The Grand Hall of Aurelys shimmered like a jewel of the old world. Stained glass spilled rivers of crimson and gold across the marble floor, torchlight gleamed off polished armor, and banners of the twelve baronies hung motionless above. Tonight was meant to be triumph, a coronation of hope.
Shiba stood in formation among the Templar Knights, her greatsword strapped to her back, her jaw set hard. She should have felt pride. Instead, there was only that gnawing weight in her chest — the silence before a storm.
At the dais, Aurelia moved forward. Draped in white silk, the future queen's voice rang like a bell through the hall:"Tonight, Aurelys rises anew. Tonight, we stand together as one, in honor, in justice, in—"
The words never finished.
The iron gates at the end of the hall screamed as something massive struck them. Once. Twice. A third time — and then the doors exploded inward in a rain of wood and iron.
And from the wound in the hall, the storm poured in.
Men and women in scavenged mail, faces blackened with soot, weapons crude but eager. Axes, picks, rusted swords, even farming tools turned to blades. Their voices merged into one earth-shaking roar:
"DOWN WITH THE THRONE!"
The golden dream shattered.
Nobles shrieked as tables overturned, silver goblets and jeweled daggers scattered across the floor. Servants fled. The music died in a discordant wail as the first wave of rebels slammed into the line of knights.
Steel clashed. Flesh tore.
Shiba ripped her greatsword free. The weight of it grounded her, as if the steel itself demanded blood. The first rebel came screaming at her — a broad man with a chipped axe. She pivoted on her heel, sidestepped, and let the blade sing through the air. The cut caught him at the collarbone, split him down to the ribs. Bone cracked like dry timber. His body folded in two, collapsing at her feet.
She moved before he hit the ground. A second attacker lunged — a woman with a spear. Shiba caught the shaft with her gauntlet, twisted her hips, and wrenched it from her hands. In the same breath she reversed her grip on her sword and drove the pommel into her nose. The cartilage broke with a wet crunch, blood spraying across Shiba's visor. A final strike, the edge cleaving down into her shoulder, tearing through flesh, muscle, bone — until she was nothing but a heap of red and rags.
Around her, the hall became slaughter. Knights in shining steel were dragged down, screaming, as dozens of rebels swarmed them. Swords clanged, shields splintered, axes embedded in skulls and tore them open. The air filled with the iron stench of blood, with the sound of men choking on it.
Shiba swung wide, her greatsword carving arcs that split bodies apart. One man's arm tore free and spun through the air like a thrown branch. Another fell backward, clutching at the ruin of his belly as coils of intestine spilled onto the marble. She did not stop. She couldn't. Every motion was precise, controlled — a pivot here, a shift of weight there. She let the blade's mass do the work, momentum tearing through armor and bone as though they were parchment.
But they were endless. For every one she felled, two more crashed against her.
A rebel slammed into her side, slashing with a jagged dagger. The steel scraped her cuirass but bit into her arm, hot pain flaring. Shiba roared, seized him by the throat with her free hand, and crushed. She felt the cartilage snap beneath her fingers. His eyes bulged, spit flecked his lips, until she threw him down and ended it with a downward strike that split his skull like ripe fruit.
She could barely hear Aurelia's voice above the chaos. The princess stood shielded by guards, her pale face tight with terror, her lips moving — orders, prayers, maybe both.
And yet, beneath the roar of battle, Shiba's mind screamed with one name: Aiko. Her sister. The only piece of her old life left. Was she safe? Had the flames of rebellion already reached her? The thought clawed at her chest, even as she fought on with mechanical brutality.
Blood slicked the floor, turning every step treacherous. The once-glorious hall was now a charnel house — silks torn, banners burning, gold and gore mingled in the torchlight.
Aurelys was dying before her eyes, drowned not by steel alone, but by the fury of its people.
And Shiba knew: no matter how many she cut down, no matter how precise her strikes or how merciless her blade, the crown could not be saved.