Griswald scrambled backward on instinct, his hip catching on an overturned shelf. Pain flared. Irrelevant. His eyes locked on the figure now standing where he'd been sitting moments before.
Shredded violet cloth clung to her body as sole covering. Womanly shape blatant in the massive swell of cleavage exposing her ghostly pale tits and long legs. A hood obscuring most of the face. The scythe—longer than its wielder was tall, curved like a crescent moon made of shadow—withdrew from Mash's shield with a sound like fingernails on glass.
The laugh cut through the ruined store like shattered crystal—high, melodic, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Oh my, oh my." The robed woman tilted her head, and Griswald caught a glimpse beneath that hood. Long purple hair spilling past her shoulders. Eyes the shade of amber, gleaming with cruel amusement. "Did I interrupt something intimate?" She purred, leaning in to flaunt her heaving bosom.
Griswald's face burned. He opened his mouth to respond, found no words, and closed it again.
"A Servant and her Master, sharing a tender moment amidst the corpses." The woman's lips curled into something that might have been a smile on anyone else. On her, it looked like a wound. "How romantic. How utterly, pathetically human."
Mash moved. Her shield arm came up, the massive cross-shaped barrier positioning itself between Griswald and the Servant. Her stance widened. Combat-ready.
"Stay behind me, Senpai."
"You think that oversized dinner plate will stop me?" The robed woman laughed again. "Girl, I've killed things far more impressive than you while they begged for mercy."
Footsteps. Olga appeared at Griswald's left, her face pale but composed. Professional mask firmly in place despite the tremor in her hands. Ritsuka stumbled up on his right, favoring her injured leg, one arm pressed against her ribs. Still moving. Still fighting.
"Three lambs and their shepherd." The Servant's scythe traced lazy patterns in the air. "No—that's not quite right, is it? The shepherd is the weakest of all."
Griswald flinched. The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
"Your mana transfer." The woman's violet eyes found his through the gap between Mash's shoulder and shield. "I watched the whole thing. Very sweet. Very desperate. Tell me—did you enjoy it? Your first kiss, spent on keeping your weapon functional for a few more hours?" Her tongue slid across her lips with lewd allure.
"Don't listen to her," Olga said. Her voice was far steadier than how he was feeling. "She's trying to destabilize us."
"Destabilize you?" The robed Servant's laughter pealed through the ruined store like bells cracking. "Oh, you precious thing. I don't need to destabilize you."
Her grip shifted on the scythe's handle.
"I just need to do this."
She moved.
No—that word was inadequate. She ceased to exist in one location and began existing in another, the space between filled with nothing but violet afterimages and the whisper of displaced air. The scythe carved an arc toward Olga's throat.
Metal screamed against metal.
Mash was there. Shield raised. Feet planted. The impact drove her back three inches, her boots carving furrows in the debris-strewn floor, but she held. She held.
Mash shoved forward. The Servant danced back. Mash followed.
They collided in the center of the store.
Scythe met shield. Once. Twice. Three times in the span of a heartbeat. The robed woman's weapon blurred—overhead strike, lateral sweep, thrust with the butt of the handle—and Mash answered each blow. Block. Parry. Redirect. Her movements were precise, economical, nothing wasted.
The fourth exchange sent Mash skidding.
She pressed the attack.
Griswald watched, helpless, as the two figures became a storm of motion. The robed woman was faster. Stronger. Her scythe carved patterns in the air that Griswald's eyes couldn't track, each swing carrying enough force to bisect a car. The blade sparked against Mash's shield again and again.
But Mash wasn't flagging.
Before the mana transfer, she'd been stumbling. Slow. Desperate. Now her shield arm moved with purpose. Her footwork was textbook—advance, retreat, pivot—each step calculated to minimize exposure while maximizing defensive coverage.
The Servant's scythe hooked around Mash's guard. Mash dropped. The blade whistled over her head. She came up swinging, the edge of her shield catching the robed woman across the ribs.
