The woman's low, louch laughter echoed above the clamor of the battlefield, shrill and grating—like nails dragged slowly across a chalkboard. It cut through the screams like poison, clinging to the air. Her eyes were fixed on Aiden. Watching. Calculating. She could see it—the way his shoulders drooped a fraction lower with each swing of his blade. The growing drag in his steps.
He was losing strength. Losing momentum.
Because in the end, numbers were still numbers.
"This was almost too easy, Regent," she cackled, voice soaked in venom and delight. "Half of our court thought it wouldn't work. That a monarch—even a regent—couldn't possibly be so foolish as to fall for something like this."
"You—" Aiden growled, barely catching a flash of steel to his left. A blade grazed his side, slicing through fabric and skin. He hissed but didn't falter. His counter was immediate—he drove his sword clean through the attacker's chest with a snarl of rage, the man collapsing at his feet.
The woman lifted her head, her cold gaze boring into Aiden like twin blades. Her expression shifted—amusement fading into something uglier. Darker. Her eyes blazed with hate.
"Do you know who I am, you foolish boy?" she hissed. "Velma Veylan. The wife of the man you executed." Her lips curled into a snarl. "Consider this... revenge."
Aiden clenched his teeth, his jaw aching with the effort. His hands didn't stop—not for a second—as his sword met another blade, another face, another threat. Even still, he found the breath to speak:
"He poisoned my emperor. His execution was justified."
"Was it?" she sneered, stepping closer, voice rising over the screams. "Maybe. But as you should know by now, Regent—" she spat the title like it disgusted her, "—we Altherians do not play fair. We never have. I do not care if it was justified. You made me a widow, and I intend to take blood for blood."
Aiden's breath hitched. Strangled. The pain in his side flared again, reminding him just how many hits he'd taken. His limbs were heavy. He could feel the exhaustion crawling into his muscles. For every enemy he cut down, three more rose to take their place. The battle was slipping from his hands—and her words, her relentless voice, only made the anger boil hotter in his veins.
But she wasn't done.
Of course, she wasn't.
"Do you know what we'll do once we're done with you?" she asked sweetly, her voice soaked in mockery. "We'll go for your oh-so-precious emperor. He won't be nearly as difficult. He's weak. Kind. Soft. Not like you, little regent. And what is an empire without a ruler?"
She stepped forward slowly, deliberately, the clamor of battle behind her rising like thunder. Her arms spread wide, and a cruel, toothy smile stretched across her face.
"Witness this, Aiden Lancaster," she hissed, voice laced with triumph. "The true fall of your empire. And the first blood... will be yours—"
But she didn't get to finish.
Aiden surged forward like a beast unchained. His sword plunged into her abdomen before her words could fully leave her mouth. Her eyes widened in shock as he twisted the blade, his face contorted in fury.
He drew back. Thrust again.
And again.
And again.
There was nothing elegant in his movements. No finesse. Just brutal, animalistic force. He didn't stop. Not when she choked. Not when her body began to crumple. Not when blood gushed freely and stained the earth beneath them.
He didn't stop until she was on the ground—her torso a mangled, unrecognizable mass of torn flesh and shattered bone.
He didn't even notice the enemy soldiers swarming behind him.
At that moment, there was only one thing in his world: shutting Velma up.
Velma's smile didn't fade, even as the light left her eyes. Her bloodied lips curled into a final, ghostly grin.
"A fool... until the end..." she choked, right before Aiden drove the blade one last time into her chest, piercing her heart.
It was only after she went limp that he realized—too late—that it had all been a provocation.
A trap.
To draw him closer. To isolate him.
The attacks came like a flood.
A dagger grazed his ribs—he barely dodged, the movement sluggish, clumsy. Another sword arced toward his shoulder. He whirled around instinctively, and in that spinning, chaotic moment—he saw the truth.
They were everywhere.
Soldiers. Dozens. Maybe more.
He was outnumbered. Utterly.
Aiden's breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. His chest heaved. Each inhale scraped like fire through his lungs. His muscles burned, and pain bloomed across his body like wildfire.
His skin was wet with blood—and not all of it belonged to the enemy anymore.
Stupid. So goddamned stupid.
He had walked right into it. Like a child chasing a ghost. He knew how much responsibility rested on his shoulders. He knew how badly this could go if he made the wrong call.
And still—
He had risked it all.
Like an ungrateful, foolish brat.
A blade sliced across his thigh. He gasped, staggering, his stance faltering. Another sword came down toward his shoulder. The impact made him cry out, and his weapon slipped from his fingers, clattering to the blood-soaked grass.
All he could see was green and red. The enemy's colors.
They were closing in.
He dodged what he could—barely. His body screamed in protest. But he was just one man. One exhausted, wounded man.
And then—
A soldier emerged from his blind spot.
Aiden turned.
Too slow.
Too late.
The sword was coming.
Straight for his neck.