Slazar stood frozen, eyes locked on Seraphine—her silver hair fluttering in the wind, her pure white armor glowing with the reflection of nearby flames. She looked like something celestial, something untainted...
But she was no ghost from heaven.
She was real.
And she was dangerous.
He whispered her name like invoking a forbidden spirit:
"Seraphine..."
The name tasted like ash and old memories. She was not just any knight—she was a legend in training.
Even when Rahigh was still the Altar Demon, bound to the Church and the will of Father Grayman, Seraphine had been one of the brightest swords in the cathedral's ranks. She was rumored to be the youngest candidate to inherit the title of Saint. Unshakable, brilliant, cold as sacred steel.
She wasn't just a warrior.
She was a symbol—one he had hoped to never face again.
And now, in his weakened state, not fully awakened to Rahigh's memories nor wielding the full power of the Commandments, Slazar knew that facing her meant certain death.
Still, he spoke. His voice was calm, like a blade sliding from its sheath:
"Listen, Seraphine… I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here on a mission."
Her black eyes narrowed into slits, and the firelight cast shadows across her pale face.
"A mission?"
The word dripped from her lips like venom.
"What mission justifies abandoning the Church that gave you purpose? The Church that made you who you are? You are a traitor to the Doctrine. And don't forget what happened at the Battle of the Weeping Blades. You killed two of the Celestial Blades ."
Slazar lowered his gaze, as if carrying the weight of the dead on his back.
"You don't understand. Grayman… he's not what you think. He's not a man of faith. He's something else. Something twisted."
Behind him, Henrik chuckled, his voice like rust scraping metal:
"Crazier than I am. Can you believe that?"
Seraphine's attention turned to Henrik, her lip curling in disdain.
"Henrik the Grafted..."
She spat the name like a curse.
"How could someone as pure as Maria ever love something like you?"
The smile melted from Henrik's face.
His neck jerked sharply, like a beast barely restrained.
His voice trembled with buried rage:
"Be very careful with what you say, girl… there are some wounds that never scar over."
Slazar stepped closer, raising a hand in calm warning:
"Henrik. Let it go."
Henrik grinned, but it was the kind of grin that showed teeth—like a wolf on the edge of biting:
"Shut your mouth, Rahiig…"
But then a new voice broke through the tension.
Soft. Feminine. Familiar.
"Gloria!"
A young girl ran from behind Seraphine, rushing toward the unconscious maid. Her golden dress fluttered behind her, and her face—delicate, noble, impossibly familiar—was enough to make time stop.
Seraphine turned with alarm, voice lowered into urgent warning:
"Your Majesty! I told you to stay back!"
Slazar's heart skipped.
Henrik blinked, then leaned forward in disbelief.
The girl… she was nearly identical to Queen Vaila Dethrik, the reclusive ruler of Esheland. The same icy beauty, the same piercing presence—only younger.
Both Slazar and Henrik spoke in unison, their voices caught between reverence and dread:
"Your Majesty…"