her, pages turning with purpose rather than urgency.
"Astral Magic," she murmured, voice steady despite the storm around her. "Moon Wax Ritual."
She drove her sword down.
The blade—shaped from the fused remnants of binary stars, tempered and refined by Inari's flames—split the ice wall cleanly in two. Its tip buried itself deep into the earth, and the ground answered with a sharp, echoing crack that raced forward, carving a line between her and the robed men beyond.
The sword began to glow.
Not all at once—slowly, deliberately. Light pulsed from beneath the soil, as though something luminous had been waiting below the surface to awaken. One by one, radiant strands seeped upward through the dirt in the ground, spilling outward in soft, blinding rays.
They reached the enemies' feet.
Heat bloomed across the fractured earth, waxy matter surfacing and spreading like liquid moonlight. It clung to boots and robes, melting under the warmth of their bodies, sluggish and heavy—before the shifting winds swept through the battlefield.
The substance hardened.
Movement faltered.
Flames followed the light, erupting along the line she had drawn, racing toward the men in a brilliant surge. Xierra didn't wait to admire the result. She laughed under her breath, already turning on her heel, sprinting away from the crack as the explosions swelled behind her.
She snapped her grimoire shut mid-run and reached out, fingers catching the backs of Magna's and Asta's robes. She yanked them backward just as the blast expanded, heat roaring past where they'd stood moments before. Crimson sparks rained down around them, some biting into fabric, others disintegrating into ash before they could do any real damage.
Asta reacted instantly, batting stray embers away with sharp, practiced movements, positioning himself between the spell's aftermath and the villagers without a second thought.
Magna stared over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Did you—" he lowered his voice, hitched and lumped, glancing toward the trembling crowd, "did you know that was gonna happen?"
Xierra slowed, then stopped. She released their robes and turned back toward him, the fierce grin on her face softening just a fraction. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the battlefield, calculating, thoughtful.
"Well," she said after a moment, tone light but honest, "yes. To some extent."
She tilted her head, considering the scorched line carved into the ground, the immobilized enemies struggling against hardened wax. "Not all of the outcomes matched what I expected. It's not a perfect plan."
Then she smiled again—gentler this time, but no less certain.
"But it's something to work with."
Her posture never slackened, shoulders squared and weight balanced, yet the gentleness in her voice dragged on long after her words ended. It brushed against their thoughts like a quiet benediction—tender, grounding, almost achingly familiar. It was the kind of reassurance that settled into the chest, easing an old, unspoken grief they hadn't realized they were still carrying after losing someone they could no longer protect.
Magna found himself staring.
His mouth opened, then closed again. Whatever response he'd been grasping for slipped cleanly through his fingers. Part of him balked at the reality standing right in front of him—that someone younger than he was had orchestrated this entire exchange of chaos and timing. The plan itself had been reckless, bordering on insane, yet the execution had been frighteningly precise.
Too precise. Too convincing. It was too planned out.
They weren't ideal pieces. They were exhausted, battered, and pushed past what should have been their limits—and she had used them anyway.
No. Not used.
Trusted.
She had moved them like chess pieces on a checkered board, never once pausing to explain, never issuing direct commands. And yet, when the moment came, each of them had been exactly where they needed to be. Attacks overlapped instead of clashing. Openings appeared when they were needed most. Every strike fit into the next as if they had rehearsed this a hundred times before.
It's all connected. Strategized and planned to the utmost of her ability.
The realization made something in Magna's chest tighten. Xierra was young—far younger than any Magic Knight who should've carried that kind of responsibility—but her eyes never wavered when faced with impossible choices. Kill. Protect. Retreat.
She had chosen two.
And left the third behind without regret.
Heath, meanwhile, remained unchanged. His expression was carved from indifference, eyes dull and unmoved as though the unfolding battle were nothing more than a passing inconvenience. He lowered his gaze to the watch at his wrist, lips curling faintly.
"I wonder how long you'll last at this rate," he said, voice cool and almost bored.
The answer came swiftly.
A massive sphere of water tore through the air toward Heath and his remaining men, its surface rippling with unstable mana. It surged forward at alarming speed—only to veer sharply to the side at the last second. The spell collapsed in on itself, crashing harmlessly into the ground and soaking the scorched earth instead.
