Lady Brinevein lounged on a massive, ornate bed in the center of the chamber. A swarm of whimpering, colorful sprites orbited the high, vaulted ceiling like trapped stars. Another cluster floated nervously around her outstretched hands.
Her attention was fixed on the severed, perfectly preserved head of a dark-skinned elf, Commander Choler. With a look of bored contempt, she gestured with her free hand. A single, trembling sprite shot forward and engulfed the head in a brief, intense burst of pure, white-hot flame, incinerating it to fine, sterile ash that drifted down onto the silken sheets.
Two more sprites, one fiery red, the other icy blue, were plucked from the air. With cruel, almost childlike curiosity, her fingers squeezed them tightly. High-pitched, magical whimpers of pain echoed in the silent, cavernous room as she forced their tiny forms to clash in her open palm. The red one extinguished the blue with a final, sad sizzle. A laugh, beautiful yet utterly devoid of warmth, rang out before a flick of her wrist discarded the victor like a piece of lint.
The sheer, casual sadism of it all snapped Warrex's control. A low, guttural growl ripped from his chest as he charged, his axes a blur of vengeful motion.
Before he could cross the room, three figures dropped from a shadowed, overhead balcony, landing silently between him and the bed. Lyra, Vaelinoran, and Theriant, Lady Brinevein's children, brandished their polished blades.
A massive, ornate support beam, ripped from the wall by runic force, hurtled through the air directly at the bed. Brinevein barely glanced up, her expression one of mild annoyance. A single, terrified sprite soared out at her command, slamming into the heavy wooden beam and disintegrating it to ash in mid-air.
"Useless," Brinevein snarled, her voice a low, dangerous purr that cut through the silence. "All three of you are utterly useless." An angry sprite detached from the swarm around her hand and shot across the room, slamming into Lyra's shoulder. A sharp, pained gasp escaped Lyra's lips as the sprite burned a small, angry red mark on her skin before dissipating.
Lyra winced, her hand flying to the fresh burn, but her face quickly settled into a mask of pained obedience. "Yes, Mother," she murmured, her voice cold and devoid of all emotion. "Sincerest apologies. The filth will be disposed of immediately. The beast is mine. The filthy human girl… I leave to Vaelinoran and Theriant."
A chilled premonition coiled in Takara's gut at the daughter's flat, dead tone, but Warrex, now faced with a new opponent, only smirked in return. He spun his axes in a slow, menacing arc. "Takara," he rumbled, his voice a low promise of violence, "our training will pay for itself right here. Trust me."
The feint was perfect. Vaelinoran and Theriant, who had been advancing on Takara, suddenly pivoted, they folded through the air at high speed as they rushed Warrex, slamming him hard into a nearby wall. He crossed his axes just in time to block the vicious, downward slashes of their twin swords, sparks flying as steel met steel.
At the same instant, Lyra lunged at Takara, her two axes a spinning cyclone of death. Takara braced herself, her runic gauntlet raised. But at the last second, Lyra whirled aside, attempting to slip behind her. Takara, anticipating the move, lashed out with a quick, powerful punch to the back of Lyra's head, sending her sprawling.
Lyra recovered instantly, a snarl twisting her beautiful face. She darted in again with two sweeping, overhead strikes. Takara blocked both on her braced forearms, the impacts jarring her to the bone, then countered with a lightning-fast snap punch that rocked Lyra's face, shoving her back a step.
"You aren't half-bad," Lyra muttered, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes. "For a filthy, worthless human. Bro'kine!"
A Presidroid, moving with a calm, almost serene purpose, stepped up to Roy on the bridge of the Nightshatter, presenting a neatly wrapped sandwich.
Roy's voice crackled over Takara's comm, calm and steady. "You're doing great, Takara. For the record, I haven't heard so many creative, if somewhat uninspired, insults since we were in high school."
Takara clenched her fists, a fresh wave of determination surging through her. "I'm here for support!" she blurted out, the once panicked phrase now a defiant war cry.
She caught a fleeting glimpse of Warrex, still locked in a brutal, desperate struggle with two powerful opponents across the chamber, before her focus was forced back to Lyra.
The barrage of strikes was relentless, a furious, hammering flurry of swings. Takara parried each one, her gauntlets sparking and groaning, stepping away at the last possible moment before hurling a powerful return blow to Lyra's midsection. A downward slash forced Takara to a knee. "Fyor kren nah, myorda!" Lyra shrieked, the Elvish curse a stream of pure, venomous rage.
