Several rows of shield-wielding soldiers in heavy armor marched at the front, followed by a line of robed humans whose hands glowed with arcane power. These were their targets—the ones turning the forest to ash.

  Zelkara spotted them from afar. The light of the burning trees illuminated their formation, and they allowed it willingly. It was the mark of a predator so confident that they no longer deemed it necessary to hide from anything.

  She licked her lips, a sharp gleam in her eyes. This would be her first time fighting humans.

  The stories among the tribes painted them as monsters: beings with impossible power who could toy with even their greatest warriors.

  Once, she had believed those tales. But she knew better now. She had seen, she had listened, and she had learned. Humans were not stronger than Chimeroi; they were simply different.

  Their bodies were as fragile as paper, and their magic didn’t necessarily overshadow her kind’s. No. What made them truly dangerous was their adaptability, their planning, their tactics...

  But why should she fear being outsmarted?

  She served the Progenitor of the ancient blood.

  One move, and he had killed the enemy strategist. A second, and he had claimed the sky. His words were like prophecy: every one of them came true.

  Zelkara didn’t need to think, didn’t need to doubt, didn’t need to question.

  The Progenitor told her to charge.

  That alone was enough to guarantee victory.

  The grip on her spear tightened as she dashed into the light of the burning trees. Now she could see individual faces among the enemy ranks, could feel the blistering heat licking her skin.

  These were no ordinary flames: hotter, harsher, consuming entire trees in moments where normal fire would take hours.

  Before she entered the inferno, Zelkara lifted one hand. A pale blue mist burst outward.

  Once, her eldest brother, the pride of the Frostscale tribe, had been the only one capable of this technique. But much had changed since then. She had learned to command the mist and had long since surpassed even her brother at his peak.

  The cloud swept forward in an instant, enveloping the burning trees. The flames fought for a heartbeat, then sputtered out like candles in a storm. Deprived of heat by the Frostscale poison, even these conjured fires had only one fate.

  They died.

  Zelkara felt the pleasant cool of evening return as she ran blindly through the cloud of her own making.

  Confused shouts echoed ahead: muttered questions, startled curses. None of them reacted in time.

  Fools.

  The world opened before her as she burst out of the mist. Thirty steps. That was the distance between her and the enemy formation.

  Everything slowed.

  She saw the shock on the faces of the spear-wielding defenders, the dawning alarm on the Mages. The sluggish realization that they were under attack.

  Twenty steps.

  The first spell flew toward her—a compact sphere of fire, so dense it looked solid. It cut through the air like an arrow aimed at her heart.

  Zelkara swung her spear. Adamantine and Voidiron clashed against conjured flame. The fireball burst, swallowing her in an instant. For a heartbeat, she vanished behind a curtain of blazing heat.

  Then the flames sputtered and died, unable to bite into her frost-hardened flesh. Burning her was like trying to set fire to ice.

  Ten more steps.

  Alarm rippled across the enemy line as their eyes darted past her—no doubt spotting her tribesmen pouring from the mist.

  Even so, it had been foolish to look away from her.

  Zelkara raised her spear high. She locked eyes with the first defender—a man built like a brick wall, a full head taller, twice her width, a mountain of muscle.

  Human muscle...

  Her spear swept forward in a wide arc.

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  The man raised his shield, a metal-studded slab of hardwood nearly as tall as she was.

  Zelkara planted her feet, pouring the full momentum of her sprint into the swing.

  Spear and shield collided.

  Or rather, they should have. Zelkara felt no resistance at all—only a faint vibration through the shaft as the foot-long blade tore through wood, steel, and flesh as if they were nothing.

  The weapon kept going, cutting through a second, third, and fourth defender before her swing finally reached its end. Zelkara twisted with the leftover force, letting it carry her into a smooth spin as she slid the spear back under her arm.

  Her eyes swept the carnage.

  Four defenders lay cleanly bisected at the waist. Two more writhed on the ground—one missing an arm, the other a leg.

  Zelkara grinned.

  A spell arced toward her, and she stepped aside with effortless grace. Even at this distance, their attacks were far too slow.

  Her gaze snapped to the Mage who had fired. They would be the first to die.

  But not yet.

  She flicked her spear forward—an order, not a strike. A heartbeat later, she heard the hiss of air as several dozen javelins filled the sky behind her.

  Then she surged forward again, her weapon weaving a deadly dance as she plunged deeper into enemy lines. It was exactly as she’d suspected: these humans couldn’t keep up with her at all.

  With their commander gone, they hadn’t even sensed her coming until she was already among them.

  Their reliance on him had made them deaf and blind.

  Zelkara tore through the last line of defenders and finally reached the Mages. By now, her entire body was slick with blood. It soaked her hair, turning it a deep crimson.

  Just like her Progenitor.

  Several pillars of flame roared toward her the moment she appeared.

