The air cracked as Amariah's arrow flew—
The Huntress twisted her body midair, the arrow grazing her cloak as she landed on one knee, sliding across the polished floor. Her blades gleamed, one silver, one black, humming with stored energy.
Amariah didn't flinch.
She unsheathed two daggers from her belt—jagged, old, stained from battles past—and charged with a scream that echoed through the ruined hall.
Clang!
The sound of steel echoed.
They clashed in a blur—daggers against crescent blades. Sparks flew with every strike. Each woman moved like a force of nature—Amariah with the wild, fiery speed of desperation, the Huntress with the cold precision of a killer.
Amariah twisted low, sweeping for the Huntress's legs. The Huntress jumped, flipped backward mid-air, and launched a blade. Amariah smacked it aside, only for the second blade to slice her shoulder as it returned like a boomerang.
Blood splattered.
But Amariah grinned, even in pain.
"You think you can stop me?" she hissed, breath ragged. "You weren't even there when they died. You don't know what it means to lose everything."
The Huntress didn't reply.
She just vanished—a blink, a gust of air—and reappeared behind Amariah with both blades crossing down.
Amariah spun, blocked just in time, then drove her elbow into the Huntress's ribs.
They both stumbled.
Then lunged again.
The crowd had scattered from the center of the hall. Around them, warriors battled—Salem against Edenite, family against family. But in the middle of it all, the world narrowed to two.
Amariah struck fast, aiming for the Huntress's throat.
The Huntress ducked, slid between her legs, kicked her in the back. Amariah rolled and threw a dagger mid-spin.
It struck the Huntress's thigh.
She winced but didn't stop. She kicked Amariah's wrist, knocking the second dagger loose, then spun into a sweeping arc—her silver blade catching the moonlight—
And slicing clean across Amariah's chest.
Amariah staggered.
She dropped to one knee, blood dripping from her armor, breathing hard. The Huntress stood over her, blade poised, unreadable.
But Amariah looked up—and smiled.
"This isn't over."
From beneath her cloak, her hand slid toward something strapped to her side. The Huntress moved—too late—
A small vial shattered at her feet.
Smoke exploded.
Amariah was gone.
The Huntress stepped back, breathing heavy, blood on her blade and wound on her leg, eyes scanning the battlefield through the vanishing smoke.
But Amariah had vanished into the chaos—leaving behind only blood, flame, and silence.
---
As the smoke faded and the crackling of flames echoed off the stone walls, Rex remained kneeling, his hand still over the fading warmth of the poisoned young man's chest. The boy was gone. His body, now vapor, had been claimed by the unknown sap and betrayal.
The Hall—once a place of honor—was torn.
Clashes continued, cries of pain and loyalty echoing through the hall like ancient war drums.
The Guardian King, his armor stained from the skirmish, stood protectively behind Rex, his sword drawn, panting.
Rex looked up at his son, his voice calm but commanding—iron beneath velvet.
"Get the children and pregnant women to the sanctuary," he said. "Protect it with everything you have."
The Guardian King hesitated.
"Father, I— We need you here—"
"I am needed everywhere," Rex growled, rising at last to his full height. "But you are their shield now. Do not fail them."
The Guardian King clenched his jaw, saluted his father once, then turned and ran, barking orders to the warriors who still stood. Dozens moved, forming a living shield around a growing line of terrified mothers and wide-eyed children as they began to move out of the broken hall, toward the underground Sanctuary.
Meanwhile…
Mark stood frozen at the edge of the chaos, David beside him, his robe now torn—revealing a thin armor of flexible scales underneath.
David held a serrated staff, spinning it once like a dance. His tone was serious now, far from the joking boy from earlier.
"I knew she would come," he whispered. "But I didn't think she'd dare the Founders Hall…"
Mark blinked, struggling to grasp it all.
"Is this who she really is? That's… Amariah?"
David nodded, his eyes never leaving the battlefield.
"Once a child of prophecy. Now a storm. And if she truly has that sap—then she's not here to warn us. She's here to cleanse us."
Mark took a step forward, but David blocked him.
"Stay close to me. You're not ready for this kind of war."
"Then help me be," Mark whispered. "I want to understand. I want to fight… but I need to know what we're fighting for."
David looked at him for a long moment, eyes full of history.
"Then stay alive, Mark. Watch. Learn. And don't look away—not even when it gets bloody."
The fire from the battle shimmered across David's staff as he charged into the next wave of Salem warriors, his speed suddenly unnatural, his strikes clean, efficient, and almost graceful.
Mark, heart pounding, watched his new friend vanish into the chaos.
Then… he turned back toward Mariah, who had been rushed out minutes earlier—but in his heart, he feared it was already too late.
---