"She killed my daughter!" Sofia's voice rang out across the courtyard, raw with grief and fury. "My only child! The only person I had left in this world! And don't you dare stand there and try to tell me that she had nothing to do with it! Don't insult my intelligence or my instincts by pretending this foreign witch is innocent!"
Her voice rose even higher, nearly cracking with emotion.
"My very soul tells me she's the one who caused this tragedy, the one who is directly responsible for my daughter's death!" Fresh tears began streaming down the stern duchess's face, cutting tracks through her rigid composure and revealing the devastated mother beneath the military bearing. "That was my only child," she repeated more slowly, as though the repetition might somehow make the reality more bearable, might help her mind accept what her heart was rejecting. "My only child."
Silence settled over the courtyard following her anguished declaration. The Duchess had brought her entire entourage with her—a substantial contingent of nobles from Lumirei duchy who had presumably accompanied her to provide support and bear witness to whatever confrontation she had planned. These nobles stood in a cluster behind their duchess, and I could hear them whispering amongst themselves, their voices carrying clearly in the quiet. They kept glancing toward me periodically, their eyes assessing, judging, speculating.
"Witch," someone murmured, the word delivered like an accusation.
"Witchcraft," another voice agreed. "Black magic, clearly. How else could someone die so suddenly and mysteriously?"
The words floated through the air, repeated and reinforced by multiple speakers until they took on the weight of consensus truth rather than mere speculation.
I stepped forward, moving to stand in front of Arvid with a quiet sigh. I was tired—bone-deep tired of accusations and trials and performances, tired of having to defend myself against charges both true and false.
"Do you actually have proof, Duchess?" I asked clearly, projecting my voice so everyone assembled could hear. "Real, concrete evidence that I killed your daughter? Not feelings or suspicions or convenient accusations, but actual proof that would stand up to scrutiny?"
I looked her directly in the eyes, holding her gaze steadily.
"Because throwing around accusations of murder without substantiation is a serious matter. Surely you, as a military commander and duchess, understand the importance of evidence?"
Her face was visibly distorted by the competing forces of overwhelming grief and incandescent rage. The careful composure she had displayed yesterday in the trial hall—that controlled, calculating demeanor—had completely shattered. She looked nothing like the stern, dangerous woman who had commanded such respect and fear. Grief had stripped away all her carefully maintained facades, leaving only raw emotion.
I suppose some people genuinely needed to experience the devastating loss of a loved one firsthand before they could truly understand how it felt, before they could comprehend the depth of pain that drove others to desperate actions.
"And just so you're aware," I added with deliberate casualness, "Katherine was her parents' only child as well. Their sole daughter. The center of their world, just as Fiona was the center of yours."
The comparison hung in the air between us, the implication clear: you ordered the death of someone else's only child without apparent remorse, so why should your own loss be treated as more tragic or deserving of justice?
Sofia was trembling now, her entire body shaking with the force of her emotions. Her hand shook as well, causing the sword she still held to vibrate, creating a subtle metallic sound that punctuated the tense silence—the ringing of steel trembling in an unsteady grip.
"So you took my daughter's life to prove a point?" she asked, her voice emerging hoarse and ragged. "You murdered her as some kind of lesson? As revenge for what happened to your maid?"
"Again, Duchess," I replied with exaggerated patience, even rolling my eyes slightly for emphasis, "where exactly is your evidence? You can't simply accuse someone of murder without proof, no matter how strongly you feel about it. Just because your soul supposedly tells you something doesn't make it factually true or legally actionable. You of all people should understand that fundamental principle of justice, given your position and experience."
For a long moment, she simply stared at me, her chest heaving with labored breathing. Then, with a sudden decisive motion, she dropped her sword. The weapon clattered against the stone courtyard floor with a loud, discordant sound. She reached down with her free hand and stripped off one of her white military gloves—the formal type worn as part of her commander's uniform. With a sharp, aggressive movement, she threw the glove directly at my feet, where it landed with far less dramatic impact than she had probably intended.
"I challenge you to a duel to the death, you witch!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the courtyard with absolute conviction. "Let the gods themselves judge between us! If you're innocent as you claim, you'll have nothing to fear from honest combat!"
"That's completely—" Arvid started to object, clearly about to point out all the ways this was inappropriate and unnecessary, but I raised one hand in front of him, cutting off his protest before it could fully form.
"I should warn you clearly before you commit to this course of action," I said, addressing Sofia directly while ignoring Arvid's tension beside me. "I am strong. Considerably stronger than you have probably ever imagined someone could be. The very moment you issued that challenge, you essentially secured yourself a position in the afterlife. Your death became inevitable. So I'm asking you now, giving you one final opportunity to reconsider: would you still want to go through with this duel, knowing with certainty that you cannot win?"
"Yes," Sofia replied without hesitation, her voice carrying the weight of absolute determination. "My life has no meaning whatsoever without my child. I have nothing left to live for, no purpose, no joy. So yes, I shall duel you to death. Either I'll avenge Fiona, or I'll join her. Either outcome is acceptable."
