"And you seem to have forgotten," Althea's voice rang through, steady and sharp, her ruby eyes locked on the man with the lance. "Who you're fighting with."

The man hesitated, just briefly, perhaps sensing the shift in her presence. The mana that radiated from her was not divine in the gentle sense people often imagined, it was suffocating, like a pressure that crushed the air out of one's lungs. Even with debris and dust clouding the hall, her figure was distinct, her red dress flowing like a banner of war amid ruin.

But before all of that happened... she remembered how the floor explode beneath them, from the middle of the hall, where the ornate crest of the royal theatre once gleamed. The marble cracked like ice, spidering outward in jagged lines.

Shards of stone and mana erupted, and a wave of dust surged upward like a storm. The mana signature that accompanied it was wrong, too primal. It pulsed beneath the ground like a heartbeat, dark and rhythmic.

Her mind raced. The undercroft.

Muzio and Tyron were still down there.

And now the entire center of the hall was caving inward, collapsing toward the depths below.

Without a second thought, Althea dropped to her knees, placing her hand firmly against the thick carpet that stretched across the floor. Her mana flared outward in a rush, veins of golden sigils racing along the fabric.

The carpet rippled, alive, responding to her command. With every mana, she poured more energy into it, forcing the unstable floor to hold together, to breathe with her mana rather than crumble under its own weight.

Lenko was darting between fallen beams, distracting the lancer with that infuriating mix of luck and desperation he somehow called strategy. Olga, above them, had just reclaimed her bow and arrows, Muzio must have hidden them somewhere clever, though how he managed to suspend them in the chandelier of all places, she couldn't guess.

Minutes later, the man with the lance wasn't retreating. His movements were sharp, precise, each step deliberate. His eyes flicked toward her.

Althea's heart lurched.

The next instant, the man's arm moved, the rune-covered spear in his grip gleaming with volatile mana. He hurled it, not at Lenko, not at Olga, but at her.

Althea barely had time to move.

The lance struck the place where she'd been a heartbeat ago, splitting marble and tearing through a wave of glowing carpet-thread. She stumbled back, her breath ragged, but her focus didn't break.

She could feel the floor giving way under her feet, the entire structure was collapsing faster than she could stabilize it.

Her palms pressed harder to the ground. "No… not yet---!"

She redirected her mana, channeling it down through her heels, feeling the shock of mana race through her bones. The carpet beneath her rippled again, glowing gold as it lashed outward like living tendrils, gripping at the crumbling edges of the floor.

Hold. Just hold.

The whole floor tilted precariously, groaning under the strain. Splintered marble and broken wood clung to the slanted ground, held together only by the glowing sigils rippling outward from the point where Althea stood. Intricate runes, spiraling vines and blooming flowers, spread in patterns, weaving across the fractured surface and forcing the collapsing foundation to obey her will.

But the pressure was building. She could feel it in her chest, in her skin, in the ache crawling up her arms. The mana she was releasing was far more than she intended, her control slipping under the sheer scale of the damage.

Below, the beast that had been lurking beneath the undercroft. Its claws scraped against falling debris, its breath echoing like thunder.

If it climbed out now, it'll get out of the hall.

She shifted her focus, pouring what strength she had left into the carpets. What once supported the collapsing floor now tore free and lashed downward, twisting like serpents of crimson fabric. They struck the rising beast, wrapping around its limbs and forcing it down.

Her body screamed in protest, the mana surging through her veins burning her from within. The strain of sustaining multiple runescript at once was unbearable, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

She glanced down and saw the edges of her golden hair had fully turned green, the color creeping upward like ivy. She knew what that meant, the boundary between her human and elven blood was thinning.

But she had no time to care.

And still, Althea stood her ground, her voice low but resolute. She walked across the wreckage with unnatural grace. Shattered tables, overturned chairs, and jagged shards shifted underfoot, yet not a single piece slid as she passed. Her mana pulsed through the sigils, anchoring everything in place.

When her gaze lifted to the man standing across from her laughed, a cruel sound that bounced against the cracked floor. He threw his head back, his expression twisted with arrogance. "So it's true, then," he sneered, voice laced with mockery. "The saint doesn't need chalk or coal to write her sigils." His smile widened, feral and gleaming. "How shocking that your people still believe you're just human."

His words cut through the air, but Althea did not flinch.

It wasn't a surprise, not to her, nor to any of the inner nobles who knew what flowed in her veins. Though the court wrapped her in silk and reverence, she was as much a beast to them as she was a saint. The man's venom was nothing new, what rattled her was the casual cruelty in his tone, the way he spoke as if peeling open a wound.

Her mana rippled in response.

The carpets stirred like restless beasts, their edges snapping and curling with agitation. Each crack of fabric echoed like a whip, hissing softly as her mana coursed through them.

The mercenary's grin faltered. He shifted his stance, planting his feet wider, his lance angled defensively. His earlier smugness had drained into wary calculation.

Then, from above, a clear voice rang out, steady and cold.

"Like her highness said," Olga called, her tone cutting through the chaos.

Althea didn't need to look up to know where she was. The archer stood on the upper railing of the tilted floor, perfectly balanced despite the debris and trembling structure beneath her. Her bow was drawn taut, the string humming faintly with the resonance of her mana.

"Don't forget who you're fighting with."

Her words carried weight, not loud, not shouted, but sharp enough to pierce through the tension like an arrow itself.