First hit.
The Servant staggered. Recovered. Her smile widened.
"Oh, you are fun."
She vanished.
Griswald's heart stopped. Where—
Behind Mash.
"Mash!"
His warning came too late. The scythe descended in a killing arc aimed at the base of Mash's skull.
Mash spun. Her shield interposed. The impact lifted her off her feet and sent her crashing through what remained of the store's front counter. Wood splintered. Glass shattered. Mash rolled, came up in a crouch, shield raised.
Blood trickled from a cut above her eye.
"Senpai," she called, her voice steady despite the wound. "Stay back. Please."
The Servant advanced. Slow now. Predatory. Her robes whispered against the debris as she walked, scythe trailing behind her like a lover's hand.
"You know you can't win," she said. "Your Master is a candle. You're fighting on borrowed time."
Mash rose to her feet. "Then I'll make it count."
She charged.
The collision shook dust from the ceiling. Mash led with her shield, using it like a battering ram, and for one glorious moment she drove the robed Servant back. One step. Two. Three. Her shield pistoned forward—jab, jab, sweep—each blow forcing her opponent to dodge rather than parry.
The Servant's expression flickered. Annoyance? Surprise? Hard to tell beneath that hood.
"Persistent little thing."
Her scythe blurred.
Mash caught the first strike on her shield. The second. The third came low, aimed at her ankles, and she jumped—actually jumped—clearing the blade by inches. She landed. Pivoted. Drove her shield's edge toward the Servant's face.
The robed woman caught it.
One hand on the shield's rim. One hand on her scythe. She held Mash in place like a butterfly pinned to cork.
"Impressive," she admitted. "For a Servant with a failure for a Master."
Mash's muscles strained. Her feet slid backward. The Servant was stronger—far stronger—and now that strength was being applied directly, there was nowhere to hide.
Mash's arms trembled. Her shield inched downward.
"Just to let you know when you fall—" The Servant leaned closer, her breath warm against Mash's face. "—I'm going to take my time with your Master. He looks like he screams beautifully."
Something changed in Mash's expression.
The fear was still there. The exhaustion. The doubt. But beneath it all, rising like magma through cracks in stone, was something else.
Fury.
"Don't." Her voice dropped. Hardened. "Touch. Him."
She moved.
Her head snapped forward. Her forehead connected with the Servant's nose. Cartilage crunched. The robed woman reeled back, grip loosening, and Mash pressed her advantage with savage efficiency.
Shield to the solar plexus. Knee to the thigh. Another headbutt when the Servant's guard dropped. Each blow landed with the sound of meat striking meat.
The Servant tried to bring her scythe around. Mash caught the handle with her free hand. Twisted. The weapon clattered away.
For one impossible moment, Mash stood over her opponent—shield raised, eyes blazing, ready to end it.
Then the Servant laughed.
"Well now," she said, blood streaming from her nose, staining her smile crimson. "That was unexpected."
The laughter died. So did the pretense.
The robed Servant rose from the debris in one fluid motion, blood still dripping from her broken nose, and her hair moved. Not like hair should move. Not with gravity or wind or the natural sway of motion. It writhed. Coiled. Individual strands thickened and separated, twisting around each other like serpents seeking warmth.
Griswald's stomach lurched.
Purple locks elongated impossibly, stretching beyond any natural length, and where they moved the air shimmered with magical energy. The strands wove together—two, four, eight—forming braided ropes that gleamed with metallic sheen.
Iron chains.
Her hair had become iron chains.
"Playtime's over, little shield."
The first chain lashed out like a striking viper. Mash threw herself sideways. The metal whip cratered the floor where she'd stood, sending concrete shrapnel spraying in all directions. A second chain followed—lateral sweep, waist-height—and Mash dropped flat, the links whistling inches above her spine.
She rolled. Came up running. A third chain pursued, then a fourth, then more than Griswald could count.