Uncontrolled.
Xierra's attention shifted immediately.
Her eyes found Noelle across the field, standing rigid, shoulders tense. Concern flickered through Xierra's expression, brief but unmistakable. Yet before she could move, Noelle clicked her tongue sharply and turned away, her soles grinding against stone as she stalked off in frustration.
From the corner of Xierra's vision, she caught the faint flush rising along Noelle's cheeks.
That made her pause.
Her brows knit together as she exhaled, weighing her options in silence. Whatever storm churned within the young Silva, it wasn't something Xierra could cut through with magic alone.
A low presence pressed against her side.
Inari had returned, padding through the wreckage until he stood beside her once more. His fur was singed in places, embers still clinging faintly to his form, yet his gaze was sharp as ever when he looked up at her.
"Should I assist her in this battle, Master?" he asked, voice low and respectful.
Xierra followed his line of sight to Noelle again. The frustration in the girl's stance was unmistakable—tight fists, rigid spine, a pride bruised but not broken. Xierra's eyes narrowed as she turned back to the fox.
"You knew about this," she said quietly. "Didn't you?"
Inari did not answer at first. His gaze drifted back toward Heath and his men, unreadable. "You never asked."
Her jaw tightened. "You kept dodging my questions."
A pause.
"Did I?"
"You did."
A soft hum escaped him. "Mm. I didn't realize, Master."
Xierra looked away, fingers curling briefly at her side. There were moments—too many of them—when she couldn't tell what thoughts guided Inari's actions. She could read tension in shoulders, fear in breath, resolve in a single glance.
But him?
Unreadable, she decided again.
Inari laughed, light and unburdened, as though their earlier exchange had never placed tension into the air. The sound rippled through the mist like a bell, bright and fleeting. He cast her a sidelong glance, amber eyes gleaming, patiently waiting for her answer to the question he had asked before she could lose herself in thought again.
He had sworn loyalty to her—declared it without hesitation, without conditions. He called her Master with respect that bordered on devotion. And yet, there were moments like this when he felt impossibly distant, even as he stood at her side. It unsettled her in a way she couldn't name.
Xierra didn't like it.
But she didn't ask.
She wanted to. The questions pressed against her tongue, sharp and restless, but courage failed her when it mattered most. Whatever Inari carried within him—whatever truths he kept folded away—he guarded them carefully. And that silence crept into the back of her mind, burrowing deep, feeding her hesitation.
There were things he hid.
Things he chose not to share.
She swallowed the uncertainty and forced it down, steadying herself. With a quiet shake of her head, she answered, "No. There's no need."
Her tone softened as she considered his earlier offer, searching for the right command—something befitting a master, something he would respect. "It's better this way. Noelle needs to find her footing on her own. Your help would ease things for her, yes... but learning without it will make her stronger. She won't grow otherwise."
Inari's tail flicked, and he let out a pleased croon. "A fine judgment, Master."
The affirmation warmed her more than she expected. Xierra nodded, accepting it, even as the weight of their bond settled anew on her shoulders. Inari was bound to her—by magic, by oath. He followed her orders without fail, yet he never withheld his opinions. It was a balance they were still learning to maintain.
Since joining the Magic Knights, they had clashed more often than she cared to admit. Arguments flared, cooled, then flared again. But each time, they found their way back to understanding. Slowly. Imperfectly. Still, it was progress.
"...You've grown a lot, Master."
Xierra glanced back at him while deflecting another volley of icicles, her movements fluid despite the exhaustion pulling at her limbs. "Have I?" she replied, breath uneven. "It feels like I'm barely moving forward."
"No," Inari said firmly as he paced alongside her, lending his presence to bolster the fragile line they held. "You learn quickly. Faster than you realize." His voice softened. "You're stepping beyond the shell you once hid in. A broader horizon has opened before you—new paths, new trials, new experiences waiting to be claimed."
She forced back the last of the assault and sagged slightly, lungs burning as she drew in a heavy breath. His words lingered, stirring something restless within her. Xierra turned to him, searching his expression for clarity, for answers he hadn't yet given.
But Inari only laughed, low and knowing.
As if sensing the questions she couldn't voice, his gaze gentled. The warmth in his golden eyes glowed with a familiarity that tugged at old memories—of quieter days, of promises unspoken but felt all the same.
