[???]
The vast destruction in the distance did not even deserve his gaze. The world trembled, yet those beautiful red eyes were much too preoccupied with something far more important.
Mikoto sat leisurely atop a jagged boulder, his posture relaxed. The air around him thick, heavy with the residual mana of battle, and the wind howled through the broken landscape, whipping his wild white hair across his face. But he paid it no mind.
His gaze was fixed entirely on his right arm.
Gone was the familiar black gauntlet he was so used to, instead, a radiant white gauntlet encased his forearm.
It was elaborate in design, the metalwork detailed, impossibly smooth yet otherworldly in its craftsmanship. The white surface gleamed with a brilliance, reflecting the world around it. Adorning the ridges and joints was gold—this was an exceptional gold, one that glowed with a deep, unfathomable luster. Every inch of it was covered in engravings, symbols and inscriptions that pulsed faintly, reacting to his touch, as if the gauntlet itself were alive.
The white and gold clashed horribly against the black and crimson of his armor.
His delicate features twisted in deep dissatisfaction as he flexed his fingers, feeling the unnatural weight of the foreign power constricting his flesh.
With a sharp click of his tongue, he willed it away.
A radiant golden light erupted around his arm, the gauntlet unraveling, breaking apart into a thousand particles . They glowed briefly, suspended in the air like tiny stars, before being carried away by the distant shockwaves of battle.
Beneath, his true arm was revealed—encased once more in his familiar black gauntlet.
("With me forcibly attaining it, it seems to take a toll on my body. The excess power is too much to handle, even with enhancement magic,") he mused darkly. His gaze flickered as his fingers clenched, testing the sensation in his arm. There was still a residual hum—like a lingering echo of something piercing.
("At most, I have twelve to fifteen minutes,") he calculated.
His scowl deepened.
("Honestly, I'm not Cinderella. Having a time limit for Arcane Ascendance is a pain.")
For someone like him, who possessed an absurdly vast mana pool, there should have been no reason why his transformation was restricted. With his mana reserves, he should have been able to sustain a transformation indefinitely. To be restricted by something so arbitrary, so limiting, so beneath him—it was infuriating.
This power—this "blessing"—was rejecting his body, refusing to submit.
How utterly infuriating.
("This crap is bothersome. I have to enhance my body somehow, far beyond mere enhancement magic.")
With an irritated sigh, he planted a firm hand on the boulder and pushed himself up. The movement was effortless, and with a single step forward, he leaped off the rock, landing with grace. The moment his sabatons touched the ground, a soft thud resounded, the impact causing the dust around him to ripple outward.
A slow, irritated breath escaped his rosy lips. This restriction was cumbersome, but not impossible to overcome. Overcoming this restriction would take time, but time was a luxury he didn't have.
"Hm?"
His musings came to an abrupt halt as something small, a speck rushed toward his location.
It was fast but not an attack.
A person.
A tiny figure, outfitted in a green dress, with delicate, elaborate wings on her back.
Mikoto's gaze narrowed slightly. ("Gregory's fairy?")
Cor'nella.
She sped through the air in a desperate blur, her emerald eyes frantically scanning the battlefield as though searching for something, someone. She darted through the sky, her expression exasperated, desperate.
The moment she spotted him, she came to a skidding halt mid-air, wings buzzing furiously.
Her eyes locked onto him.
She scanned his face, her emerald eyes flickering with bewilderment. Confusion immediately washed over her tiny face.
Mikoto could see it all—the slight widening of her eyes, the way she froze, the way her lips parted ever so slightly. She must have thought, for just a fleeting moment, that she had found Lucinda. But the subtle differences in facial structure, the shorter, wilder hair, and—above all—the contrast in attire made her realization sink in.
She realized.
This was not Lucinda.
"Who…" her voice was hesitant, perplexed, as she stared at him. "That armor… Are you… Mikoto?"
Mikoto's gaze flicked toward her, unimpressed.
"Congratulations," he drawled. "You have eyes. Good for you." The sarcasm was razor-sharp.
Her confusion did not waver. If anything, it deepened.
"But—how…" she stammered, at a complete loss for words.
There was no transformation spell. No lingering traces of mana manipulation. This was not some illusion, not some trick of the light.
This was simply Mikoto.
And yet, he was unmistakably a spawn of Octavia. Cor'nella's wings fluttered, uncertain, but Mikoto had no patience for her hesitance.
