The kitchen flames crackled softly, casting long shadows over the polished countertops and hanging herbs. A pool of blood shimmered under Dorcas—sharp red against the white tile—yet her hands still clenched tight around the counter.
Mirey, breathing heavily, had just stabbed her.
But as she pulled back, Dorcas twisted, gritting her teeth through the pain, and with one brutal motion shoved Mirey back. Mirey staggered, crashing into the racks of pans, knocking down copper pots.
As Dorcas rose, blood dripping from her mouth, she tore open the side of her robe where she'd been stabbed—revealing a gleaming silver breastplate, fitted tightly over the left side of her chest.
She smiled bitterly, eyes wild with adrenaline.
"You think I wouldn't come prepared?" she growled. "I always wear it. I've been watching you, Mirey."
Mirey's smile returned—sharp, foxlike. "Clever girl," she said, wiping blood from her lips. "But not clever enough."
The kitchen became a blur of motion once more—blades clashing, pots flung as makeshift shields, the sizzle of knives slicing through steam.
Dorcas summoned her sword again from shimmering air—silver and solid, forged from her Crucial gift—but Mirey moved faster now, her fighting style graceful and deceptive, like a dancer trained in death.
A blinding spin—steel flashed—
Dorcas cried out, brought to her knees.
Mirey stood behind her, one hand pulling Dorcas's head back by her hair, the other gripping Dorcas's own conjured sword, now pressed against her throat.
Mirey's dagger was buried deep between Dorcas's ribs.
The kitchen had gone eerily quiet.
"You creatures," Mirey whispered, her voice low, trembling with fury, "you Edenites… you think the name Toy means nothing. A harmless word. A cute title."
She leaned in closer, her breath warm at Dorcas's ear.
"But it's a leash. A collar. A curse. You all look at us—your creations—and expect loyalty. Gratitude. Silence. We are not your pets."
Dorcas gasped, blood trickling from her lips.
"You'll… never get away with—"
"I already have," Mirey hissed, tightening the blade.
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if remembering something lost. A Crucial she once loved. A life she once lived.
"We remember everything, Dorcas. Every command. Every dismissal. Every time we begged to be seen, and you smiled and walked away."
The blade pressed deeper—
---
Founders Hall — Moments After the Duel
The walls echoed with panic. Smoke curled from broken torches, shouts and clash of steel thundered through the corridors, and blood stained the sacred floor.
Amariah, her cloak torn and eyes burning with fury, had vanished through the crumbling doors, pushing past guards who dared to block her. The Huntress, bruised but still standing, turned toward the chaos, her blade dripping, her breath steady.
Rex now on his feet beside the evaporated actor's remains, his face unreadable. He watched his daughter vanish into the night, pain in his silence, but he didn't move.
---
Outside the Palace Gates
The sky had turned a bruised violet. The moon hung heavy, casting pale light on the stone path leading up to the palace.
Amariah walked with fire in her steps, her hand bleeding where the Huntress had grazed her, her cloak fluttering behind her like a shadow. She descended the palace stairs as hundreds of warriors from Salem and other rebel clans emerged from the tree line, armored and armed.
They stood in silence as she approached.
A towering man stepped forward—Elder Put of Arioch, wrapped in chain, his eyes cold.
"Is the signal given?" he asked.
Amariah nodded. "The Founders are vulnerable. The Guardians are scattered. We take it now."
From the crowd, a warrior raised a horn and blew—a long, low note that echoed across Eden.
Palace guards at the gate turned, startled—
And in a blur of motion, Amariah's soldiers surged forward, weapons raised, arrows nocked.
The invasion of the Guardian King's Palace had begun.
---