"...I will tell you everything," he said at last, voice steady and sincere, "when the time is right, Master."
Xierra held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.
She didn't know when that time would come.
But for now, she trusted him.
.
.
.
Everything pieced into motion—too fast, too loud, too cruel to grasp all at once.
Noelle barely had time to draw breath before another spell slipped through her fingers. A bead of sweat traced the curve of her cheek, catching the pallid glow of magic before falling away. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, lungs burning, head spinning. Each attempt drained more than mana; it chipped at something softer, more fragile. Hope, perhaps. Or pride.
Failure piled atop failure.
It was exhausting to feel everything except satisfaction. To pour herself into magic and receive nothing but rejection in return. The pressure tightened around her ribs until it felt difficult to stand upright, until the world itself seemed to recoil from her presence.
It felt personal.
As though the world despised her.
As though the universe had turned its back.
As though magic—mana itself—had decided she was unworthy.
Heath exhaled, slow and deliberate, his gaze settling on her like frost creeping over glass. "To think," he drawled, voice devoid of warmth, "that one of you can't even control her own magic."
A smile tugged at his lips, thin and merciless. "The Black Bulls must be truly desperate for members."
Noelle flinched.
The sound was subtle—the sharp intake of breath, the minute stiffening of her shoulders—but it echoed louder than any explosion. Her fingers curled reflexively around her grimoire, knuckles whitening.
"Weak beasts who can't even protect themselves," Heath continued, his tone carrying easily through the chaos. "If you abandon them, you'll survive, Magic Knights."
The words struck like thrown knives.
Xierra clicked her tongue, unease rippling through her chest. The battlefield tilted, no longer just a clash of spells but a web of numbers, positioning, exhaustion—everything stacked against them.
How are we supposed to win?
The question pressed at her skull, relentless.
Abandoning the villagers wasn't an option.
Protecting them wasn't a choice—it was a duty, carved deep into her bones, embroidered to the crest on her robe, and by the crimson color of the banner she stood under.
But defeating their enemies required more than stubborn resolve.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Xierra's foot tapped against the stone without her realizing it. Her teeth caught her lower lip as her fingers scraped anxiously along her chin, searching for something—anything—she had missed. The answer hovered just out of reach, taunting.
Rhein noticed.
He had seen the habit before, fleeting moments during their mission—small tells she probably didn't realize she had. But this was different. There was a sharpness to her movements now, an edge that warned of recklessness born from desperation.
He understood it all too well.
Before she could step forward, he caught her arm and pulled her back, ignoring her startled gasp and the way pain flared through his own stiff, damaged hand.
"You've used too much mana today," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "I'm not letting you back in there."
Xierra groaned, frustration spilling out in a breath she couldn't swallow down. Rhein didn't release her.
"You know what happens when you act without thinking," he added quietly.
Ahead of them, Asta charged once more—pure will, no plan. The outcome was as disappointing as it was predictable.
Xierra turned her face away.
"...Right."
Rhein exhaled. He had a suspicion where she'd learned that recklessness from. Hers wasn't as explosive as Asta's, but it carried its own dangers—sharp, self-sacrificing, too willing to burn herself out for others.
Like a candle lit in place of a lantern, helping a home go through the darkness. It melted, melted, melted, until there was nothing left but a burnt wick and a pool of wax. And all that was left was thrown away, until a new candle was bought to replace it.
They fell back with Noelle and the villagers, forming a fragile barrier of bodies and resolve. From there, they watched the fight unfold. Magna, at least, had found a rhythm—holding back just enough, conserving strength. The battle stretched longer than any of them had expected.
Heath remained unmoved.
Not by Inari's presence.
Not by Asta's anti-magic.
Not by the Crimson Lion Kings.
And certainly not by the Black Bulls.
They were here for the magic stone—that much was clear now, reminded of Inari's earlier findings. The villagers were nothing more than collateral. An afterthought. Some bonus points for entertainment or just whim.
Xierra's jaw tightened.
She wouldn't allow that.
Living in the forsaken realm had taught her enough about cruelty, about being overlooked and discarded—but it would never convince her that innocent lives were expendable. Never enough to justify letting them wilt without resistance.
