[Mirabel Anstalionah.]
Just as I planned to give the three of them a moment's rest, Ri'Ishtar came barreling through the training ground gates.
Along with him was a massive case of white vials clutched to his chest.
He looked unshaven and hungry, ragged in a way only someone who could survive years without food could be.
In spite of this, there was a flicker of triumph in his hollow eyes.
Nicholas turned toward him with a puzzled frown.
Cassio and Miraculum ran up to me, neither frightened nor sociable, only curious.
Ri'Ishtar stumbled to a halt, dropped the case with a thud, and spread his arms wide like a man who had stolen fire from the gods.
"I've done it," he said breathlessly. "Almost. An almost cure."
Nicholas laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "Shit, really? That's incredible. Give one to me."
Without hesitation, Ri'Ishtar handed him a vial.
Nicholas drank it in a single motion, his throat moving like a man desperate for something more than water.
The change was instant, his mana steadied, the dark aura of decay retreating like a receding tide.
For one fragile breath, peace softened his features.
Ri'Ishtar exhaled shakily, rubbing his nose as if to ground himself. "These effects last only a day," he warned.
"You must take one every day. I've prepared another batch for Miraculum."
Nicholas nodded slowly. Miraculum looked uneasy, glancing between the two men.
I wondered how bitter the cure must taste, and if its relief was worth its burden.
I rose, leaving the children in the shade, and walked closer. "I'll make sure he takes them every day," I said firmly.
Nicholas frowned, almost offended. "Huh? I'm meticulous. I wouldn't forget."
I couldn't help the small smile that touched my lips. "Yes, a very meticulous man, with a memory as fragile as glass."
Ri'Ishtar cleared his throat. "One more thing. When the effects wear off, you will feel overwhelmingly sleepy. Do not ignore it."
His voice made the warning feel heavier than the simple words.
We did not finish our exchange. A tidal roll of mana struck the air, an enormous influx from millions of throats and wings.
The ground answered with a low tremor. A dragon army was heading for Anstalionah.
Nicholas donned armor with practiced speed, eyes sharp and brief. "Take the children. Meet me when you can."
He turned before I could refuse and launched into the sky. Ri'Ishtar exhaled, helpless. "If you want, I can—"
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "If you would."
Then I leapt after him. We landed just beyond the outer walls, and there, on the horizon, a swarm of dragons cleaved the air toward us.
I summoned the Roaming Giant and felt the old, dull tremor of dread settle in my ribs.
Nicholas called to me, calm as a blade. "Mirabel, for those who grieve, must I slaughter them all?"
His voice alone was enough to scatter a portion of the host; most turned aside in instinctive retreat. Only three came forward.
They descended and landed with the weight of angels.
The Dragon King, the Dragon Queen, and the envoy who had first warned us, Steeva.
Each radiated an aura that rivaled even the angels.
I watched the horizon and felt the tremors grow: dragons across the kingdom answering the call.
Power rose, and with it, a terrible, ruthless clarity.
Dragons are not soft creatures of myth.
They are force incarnate: swift, absolute, and merciless when loosed.
When a dragon's will is bent to war, it does not hesitate; it consumes, it crushes, it takes what it wants without mercy.
That is their nature, honed by centuries of survival.
This war would cost us dearly. The kingdom would feel the bite of loss, houses burned, fields emptied, blood spilled.
We would bury sons and mothers and the laughter in the streets would quiet.
Nothing about this afternoon would be clean or gentle.
And yet, despite my earlier thoughts that war might drag us into a long attrition, I knew, with a cold, quiet certainty, that this battle would be swift.
Swift because dragons strike like storms, devastating and decisive.
Swift because we had prepared for this; the Rune Knights had been activated.
The three dragons descended in silence, their wings folding with solemn grace as they landed before us.
The air itself seemed to recoil, heavy and metallic, tasting of iron and storm.
Power radiated from them in waves, and for a moment the world felt smaller, the sky darker.
The king stepped forward, his every movement deliberate, the ground trembling beneath his steps.
The other two, Purtunah and Steeva, bowed their heads in reverence.
Nicholas did the same, mirroring the gesture with unspoken recognition.
When the Dragon King lifted his gaze, their eyes met, and it was as though the world itself hesitated to breathe.
They were near reflections of one another, two men shaped by pain, conviction, and the same cruel flame of purpose.
Their posture, their bearing, even the sorrow in their eyes carried the same gravity.
One ruled the sky, the other the earth, yet both carried the weight of countless souls upon their shoulders.
Both had long abandoned peace for duty, and both knew that mercy was a language neither could afford to speak.
It was Harlequin who broke the silence, his voice low and frayed by fatigue.
"Is it fun?" he asked. "Death, war, salvation? No... I don't think it is. And yet, you still hold your sword."
Nicholas stepped back slightly, allowing Harlequin to summon his own weapon, a grand curved blade of pastel white, its edge glimmering like moonlight.
The guard took the shape of a shield, ornate and sharp, and his robes, tied at the wrists with white cloth, rippled with quiet divinity.
Gold boots gleamed beneath the dust.
He smiled, not out of joy, but resignation. "Nicholas, do you greet me with fear?"
"No," Nicholas said calmly. "I greet you with determination."
"Determination that will fall short? Or will you struggle until the bitter end and slaughter me?"
Nicholas shrugged, his eyes steady. "You decide. As in my eyes, you will be the one struggling at my feet."
Harlequin laughed softly. "Such bravado," he said. "However, I cannot help but notice…"
He paused, his expression thoughtful, as if the right words were sifting through his mind like dust in sunlight.
His face was calm when he finally spoke again, his tone measured and heavy with meaning.
"You now hold a sword," he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. "Which means death will befall us both."
He laughed once more, though this time the sound was steeped in pain. "I feel sick," he murmured, almost to himself.
"As if the world itself is screaming at me to die. Do you feel it too?"
Nicholas lowered his gaze to his sword, and in that moment, I felt the tremor in the air shift, as though time itself was holding its breath.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Let's die together."
And then, nothing. In an instant, both vanished, their presences swallowed by the horizon.
The sky cracked in their absence, the air rippling with the echo of vanished gods.
I stood frozen, unable to speak.
Purtunah spread her wings and surged forward, Steeva following in her wake, their faces carved with grief and fury.
The world around us began to unravel into chaos, fire and mana colliding in an endless storm.
This would not be a battle of nations. It would be a reckoning.
Two kings, equal in burden and opposite in will, would decide the fate of us all.
As I drew the Roaming Giant, I felt grief rise within me, not for them alone, but for what they represented.
They were the same, each trapped by love, duty, and the cruelty of inevitability.
Both standing upon the edge of their own ruin, bound by choices that could never be undone.
And as their light disappeared beyond the horizon, I realized that this was not the end of a war.
It was the quiet death of everything they had once tried to save.
I clashed back and forth with the two dragons, craving not their deaths, but release.
Their strikes carried sorrow, and mine answered in kind.
I did not wish for their end, only for the stillness that follows pain.
Was it odd? Perhaps. Yet it was also me.
I had long since grown weary of endless struggle, weary of the chains that bound us all to grief.
I wished, more than anything, to end suffering, even if I no longer knew whose it was, mine, theirs, or the world's.
Why did we fight, if only to die?
It was not a thought I had allowed myself in years, but as their blades met mine, heavy with mourning, I felt its truth echo through me.
We were the same, creatures born from duty and shaped by loss, wielding the ghosts of our choices as weapons.
A war we did not wish to fight, yet could not turn away from.
It was the law of vengeance, the inheritance of the broken.