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in paradisum deducant te angeli

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Yggdra leans her soft body over the weight of her sword. It buries itself in her chest and that is that.

A day of watching the horizons. Elena and Milanor will return. 

Cannonfire decimates a squadron of archers and Cruz’s desperate call for retreat leads her to take a step forward, blocked only by Rosary’s confident yell and her retainers blocking her path.

They know better than she does at this point.

Death and the taste of blood is still present on her tongue, undead soldiers surrounding her and the phantom cries of the lives claimed by the Holy Sword.

The duty of a ruler closes in on her childish mind and the world goes white.


Water always made Yggdra uncomfortable.

Maybe it was Emelone’s cold words to her, or Ishiene’s death.

Or maybe Nietzsche nervously crawling up from the ocean to beg for help.

The queen’s eyes flicker from left to right and the sight of blood is indistinguishable for the faint spots of red that threaten to overtake her vision. Her sword was hungry. Or maybe the days and nights of constant canonfire had dulled her mind and her own bloodlust was beginning to take root.

Just like Gulcasa. Just like Gulcasa. Her brain hummed to her.

Shut up Mellia.

Mellia’s input on her mental state turned into a string of cackles that threatened to blow her skull open, if the two angelic halves had one thing in common, it was how they made her head pound and how they made her want to rip open her throat.

Her grip on her sword tightened, a punch in the shoulder from a man dressed like a wolf shook her back to reality.

Dressed like a wolf- dressed in a wolf, same difference.

Milanor’s grin was victorious, and Yggdra hadn’t realized that the world around her was drowning.

The water up to her ankles made her skin burn and she was sure the numerous claw marks left by desperate soldiers would leave scars after nearly growing infected. It took days to receive treatment. She was always at her best.


Elena’s presence was odd. She watched and listened, and rarely spoke. Her cold demeanor in this land was new, and Yggdra would spy her crying.

Sometimes she’d fall asleep outside her tent, and Yggdra would tear off the dignity of a queen and lie down in the dirt with her, it was warmer than the huddled bodies of her retainers, and only Milanor made her feel as comfortable as Elena did.

Sometimes in the rare downtime between battles, Elena would pray. Not to a god. Not to Brongaa. Not to anyone. She would just hope that maybe today Gulcasa would throw down his scythe and she could return to the floodgate to bury her late mentor.

Emilia’s mangled corpse submerged in poisonous muck, and the twisted body of her retainer pierced by her own sword would shatter her fantasy, and Elena stopped praying.


Monica looked like Yggdra. But so did Gulcasa.

They had the same hatred in their eyes, the sort of hatred only found in members of the Bronquian Army first.

Once Yggdra was crowned, things changed quickly, and the line between right and wrong vanished with one wave of Mellia’s hand. Bloodshed was commonplace, and Yggdra slept with her hair stuck to the side of her face, glued to her skin by a red substance that quickly turned brown in the wind.


Bile rose to her mouth, burning her throat like tears burned her eyes. Neither could come out and she forced it down before calling out an order to torch another fortress...or put another soldier to the sword.


The Gran Centurio’s weight was nonexistent for Yggdra. Her small frame held it up like a child holds up a feather. She could not cut, only crush.

Gulcasa would be found lying on the ground of his castle, on his way to the abyss. His skull caved in, and his bones pounded into dust. 

This was what had happened to her father. She remembers his mangled body. A sword was thrust into his chest over and over and over and over and over and over again until nothing but a puddle of blood remained where there once was a heart.

So Gulcasa bled.

And bled.

And when her sword lowered for its final strike, the scream that came from the queen was nothing short of animalistic. Hatred dripping from every small movement. 

Yggdra did hate him. But they were the same.

It changed little, after finding Kylier’s arm blown into the city, she hated herself too.