---
The smoke hadn't cleared—it danced in coils, a living thing that cloaked her like a lover.
Serelith crouched behind the remnants of a scorched flesh, the smell of burning flesh and iron thick in her nose. The last moment had been too close. Too visible. Laraine had sensed her—seen her. That was a problem. A rare one.
She rolled her shoulders slowly, exhaling the tension. The dagger still gleamed in her hand, the poison glistening like black dew along the blade's edge.
The Queen commands. I obey.
But something in her chest had stirred at the sight of Laraine's face. That unmistakable fury, Serelith had expected fear. Not fire.
It made things complicated.
She wasn't here to hesitate.
She was here to end this.
From her vantage, she saw Cleo draw closer to Laraine, her own sword slick with blood, her eyes sweeping the chaos. Not Laraine's shadow, Serelith noted. But close.
Too close.
She shifted, preparing to slink toward her new angle—one clean strike from behind. Just one opening.
But as she moved, a flicker betrayed her.
Just a flicker.
But it was enough.
---
Cleo's breath hitched.
There—near the edge of the smoke. A slip. A blur. A shadow where there shouldn't be one.
Her fingers tightened on her hilt. The battlefield was chaos, yes—but something felt off in that spot. Too still. Too focused.
She took a half-step toward Laraine, then shifted her stance subtly, eyes narrowing toward the dark.
A predator was watching them.
No... watching her.
"Laraine," Cleo murmured, not loud enough for others to hear, "someone's still out there. Close. Watching us."
Laraine didn't respond, but Cleo saw her muscles shift—ready.
And in the smoke, Serelith's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile.
'Ah... so you're not just a rebel leader after all.'
She would have to be quicker this time.
Because Cleo had just become a problem.
And Serelith had never been one to leave problems unresolved.
Cleo stepped slightly ahead of Laraine now, her stance guarded, eyes never leaving the shadowed corner where something had moved. Her instincts screamed of danger—not the kind that roared in with swords and fire, but the kind that watched, that waited.
"She's here," Cleo whispered. "Whoever it is—they're watching you."
Laraine didn't flinch. Her gaze swept the smoke-choked field, jaw clenched. She knew. She'd seen her. That look in Serelith's eyes had been unmistakable. Cold precision. Controlled hatred.
Suddenly a scream.
From behind them, one of the rebel captains fell to his knees, blood gushing from his thigh. A clean strike. Precise. Another collapsed beside him, gasping, a dart embedded in his neck.
"Dammit!" Laraine barked, spinning toward the screams.
It wasn't random. It wasn't an attack to kill.
It was a message.
Serelith was hunting—but not to win.
To torment. To isolate. To send a clear signal: I'm closer than you think.
Cleo cursed, eyes darting between the chaos and the flickering shadows. "She's picking them off, she's baiting us."
Laraine growled through clenched teeth. "She wants me alone."
She stepped forward, but Cleo caught her wrist.
"You're bleeding," Cleo said. "And if she gets her way, you'll be dead before you land a blow."
Their eyes met—Cleo's full of worry, Laraine's burning with fury.
"Let her come," Laraine said softly, dangerously. "Let her see I'm not afraid."
And from the gloom, Serelith watched, crouched atop the ruined frame of a wagon.
She tilted her head, fascinated.
Laraine still had the fire.
But how long would she hold it, once everything else turned to ash?
"Cleo," Laraine said, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "Go. Follow the plan. Regroup with the others by the southern ridge."
Cleo's brows furrowed. "Laraine—"
"That's an order."
Laraine's tone cut sharper than any blade. Not out of anger—but out of necessity. There was no room for argument, not when the shadow she once trusted now stalked her from the smoke.
Cleo hesitated, jaw clenched in frustration. Then, with a nod, she turned and slipped away toward the regrouping rebels.
Laraine waited until Cleo vanished into the veil of smoke, then turned toward the thickest shadows—the place she felt her.
The battlefield noise dulled in her ears. All she could hear now was the distant beat of her own heart and the whisper of flames.
"Serelith," she called, voice low but unwavering. "I know you're there."
No answer. Just the creak of scorched wood and the hiss of burning canvas.
Laraine took a step closer, blood dripping from the gash at her side, blade still in hand. Her breath was ragged, but her stance never wavered.
"Come out. Or are you only brave in the dark now?"