The ruined store became a killing floor.
Chains crashed through shelving units. Punched through walls. One wrapped around a support pillar and squeezed, cracking the concrete like an eggshell. Mash wove between them—duck, jump, spin, slide—her movements desperate and instinctive. Her shield deflected what she couldn't dodge, each impact ringing like a struck bell.
"Gris!" Ritsuka grabbed his arm. "Move!"
He stumbled after her, brain struggling to process what his eyes were seeing. The Servant's body remained stationary in the center of the chaos, arms spread wide, head tilted back in ecstatic concentration. Only her hair moved. Dozens of chains now, each one hunting Mash with predatory intelligence.
Olga was already behind an overturned refrigeration unit. Ritsuka shoved Griswald down beside her, then collapsed against the metal housing, one hand pressed to her ribs. Her breathing came in short, pained gasps.
A chain slammed into the floor three feet from their position. The impact threw Griswald against Olga's shoulder.
"We have to help her," he said. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "There has to be something—"
"There isn't." Olga's voice cut through his panic like a scalpel. Cold. Clinical. "Look at them."
He looked.
Mash and the Servant moved at speeds his eyes couldn't properly track. They existed as blurs punctuated by moments of clarity—shield meeting chain, feet finding purchase on unstable ground, bodies twisting through impossible angles. The sound was constant: metal on metal, stone cracking, the whistle of displaced air.
Human combat looked nothing like this.
"None of us are combat mages," Olga continued. Her face was pale, jaw tight, but her voice remained steady. Analytical. "I specialize in Astromancy and organizational thaumaturgy. You're a healer with circuits that barely qualify as functional. And our orange-haired friend here—" She glanced at Ritsuka. "—has approximately as much magical training as a first-year student being taught by a third-rate mage."
"Hey," Ritsuka protested weakly.
"Am I wrong?"
Silence.
Griswald's hands curled into fists against the cold floor. His Command Seals burned—not with power, but with awareness. Through the contract, he could feel Mash. Her exertion. Her fear. Her determination to keep fighting despite the impossible odds.
"If we go out there," Olga said, "we die. Instantly. We wouldn't even serve as a distraction—we'd be liabilities. Targets she'd have to protect while fighting for her life."
A chain crashed through the refrigeration unit's upper half. Metal screamed. The three of them scrambled backward, pressing against what remained of their cover.
"Staying hidden is the most useful thing we can do right now." Olga's eyes tracked the battle, calculating, assessing. "If Mash falls, we run. Separately. Different directions. Maybe one of us will last long enough for Romani to get them out of here."
"That's your plan?" Griswald's voice cracked. "Watch her die and then scatter like rats?"
"That's reality, Von Garmisch." Olga's golden eyes met his. No cruelty in them. Just the terrible weight of pragmatism. "We're not heroes. We're not warriors. We're survivors, if we're lucky, and corpses if we're not. Accept it."
Another chain swept past their position. Close enough that Griswald felt the wind of its passage against his cheek.
He turned back to the fight.
Mash was losing.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. She was still moving, still blocking, still fighting with everything she had—but the chains were everywhere now. Too many to dodge. Too many to deflect. One caught her ankle and she stumbled. Her shield came up a fraction too slow. A second chain wrapped around her forearm.
The Servant's laughter echoed through the ruined store.
"There we go," she crooned. "Stop struggling, little shield. Let it happen."
Mash wrenched her arm free.
The chain snapped taut, then slack—a split-second window. She twisted her body, using the momentum of her own escape to swing her shield in a vicious arc. Metal connected with metal. The links binding her ankle shattered.
The Servant's smile flickered.
"Stubborn."
Her scythe materialized in her grip. No summoning circle. No incantation. One moment empty hands, the next a weapon that drank the light around it. She launched forward, chains and blade moving in concert.
Mash met her head-on.