"Spit it out, fly." Mikoto's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts like a knife. His eyes, so cruelly empty, burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "You look like you wanna say something, judging from how you look like you're about to shit yourself."
The vulgarity of the words clashed with the inhuman beauty of his features, the otherworldly grace that should have belonged to someone noble, not someone so thoroughly soaked in resentment and venom.
But the insult snapped her out of it.
"A-Agatha and that idiot Mirabella are in trouble!" she blurted, frantic.
Mikoto's expression didn't shift in the slightest. "No shit. This is a glorified battle royale. Of course they're gonna run into trouble."
His disinterest was suffocating.
"N-no, it's serious!" Cor'nella's voice cracked, her desperation rising.
"Zat so?" Mikoto disinterestedly picked at his ear with his pinky. "Look, fly, I'm busy. Go bother the others."
He turned, walking away, Cor'nella stared at him, disbelieving. She had assumed he was going through the 'phase,' but… was it truly just that? This level of cold detachment, this seething animosity, this vulgar, resentful cruelty—this was beyond what she had expected.
And those eyes.
Those deep, blood-red pools, hollow yet brimming with something visceral and raw—a hatred so consuming that it burned through him like a sickness.
Hatred for something.
Hatred for someone.
Someone who wasn't even there.
"…They might really die." The words finally made him stop, slowly, his head turned. His gaze locked onto her, piercing through her very soul.
She flinched.
"P-please! Just help!" The plea trembled in the air, fragile and desperate.
She was going to fail again.
No—she was already failing.
The realization came like a vice around her chest, an unbearable pressure that crushed the air from her lungs. Her heart pounded wildly, but her body felt frozen, shackled by an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
She couldn't protect Agatha.
The one person she was meant to guide, to shield, to ensure safety—was about to suffer once more.
And she could do nothing.
Not a spell, not a countermeasure, not a single desperate act of defiance came to her mind. Her limbs trembled, but not from exhaustion—from fear. A primal, gut-wrenching terror that came from knowing the inevitable before it even arrived. Knowing that no matter how much she reached, how much she willed herself forward—
She would fall short.
That monster, its presence was suffocating, its shadow swallowing her whole. She wasn't made for this. She was never made for this. Her small hands clenched into trembling fists, nails biting into the flesh of her palms so hard it hurt—but she could not even feel the pain.
All she could feel was weakness.
A bitter, festering weakness that seeped into her bones, wrapping around her like chains. She was not a warrior, she was not a fighter. She was nothing but support, a fragile presence meant to stand behind the real warriors, meant to watch, meant to—
Scream.
She opened her mouth, desperate to do something, anything, she needed this boy's help— but it was a sound too powerless.
How could she be so useless?
A choked gasp tore from her throat, her lips curling into a frown so deep it hurt. The heat in her chest boiled over, manifesting in the form of tears—unwanted, infuriating tears that welled at the corners of her eyes, blurring the already cruel reality before her.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe she was a failure.
Maybe she was never meant to stand on the battlefield.
"What a fucking pain."
Mikoto sighed in annoyance, rolling his shoulders before finally turning to face her fully.
"Let's go."
"H-huh?"
His gaze sharpened, lips curling into a sneer.
"You're an annoying little shit. You'll probably pester me forever 'cause of those weaklings." He spat. "Don't misunderstand. I don't care what happens to them. I just want this damn festival over and done with."
Cor'nella swallowed. This boy was her hope, she clenched her fists, but nodded quickly.
"R-right!"
No matter his reasons—Mikoto was going to help.
And if anyone could stand against that monster, it was him.
--------------------
Agatha soared through the air like a rag doll, her armored form twisting mid-flight as she gritted her teeth in pain. The force of Selwyn's throw had sent her body rocketing through the barren land below. The weight of her armor felt meaningless against the inertia, and her mind struggled to process the reality that she had been hurled with such ease.
Her eyes narrowed as she twisted her body, shifting her momentum. But before she could even attempt to recover, a black shadow shot toward her like a comet.
Selwyn.
He closed the distance in an instant, his massive blade raised high, his eyes burned with sadistic amusement, his face void of mercy.
"This isn't enough," his voice echoed. "You bore me."
The blade swung down.
A howling crescent of compressed force erupted forth, distorting space, the pressure enough to carve through the distant wasteland like butter. But before it could land, a brilliant light flared below.
"Familial Arts: Point of Annihilation!"