Takara grunted, forcing herself back up, only to be met with a vicious horizontal sweep that she barely blocked in time. "Kresha nal'tek, myorda!"
Another blow, then another, each one punctuated by a short, guttural snarl of alien hatred. "Nylak vor'a, myorda!"
"Well, those words sound particularly nasty!" Takara grunted, staggering back under the assault, her vision starting to swim from the concussive impacts. The final swing snapped upward, a wicked, decapitating arc aimed directly at her chin.
Ten more layers of enhancement runes blazed to life on Takara's body. She arched her spine, letting the axe skim past, so close she could feel the wind of its passage. Thrown up from the sheer force of her own swing, Lyra's feet left the ground. Takara's eyes flashed with cold, tactical confidence. Twenty more runes flared into existence, a visible, shimmering sheen of pure mana now coating her skin. "Didn't think I could bait you as well, huh?"
The punishment was swift. A right cross to the jaw. A spinning elbow to the temple. A knee to the gut. Each strike was a contained explosion of runic power, knocking the helpless, airborne Lyra closer and closer to a nearby wall. By the time Takara finished her devastating combo, Lyra had crashed through the solid stone wall, collapsing on the other side in a broken, bleeding heap.
She slumped against the splintered wood, struggling to draw a breath. "B-but... y-you're… over your limit," she whispered.
Takara exhaled, a cloud of steam rising from her lips as she powered down the excess runes. She began to remove her battered, smoking gauntlets with a small, dismissive shrug. "What limit?"
The Presidroid behind her gave a sound that was suspiciously like a wry, mechanical chuckle. Takara turned away as Lyra groaned, her eyes fluttering toward unconsciousness. "Your mother was right about you, now go to sleep."
She turned to find Warrex nearby, perched atop the now unconscious and thoroughly battered bodies of Vaelinoran and Theriant. He was wiping a trickle of blood from his lip, his axes resting on his lap.
"That was a little too far, Takara," he said, his voice a low rumble. "If Line Elvish is similar to east Eoleron Elvish... she wasn't yelling racist things. She was screaming 'Look at me, mother!', 'I'll make you happy, mother!', and 'I hope you'll love me after this, mother!'"
Takara's face went pale. "Oh. Oh, no." She rushed back to the hole in the wall and began shaking the unconscious Lyra's body. "I'm sorry! Wake up and hear me! I'm really, really sorry!"
The ceiling above them was neatly, almost surgically, cut in a perfect circle. A moment later, the entire massive section of the floor from the chamber above crashed down, sending a cloud of dust, debris, and splintered wood everywhere. Takara and Warrex leaped aside as the chunk of floor landed with a thunderous, ground-shaking impact. Eryndra and Zehrina then descended gracefully through the newly created opening, landing amidst the wreckage.
Gazes shifted upward, locking eyes on Lady Brinevein. She had escaped before the impact, still lying on the bed now balanced precariously on a floating mass of terrified, whimpering sprites. A soft, gentle tune drifted from her, until the bedframe cracked under the landing. She sat up in one motion, face lit with pure, incandescent fury.
Brinevein grabbed a sprite mid-air, fingers tightening until it whimpered. "Hold it steady, you worthless little rat," she hissed, releasing it with a flick.
On the bridge, Roy watched the live camera feed with clenched jaw. "Lutrian, this lady qualifies as sick. Utterly, certifiably insane. But… god damn, that's the kind of beauty that'd make a sane man ruin his whole bloodline."
"While that is crude..." Lutrian adjusted his collar with a small, uneasy tug, "...few would have the blood left to gamble after seeing her."
"We can still hear you, Captain!" Zehrina's voice chirped over comms in a teasing, sing-song manner.
"Lutrian! Shame on you!" Eryndra yelled.
As the crew squared off against her, she began to talk, not to them, but to herself. "I am so very, very tired," she sighed.
A silver glint cut across the throne room. Eryndra lunged.
Five sprites surged from Brinevein's side like angry stars. They struck mid-flight. One hit her temple, another cracked into her shin, the rest drove into her arms and spine, hammering her down so hard the wooden floor let out a groan. Her vents screamed open. Steam drifted upward as her muscles coiled, forced into overdrive. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then she roared and tore herself free, her face twisted in disbelief. Not fear. Confusion. How could something that small feel that heavy?