"'Petty everyday magic'?" Xierra scoffed suddenly.
The sound startled Rhein. It came from someone who looked delicate even now—dust-streaked, breathing hard, eyes bright with fire.
"What's wrong with that?" she continued, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. "Everyone has their own strengths. Even if they're not as good, not as strong, not as powerful, not as fast—they're still the same human beings."
Her gaze swept over the villagers, then back toward Heath.
"They still deserve to live."
Status meant nothing to her.
Just as it meant nothing to Asta. Nothing to Magna.
They were all human.
Xierra was burning. Not the sharp, fleeting heat of exertion or the familiar ache of mana depletion—but something deeper, uglier. A fury that clawed its way up her spine and settled behind her ribs, pulsing with every breath. For the first time in her life, she despised someone.
Teaching them a lesson wouldn't be enough.
Breaking their formations wouldn't be enough.
Driving them back wouldn't be enough.
She wanted them to remember.
"Inari," she called softly.
Her voice did not shake—but it was thin, pulled tight like a wire under strain.
The spirit padded toward her at once, his form weaving between the frightened children with practiced ease, his presence a quiet barrier against the chaos. He stopped at her side and inclined his head. "Yes, Master?"
Xierra swallowed.
Her gaze never left the battlefield—the frostbitten ground, the villagers huddled together, the men who treated lives like currency. When she spoke again, the words felt heavier than any spell she had ever cast.
"...Can I," she hesitated, breath catching, "grow stronger?"
Rhein froze.
His hand slipped from her arm and fell limply to his side, the movement sluggish from burns that still screamed beneath his skin. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in something rawer. Something closer to awe.
Inari's laughter rang out then, bright and utterly misplaced, spilling through the tension like sparks. "Of course, Master," he said, delighted. "No matter how strong or swift you become—no matter how clever, how wise, how powerful—you will always have room to grow."
His golden eyes gleamed. "The possibilities are endless."
Rhein let out a small, incredulous chuckle.
She was bruised. Bleeding. Running on fumes. And yet—this was what she reached for. Not retreat. Not rest. But growth. The hunger to become more than she was a moment ago.
She was ravenous for experience, for understanding. For knowledge far too extensive for a fifteen-year-old girl to be having. As though she wished to stretch herself until her roots cracked the earth and her branches brushed against truths no one had dared touch.
The sound of whistling ice tore through the moment.
Shards rained down without warning, sharp as guillotines, aimed not for a killing blow—but for crippling. Arms. Legs. Any part that would falter.
Xierra moved on instinct.
She twisted, blade flashing as it met frost with flame, shattering some, melting others midair. Rhein staggered beside her, teeth clenched as he forced his aching body to follow, heat flaring around his hands in uneven bursts.
They dodged.
They countered.
They protected.
But two people were not enough to shield an entire village.
A shard slipped past Xierra's guard.
Another struck Rhein's ankle.
"Urk—!!"
Blood darkened the snow beneath his feet, seeping quickly, greedily. Xierra spun at the sound, slashing the last of the falling ice before rushing to his side.
"Rhein!" she called, breath sharp.
More villagers cried out. Some had only shallow cuts, others clutched wounds that bled freely. Panic rippled through the crowd, fragile and contagious.
Xierra's chest tightened.
The strange exhilaration she had felt earlier—the thrill of movement, the dance of blade and spell—evaporated. This wasn't a battlefield anymore.
It was a shelter that was failing.
Her injuries faded into irrelevance the moment she saw someone else hurt. Her own pain shrank, trivial, unworthy of attention when others needed far more.
How selfish.
The thought slithered in uninvited, familiar and cold. The voice that didn't belong to her. The voice that existed only in the back of her mind. It was an ugly voice, she thought. Ugly thoughts and ugly opinions.
Humans truly never change.
Her jaw clenched.
"If only I had healing spells," Rhein said suddenly, voice light in a way that did not match the blood staining his boots. His smile was crooked—grim, but unmistakably warm. "Then none of this would've happened."
He glanced at her sideways. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
Xierra stilled.
The voice in her head—the one urging her toward bitterness, toward resentment—fell silent.
She looked at him.
At the way he stood despite the pain. At the way he smiled despite the fear he had admitted to himself earlier. At the way he chose to joke, not to diminish the gravity of the situation, but to keep her grounded.
