The sound of steel slicing through air cut the silence like a blade through silk.
Noct swung his obsidian sword in a deadly arc, the movement smooth, yet charged with primal savagery. But Ice—unfazed, unreadable—moved like mercury, like oil sliding through a keyhole. The strike met only the ghost of where Ice had stood.
A subtle flick of Ice's wrist disturbed the air. Not with fire, not with light, not even with shadow—but with something more ancient. A ripple tore through the fabric of stillness, invisible yet undeniable.
Noct's body jerked as blood erupted from his mouth.
He staggered, looking down, confusion etched in the lines of his jaw. "What… was that?" he asked, his voice thin, like a man seeing death wear a mask shaped like his own.
Ice didn't respond with pride. Instead, he whispered, as if reciting a prayer in the temple of war.
"Power may carve the world…
But it is will that conquers it."
Noct's face twisted. Anger. Awe. Perhaps fear.
Then—he roared, a guttural cry laced with dominion.
"Imperial Slaves."
The world darkened.
From the ground, from cracks in the walls, from the very shadows cast by flickering flames—they came.
Creatures… no, abominations. Misshapen, eyeless, skinless things twisted by agony. They crawled, howled, and slithered—thousands of them. An army not forged by training, but by torment. At their center loomed the shadows of fallen kings, their faces veiled, chained, mouths sewn shut.
And they marched toward Ice.
But Ice did not blink.
He raised his hand once more and spoke—calmly, like a scholar reading from an ancient page:
"Lost from the Ancient Land… Sand Bridges."
The world changed.
Wind screamed through the chamber. The floor groaned, and the air thickened. A massive whirlwind of sand rose, golden and raw, as if summoned from an old desert buried beneath time.
The monstrous horde was swept away. Not scattered—dissolved. Torn apart grain by grain, scream by scream.
Noct stepped back—but it was too late.
From the heart of the tornado, hidden in its roar, a silver blade emerged—glinting like moonlight drawn by vengeance.
It pierced through the maelstrom.
And then—it pierced him.
Right in the chest.
Noct gasped. Not from pain—but from shock.
His knees faltered. He looked down at the blood, thick and dark, running down like the ink of fate. His gaze lifted slowly.
There stood Ice—no longer unreadable.
He was smiling.
But not cruelly.
Smiling like someone who knows the storm finally listens.
Noct fell to one knee, breathing heavy, still clutching his weapon. His armor cracked. The room shifted in weight. For a moment, he looked almost… human.
Then he stood.
Bleeding. Bruised.
But not beaten.
There was still a fire in his eyes—no longer manic, but focused. Regal.
He bore the gaze of a monarch betrayed by time, staring down a rebellion written in destiny.
Above them, Spindle hovered—weightless, gravity dancing at his fingertips. His expression had twisted from playful arrogance to sudden calculation. He had underestimated them.
And when a flash of silver streaked past him—barely missing his head—he knew.
He knew Reinhard wasn't just a recruit.
He was a warning.
Spindle's grin returned. But this time, it was tinged with reverence.
"Ah… I see now," he whispered.
"You're not just soldiers.
You're flames waiting for fuel."
And below, amidst ruin and flame, the Prince of Agony and the Silent Ice stood beneath the shivering ceiling of shadows.
The war was no longer a storm.
It was a reckoning.