  Zelkara snatched up a corpse and hurled it left, its bulk absorbing two streams of fire. She ducked under a third and slid across the scorched earth.

  These humans…

  Their spells could harm her; she wasn’t arrogant enough to deny that, but their reactions were painfully slow. It was like watching a child swing a sword: dangerous in theory, but no real threat to a seasoned warrior.

  Never had she felt more like a wolf among sheep.

  Her spear flashed, carving a Mage cleanly from groin to skull before she rolled aside, already lunging for the next.

  Inferior stock.

  These were supposed to be equals to her Progenitor?

  Then why was it that his eyes followed her effortlessly, even at full speed, while these humans couldn’t keep her in their sights for more than a heartbeat?

  The spear’s shaft cracked into another Mage’s legs, the blow shattering both knees. Zelkara kicked her in the back, feeling vertebrae snap as the woman’s body rose just high enough to intercept another spell.

  Then the javelins fell.

  Every single one had targeted the Mage line. Even without orders, her people had understood the battlefield perfectly.

  One javelin streaked toward her. She caught it, spun it around her body, and hurled it forward. It hit the nearest Mage like a ballista bolt, punching through him in a spray of gore—a gut wound that would normally take minutes to kill.

  Not this time.

  She watched the flesh around the impact frost over, veins darkening to an icy blue. The man died in seconds.

  Of course he did. The poison had been refined specifically to kill Chimeroi, and even Icefang warriors, renowned for their resistance to cold, had fallen to it.

  What chance did these soft-bellied humans have?

  As if the world itself wished to confirm her thoughts, startled cries rose from all around. The Mage line had lost a full third of its number. Even those fast enough to avoid a direct hit were doomed. A single graze from a javelin was a death sentence. And even if they somehow clung to life, how were they to conjure flames while their bodies froze from the inside out?

  A single wound was already crippling for their fragile, human flesh.

  Zelkara’s grin stretched wider as she turned to glance behind her.

  Rows upon rows of Frostscale warriors crashed into the Ehrenlegion’s front line.

  Calling it a massacre would have been generous.

  Even the weakest of her people possessed twice the strength of these humans. Every one of them had learned the spear before they could walk. And on top of raw strength and discipline, their weapons dripped with venom that made even a scratch fatal.

  The result… was exactly what she expected.

  Her people didn’t even slow. Serpentine tails lashed out, shattering bones or coiling around limbs to drag enemies down.

  Zelkara planted her spear in the ground and watched the battle unfold. She had already grown bored with this fight. No Mages were left alive near her, and those farther away showed no desire to attack.

  Fools.

  How did they expect to win with so much fear in their hearts? Were they waiting for their commander to speak to them again? Or did they have something else to rely on?

  It took less than a minute for the defensive lines to collapse entirely, leaving the Mages to fend for themselves.

  They held out better. One Mage could keep three or four of her warriors at bay—but only barely. Their flames struggled to bite through Frostscale hides and venom-hardened blood, while even a single misstep on their part meant death.

  One by one, they fell, each tiny mistake punished with finality.

  Just then, she noticed a figure walking toward her. Like many of the humans here, he had red hair—but not the vivid crimson of her Progenitor. His was a muddied orange, dull and unremarkable by comparison.

  "Beast," he called out from several paces away, "what gives you the confidence to interfere in our affairs? Do you not know who you’ve attacked?"

  Zelkara frowned. "Who are you calling a beast when you yourself are the scum of the continent?"

  "…Scum of the continent?" His expression darkened. "We are the Ehrenlegion, first sword of the—"

  "I know who you are," Zelkara cut in. "Dogs of Arkanheim. Enemies of my Progenitor."

  "And who is that? Who is your so-called Progenitor bold enough to meddle in our business?"

  "Ezekiel von Hohenheim."

  Zelkara watched the man’s face shift. As expected, her Progenitor’s name alone was enough to silence even his enemies.

  "…Impossible," the man muttered. "Ezekiel von Hohenheim is bound to neutrality."

  Zelkara didn’t bother answering. She had no interest in explaining herself to this man—this walking corpse. The only reason he still drew breath was because he hadn’t attacked yet. But his arrogant tone was starting to test her patience.

  "When the commander learns of this, there will be no place left for you—"

  "He knows," Zelkara interrupted.

  "What?"

  "Your commander already knows," she repeated. "He learned of our presence when my Progenitor stomped him to death."

  The Fire Mage went still a second time. Then he shook his head slowly. "Then you’re living on borrowed time. If I were you, I’d run as fast as I could."

  "Funny," Zelkara said, reaching out to once again grip her spear. "I was about to say the same."

  His expression turned serious, but no fear showed. Flames bloomed in both hands as he slipped into a defensive stance. "Don’t think you’ll handle me so easily, beast. You’ve yet to see the true might of the Ehrenlegion."

  Zelkara angled her spear. Humans really did love to talk.

  Not for much longer, though.