A few minutes after Velra’s escape, the battlefield had fallen eerily quiet.
The first thing the soldiers did was set up a tent for Alice. They worked quickly, still riding the aftershock of the battle’s tension and awe.
Alice didn’t refuse. Exhaustion weighed heavy on her body—her sword arm ached, her breathing was ragged, and her vision still flickered with afterimages from Velra’s blinding light.
Inside the tent, she finally sat down, the warmth of the brazier barely cutting through the chill that seeped into her bones.
Not long after, the tent flap rustled. Bardic, the knight commander who had been guarding her side throughout the battle, stepped in. His armor was scratched and dusted with snow, his expression sharp as ever.
He stood silently for a moment, watching Alice as she removed her gloves, her fingers trembling slightly.
Then, his voice cut through the quiet.
"Why didn’t you shoot the bow? Or before that—why didn’t you strike when you had the chance?"
Alice looked up slowly. Her eyes, still faintly glowing from the remnants of aura, met his.
"I didn’t expect to be blinded by light," she said quietly. "It was my mistake."
Bardic frowned, his tone calm but edged with disapproval. "No. You’ve experienced this before. In the martial arts tournament—remember? You were blinded, and still struck your opponent down without hesitation. From that distance, you could’ve done the same here."
Alice said nothing.
The faint crackle of the brazier filled the silence.
Bardic’s gaze softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "You hesitated."
She flinched—not visibly, but enough for him to notice.
He sighed, removing his gauntlets and resting them on the nearby table. "You had your hand on the sword the moment that flash went off. I saw it. You could have swung. But you didn’t."
He wasn’t accusing her. He was stating the truth.
Alice’s lips parted, but no words came out.
Her mind replayed that final moment—Velra’s eyes, the faint smile, the strange calm that radiated from her even in defeat. The face of a monster, yes... but also something else. Something almost regret.
Alice don’t know the regret of the demon.
Finally, Alice spoke, her voice low and steady.
"Indeed," she said, glancing toward Bardic, "such insight befits the commander of the Draken family’s knights."
A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips as she said those words.
She folded her arms, her gaze distant, replaying Velra’s final remarks in her mind.
"My level is still not proficient," Alice admitted quietly, "so I hesitated."
Bardic tilted his head slightly. "...Hesitated?"
"Yes." Her tone wavered, but only for a moment. "I hesitated because I couldn’t subdue her in that situation. I had no choice but to kill."
It wasn’t out of sympathy. Not even close.
The hatred she felt toward demons still burned inside her, fierce and instinctive—an echo of the war, of the lives they had taken.
But beneath that fire, another voice whispered.
’No... I shouldn’t act solely on emotion.’
Her grip tightened slightly.
The Demon King.
That name—spoken so casually by Velra—still lingered like a shadow at the edge of her thoughts. It wasn’t just the empty boast of a defeated vampire. There was weight to it. A warning wrapped in mockery. Something about it had felt real.
’If there’s truly a threat to the north,’ Alice thought, ’I can’t afford to ignore it.’
Her eyes sharpened.
"Since she’s wounded, she couldn’t have gone far," Alice ordered, her voice regaining its usual command. "Send all troops to pursue her. Capture that demon alive if possible."
Bardic frowned. "May I ask your intention, Lady Alice? A high-ranking demon of her kind should be executed immediately. Letting her live is dangerous."
His words carried reason—and concern. The soldiers nearby shifted uneasily, exchanging glances. The idea of hunting down a wounded, cornered vampire didn’t sit well with anyone.
Alice turned to him, her expression calm but unreadable. "I know the risk. But killing her now would gain us nothing. She mentioned the Demon King—and I intend to find out what she meant."
Bardic nodded at her words but to him execution of demons comes first before getting any intel.
In short, Bardic wanted to kill that demon and not just capture it.
Bardic’s jaw tightened, the faint crack of leather from his gloves echoing as his hands curled into fists. For a long moment, he said nothing—only stared at Alice, the flickering brazier light carving hard shadows across his face.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but sharp.
"Lady Alice, with all due respect... a demon’s word should never be trusted. You know this better than anyone."
