The great avenues of Myrhe tremble under the march of the legions. Their steel armor reflects the pallor of the sky, like living scales, hammered in the name of the Empire. In silence, the soldiers advance. Endless lines, perfectly aligned. At their head, the knight-commanders gallop, black capes ripping through the wind. Their raised lances are needles poised to pierce fate. Then come the foot soldiers. Their boots strike the cobblestones in unison—like a single heart. No one speaks. Each step is an oath. And behind them, majestic, the great generals appear: Zeta, Medus, Rock. Each surrounded by her personal guard. Shadows of power. Silhouettes of war.
The formation is like a pack.
The strongest warriors stand at the front… and just before the rear.
They blaze the trail and protect the retreat.
In the center march the strategists, the healers, the most vulnerable… and the most precious.
And all the way at the very back, in the final rank, walks the Alpha.
The Queen.
She wears no crown. She wears the silence of the world. She says nothing. But every soldier knows she is there. That she watches them. That she is ready to die with them.
The crowd watches. The walls fall silent. Even the wind dares not move.
And for an instant, the entire capital remembers:
These are not women marching.
They are wolves.
The women of Myrhe observe in silence. The soldiers pass. Their footsteps echo like a death knell. Each one knows that war has come, But none of them truly desires it.
Breath is held. Children are clutched tightly. And in their hearts, a silent prayer rises.
Amidst the crowd, a woman with jet-black eyes stands motionless. Her gaze, sharp as blades, locks onto the generals as they pass. She studies them one by one. She doesn't blink. Then she turns on her heels.
She slips into the alleyways, where the cobblestones crack and the city forgets its name. She reaches a low, silent stone house, just a few streets away from the imperial palace. Behind its damp walls, the air is heavy with incense. There, other women in black veils await her. Their faces are young but their souls,...may not.
She enters.
The magic circle is already glowing on the floor, etched directly into the stone, radiating with golden light. An ancient breath pulses within it—like a forgotten heart. She speaks, her voice deep:
— "It's incredible. The one we fear most is here. The Empire knows. The Empire is preparing to strike back. It won't waste time unmasking the Duchess."
Another whispers, almost in a trance:
— "The circle is ready. All that remains is to sow terror."
The first nods.
She closes her eyes, then opens them again—calm, empty.
— "If you're ready to die for our Mistress, then let's not wait another minute."
The women look at each other. None of them tremble. Their hands are steady, and their faces unreadable.
They are not warriors. They are believers. Fanatics. Unyielding.
With one voice, they chant:
— "By the glory of the almighty Inami, let the walls collapse in exaltation."
The circle pulses. The ground tenses. The air quivers like a trapped beast.
They clap their hands.
The world explodes.
The ground of the capital heaves. Walls crack like glass. The streets scream. Stones fly. Statues collapse. The palace itself trembles, cracks, groans under the impact.
It is a "Glory of Inami" level spell. A so-called miraculous magic—rare and forbidden. A sacred wave that makes the earth dance and the foundations howl. A divine scream.
A declaration of war.
Throughout the city, children cry and adults panic. Homes lie in ruins. It's chaos. Total.
In front of the monumental gates of the imperial palace, the army halts. The ground is still trembling. The towers vibrate like they're about to collapse. A ripple of hesitation runs through the ranks.
But General Zeta, motionless in her silver armor, shouts:
— "Keep moving! Do not hesitate! That's exactly what they want—stalling us!"
And the soldiers resume their march under Zeta's command.
In the Empress's office, it's madness. Scrolls fly. A bookcase crashes down with a dry thud. Anna and Zyon, caught mid-strategy session, are thrown to the ground. Their balance shatters. The tremors toss them into each other.
Anna, smaller, tries to help. But gravity no longer makes sense. They fall together, swallowed by the chaos. A muffled gasp. Their bodies tangle mid-fall. Anna clutches Zyon's chest, her hand slipping across the generous curve of a breast. Zyon flinches—more startled than hurt.
