Celestial Blade Of The Fallen Knight

He escorted her to the Hall of Assembly, the final stop. Mira stayed at the door.

Inside, the Lady paused, turned to look at Soren. "You did well," she said.

He hesitated. "I was only supposed to keep you alive."

She grinned, a quick, sly thing. "That's all anyone's really supposed to do."

He nodded, letting the truth of it settle in.

She stepped into the gold-lit hall, shoes silent on the stone, and was gone.

Mira joined him, the sleeve of her coat stained but zipped to the wrist.

"You going to tell them about the Aura?" he asked.

Mira shook her head. "Not unless you want them to test it again."

He grinned. "I'd rather not."

They left the hall, boots echoing in the empty corridor.

Outside, the city was waking up to the news: the Lady had arrived. The Tribunal would go on. Meridian would not be embarrassed, at least not this time.

Soren rolled his wrist, feeling the fragment hum, steady, content, as if it finally belonged.

He wondered if the world would ever be that simple.

But for now, he let it be enough.The wind off the Tribunal bluff was relentless, a horizontal ice that clawed at Soren's exposed skin and brought tears to the eyes if you didn't squint against it. He squinted, kept the Lady in his periphery, and watched the shield-bearers close in with the patient, mathematical certainty of men who'd rehearsed this every morning since the first time someone taught them how to kill.

They came in pairs, perfect spacing, boots picking up the rhythm off the flagstones. Three more at the back, moving at an angle, likely to push the Lady into the killbox when the time came. Soren measured the lead man—helmet, full rig, no visible gaps, but he carried the shield left-high like maybe the right shoulder was mending from an old break. The sword in Soren's hand was suddenly too light, the balance off from adrenaline and the way the world wanted this to be over fast.

He stepped up, meeting the formation head-on. The first impact was steel on steel: a ringing, toothy vibration that split his forearm with numbness. Soren drove forward, levered the shield with his own blade, and felt the Aura catch at the moment of contact. It didn't flare—not like before—but it thickened the air around the edge, slowed the shield just long enough for Soren to twist and rip the man's grip from the bracer.

The second shield came from the left, a lower cut, and Soren barely got his own blade turned to block it. The force rattled him to the ribs; he gasped, tasted blood at the back of his throat. He found his feet, reset. 'Breathe on the lift, not the strike.' Valenna's correction, not as a voice but as a physical memory, a habit hardwired under the skin. He followed it, drew breath, let the blade trail the exhale, and this time the Aura answered with a single, cold line that ran the length of the sword and bit through the wooden lip of the shield like it was wet paper.

The second man dropped back, weapon dangling, more shock than pain. Soren saw the opening and shouldered forward, forgetting everything about caution and just letting the momentum do the work. The third and fourth shield-bearers hesitated at the gap, lost the cadence, and Mira was there, sliding into the breach with the quiet, efficient brutality she'd perfected back in the city. She went under the arms, behind the shield wall, and popped the elbow of the second man before he could recover.

A hiss, a wet snap, then Mira was in the blind spot and onto the first archer, who never had time to regret his career choices. Soren heard the whine of bowstring, but the Lady was exactly where she needed to be, behind the stone outcrop, not even flinching as the arrows struck and skittered.

Soren ducked the next volley, then moved across the bridge, putting himself between the Lady and the remaining attackers. The shield-bearers regrouped, less sure now, two shields up front and the third trailing with a limp, face split by a line of blood that steamed in the cold.

Soren made eye contact with the first, saw the decision crystallize, retreat and report, or double down and hope for a lucky break. He saw it in the knuckles, the way the man set his jaw behind the faceplate.

The charge came, blunt and desperate, but Soren let them close, counted the footsteps, and at the right moment, dropped low and swept the blade in a rising cut.

The Aura was waiting—maybe always had been—and it caught on the upstroke, shearing the edge of the shield and the fingers behind it. Soren didn't stop, just let the sword's line carry him forward, and the man went down screaming into the mat of blue grass that lined the ravine.

The last two held. Mira finished the archer with a single, surgical punch to the throat, then turned and closed on the leftmost man, whose eyes were wide, the whites showing through the visor. She didn't kill him; just knocked him out with a cuff to the helmet and let him crumple.

Then it was done.

The wind dropped for a second, as if the bluff itself was surprised by the outcome. Mira wiped her hands on the inside of her coat, breath coming in white, ragged plumes. Soren checked the Lady, who was already standing, coat immaculate, face unreadable.

They dragged the bodies to the side, out of habit as much as necessity. Soren rifled through the pockets, turning out coin and paper and the detritus of people who'd never intended to leave the city in the first place. The coin caught his eye—a silver disk, weighty, with the crest filed down but the metal still showing the old pattern if you caught it in the right light.

He handed it to the Lady. She turned it over, brow twitching, then met his gaze with a look that said more than any briefing ever could.

"There's only one house that uses that alloy," she said.