Mirabella's voice rang, from her outstretched palm, a wave of destruction surged forward—not mere mana, but something far greater—a force imbued with the essence of her destruction. The air buckled as the beam ripped toward Selwyn.
Agatha didn't hesitate—she warped.
In the blink of an eye, her body vanished in a burst of light and reappeared beside Mirabella.
Above them, Selwyn twisted mid-air. With inhuman speed, he contorted his body, narrowly avoiding the beam. The raw energy from Mirabella's attack still brushed past him, and even that minuscule contact caused his black armor to hiss and warp slightly. His long red coat tail flapped wildly behind him, his eyes briefly narrowing.
Then, like a meteor, he plummeted.
The ground screamed as his feet made contact, the impact scattering dust, but by the time the dust settled, he was already moving.
Selwyn shot forward.
His speed was unnatural, he closed the gap between them in an instant, the air around him warping under the force of his acceleration. His blade gleamed, raised for a strike that would carve through flesh and armor alike.
Agatha barely had time to react—her hands flew up.
"Familial Arts: Creation Magic."
A collection of golden barriers erupted before them.
Each barrier was etched with runes, layers upon layers of magic forged to withstand even the most absurd forces. But as Selwyn crashed into them, his blade cleaved through the first like it was made of glass. The second shattered. The third crumbled. The fourth barely held. The pressure of his onslaught forced Agatha and Mirabella backward, their sabatons dragging through the broken earth.
"Tsk—!" Agatha bit down, her arms straining as she reinforced the final barrier.
"Useless," Selwyn muttered. He twisted his blade—then tore straight through the last layer.
Agatha and Mirabella leapt back, evading the strike just as the barrier collapsed.
Mirabella's eyes flashed, she thrust out her hands, and an intense fire erupted from her palms.
Familial Arts-infused fire—the only thing capable of harming a Von Auerswald, a Descendant. The land was bathed in a hellish glow as the fire engulfed Selwyn, swallowing him whole. The heat was unbearable—the ground melted into pools of molten rock. The air boiled. The pressure of the flames distorted the air.
Mirabella's kept her hands outstretched, pouring more and more into the flames. She refused to let up. She refused to let him walk away from this unscathed.
Seconds passed.
Then a shadow flickered within the flames, a second later, the fire tore apart. With a single, casual swing of his sword, Selwyn dismissed the roaring blaze.
The act was effortless—insulting.
His red eyes burned with amusement. His black armor, though briefly scorched, had already begun to subside.
"That all?" he asked.
Mirabella's hands tightened into fists, Agatha's jaw clenched.
"I'm disappointed."
Mirabella clicked her tongue in irritation. A faint heat shimmer distorted the air around her as she extended her hand forward, fingers tensed.
"Familial Arts: Blades of Annihilation."
A tremor passed through the area. Space warped as from the void, a chorus of crooked and utterly malevolent blades began to emerge around Selwyn. They pulsed with an eerie sickly glow, the ground beneath them split apart in thin, web-like fractures, there was no delay. They launched at Selwyn all at once.
Selwyn moved, he twisted his body, his coat tail flaring out. The first blade barely scraped past his cheek, and yet, where it passed, the air trembled and collapsed, a vertical rift splitting open in its wake.
The second blade lunged.
Selwyn tilted his head at the last possible second. The sword screeched past his ear, carving a deep trench into the air.
The third came from below, aimed to pierce through his stomach.
Selwyn's leg shot downward, kicking off from the space, a deep sonic crack exploded beneath his foot, shattering the silence with a thunderous shockwave. His entire body inverted in the air as he somersaulted, narrowly avoiding the deathly blade that ruptured the ground beneath him upon impact.
Another sword came from behind.
He landed in a twist, his entire form flowing and with the lightest movement of his wrist, the edge of his blackened sword met the oncoming weapon. The two forces repelled each other violently, and yet Selwyn remained unscathed.
But he had no time to savor his amusement—
The ground split open beneath him.
From the depths of the fractured planet, a seismic eruption of white light surged forward as the earth convulsed in agony. The ground was ripped apart like fragile parchment as an enormous serpent of blinding white emerged.
Its gargantuan body was covered in azure markings, glowing. Its eyes locked onto Selwyn as its massive fangs closed around him in an instant, Selwyn vanished.
The snake launched skyward, breaking the clouds as its colossal form coiled and twisted through the air. Mirabella's gleamed as she extended her arms.