But the quake goes on.
Anna is slammed against the table and clings to it with all her might. Zyon, off balance, ends up pressed against her from behind. Her arms loop around the young strategist's waist. Their short breaths mix in the noise.
And in that chaos, something odd takes shape— intimate, fragile, ambiguous. The world is falling apart, and they hold on to each other—instinctively. No laughter. No shame. Just this accidental fusion of two vulnerable bodies.
Until the ceiling crashes down— And Anna, without thinking, unleashes magic with no incantation to blast the rubble aside—saving the princess. The final quake hits like a brutal exclamation point.
Silence.
The two girls lie on the floor, amid crumpled papers, coated in dust, their hair wild. They stare at each other. A nervous smile tugs at their lips. Then they burst out laughing — a broken laugh, a breath of relief — alive laughter in the heart of disaster.
The door bursts open.
Majiid storms in, panting.
But she doesn't even have time to catch her breath— a shadow moves—
a blade flashes— a warrior lunges at her from the dark.
Majiid counters just in time.
She chants, with machine-like speed:
"Oh! I call upon you, Knightess of Execution: be Just! Be Froste!"
In the imperial office, Zyon staggers.
The air freezes.
A winter wind howls through the room.
Her once ordinary armor transforms — frosted silver, icy blue reflections, crystals blooming on her greaves. Her eyes blaze a glacial blue, glowing like dead stars. Her hair turns to snow.
She becomes the incarnation of cold judgment.
And then—she moves.
Her steps don't strike the floor — she glides, like a blade across a frozen river. The enemy, gripped by panic, tries earth magic — the marble twists, the ground rumbles. But Majiid is already there.
One strike.
Precise.
Silent.
Her blade cuts through the air. The enemy crumples without a sound. It all happens so fast, Zyon just stays there, stunned, admiring the spectacle. Anna, meanwhile, already has a weapon in hand. She speaks:
— "They're probably trying to get their mistress out of here before that woman gets recognized. We need to check every guest."
—"Zyon and I will go, Majiid replies, but Anna—you must stay hidden. She can't know you exist."
Anna gives a sad smile.
— "You're wrong. I understand now why they sent all of us here instead of keeping us in the marquisate.
This person… she's afraid of me. And of my sister Elisabeth."
She follows as they move.
Zyon and Majiid exchange a worried glance.
— "You think you know who it is? "the commander asks.
Anna slowly nods.
— "Yes. There's only one person who could bridge the gap between our distant marquisate and the capital. The only one with enough power to be both an outsider and have influence inside this palace."
Majiid halts, instinctively.
— "Oh no. It's her. And her family… they're waiting in the neighboring rooms."
Zyon, completely thrown:
— "Wait. You're talking about… Aunt Heramis? Impossible! She's Mother's adoptive sister. She should be grateful, not…"
— "She's just the most logical suspect", Anna murmurs. "I'm not certain of anything."
But then — A loud crash echoes down the hall.
An explosion.
Smoke billows. The floor trembles. Something has broken. From the haze—Elisabeth emerges.
Alone.
Eyes burning blood-red. Breath ragged. Hair clinging to her forehead. Her clothes are torn.
She is radiant in her fury.
She is dangerously alive.
Three attackers leap behind her. Swift, lethal women — like hyenas circling a lion cub.
And a blade aims for her face. This one is too close.
Majiid raises her hand to cast. But it seems too late.
But Anna—no words. No prep. No pause. She wipes out the blade meant for her sister in a blink.
Griffon's Wrath strikes like lightning fallen from the heavens.
White light.
A burst of air.
A sound torn from silence.
The attacker explodes under an invisible shockwave.
In the silence.
Even Élisabeth, lost in her fury, stops to stare. And Anna walks forward, slowly.
Weapon still in hand. On her face — the look of a child who is no longer afraid.