That did it.
From the edge of a crumbled wall, a silhouette unfurled—like a nightmare stepping through a memory. Graceful, deadly, and cloaked in smoke.
Serelith emerged.
Her expression unreadable. Her twin daggers glinted with menace. No helmet. No mask. Just her face—older, colder, but undeniably hers.
Laraine's grip tightened. "You're alive," she said, more accusation than relief
Serelith tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting. "I'm surviving. Something you should understand."
Their standoff crackled like dry kindling.
No rush. No charge. Just two ghosts of a shared past, circling the ruins of what they used to believe in.
And the next move would decide everything.
Laraine's blade dipped slightly. "You're surviving?" she echoed, voice laced with fury. "By slaughtering people in the shadows?"
Serelith's eyes didn't waver. "That's how i fight Laraine, you should know."
That was all it took.
Laraine surged forward, blade slicing through the air with all the weight of anger behind it. Serelith caught it on one dagger, sparks flaring as steel met steel. The impact rang like a scream.
Then they moved—fluid, vicious, familiar.
The first clash was brutal: Laraine's strikes were wild but precise, powered by emotion. Serelith's defense was colder, economical—like she'd memorized every step of Laraine's dance long ago.
"You took everything away from me!," Laraine snarled, forcing Serelith back with a series of blistering strikes. "You let me believe that I was worthless"
Serelith deflected another blow, pivoting sharply and slicing at Laraine's side with her second blade. Laraine twisted, the dagger nicking her arm.
"It was easier that way," Serelith said flatly.
Laraine roared, sweeping low and aiming for Serelith's legs—forcing her to leap back, breath sharp.
Around them, the battlefield burned, but for a moment, it felt like nothing else existed—just two women, once allies, now adversaries, tearing each other apart beneath a blood-red sky.
"I trusted you!" Laraine hissed, eyes burning.
Serelith hesitated—just a flicker—but Laraine saw it. And she pressed forward, raining down blow after blow.
"You said to me that I was meant for the crown" she said, voice cracking. "Then you went ahead to exile me"
"I chose my daughter and my grandsons," Serelith shot back, blocking a brutal downward strike. "I did what I had to."
Their blades locked, faces inches apart. Laraine's eyes were glassy with rage. Serelith's jaw was tight, but her voice was steady.
"I didn't want to kill you," she whispered. "But I will."
Laraine shoved her back. "Then try."
And the duel ignited again—faster, fiercer, no more words.
Only the past, crashing into the present with the weight of fire and steel.
Laraine was faster now. Her rage sharpened her movements, every swing of her blade infused with memory and grief. Serelith matched her for as long as she could, parrying and pivoting, but cracks were forming in her rhythm. Her breaths were growing heavier. Her left side—the one Laraine had cut earlier—was beginning to stiffen.
And Laraine saw it.
"You're slipping," she spat, striking hard.
Serelith blocked the blow, but staggered. "You always talked too much."
Another strike—this time a slice across Serelith's thigh. She dropped to one knee with a grunt, blood seeping into the dirt beneath her.
Laraine stood over her, chest heaving, blade raised.
"You could've stayed dead," Laraine said, voice shaking.
Serelith coughed, blood on her lips. "I wanted to kill you."
"And now?" Laraine crouched, fury and heartbreak twisting across her face. "You're going to die here instead. Alone. Was it worth it?"
Serelith's eyes flicked up, not defiant—but resigned.
"Yes," she whispered.
Then her fingers twitched—subtle, practiced—and before Laraine could move, a slender blade snapped from Serelith's sleeve. With the last of her strength, she drove it upward.
Straight into Laraine's heart.
Laraine gasped.
The dagger buried deep, right below her ribs—poison-laced, burning like wildfire.
For a moment, time stilled.
Serelith collapsed backward, coughing violently, blood staining her lips and chin.
Laraine fell to one knee, staring down at the blade now embedded in her. Her vision blurred, a cold sweat breaking over her skin as the poison took hold.
"You…" she choked, reaching for the hilt.
Serelith's voice was faint but firm. "You should've killed me faster."
Then her eyes fluttered closed—blood pooling around her. Her chest barely rose. Barely.
Laraine swayed, pain and fury roaring through her like a storm.
Behind her, the battlefield was still burning. But now—so was her heart.
---