Through all the chaos, the Queen remained solemn, regal and terrifyingly noble. She did not gloat. She did not roar. She simply continued, her body unfolding with slow, terrifying grace. Wrath had no need for words when pain was the language she sang.
By the time the battlefield had fallen still again, nearly two dozen knights lay broken across the soil. A few were still alive, but none would rise soon. The healers behind them cowered behind the broken fragments of their wards, clutching relics that no longer responded to their touch.
At the rear of the battlefield, the Cardinal stood unmoved, for now. His gloved hands tightened slowly around his reliquary staff, the leather groaning as his grip shifted. His face, flushed with exertion and mounting fury, held not fear, but contempt. Jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, he took one sharp breath and let it out like a man preparing to speak above a storm.
"This…" he said, voice low, "is unacceptable."