The collision sent shockwaves rippling through the store. Griswald felt the pressure change in his ears, that pop of displaced air that accompanied forces beyond human comprehension. Mash's shield caught the scythe's edge while her free hand batted away a probing chain. The Servant pressed closer, their bodies nearly touching.
"You're weakening." The woman's voice was honey poured over broken glass. "I can smell it on you. That pathetic trickle your Master calls mana—it's already fading."
Mash didn't answer. Her jaw clenched. Her shield arm trembled.
The Servant drew back and attacked again.
Scythe from the left. Chains from above. More chains from behind. The assault came from every angle simultaneously, a storm of killing intent that left no room for breath or thought. Mash became a whirlwind of desperate motion—block, parry, dodge, spin—her body moving on instinct alone.
The Servant's robe billowed with each movement. The tattered violet fabric caught the air, pulled tight against her body, and Griswald's eyes betrayed him. Through the gaps. Between the folds. Pale flesh. The curve of her hip unbroken by any undergarment. The heavy sway of her breasts barely contained by cloth that seemed designed to reveal rather than conceal.
She caught him looking.
Her amber eyes found his across the chaos of battle, and her smile turned predatory. Knowing. The next swing of her scythe came harder, faster, and her body moved with deliberate sensuality. Her chest heaved. Bounced. The robe slipped another inch.
"Like what you see, little Master?"
Mash's shield slammed into her face.
The Servant staggered. Blood sprayed from her already-broken nose. Her chains faltered—just for an instant—and Mash pressed the advantage with brutal efficiency.
Shield to the sternum. The Servant doubled over. Elbow to the back of the skull. She dropped to one knee. Mash grabbed a fistful of violet hair and pulled, dragging her opponent off-balance, then drove her shield's edge down toward the exposed neck.
Chains intercepted.
Three braided ropes of iron-hard hair wrapped around Mash's weapon, halting the killing blow inches from flesh. The Servant looked up through the curtain of her own blood-matted locks, that terrible smile still in place.
"Oh, you are entertaining."
She surged upward.
Her scythe came with her, carving an ascending arc that Mash barely avoided. The blade kissed her cheek—a thin line of red appearing on pale skin—and then the Servant was on her feet again. Pressing. Advancing. Her breasts swung freely beneath the remnants of her robe, nipples visible through translucent fabric soaked with sweat and blood.
The chains rejoined the assault.
Mash retreated. One step. Two. Her back hit a collapsed shelving unit. Nowhere to go. The Servant's scythe descended in a killing stroke.
Mash caught it on her shield and shoved.
Not just the blade. The Servant. The attack. Everything. Her legs drove against the debris-strewn floor, magical energy flaring along the edges of her weapon, and she pushed with everything she had left.
The Servant slid backward.
"What—"
Mash didn't give her time to finish.
She charged. Shield first. Feet pounding against concrete. The Servant's chains lashed out—one, two, three—and Mash bulldozed through them. Links shattered against her barrier. Others wrapped around her legs, her arms, her torso. She kept moving. Kept pushing. Her face was a mask of absolute determination.
The Servant's eyes widened.
They hit the store's remaining wall together.
Stone crumbled. Plaster exploded. The impact punched them through the weakened structure and out into the blood-red light of Fuyuki's burning sky. They tumbled across the rubble-strewn street, limbs tangled, weapons scraping against asphalt.
The Servant recovered first.
She rolled to her feet with predatory grace, chains reforming around her, scythe spinning into a defensive position. Her robe hung in tatters now—one breast fully exposed, the pale mound heaving with exertion, dark nipple pebbled in the cold air. More skin visible at her hip, her thigh, the curve of her ass where violet fabric had torn away entirely.
She didn't seem to notice. Or care.
"Outside, then." Her tongue traced her bloodied lips. "More room to play."
Mash rose slower. Her shield arm shook. The cut on her cheek dripped crimson down her jaw. But she raised her weapon anyway, planting herself between the ruined store and the creature that wanted to kill everyone inside it.