"Familial Arts: Palm of Evisceration!"
The sky parted.
Clouds were not just displaced, from the sky above, an enormous, jagged and armor-clad palm descended.
It was a titan's hand, vast enough to swallow mountains whole, its surface covered in shifting, angular markings. The space around it cracked and bled darkness, raw destruction radiating from its mere existence. As it fell, an overwhelming dark wave of absolute destruction pulsed downward—
Selwyn reappeared.
The snake had not yet reached the apex of its ascent before a single, precise slash of black and red split its fanged mouth open.
For a moment, time seemed to halt, then the serpent erupted. A shockwave tore through the air as the beast detonated, its form unraveling into raw mana. The remnants of its form collapsed into specks of shattered parts, dispersing.
But Selwyn was already moving.
He shot upward, his form nimble as he used the falling remnants of the serpent as stepping stones to reach the palm. The titanic palm of destruction reached him first. A wave of destruction erupted from the impact, stretching across the skies in a violent, concussive blast. The force was so absolute that the land collapsed in layers, entire sections of the planet being ripped apart, leaving behind only floating remnants of disintegrated matter.
The shockwave followed—an eruption of destruction that swept across the battlefield, tearing apart the land, creating a crater so deep that the planet's molten core began to bubble at the surface.
Mirabella and Agatha shielded themselves behind a reinforced barrier, bracing against the cyclonic aftershocks of the attack.
Silence fell.
The palm slowly began to dissipate, its jagged edges crumbling into the skies.
Mirabella exhaled sharply.
"…Did we get him?"
Agatha's eyes scanning the ruined expanse, she frowned.
"…Victoria's link is still gone." Agatha's voice was even. "She isn't using telepathy magic to support us anymore."
Mirabella exhaled sharply, her irritation palpable. Strands of her hair fluttered against her face, carried by the lingering aftershock.
"Tch. So that means one of two things." Mirabella rolled her shoulders, shaking off the dull ache that had begun to seep into her limbs. "Either she decided to be useless, or she and Fiona just got ambushed."
Agatha's lips pressed into a thin line. "The latter."
"Figures." Mirabella exhaled through her nose, glancing at Agatha from the corner of her eye. "You think they're dead?"
"No." Agatha's answer came immediately. "But they've been engaged in combat, at the very least."
Mirabella clicked her tongue, but before she could say more—
The dust finally dispersed.
He stood in the destruction as if the previous onslaught had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Mirabella barely even reacted, she didn't even feel the slightest shock. Of course, he was fine, they both knew he was a monster.
"…Figures," Mirabella muttered, shifting her stance slightly. "I dumped a stupid amount of mana into that, and he still looks like he just walked out of a fucking meeting." Her fingers curled into a tense grip, and she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, "If I keep burning through my Familial Arts like this, I'm gonna run out of mana way too fast."
Agatha, standing beside her, narrowed her eyes, she had already accounted for this. Leaning slightly toward Mirabella, she spoke in hushed tones.
"…There's a way to work around that."
Mirabella's ears twitched slightly as she caught the undertone in Agatha's voice. Her blue eyes flicked sideways, narrowing ever so slightly.
Agatha's lips moved just enough for Mirabella to hear, but whatever she said—
Selwyn did not catch it. And that—more than anything—irritated him.
His expression did not shift, but the air around him seemed to darken. "You vermin waste your breath on pathetic schemes," Selwyn remarked, his tone devoid of any real emotion beyond mild disdain.
"You are both worthless prey." His tone sharpened, his amusement growing more pronounced. "Use Arcane Ascendance."
It was not a suggestion, it was a command.
"If you want to stand even a meager chance against me," he continued, tilting his head slightly, "then ascend."
Mirabella, rather than responding with fury or panic, simply let out an exasperated breath. Then, without missing a beat—
She flipped him off.
It was so casual, so petty, that for a split second, the weight of the battle seemed to pause. Mirabella didn't even look at him as she extended her middle finger toward him, her expression filled with pure unfiltered disdain.
"Tch. You don't get to decide when I bring out my best shit." She muttered. "You wanna see me go all out?" Her blue eyes flickered, a smirk creeping up on her lips. "Earn it, asshole."
For a moment, silence, Selwyn laughed. It was low, quiet at first—a breath of amusement, then it grew, it was mocking.
"…Fine," Selwyn exhaled, lifting his sword slightly. "Then I shall take my time with you both."
