Metheea stood over Lerima's lifeless body, her chest heaving. The sword, slick with blood, felt heavy in her hands, but the weight of the action settled deeper within her than the blade itself. The air was thick with the scent of blood, and she could taste it on her lips.
"Hah," she breathed, the fog of her breath mixing with the thickening darkness of the alley.
She had done it. She had finally done it.
Lerima's body lay motionless, the cruel, mocking smile wiped from her face forever. Blood dripped steadily from the wound, pooling beneath her like a dark mirror of Metheea's own struggle.
Her heart pounded in her ears, the adrenaline coursing through her veins, but the moment felt hollow. It was not the victory she had imagined. The rush of blood and action faded into a strange emptiness.
This wasn't what I wanted. But I did it.
The realization hit her like a wave, leaving her with the strange emptiness of victory. Was this freedom? Was this the price of taking control?
The guards, who had been standing at a distance, uncertain, watched in stunned silence. Their swords were drawn, their bodies still, eyes flicking between Lerima's fallen form and Metheea, still holding the bloodied sword.
One of the guards, the most senior, took a step forward but then hesitated, his sword trembling slightly in his grasp. He had seen battles before, he had seen men fight and die but never had he seen a noblewoman, a fragile princess, strike down someone with such deadly precision.
The second guard spoke first, his voice shaky. "W-what do we do?" He looked over at the senior guard, eyes wide with disbelief. "She... she killed her. With a single blow. We can't—"
Her strength also surprised her.
"We shouldn't have let it get this far," the senior guard replied sharply, his voice laced with both fear and anger. "Move, now!" But still, his gaze lingered on Metheea, his confusion and shock clear. She was just a woman—how had she become something else entirely?
Verry's voice broke the fragile stillness. His steps were slow, deliberate, but there was a wild, almost frenzied energy in his movements. He had been watching from the sidelines, his earlier attempts to control Metheea slipping from his grasp.
Verry froze, his eyes locked on her in disbelief. The grip he had always held over her was shattered in an instant, and now, for the first time, he seemed to realize he couldn't control her anymore.
"You... You really thought you could get away?" His voice trembled, no longer filled with commanding force but with panic.
Metheea didn't flinch. His curses, his fury, were nothing to her now. The anger had already reached its peak. She stood tall, the blood on her hands a reminder of the moment she had claimed for herself.
Behind her, the heavy sound of footsteps echoed in the alley, and Metheea didn't need to turn to know who was approaching. She could feel the presence, the weight of it. Her breath hitched, and her stomach twisted, but she stood still, waiting.
The alley was thick with silence when a single, slow clap echoed through the space, cutting through the tension.
Clap... clap... clap...
Through the shadows, Azrayel emerged, his figure tall and imposing against the dimming light. His eyes locked onto Metheea, sharp and unreadable, but the air around him was charged with authority.
Azrayel's voice broke through the tension, his words a chilling contrast to the chaos.
His eyes scanned the scene, cold and unreadable. A flicker of something passed through them before he stepped forward, his voice steady but edged with anger.
"Metheea," he started, then shifted his gaze toward Verry, his words hardening. 'You've gone too far.'"
He stopped a few paces away from Metheea, the sword still gleaming in her hands, her fingers trembling from the weight of it. The cold steel seemed to connect them, but his gaze… his gaze made her feel both seen and exposed all at once.
Azrayel's jaw tightened as his eyes scanning her injuries. His anger flared again, but there was something else in it—a protective fury he couldn't hide. His gaze flicked over her bruises, the marks of Verry's cruelty, the blood staining her hands.
His lips pressed into a thin line, and his voice dropped to a low growl, filled with barely contained rage.
"They'll pay for this, Metheea," he said, his voice like steel. "I'll make sure of it."
Before Metheea could respond, Azrayel's attention shifted. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing, and Metheea followed his gaze. Verry was still standing, trying to slip quietly into the shadows.
Azrayel's expression darkened as he saw Verry moving in the distance. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he didn't move. Not yet.
"You think you can escape?" Azrayel's voice rang out, cutting through the tense silence like a blade. He took one step toward Verry, who froze, caught in the act of trying to slink away unnoticed.
Verry stood still for a moment, then turned, his face twisted in an expression of helpless fury. "Your highness—" he started, but his voice faltered, no longer commanding, now filled with uncertainty.
Azrayel's face was unreadable, cold fury flashing in his eyes as he stepped closer. "You've been a nuisance long enough, Verry," he said, his voice low and deadly calm. "It's time to end this."
Verry's eyes flicked nervously between Azrayel and Metheea, a wild look flashing in his gaze as he realized his escape was futile.
"You think you can just walk in and take everything from me?" Verry's voice was shaky now, but the venom in it was still there.
Azrayel's lips curled into a dangerous smile, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "You're nothing but a pawn, Verry. And I'm done playing your game."
Verry's eyes flicked nervously between Azrayel and Metheea, his breath quickening as he realized the end was near.
"You think you can just walk in and take everything from me?" His voice was now shaky, filled with desperation, but the venom still lingered. "You won't get away with this! Katarthan will fall—you'll burn with them!"
Azrayel's expression remained icy, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "You chose the wrong side, Verry. You sealed your fate the moment you thought you could control her.
Verry stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror as he realized there was no escape. "I am of royal blood of Makuteya! My cousin will never let this happen! If you kill me, he will avenge me. He's got the power! You can't—"
Azrayel's voice cut through Verry's ramblings like a blade. "Your cousin? You mean that weak king of MAkuteya? He means nothing. Your royalty means nothing. You crossed a line when you tried to claim her as your betrothed. That decision? That sealed your fate."
Verry's face twisted with panic, and his breathing quickened. "No, no, this isn't over. You don't understand—he will—"
Azrayel's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a whisper, cold and final. "There is no one coming for you. No one. You're just a dead man walking."
"Oh, I think you'll vanish," Azrayel said coolly, his voice carrying a dangerous undertone. He was playing with him. "No one will ever know what happened here. You won't even be remembered."
Verry's eyes widened with desperation. "No... you... you can't—"
Azrayel cut him off with a laugh, rising to his feet and turning his back on Verry.
"Oh, but I can."
Azrayel's gaze was cold, and without hesitation, he stepped toward Verry. With a swift motion, his sword flashed through the air—
A clean, precise strike. Verry's body crumpled to the ground, blood spilling across the cobblestones, but Azrayel didn't flinch. His expression remained as unreadable as ever.
Metheea's vision blurred. She had killed. She had crossed a line.
But Azrayel? Azrayel had killed too.
Her thoughts tumbled together, her body trembling as the world around her began to tilt. She could feel her legs giving out beneath her, the weight of everything crashing down on her at once.
Azrayel turned to face her, his eyes dark with something she couldn't place. But his gaze softened as he reached out to steady her, his voice calm despite the blood on his hands.
"Metheea…"
Her legs buckled beneath her as the adrenaline drained from her, leaving only the raw aftermath.
Azrayel's words, calm and unwavering, cut through her haze. But her body betrayed her; the reality of what had happened, of what she had become, was too much. Was she still the same person, or had she crossed a line that couldn't be undone?
The adrenaline was fading now, and the weight of everything—the pain, the bloodshed, the choices—crashed down on her all at once.
Azrayel's voice broke through her haze, calm but filled with something unfamiliar. Her gaze locked on his, but his eyes, so intense, seemed like they were pulling her under.
She's done it. But at what cost?