"Warrex!" she barked.
He understood instantly. His axe spun through the air.
Brinevein didn't blink. "We should be burning their cities," she murmured, her voice sharpening like a knife through silk. "Tearing them down until that damn girl shows herself."
Eryndra caught the axe mid-roll, twisted, and drove forward. A red sprite twisted into a white one. A green flared bright. The trio spun tighter, their colors smearing into each other like bleeding paint. They met the axe head-on.
Metal vanished in a flash. The weapon disintegrated into a fine shimmer that hung in the air like ash.
"NO!" Warrex's voice cracked through the chaos.
The sprites didn't even pause. They reversed course mid-spin, rocketing back toward Eryndra. She twisted away just in time, the air burning as they shot past. Brinevein extended her hand. The trio landed gently into her palm and began to tremble.
"You missed," Brinevein whispered. No rage. No fire. Just quiet disappointment, the kind that stings worse than fury. They didn't get a second chance. Her fingers curled. A wet, pulpy pop. Their light bled out through the cracks in her grip, dripping down her wrist like molten sugar. Gone.
She wiped her hand on the silk of her dress. "We'll find her," she murmured. "Burn every last city. Someone will beg to speak."
The air thickened to her right. A spiral of black dust coiled in like a serpent, swallowing light. A pulse escaped Brinevein's skin. No glow. No roar. Just a breath of force that rolled outward. The dust scattered mid-spin, torn apart by nothing, as if the world itself had denied it permission to touch her.
She watched the pieces fall, unimpressed. "Perhaps I'll eat today," she said, the thought arriving like a breeze. Her voice was light now, almost dreamy. "I wonder if the chefs remembered the duck. Their very lives depend on it, after all." She licked her bottom lip absently. "It's been… so very long."
Roy's voice, cold and urgent, came over the comms. "Warrex, get Takara and get out of here!"
Warrex peeled himself from the wall, scooping the whimpering, and now shoulder-dislocated, Takara into his arms. But just as he turned to escape, a rainbow of destructive energy shot toward them. He managed to block it, but the force of the impact obliterated his last remaining axe and sent both of them smashing through the far wall of the throne room. A Presidroid, protecting Takara, had its arm blown clean off trying to deflect the blast, the force of the explosion carving a massive, gaping hole in the side of the ship.
"Such a mess," Brinevein sighed, a smug, satisfied look on her face.
On the bridge, there was no panic. No worried words. Just Roy, staring into the screen as if it owed him answers, his expression cold and unreadable.
Back in the throne room, Eryndra held a massive greatsword of solidified black dust, a gift from Zehrina. She rushed Brinevein again. A cluster of sprites intercepted the attack, their tiny forms a seemingly unbreakable shield. Brinevein, looking utterly bored, scratched her side and then flicked her finger. A new wave of sprites, a hundred strong, slammed into Eryndra, driving her back.
Steam blasted from Eryndra's vents, ripping through the silence. Apparition Mode engaged. The steam arced into silent, looping plasma jets, propelling her around the room like a guided missile. The sprites, unable to track her, phased harmlessly through her intangible form. She re-solidified behind the bed, the massive dust-sword raised high.
The next volley came without warning. Sprites, dozens of them, darted like energized needles. She phased again, but the moment she solidified to launch her own attack, she gasped, a sharp, choked sound. She looked down. A single, shimmering white sprite shined from inside her. It had remained in her intangible form waiting for this moment. After an agonizing few seconds, it burst through her abdomen, leaving a giant, bleeding wound.
A dozen sprites flooded into Brinevein's own body, her eyes glowing with a terrifying, divine light. She kicked out, her simple, slippered foot connecting with Eryndra's midsection. The impact was catastrophic. Eryndra was launched from the air like a cannonball, crashing back to the ground with enough force to shatter the floor, landing headfirst in a broken, bleeding heap.
Brinevein landed lightly on top of her, her bare feet pressing into Eryndra's face with a casual, almost indifferent pressure.
"Where are my slippers!?" she complained, grinding her foot into Eryndra's cheek. "I will slaughter everyone here if… hmmm. I wonder if my new dress has been completed. I should probably kill these creatures quickly and go pick it up."
"ERYNDRA!" Zehrina screamed, her voice a raw, broken sound of pure, unadulterated horror.
Roy sat there. The monitor lit his face stark, unblinking. Watching. Somewhere behind his eyes, something locked shut.