"Stay back," she called over her shoulder. "All of you. Stay inside."
Griswald was already moving toward the hole in the wall.
Olga grabbed his arm. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know." The words came out honest. Terrified. "I don't know, but I can't—I can't just—"
"You'll die."
"Then I'll die."
He pulled free. Stumbled through the rubble. Emerged into the hellscape of Singularity F with dust in his lungs and the weight of his own inadequacy pressing down on his shoulders.
Mash stood twenty feet away. The Servant circled her like a shark scenting blood.
"Senpai." Mash's voice held no surprise. Just quiet resignation. "I asked you to stay hidden."
"I know." Griswald's legs shook. His circuits flickered—weak, unreliable, barely functional. "I'm sorry."
The Servant's laugh cut through the burning air.
The Servant's chains whipped toward a collapsed storefront. Metal links wrapped around a chunk of concrete the size of a man's torso. One fluid motion—coil, grip, throw.
The rubble hurtled toward Mash like a cannonball.
Her shield came up. Stone exploded against cross-shaped metal, fragments spraying in all directions. Dust billowed. Mash's vision disappeared behind a curtain of grey.
The scythe came from her left.
Griswald saw it happen in slow motion. The curved blade cutting through the dust cloud, aimed at Mash's exposed ribs. Her shield was still raised from blocking the rubble—wrong angle, wrong position, no time to adjust.
Mash twisted.
The scythe's edge scraped along her armored side instead of punching through. Sparks flew. She stumbled but didn't fall, bringing her shield around in a desperate sweep that forced the Servant back.
"Predictable," the robed woman purred.
Her chains found another piece of debris. Larger this time. A section of wall still holding three intact bricks. She flung it without looking, her amber eyes fixed on Mash's face.
Block. Explosion of stone. Dust.
The scythe came from the right.
Mash caught it. Barely. The impact drove her shield arm down, sent vibrations through her entire body. The Servant pressed close—too close—their faces inches apart.
"Your Master is watching," she whispered. "Watching you fail."
Mash's response was a headbutt man she liked that Griswald thought.
The Servant reeled back, blood streaming fresh from her twice-broken nose. Her chains lashed out reflexively—four, five, six strikes in rapid succession—and Mash deflected each one while advancing. Shield high. Feet steady. Eyes burning.
The robed woman snarled.
Her hair whipped toward a lamppost. Chains wrapped around rusted metal. She launched herself backward, using the anchor point like a grappling hook, covering thirty feet in the span of a heartbeat. Her body arced through the blood-red sky, tattered robes streaming behind her.
The fabric caught the wind. Pulled. Revealed.
Griswald's breath caught.
Her breasts hung full and heavy, completely exposed now, pale flesh bouncing with each movement. The nipples were dark—almost purple—and hard despite the heat from the burning city around them. Sweat glistened in the valley between them, catching the crimson light and turning her skin luminous. Her stomach was flat, toned, the muscles of her abdomen visible as she twisted through the air. The robe had torn at the hip entirely, baring the smooth curve of her ass and the long line of her thigh.
She landed in a crouch. Rose slowly. Let Mash see every inch of exposed flesh.
"Come then, little shield."
Mash charged.
The distance closed in seconds. Her shield led the way, a battering ram of magical steel. The Servant's chains snapped toward another anchor—a half-collapsed wall—and she was gone again. Up. Over. Behind.
Mash spun. Blocked the descending scythe. The force of the blow drove her to one knee.
"Too slow."
Chains wrapped around a car's rusted frame. The Servant pulled herself along them like a spider on silk, her nearly-nude form sliding through the air with obscene grace. Her breasts swayed with the motion—left, right, heavy and hypnotic. She released at the apex of her swing and dropped toward Mash from above.
Scythe descending.
Mash rolled. The blade buried itself in asphalt where her head had been. She came up swinging, shield edge catching the Servant across the ribs before she could recover.