"Then you should have raised her to be a decent human being instead of an entitled monster who thought she could order torture and murder without consequences," I replied coldly. "But so be it. If you insist on this path, I'll accommodate your wish."
I turned and took the sword from Arvid's hand, feeling the weight of it in my palm. It was noticeably heavier than the wooden practice swords I had trained with during my time in Gorei, the balance different, the grip less familiar. But it would serve well enough for what needed to be done. A sword was a sword, and technique mattered more than perfect equipment.
The assembled nobles and soldiers quickly cleared space in the courtyard, forming a rough circle that would serve as our dueling ground. General Rohan positioned himself at the edge of this improvised arena, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation but recognizing that it had gone too far to be stopped now.
"When I give the signal, you may begin," Rohan announced formally, though his voice carried none of the enthusiasm typically associated with sanctioned duels. "Fighters, take your positions."
Sofia and I moved to opposite sides of the cleared space, perhaps twenty feet separating us. She held her sword with the practiced ease of someone who had trained with such weapons for decades, who had fought in actual combat and killed before. Her stance was textbook perfect, her guard solid.
"Charge!" Rohan yelled, his voice cutting through the tension.
The Duchess immediately flew toward me with impressive speed, her years of military training and combat experience evident in every movement. She covered the distance between us rapidly, her sword already moving through the beginning of an attack pattern that would have been devastating against most opponents. Her technique was solid, her form generally excellent.
But she was sloppy. Perhaps the overwhelming emotions she was experiencing had compromised her usual discipline and precision. Perhaps grief and rage had clouded her tactical judgment. Whatever the cause, she had left herself wide open—her neck completely exposed, undefended, vulnerable.
That was all the opportunity I needed.
I raised my sword, angling it precisely, and used her own aggressive forward momentum against her. I struck at her exposed neck with what I intended to be a clean slashing motion across the throat—quick, relatively merciful given the circumstances.
But I had badly miscalculated my own strength. The blade didn't just slash across her neck as intended. Instead, it cut completely through like a well-sharpened knife passing through soft fruit, encountering virtually no resistance from flesh and bone and spine. The devastating power I had gained through my transformation, the supernatural strength that came with becoming increasingly draconic, had turned what should have been a fatal wound into something far more grotesque.
Her head separated completely from her body and flew upward, propelled by the force of my strike. Blood sprayed outward in a wide arc, spattering across my face and clothes and the stones beneath my feet. The warm, coppery liquid covered me, soaking through fabric and coating my skin.
Sofia's headless body took several staggering steps forward—some final firing of nerves and muscles that didn't yet understand they were dead—before finally collapsing to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked military uniform. A moment later, her severed head fell from its arc through the air, landing with a wet, heavy sound several feet from her body.
The courtyard erupted into chaos—screams, shouts, people rushing forward or backing away in horror, general pandemonium as observers processed what they had just witnessed.
I simply stood there, covered in blood, holding the dripping sword, and felt absolutely nothing beyond mild satisfaction that it was over.
---
"Since the Duchess of Lumirei died without naming any heirs, and since she has no surviving children or close relatives who might inherit, her duchy is to be divided and distributed among the various noble houses that make up Lumirei's territory according to traditional protocols and..."
I rubbed my temples vigorously, trying to massage away the absolutely splitting headache that had descended on me like a hammer blow the moment Sofia's body hit the ground. The pain was excruciating—far worse than any ordinary headache I had ever experienced, pulsing in waves that made it difficult to think clearly or focus on anything else.
Aiona had explained, somewhat belatedly, that this was the backlash from using forbidden magic. Apparently, there were consequences built into the punishment from using forbidden magic, which she had used three times before—punishments designed to discourage casual use of such dark arts. And those consequences didn't fully trigger until the caster took their first human life directly with their own hands rather than through intermediary means. The punishment had been waiting, dormant, until I personally killed someone. Which I had now done spectacularly and publicly.
And here I was, forced to sit through yet another trial, another endless legal proceeding filled with tedious formalities and bureaucratic necessities. Though I wasn't being charged with any crime this time—the duel had been conducted with the explicit consent of both parties, making it legally sanctioned combat rather than murder—they still had to deal with all the aftermath. Property distribution, political ramifications, official documentation of what had occurred.
The elderly priest who served as judge had been droning on for approximately an hour now, reading from various legal documents and explaining procedures in exhaustive detail that I couldn't bring myself to care about through the fog of pain.
"Aiona," I called out mentally, interrupting whatever she had been doing in her domain. "Listen to me very carefully: you are not to use forbidden magic ever again. Do you understand? This headache is absolutely not worth whatever benefits that magic might have provided."
"You do realize that the punishment mechanism wasn't going to trigger until you personally took your first human life directly, right?" she retorted, her mental voice carrying a distinct note of defensiveness. "The backlash was always built into the spell—it's part of the price for using such powerful magic to work. So this is kind of your own fault for killing the duchess yourself instead of finding some indirect method."
