The entire battlefield was silent.
Theron's thoughts churned like a storm.
If what she says is true... then I can still kill that demon with my own hands.
His grip on his sword tightened.
"Very well."
He turned away from her—Elira—and looked down at Cedric, still on his knees in the dirt.
When he spoke, his voice was cold, sharp.
"Your punishment will be postponed—not out of mercy, but out of necessity.
The goddess has given us a chance.
A chance for you to prove your worth, to rise from disgrace and face the demon you failed to stop.
And for me... to avenge her with my own hands, by driving my blade through that demon's cursed heart."
Cedric, head bowed but eyes burning with conviction, raised his voice.
"Your Majesty.
By the light of Her Radiant One, by the vows I swore before altar and crown, I will not fail again.
Even if I must walk into hell itself, I will find the demon.
For you.
For her.
For the goddess who still watches over us—and still deems me worthy to try."
He raised his eyes, locked them on his king.
"I swear it. I will bring that demon to its knees—at your feet."
Theron looked down at him in silence.
He said nothing.
Then, slowly, he turned and walked away, each step heavier than armor.
"Summon the Blackwing Vanguard," he commanded.
A long beat of silence followed.
No one dared question the order.
Then, in a quieter voice—cold, final, spoken to no one and everyone—he added,
"We depart tomorrow. After I've laid Her Highness to rest."
The Blackwing Vanguard.
An elite airship strike force, summoned only in the most dire of times.
Half myth, half curse.
Some said when they were deployed, it meant war without mercy.
They answered to no general. No council. No god.
Only the king.
When the Blackwing flies, it is not a mission.
It is a sentence.
---
Ivan's Revelation
The scene shifted.
A dark sky.
Moonlight spilled down through the canopy of an ancient forest.
In the shadows, two small, blue, rat-like creatures were foraging when Ivan appeared—out of nowhere.
A sudden presence, silent and wrong.
The creatures screeched and scrambled up a tree, vanishing into the leaves.
Ivan stood alone in the clearing, a Warp Stone in one hand, a shattered blood-sword in the other.
Blood-red liquid spun around him like a tornado before slowly fading into the night.
When it cleared, he stood changed—wearing new clothes.
The stone and sword were gone.
He began to walk forward, slowly, calmly.
Talking to himself.
"That didn't go as I thought it would," he muttered.
"It went even better."
He smiled, cold and satisfied.
"I was only going to kill the King.
Make the Empire and the Church chase me.
That was the plan."
His voice darkened.
"But when I saw the look in his eyes—the rage—when he found me holding the Queen by her neck... And when I crushed it—"
He paused, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"Everything changed."