Witch

The only fireworks to be had that day came in the form of debris and destruction as Avalyne Academy exploded.

More precisely, the academy’s main building that served as the festival’s backdrop was consumed by an enormous burst of flames and force that shook the entirety of the campus grounds as massive chunks of steel and stone rained from the sky.

The crowd erupted into absolute pandemonium almost immediately, throwing themselves at each other as the once-cheerful citizens of the empire sought to escape the deadly situation. Though it had only been a moment earlier that the citizens laughed alongside one another, they now tore viciously at their fellows, seeking to secure their own safety amongst the sea of people that struggled to do the same.

“Your Imperial Highness!” Trista shouted urgently as she dived toward Gwenhwyfar with arms outstretched. Her eyes were wild with panic, but they contained a measure of focus within them that only a knight could manage.

Despite her speed, the knight’s valiant attempt to protect the princess would be in vain.

A mass of what appeared to be black butterflies materialized in between Trista and Gwenhwyfar, coalescing into the form of a black-robed woman.

The woman’s hair was long and immaculately glossy, reminiscent of the night sky as it waved in the vesper wind. Her face was obscured by a mask cut from the finest rubies, its crimson surface almost like a massive red eye that glowered at all that the woman deigned to look upon.

Without a word, she raised her arm and pointed her palm toward Trista.

“Wh—”

In an instant, black butterflies gathered within the center of her palm and a thin black lance shot forth with blinding speed.

“—Ghk!”

Trista fell to the ground, the pitch-black lance piercing through the center of her chest. Her eyes were glazed over, and a trickle of blood ran down her pale lips.

“D-Dame Trista!” Gwenhwyfar shouted in horror, barely managing to recover from the shock of what happened. She still couldn’t comprehend it. The black-robed woman had been unarmed, and she’d appeared from out of nowhere. So how did this all happen?

It wasn’t possible.

It just wasn’t possible.

Yet, no matter how many times Gwenhwyfar cried out to Trista lying on the platform, the knight didn’t move. Though she had only just been so vivacious and lively mere minutes ago, she now laid in a steadily growing pool of her own blood.

“GWENHWYFAR!” Medrauta’s powerful roar cut through the cacophony of fear and panic, reaching the princess’ ears with ease. She leapt forward, catapulting herself over the panicking crowd and toward the platform, desperately hoping that she would reach the princess before anything happened.

The black-robed woman’s arm shot out in an instant and grasped the princess by her hair, yanking Gwenhwyfar toward her before holding the princess in place. Despite Gwenhwyfar’s struggles, she couldn’t even budge the woman’s arm.

“You coward! You dare use the princess as a shield!?” Medrauta shouted in rage as she landed in front of the black-robed woman, her longsword already drawn. Though its edges were blunted, it would be more than enough to break bones against an unarmored target.

“A shield?” The black-robed woman laughed, a rich and distorted sound that was equally as distorted as her voice. “What use would I have for a shield when all you hold is a sword that cannot even cut?”

“Then release her if you’re so damn brave,” Medrauta narrowed her eyes.

The black-robed woman laughed again. “As you wish.”

True to her word, the black-robed woman released the princess. The moment her grip was loosened, Gwenhwyfar dashed toward Medrauta, but before she could reach the knight, a swarm of black butterflies like the ones that the woman had materialized from wreathed themselves around the princess.

The prison of butterflies lifted Gwenhwyfar high into the sky where she could do nothing but helplessly watch the chaos below her.

“You think you’re funny?” Medrauta scowled.

“On the contrary, I find your reactions much more amusing. Why go to such lengths to save the princess? Shouldn’t you hate her?”

Medrauta gave the woman no response. Instead, she closed the distance between them in an instant, her sword describing a vicious downward arc that threatened to shatter the woman’s skull.

It was a cut that was issued with such power and authority that no one could’ve doubted its accuracy. Even among knights, there were few who could muster the speed needed to dodge or the strength needed to parry.

Yet this woman did both.

The black-robed woman stepped to the side casually as if taking a leisurely stroll and caught Medrauta’s sword by the false edge with a single hand, not even permitting the blade’s downward arc to complete.

There had been no need to do so, but she had done it anyway just to show that she could, and the act had shocked Medrauta so greatly that she could do nothing but stare at the woman in disbelief.