"I never knew that!" I yelled back at her mentally, my anger flaring despite—or perhaps because of—the pain. "You never told me there would be consequences! You never explained that using forbidden magic would create some kind of magical debt that would come due the moment I killed someone with my own hands!"
"Well, I genuinely never thought you were actually going to kill someone directly!" she shouted back, equally heated now. "I assumed you'd be smarter than that, that you'd find ways to eliminate threats without literally cutting off heads in public courtyards! So I didn't think I needed to worry about explaining every possible consequence!"
We both huffed at each other in annoyed silence for a moment, neither willing to back down or apologize. Then I deliberately shut off our mental connection, cutting her off mid-thought. I simply didn't have the energy to continue arguing while this headache threatened to split my skull open.
After what felt like several more hours but was probably only thirty or forty minutes, the trial finally concluded. The judge read his final pronouncements, various legal officials signed the necessary documents, and everyone was formally dismissed.
But I was in far too much pain to even consider getting up from the chair I had been occupying. The irony wasn't lost on me that just a day before, this exact same chair had been occupied by Fiona—now dead, her consciousness trapped in eternal nightmare even beyond death. The thought carried a certain nostalgic quality, though that probably wasn't quite the right word for what I was feeling.
Arvid approached and knelt beside my chair, his face creased with concern. "Are you alright? You look extremely pale," he said gently. "What's wrong?"
I reached out and grabbed onto his arm for support, then leaned my head against his shoulder, seeking comfort in his physical presence and warmth.
"My head hurts," I told him, and I was embarrassed to hear my voice coming out small and plaintive, almost childlike. Tears had begun gathering in my eyes from the sheer intensity of the pain. "It hurts so much, Arvid. Like someone is driving spikes through my skull from the inside."
He reached up with his free hand and softly caressed my head with gentle, careful movements, avoiding pressing too hard in case that made the pain worse.
"I'll massage your head with some special herbal oil when we get back to the residence," he promised, his voice warm and soothing. "There's a blend that's supposed to be particularly effective for severe headaches. It should help."
Then, without warning or asking permission, he simply scooped me up into his arms, lifting me from the chair as easily as one might lift a child. One arm went under my knees, the other behind my back, cradling me securely against his chest.
"Let's get out of here," he said firmly, already beginning to walk toward the exit. "You need rest and treatment, not more bureaucratic nonsense."
I felt my face heating with embarrassment. People were definitely looking at us now—I could feel dozens of eyes tracking our progress across the hall. Whispers and murmurs followed in our wake, speculation about what had just transpired and what it all meant.
But as another savage wave of splitting pain crashed through my head, I decided that I genuinely didn't care what anyone thought or said. Their opinions were completely irrelevant compared to the agony I was experiencing.
Instead of worrying about appearances or propriety, I wrapped my arms around Arvid's shoulders and cuddled closer against him, seeking the comfort and security his presence offered. He was warm as always, his body radiating heat that felt wonderful against my skin. And he smelled good—that distinctive scent I had come to associate with safety and home.
Lulled by the steady rhythm of his walking and the warmth of his embrace, I found myself drifting off to sleep despite the headache, exhaustion finally overcoming pain.
---
I woke much, much later back at the residence. I was lying in my bed, and Arvid was sitting on a chair he had positioned right next to the mattress, near the nightstand where a single candle burned. He had warmed some kind of herbal oil—I could smell the distinctive aromatherapeutic scent—and was carefully applying it to the crown of my head, his fingers working it in with gentle, methodical massage strokes.
I had been repositioned so my head rested on Arvid's lap while he sat beside the bed, giving him better access to massage my scalp properly. The oil he was using felt warm and soothing, and his fingers were working small miracles, finding tension points I hadn't even known existed and carefully releasing them.
The combination of the therapeutic oil and his skilled massage worked wonders. The headache that had been absolutely debilitating earlier began to recede, fading from excruciating to merely uncomfortable to almost gone. The relief was so profound, the sensation of pain lifting so welcome, that I found myself drifting back to sleep before long.
When I woke again, considerably more time had passed. I could tell it was very late—well past midnight, probably approaching the darkest hours before dawn. The view through the balcony doors showed nothing but pitch blackness, no hint of approaching sunrise.
Someone was still sitting in the chair beside my bed. Arvid, I realized as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. He was reading a book, occasionally turning a page with quiet, careful movements designed not to disturb my rest. He must have been sitting there for hours, keeping watch while I slept.
The headache was completely gone now. I felt remarkably better—refreshed, clear-headed, almost normal again. And I didn't feel particularly sleepy either, having gotten substantial rest over the past however-many hours. Instead, I felt alert and awake, my mind clear for the first time since the forbidden magic's backlash had struck.
I studied Arvid for a moment in the candlelight, watching him read, appreciating the patient vigil he had kept. Then I spoke, breaking the quiet.
"Arvid?"
He immediately set his book aside and turned his full attention to me, his expression concerned.
"Do you want to know why I really sent Katherine back to Draga?" I asked quietly. "The truth this time, not the comfortable lie I told you before?"