He stepped forward.
The earth beneath his feet shattered just from his movement, cracks spread like a web, creeping outward in an instant.
Emerald light flared mid charge.
An ring of prismatic glyphs bloomed into existence beneath Agatha, spiraling outward. The light pulsed violently, expanding outward, warping air.
Her lips barely moved.
"Familial Arts: Creation Magic."
Dozens of figures materialized.
Their forms shimmered—mirror images of Mirabella and Agatha, clones so flawless that even their mana signatures mimicked the originals. They scattered instantly, their sabatons slamming against the ruined ground, moving as they surrounded Selwyn.
Selwyn's eyes narrowed, flicking left—right—left—right—tracking them all. His expression did not shift.
"…Cheap tricks," he muttered.
His inhuman senses spread outward, feeling for the true presence of his prey. But instead—
All he felt was noise.
The clones moved in chaotic, unpredictable patterns, filling the area with false movements, misleading mana fluctuations, and scattered illusions so perfectly woven that even his keen perception faltered for a brief second.
And in battle, a single second was a lifetime.
Behind a massive fractured boulder, the real Agatha and Mirabella crouched low, hidden in the chaos of their fabricated doppelgängers.
Mirabella replayed Agatha's words over in her mind.
"Pure destruction—he can shrug off.
But your Familial Arts: Point of Annihilation doesn't just destroy.
It attacks the soul directly."
Mirabella exhaled sharply, biting the inside of her cheek.
Right.
Selwyn could shrug off conventional devastation—he was too durable, too monstrous and too abnormal.
But Point of Annihilation?
That wasn't a normal attack.
It disregarded physical defenses entirely, honing in on the soul itself, unraveling it at the fundamental level.
Still—
Selwyn had high senses. If she so much as twitched the wrong way, he'd feel the build-up of power. That's where the clones came in.
"Mask your intent. Make him doubt. Keep his eyes moving. Then—"
She exhaled slowly, lowering herself slightly, her left palm pressing against the ground as her right hand hovered in the air.
Selwyn hadn't pinpointed them yet, this was the moment.
With a mental command, Agatha's clones suddenly—
Exploded.
Mana ruptured like a chain reaction, detonation after detonation. A blinding wave of mana burst outward, swallowing the area whole, twisting the air into a churning blur of searing light. The concussive force fractured the earth beneath it, sending boulders flying, creating blinding, overlapping shockwaves.
Selwyn's eyes flashed, his instincts screaming—
A distraction.
But before he could react—
Mirabella moved.
Her palm lifted slightly, and a pulse of force rippled from her palm.
She whispered.
"Familial Arts: Point of Annihilation."
A singular orb manifested just above her outstretched palm, the air around it screamed in protest, it grew, and then it erupted.
Destruction was unleashed, a wave of pure annihilation tore through the battlefield.
It erased.
The landscape simply ceased to exist in the wake of its passage. The terrain vanished in layers, stripped apart at a level beyond matter, leaving only gaping, screaming emptiness where once there had been something.
The force of the blast did not just shatter the air—it nullified it, wind, pressure, resistance—all of it was gone. The sky seemed to recoil, the clouds twisting violently outward.
The wave of blackened destruction roared forward, swallowing everything in its path and Selwyn stood at its center. For the first time in the battle, there was no room for mockery there was no space to simply dodge, the attack had already arrived.
The last thing visible before the devastation completely engulfed him was his expression—unchanged.
The world shattered, the force of the impact lasted for an eternity—or maybe only a few seconds. The explosion bled into silence, and when the light finally died down, all that remained was—
Nothing, just a vast, gaping hole, the land where Selwyn had once stood was gone.
Mirabella breathed heavily, her outstretched palm trembling slightly.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, everything was quiet. Even the wind had seemingly stopped, retreating from the aftermath of Mirabella's strike. The hollow, gaping void where Selwyn had once stood remained. Mirabella and Agatha exhaled, their breaths shallow and ragged.
Agatha's gaze locked on to the void, her eyes flickering as her body stayed unnervingly still. There was a subtle tension to her posture, an awareness of the danger may not yet be quelled.
Mirabella, on the other hand, was anything but calm. Her body was coiled tight, her stance brash and aggressive, her chest heaved, though she tried to keep her breath steady, glaring at the void with clenched fists. The seconds felt like hours, each one longer than the last, but Mirabella wasn't about to let the fear in her chest show.