From where she stood, Olga's expression was grim and focused, her green eyes locked onto the mercenary. Althea could see her lining up her shot, her aim precise and merciless. The glint of the rune on the man's glove caught the light, the same rune that allowed his lance to return to his hand after every throw. Olga's fingers relaxed, and the arrow flew.

It cut through the dust-filled air, the sound of its release almost silent.

The man's eyes widened just a fraction before the arrow struck home, right at the knuckles of his gloved hand. The rune etched into the leather flared once, then shattered, sparks scattering.

He cursed under his breath, jerking his hand back, the remnants of the rune burning away.

Above, Olga's bow lowered slightly, but her gaze remained locked on him, unrelenting. "That's for mocking her highness," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Below, Althea exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable.

The runes at her feet pulsed once more, steady and alive, responding to her heartbeat. She took another step forward, her voice low but carrying across the fractured hall.

"You speak too much for someone already cornered," she said, her tone calm, almost gentle. But the air around her trembled, charged with the quiet fury.

And this time, the mercenary didn't laugh.

Althea's gaze swept the fractured hall, the air still heavy with the aftershocks of magic and collapsing stone. Her eyes, shifted toward her vassal and knight, then downward to the lower floor where Lenko had vanished moments ago.

But she could not look for long.

Her gaze snapped back to the mercenary whose smirk had turned into a rabid snarl. Instead of throwing his lance again, he lunged forward, his steps pounding against the trembling ground.

Olga met him mid-charge, unleashing a flurry of arrows. The projectiles streaked through the air in rapid succession, each glowing faintly with mana, each finding its mark close enough to slow him, but not stop him.

Althea caught the glint of Olga's bow drawing again, the movement smooth despite the tilted floor. Her knight's instincts were sharp, deadly, and yet, there was a rhythm to her steps that Althea had long learned to recognize. Each leap, each pivot, was a silent language between them. Olga trusted that Althea would guard her back, and Althea did.

With a mere flick of her fingers, the carpets at her command came alive. One lashed out to block the beast clawing its way up from below, snapping tight like a whip before curling back to strike again. Another darted behind Olga, supporting her feet when the floor gave way beneath her, lifting her with impossible grace as she leapt backward from the mercenary's next strike.

The man roared, slamming his lance forward, the blow slicing through air where Olga had just been. His weapon hit the floor instead, shattering more marble, sending splinters of cracked stone flying.

"…Fuck!" he spat, veins bulging on his temple. He drew back, readying to hurl his lance even if it meant losing it entirely.

But Olga had already moved.

Even wrapped at the waist by Althea's mana, her carpet cradling her midair, Olga's focus never wavered. Her green eyes glinted, and her arm drew taut. Her mana flared around her arrowhead, drawn from the beast core. A single heartbeat of silence stretched thin, then the arrow flew.

It sliced through the air in a perfect arc, glowing like a falling star.

The man barely had time to register what happened before the arrow punched through his chest. He staggered back, disbelief etched across his face as two more followed, one striking his shoulder, the other his throat. The sound he made was a wet gasp before he crumpled forward, his lance clattering uselessly beside him.

Olga landed lightly, her bow still raised, her breath sharp and steady.

Althea watched her vassal for a moment, a faint sigh leaving her lips, relief, fleeting but real. Yet the reprieve lasted only a second.

Something shifted behind her.

It wasn't the beast, its howls had long gone silent. No, this was something else. The hair at the back of her neck prickled, a whisper of mana cutting through the air like the hiss of metal drawn from a sheath.

"Olga!"

Her voice cut through the hall as she spun, skirts flaring, eyes darting toward the undercroft below. From the darkness beneath the broken floor, flashes of blue and black light burst upward, knives, dozens of them, streaking through the air.

For a heartbeat, she saw the faint outline of someone below, a figure cloaked in shadow, small, but radiating a familiar mana.

The mage…?

Althea's pulse spiked as her hand lifted instinctively, threads of carpet moving to intercept. But Olga was faster.

The archer's dagger flashed, deflecting the first two blades, then the third, fourth, fifth, but not all. A cry escaped her lips as several knives grazed her arms and side, one cutting across her cheek. The dark mana clinging to the blades burned, spreading corruption along the shallow wounds.

"Olga---!" Althea reached out, but she froze when she saw it.

The flames.

Olga's mana, normally smooth, steady, bright, was flaring wildly now, shifting, flickering shades of something deeper. It wreathed around her, unstable and furious.

The saint's heart clenched.

"Olga…" Her voice trembled once, barely a whisper.

Her vassal's eyes flickered, distant yet alive, trembling with something like resistance. Even as her bow raised again, toward Althea this time, her hands shook. The carpet at Althea's side stirred, ready to strike or shield, but she didn't move.

The first arrow flew.

It grazed Althea's forehead, cutting through her hair, leaving a thin, stinging line of blood. The saint didn't flinch. She knew Olga's precision, knew the woman would always take the killing shot.

She stood still, lowering her hand, meeting Olga's burning eyes with quiet understanding.

Even under someone's control… even through pain and corruption… Olga was still fighting.

Because Althea knew her knight well enough to understand one simple truth, if Olga truly wanted her dead, she wouldn't have missed.

And so Althea did not raise a defense.

She let the blood slide down her brow, let the sting remind her that this, this betrayal, wasn't truly Olga's.

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