Celestial Blade Of The Fallen Knight

At that, everything happened at once. From the left cliff, a glint, archers, maybe four, popping up like weeds. On the bridge, two more figures materialized, shields up, ready for a charge. The Lady didn't scream or flinch; she just pivoted, weight on the balls of her feet, hands inside the coat.

Mira exploded first, knife out and aimed at the soft crease below the tall one's armor plate. Soren felt the fragment in his wrist turn to ice, and he rolled toward the shields, using the momentum to torque his blade up and catch the swing at the rim.

He tried to light the Aura, but the pressure in the gap was all noise, yelling, boots slamming, the crack of arrows on the stone. The line was gone, lost in the riot. He parried, grabbed the shield's edge, and yanked the man forward, putting him between himself and the archers. The second shield-bearer clipped Soren's knee; he felt the pop, the instant numbness, but no time for regret.

Mira planted the knife in the tall one's throat, then stepped back, blood spattering her sleeve. She was already reaching for the bow snapped up from the ground; the archers on the cliff didn't even get a second volley before she put one down.

The Lady moved, fast, elegant, past Soren, ducking the shield clash and using the bridge's low rail as a slingshot to vault behind the brawl. She landed, twisted, and produced a glass ampoule from her coat. Soren saw it coming, wanted to yell, but she'd already thrown it: the vial shattered at the feet of the shield, and a cloud of blue-black gas ballooned up, catching the men square in the faceplate.

He tried again for the Aura, harder this time, but the world was shaking itself apart. His vision blurred, the fragment pulsing in his arm like a fever. Valenna's voice, sharp and very close: *"You're doing it wrong. Anchor first. Breathe on the lift, not the strike."*

He made the adjustment—shifted weight, pulled breath at the elbow, not the wrist. The sword felt lighter, as if it had unspooled a fraction of its own restraint.

"Now," said the voice, and he swung.

The blade caught the air, and this time, the Aura trailed it: a line of blue light, thin as silk, but so cold it singed the edge of Soren's own perception. He slashed at the shield—no real hope of breaking it—but the Aura snapped off the rim, ricocheted, and caught the second man on the exposed cheek.

He fell, screaming, hands to his own face like it would stop the burn. Soren didn't wait, just slammed the hilt into the shield-bearer's sternum and kicked him off the bridge. There was a long second, the sound of wind and nothing else, and then the crash far below.

On the cliff, the last archer hesitated, then drew down on the Lady. Mira was faster: she fired, scored a hit at the ribs. The archer tumbled, but not before letting off a final arrow—Soren tracked it, saw it arcing at Mira's back. He shouted her name; she spun, caught the shaft with her off hand, and howled as the tip buried itself in the meat below the thumb.

The Lady was already at her side, pulling a length of cloth from her own sleeve, wrapping the hand so tight it turned white. Soren felt the tremor in his own arm, the Aura still buzzing but now faded to a shimmer.

For a moment, the world held still. Then Mira, wiping blood off her cheek with the good hand, looked at Soren and said, "Told you. Not local."

He almost laughed.

They checked the bridge—no other threats, just bodies and the stink of the gas. Soren scraped the fragment of glass from the stones with the tip of his sword, then looked at the Lady. "You always pack chemistry?"

She shrugged, fingers already stained from Mira's blood. "I didn't get through the Academy by being good at speeches."

Mira grunted approval, then snapped the arrow's shaft and pocketed the arrowhead. "Could be poisoned," she said, as if it were no more than a dental appointment.

Soren felt the Aura settle, the tension in his wrist dying to a low, tolerable ache. He watched the Lady, who was already planning the next move. She pointed up the trail, where the sun had started to burn off the cloud, lighting the way to the Tribunal.

They walked on, slower now, Mira cradling the hand, Soren limping but refusing to favor the knee. The Lady said nothing for a long time.

At the ridge above, the city lay in wait—banners fluttering, the blue and silver of Meridian visible even this far out. Soren tried not to think of the bodies behind them, the way the Aura had felt—so cold, so easy, and nothing like what he'd trained for all those years.

He glanced at Mira, who met his gaze, reading the same equation in his face.

"You think they'll try again?" he asked.

She smiled, lips cracked but honest. "You kidding? We just made ourselves famous."

At the summit, Soren saw a pair of watchers: two kids with black bands at their sleeves, eyes the color of old coins, tracking every step with the hunger of people who'd never lost a bet. They vanished as soon as Soren met their gaze, but he knew the word would travel ahead of them.

He gripped the sword, let the Aura simmer at his palm, and thought: 'Next time, I'll be ready.'

For the first time, it didn't feel like a lie.

They reached the city edge just after nightfall. The gates were open, the guards braced for show, but not for violence. Soren noted the way the Lady squared her shoulders, how Mira adjusted the collar of her coat, hiding the bloodied hand in the fabric's fold.

Inside, the streets glowed blue with the light of the Tribunal. Banners hung from every arch, the windows alive with the flicker of warm fires and the shadows of people pretending not to stare. Soren watched the Lady take in the show, her eyes skipping from window to banner to the faces framing the avenue.