"I hope that got the bastard." Mirabella growled, breaking the silence. "I'm so done with this."
Agatha barely glanced at her. "You're too impulsive."
Mirabella huffed, but she couldn't help the corner of her lips twitching. Even in the thick of this impending danger, Agatha's voice always seemed to carry a certain sense of comfortness. It grated on Mirabella's nerves, but in this moment, she couldn't deny the steadying effect it had.
"I'd rather not sit around waiting to get our asses handed to us," Mirabella muttered, her eyes flicked over to Agatha for a moment, catching the calm in her demeanor, and she scoffed. "I swear, you're the only one who can keep your head straight here. It's like you've got ice running through your veins."
Agatha's lips curled into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile, though it was tinged with bitterness. "It's," she replied simply. "You, on the other hand... well, you're a bit more... fiery."
Mirabella couldn't help but snort, shaking her head. "Sure, blondie. And you know what? Sometimes it's the only thing that gets the job done."
There was a brief moment of quiet between them.
And then, the world shifted.
Mirabella's eyes narrowed, but before either of them could react, the sharp, searing pain ripped through Agatha's chest.
A blade.
The suddenness of it was like a nightmare unfolding in real time. Agatha's eyes widened, the shock of the wound overwhelming her senses before the searing burn of it could register. Her mouth parted in a silent gasp as the cold steel twisted inside her.
She staggered, but the blade withdrew, the force of it leaving no room for her to recover.
Agatha's knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground in an instant. Her blood spilled across the cracked ground, staining it with a dark red. Mirabella's breath hitched in her throat.
"Agatha!" Mirabella screamed, rushing forward in desperation, her voice cracking.
But it was too late.
Before Mirabella could even think to move, Selwyn was already there. The speed was incomprehensible. In the blink of an eye, he was upon them. Mirabella barely had time to react before a brutal slash tore across her chest. The wicked arc of his blade left a jagged, bleeding tear in her armor, the shock of the impact sending her stumbling back with a strangled gasp.
Her breath caught in her throat, and blood spilled from the wound as her heart raced, her chest tight from the searing pain. The agony was overwhelming. And Selwyn... he just stood there, his gaze indifferent, like a spectator watching a show he had no interest in.
"Such tenacity," he said, his voice disinterested, "but it's all meaningless."
Before Mirabella could respond, Selwyn's foot came down with a sharp, cruel force. He kicked her away like she was a mere ragdoll. The blow sent Mirabella sprawling backward, her body crashing to the earth as her vision blurred.
The world spun. Everything was starting to blur.
"Pathetic," Selwyn continued, watching her with an air of boredom. "You presumed mere tricks enough to ensure my demise."
Mirabella tried to lift herself, her body shaking from the pain as her hands reached for Agatha, but the effort felt like trying to lift a mountain. She gasped for air, but it wasn't enough. Her blood soaked into the ground, and Agatha—her friend—was beside her, too still and too quiet.
"Agatha…" Mirabella whispered hoarsely, her hand shaking as she tried to reach her. But the blood loss was already taking its toll.
Agatha's voice was barely a breath. "Don't… waste your strength…"
"Shut up," Mirabella snapped back, her voice sharp and bitter, though it trembled with a vulnerability she'd rarely showed anyone. "We're not dying here. Not like this."
Agatha's eyes flickered to her with a quiet, faint glimmer of acknowledgment. "Mirabella, I—"
"Don't say it," Mirabella growled, her teeth gritting. She didn't have the luxury of accepting the reality of the situation. Not yet. Not when Agatha was still breathing.
She tried to get to her feet, but the pain was too much. Her breath was ragged, her vision swimming as Selwyn's figure loomed before them. He wasn't even moving now, merely watching the two of them with a detachment.
"You're both weak. You thought you could stand against me?"
Mirabella's fingers twitched, but it was futile. She could feel her body betraying her, the weight of the pain threatening to pull her under.
But she would not let it. Not here. Not now.
"Go to hell," she snarled. "You'll have to kill me if you want us to stay down."
"It's already done," he muttered, his voice flat. "You're both already dead."
Everything felt like it was slipping away. The darkness tugged at the edges of her vision. But through the pain, through the cold, hard certainty of Death pressing against her chest, Mirabella refused to let it win.
Agatha had fought with her. Agatha was still here, still alive, even if only for a moment longer.
Mirabella would not let her die in vain.
Not like this.