The robed woman grunted. Staggered. Blood welled from a gash along her side, just below her exposed breast.
"That hurt."
She didn't sound angry. She sounded pleased.
Her chains found three pieces of debris simultaneously. Hurled them in sequence—high, low, center. Mash's shield moved like a living thing, catching each projectile, but the final block left her arm extended.
The scythe came for her throat.
Mash dropped. The blade whistled over her head. She kicked out, catching the Servant's ankle, and for one beautiful moment the robed woman lost her balance.
Mash surged upward.
Shield first. Driving into the Servant's midsection. The impact lifted her off her feet, sent her tumbling across the rubble-strewn street. Her robe caught on debris and tore further—now just scraps clinging to her shoulders and one hip. The rest of her lay bare.
Griswald couldn't look away.
Her body was a weapon. Every curve designed for violence and seduction in equal measure. The swell of her hips. The impossible narrowness of her waist. The way her thighs flexed as she rose from the rubble, muscle and softness blending into something that made his mouth go dry despite the terror pounding through his veins.
"Not bad," the Servant admitted.
She grappled away again. Chains finding a fire escape. Pulling her up and over, breasts bouncing with each point of acceleration. She perched on the rusted metal like a gargoyle, scythe balanced across her shoulders.
"But not enough."
She dove.
Mash raised her shield.
They collided in the center of the street. The shockwave flattened debris for ten feet in every direction. Griswald threw his arm up against the pressure wave, dust stinging his eyes.
When he could see again, they were trading blows.
The Servant's chains provided constant repositioning—grab, pull, release, grab again—her body a blur of pale flesh and purple hair. Her scythe struck from impossible angles. High. Low. Behind. Each swing carried killing intent. Each swing met Mash's shield.
Block. Pivot. Counterattack.
Mash's elbow caught the Servant's jaw. The Servant's chain wrapped around Mash's ankle. Both women hit the ground. Rose. Clashed again.
The Servant's breast pressed against Mash's shield arm during a clinch. Soft flesh deforming around armored muscle. She smiled through the blood coating her teeth.
"Getting tired yet?"
Mash's answer was a shield to the face.
The shield cleaved through empty air.
The Servant had already moved—chains finding purchase on a shattered streetlight, yanking her body sideways with inhuman speed. Mash's momentum carried her forward, weapon extended, balance compromised for just a fraction of a second.
The robed woman landed in a crouch. Rose. Attacked.
Scythe and shield met with a sound like thunder. The Servant pressed close, chains writhing around her like serpents, each one seeking an opening. Mash deflected two. Dodged a third. The fourth scraped along her armored hip, leaving a trail of sparks.
They separated. Circled. Clashed again.
Griswald watched helplessly from the rubble. Through the contract he felt Mash's exhaustion. Her muscles screaming. Her mana reserves draining faster than his pathetic circuits could replenish them.
The Servant's scythe carved a diagonal arc. Mash caught it on her shield's edge. The robed woman's chains snaked toward her ankles—obvious, telegraphed—and Mash jumped to avoid them.
Too predictable.
The Servant's foot swept out. Caught nothing. She stumbled.
Mash saw the opening. Her shield arm drew back for a devastating strike. She lunged forward, overextending, putting everything she had left into what should have been a finishing blow.
The Servant's smile widened as Mash took the faint.
Chains erupted from everywhere at once.
They wrapped around Mash's extended arm. Her shield. Her waist. Her ankles. More chains—faster than Griswald's eyes could track—coiled around her thighs, her torso, her throat. Each link tightened with mechanical precision, locking her in place like a fly caught in a spider's web.
Mash struggled. Her muscles strained against the iron bonds. The chains held.
"NO!"
Griswald's voice tore from his throat before he could stop it. Raw. Desperate. Utterly helpless.
