Chapter 504: Royal Final Battle (1)
The mirror blade: he noticed hairline scratches across the fuller on the reflective side, tiny scoring invisible unless light struck at a harsh angle. Likely the relic deflected direct energy bolts, but broad-area effects—the kind that wrapped—would leak through the scratches.
Mage’s orb: the star-fields inside spiraled clockwise. But when the mage turned left, the rotation countered slightly, as if inertia fought the motion. In that fractional lag he saw the spatial lens flicker out behind the caster’s left heel—perhaps twenty degrees of blind spot.
The knight: armor whistled when he inhaled, sigils aligning and creating temporary vents. On exhale the plates resettled with a clack. If those vents clogged with molten metal from a lightning strike, heat would cook him alive under his own skin. Good.
The Queen: she exhaled in short syllables, lips forming silent words. Her hands twitched like a gambler counting cards four hands ahead. Lyan timed the twitches—five heartbeats apart. Precognitive bursts, but limited by processing speed. Overwhelm with layered feints; let her drown in choice.
He stored the observations, locking them behind calm eyes.
"Astellia is scum," the King repeated, raising his chin. "Rats squealing in stolen palaces. We are the last empire of men."
"Then it’s a shame," Lyan replied, voice pitched almost sad, "to wrap such pride around cowardice."
The Queen flinched—a micro jerk at the word shame as if that specific future unravelled something she’d preferred hidden. Lyan filed the reaction: psychological lever acquired.
The broader princess barked a low laugh. "Coward? Father, permit me to unmake him."
"Blood of my blood," the King murmured indulgently, gesturing with two fingers. "Show him how royals dance."
But no one moved yet. Standoff tension, like dry grass before storm lightning.