What a contrast.
The storm clouds pressing against her thoughts thinned, just a little. Light slipped through the cracks.
"You're wrong," she said quietly.
Rhein blinked.
"I'm not thinking about what I lack," Xierra continued, eyes lifting toward the villagers, then back to the enemy beyond the mist. "I'm thinking about what I can still do."
Her grip tightened around her sword.
"And what I'll become," she added, softer—but no less resolute.
Smirking, Rhein reached out and ruffled her hair, fingers gentle despite the burns that mapped his hands. He followed it with a firm pat to his own chest—neither too heavy nor careless—like a promise saved in flesh. His grin flashed sharp canine teeth, feral and warm all at once. It reminded Xierra of Leopold's smile.
"Relax," he said, voice steady beneath the chaos. "You're not responsible for everything that happened today."
"...What are—"
"Our main targets," he cut in, pointing past the curtain of mist toward Heath and his men, "are those dipshits. Focus on beating them."
His gaze flicked briefly to the villagers—their torn clothes, burnt robes, trembling hands, the fear clinging to them like frost. Then back to her.
"And once this is over, we'll take care of the rest. All right?"
The bluntness of his words startled her.
Xierra blinked, following his line of sight. He hadn't softened his language, hadn't wrapped it in pretty words or sweet follow-ups—but his meaning rang clear. It wasn't dismissal. It was prioritization. Survival first. Guilt later—if it was allowed to exist at all.
She nodded slowly.
The comfort that settled in her chest surprised her. She had never taken Rhein for someone who knew how to soothe others. He teased too easily, provoked too often, and picked verbal fights with Noelle like it was a sport. She had assumed his sharp edges were all there was.
But he hadn't been joking.
Not even a little.
Every word he spoke carried weight, grounded and sincere. There was no false bravado hiding beneath it, no polished lie meant to placate her fears. His assurance felt solid—something she could lean against without it collapsing.
It was real.
The sky above them remained choked, gray clouds smothering what little blue had once peeked through. Frostbitten earth lay scarred and cracked, steam rising faintly where fire had kissed ice. Even so, Xierra felt something settle into place within her.
Even if everything else was stripped away—
Even if the world seemed intent on breaking—
Even one life mattered.
She would protect them.
A low hum escaped her lips as she took in the battlefield again. Exhaustion clung to everyone now, heavy and inescapable. The fight had long since earned its cruel reputation; it dragged on without mercy.
Shards continued to fall.
Asta met them head-on, cleaving through ice with relentless swings of his sword. Each impact sent fragments flying, glittering briefly before shattering against stone. When he drove the blade into the soil, the ground trembled beneath their feet.
"Like hell I'm gonna let you kill 'em all!!" he roared.
His voice cut through the haze—raw, furious, unyielding.
Rhein snickered despite himself, while Magna's grin stretched wide and wild. They surged forward together, flames intertwining and flaring brighter than before. Their magic burned past the limits they had sworn they wouldn't cross, bodies screaming in protest as willpower forced them onward.
"If my partner's this serious about protecting people," Rhein called out over the din, "there's no way I can just stand around anymore, right?"
Xierra froze.
She turned to him slowly, staring as though he had spoken something otherworldly. The words didn't fit the image she had built of him—not the sharp-tongued royal, not the reckless provocateur.
But maybe that image had been incomplete.
Rhein Vermillion—royal-born, Crimson Lion King—had accepted her without hesitation. He had fought beside her, trusted her judgment, and now stood bleeding and burning without once suggesting retreat.
Captain Fuegoleon. Leopold. The Magic Knights of the Crimson Lion King.
They were different.
And she was grateful—so deeply it ached.
Xierra drew in a steady breath and closed her eyes, letting the noise of battle blur into a distant roar. Her thoughts aligned, sharpened, and found their center.
When she opened them again, her blue gaze found Noelle.
The girl stood rigid, magic trembling at her fingertips, doubt etched into every line of her posture. Power waited within her—vast and restless—but fear kept it tangled, restrained by old wounds and harsher words.
Xierra watched her quietly.
"Now, then," she murmured, voice barely audible beneath the clash of magic and steel, "what are you going to do, Noelle?"
To Be Continued...