The Servant turned toward him. Her amber eyes found his across the burning street, and her laughter rang out like shattering crystal—high, melodic, triumphant.
"Oh, that expression." She pressed one hand to her bare chest, fingers splayed between her exposed breasts. "That beautiful, broken expression. I could drink it like wine."
Her free hand made a casual gesture.
The chains shifted.
Mash gasped as the iron links rearranged themselves around her body. They pulled her arms back, forcing her spine to arch. Wrapped between her breasts, pressing the armored fabric tight against her chest until every curve was outlined in sharp relief. More chains slid between her thighs, pulling her legs apart, the metal links catching on her bodysuit and hiking the already-short garment higher.
"Stop—" Mash's voice came out strangled. The chain around her throat tightened just enough to make speech difficult.
"Shh." The Servant approached her bound prey with languid steps. Her nearly-nude body swayed with each movement, hips rolling, breasts bouncing gently. "Don't struggle. It only makes the chains tighter."
She circled behind Mash. One pale hand reached out, fingers trailing along the exposed skin of Mash's shoulder. The chains responded to her touch, shifting again—pulling Mash's arms higher, spreading her legs wider.
"Such a pretty weapon," the Servant murmured. "Wasted on such a worthless Master."
She pressed herself against Mash's back.
Griswald's breath caught.
The Servant's bare breasts flattened against Mash's armored spine. Her arms wrapped around the smaller girl's waist, fingers splaying across her exposed stomach—that gap in her bodysuit suddenly seeming obscene. Her chin rested on Mash's shoulder, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Can you feel that?" The Servant's voice dropped to a purr. "Your Master's heart racing? His fear? His arousal?"
Mash shuddered.
"Don't—don't touch him—"
"Touch him?" The Servant laughed. Her hips ground forward, pressing her pelvis against Mash's restrained backside. "Oh, sweet little shield. I'm going to do so much more than touch him."
Her tongue traced the curve of Mash's ear.
"After I finish with you, I'm going to take such good care of your Master." Her hands slid lower, fingers dancing along the edge of Mash's bodysuit where it met bare thigh. "I'll drain every drop of mana from his pathetic little circuits. Make him beg. Make him scream."
The chains pulled tighter. Mash whimpered.
"And when I'm done—when there's nothing left of him but an empty husk—I'll let you watch him die."
Griswald's legs moved without conscious thought. Toward them. Toward Mash. Toward certain death.
"How touching."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
Male. Deep. Carrying an accent Griswald couldn't place—something northern, something old. And absolutely dripping with amusement.
The Servant's head snapped up.
"Bondage? Really?" The voice continued, casual as a comment on the weather. "I expected something more creative from you. Though I suppose when one's personality is as shallow as a rain puddle, one's tastes follow suit."
The robed woman's amber eyes scanned the burning street. "Show yourself."
"As you wish."
Blue light blazed beneath her feet.
Griswald recognized the pattern—barely, distantly, from half-remembered lectures on foreign magical traditions. Nordic. Runic. Ancient beyond measure.
The Servant looked down her eyes wide.
"Oh," she said. "Fuck—"
The runes detonated.
Fire erupted in a pillar of blue-white flame, consuming the spot where the Servant had stood. The heat washed over Griswald's face even from thirty feet away. He threw his arm up, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.
The chains around Mash dissolved into ash.
She dropped to her knees, gasping, one hand pressed to her throat where the iron links had left red marks on pale skin. Griswald was at her side in seconds, his hands finding her shoulders, her face, checking for injuries his medical training screamed at him to catalogue.
"Mash—Mash, are you—"
"Senpai." Her voice was hoarse. Her violet eyes found his. "I'm alright."
The pillar of flame died.
Where the robed Servant had stood, there was only a scorched crater. No body. No ash. Nothing but the lingering smell of ozone and the crackling of magical residue. As the barley clothed servant retreated back fifty feet.
"Well," the male voice said from somewhere above them. "That was dramatic."