Even the fleeing crowd had been frozen by the woman’s blatant display of strength. A gravelike silence fell upon the academy grounds, not a single hush escaping the lips of the mortified bystanders for fear of drawing the woman’s attention.

What the fuck just happened...? Medrauta’s eyes were wide as she stood stunned, pinned in place by the oppressive aura that the black-robed woman emanated. Not even a senior knight could replicate such a feat. Perhaps the general of the imperial army could pull off something like that, but not as casually as this woman had done.

Is she a knight...? No, it can’t be... Medrauta stood still as the black-robed woman walked toward her. She knew she had to move, but her legs refused to obey. She wanted to run. She wanted to tell herself that the person—No. The thing that stood before her was an impossibility.

She wanted to tell herself that the woman was no more than an especially powerful rogue knight backed by an equally powerful rogue noble. But deep in her heart, she knew what she faced. She just didn’t have the courage to utter that accursed word.

“...Witch.”

Riku said it for her. He was the only one who could. As he watched in horror at how the black-robed woman had easily negated Medrauta’s attack, he had immediately understood what it was that they faced.

The foreign knight could do nothing after giving voice to the terror contained in everyone’s hearts. It had taken all his will to do so, and as the lone word echoed across the ruined festival grounds, no one dared move even an inch.

Not a single person among those present could stand against a witch. Perhaps a senior knight who bore the princess’ Crest might have had a chance to repel the woman, but as it stood, the princess was in no condition to bestow anything, much less her Crest.

“I told you, didn’t I?” The witch said as she placed her palm against Medrauta’s chest. “What use is a shield when your sword will never reach me?”

Medrauta screamed at her body internally, willing it to move, to retreat, to strike back. To do anything. Yet, it refused to respond to even the most basic of commands as it trembled in fear. Though her mind refused to admit it, her body instinctively understood that the witch who stood before her was death incarnate, and in front of death, there was little one could do but submit.

“It seems we shall part ways much earlier than expected, but...” The witch shrugged. “Oh well. Farewell, little knight.”

Black butterflies swarmed around the witch’s hand once more, but before it could fire that deadly lance, her hand was forcibly torn away from Medrauta’s chest, and the lance shot off into the sky harmlessly.

“Oh?” The witch sounded amused as she inspected her arm. A lone black-shafted arrow had pierced straight through it with such force that it left her limb horribly mangled.

“Her sword might not reach you, but my arrow will!” Viviane declared bravely. She stood alone among the sea of people, and though her hands trembled, her shot had been true.

The bow that she held was small and made of cheap wood, its fragile bowstring already on the precipice of snapping after sustaining the force of Viviane’s shot.

The weapon was a far cry from Sakura’s beautiful moonsteel bow that Viviane had borrowed during her second match against the princess, but even so, it looked beautiful in her hands even if her shot would ultimately be futile.

The witch laughed and tore the arrow free from her arm. Her limb twisted erratically in an unnatural manner and then restored itself to its former state as if nothing had even happened. The only proof that she’d even been shot was the tear in her robes that revealed a pale patch of skin.

The witch turned away from Medrauta to face Viviane. Though the noblewoman stood far from the platform, she could still feel the oppressive aura of death that poured relentlessly from the witch. “...There’s an interesting one. Tell me, what animal do you think I am?”

“W-What...?” Viviane stammered, utterly thrown off by the witch’s question.

The witch pointed her palm at Viviane now, black butterflies gathering at its center. “I think I’d like to be a cat today.”

The pitch-black lance shot forth.

Medrauta watched in horror. She wanted to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t open. She wanted to leap in front of Viviane, but her legs wouldn’t obey. In the end, that was how all living creatures behaved.

Before the threat of certain death, even love was forced to retreat.

No.

With a sky-shaking roar, Medrauta tore herself free from the fear that bound her.

Even if I were to die, you must live.

The powerful muscles in her legs surged like never before. She shot forth, staring at the spear of death that she chased with an unwavering gaze.

Ah. This is it, isn’t it?

Medrauta sailed through the air, miraculously managing to throw herself in front of Viviane.

I love you, Viviane.

Her eyes closed, and she accepted death.