Alice met his gaze evenly. "And yet, I intend to confirm it myself."
"Even if it risks the lives of our men?" Bardic’s tone hardened, a rare edge of frustration breaking through his usual composure. "We’ve lost enough today. I won’t send them chasing after a half-dead monster on a whim."
Her eyes narrowed. "This isn’t a whim."
"Then what is it?"
The tent fell silent again.
Only the muted howl of the storm seeped through the seams of the canvas, a low, haunting sound that pressed against the walls like a living thing. The wind carried flakes of frost that hissed faintly as they melted against the outer layer of the tent.
Bardic stood stiffly, unsure whether to speak or remain silent. He had been hoping for some kind of explanation—for clarity, for reason—but none came.
Instead, Alice’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and cold.
"Everything is for the North. Do you dare to doubt the blood of Draken?"
Her tone was calm, but her words struck like steel.
Bardic froze. For a heartbeat, he thought he might protest—but the moment he met her gaze, the thought vanished.
Her eyes, clear and cutting, held the same chill as the northern winds. The way she stood—back straight, chin slightly raised, her hand still resting near her sword—reminded him of the old days, when he had first sworn loyalty to her father.
’She’s grown,’ he thought grimly. ’The same pride. The same fire.’
Alice didn’t need to raise her voice. The weight of her lineage spoke for her.
"Indeed," Bardic murmured at last, bowing his head. "As long as the sword is sharpened, that’s all that matters."
He straightened slowly, his jaw tight. A knight’s duty wasn’t to question, but to obey. Disagreement, hesitation—those belonged to councilors and scholars, not soldiers sworn to the Draken bloodline.
"...As you command, my lady," he said finally. "I will relay the orders at once."
Alice nodded slightly, her expression unreadable. The flicker of torchlight painted shadows across her face, making her look older, more burdened than her years.
"Good," she said simply. "If anyone succeeds in capturing the target, they will be rewarded—generously."
Her tone was calm, but beneath it, there was an edge of something else. Regret, perhaps. Or determination.
As Bardic turned to leave, she glanced once more toward the northern cliffs—the direction Velra had fled.
For a moment, her eyes softened.
Then the cold resolve returned.
"...You won’t get far," she whispered under her breath, almost to herself.
The storm outside howled louder, as if answering her.
Bardic paused at the tent’s entrance, glancing back one last time. The princess stood alone by the map table, her armor still faintly stained with blood, her posture unyielding despite the exhaustion that weighed on her shoulders.
He lowered his head silently before stepping out into the raging snow.
Inside, Alice reached out and touched the hilt of her sword—her knuckles white.
For a brief second, her reflection in the blade flickered between her own face and Velra’s.
"...This isn’t over," she murmured.
The wind howled again, carrying her words into the darkness beyond the camp.
Outside, the camp had settled into a heavy, uneasy stillness.
The wounded were being tended to, their groans muffled beneath the howling wind. The smell of blood, smoke, and burned flesh lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the cold. Torches flickered along the snow-dusted barricades, each flame fighting desperately against the night.
And somewhere beyond that curtain of frost and silence—Velra was out there.
Bardic barked orders to the scouts and rangers, his deep voice carrying across the wind. "Fan out in teams of three. Don’t engage unless you’re certain of her location. Report back immediately if you find any trace."
The soldiers moved quickly, though their faces betrayed their unease. Even wounded, a high-ranking demon was no easy quarry.
From inside the command tent, Alice listened. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, as she let her senses stretch outward—feeling the faint threads of aura that pulsed through the frozen air.
But all she felt was emptiness.
"...Nothing."
Her fingers tapped softly against the table. The brazier’s flame popped and crackled, shadows dancing along the canvas walls.
The silence pressed in again—until a soft voice broke it.
"My lady."
A messenger knelt at the entrance, his breath visible in the cold. His armor bore fresh frost, and his expression was tense.
Alice opened her eyes. "Report."
"We found... traces. Blood—less than a mile north. But it’s strange."
"Strange?"
"Yes, my lady. The blood doesn’t match the previous trail. It’s... alive."
Alice frowned. "Alive?"
The soldier hesitated, struggling to put the sensation into words. "It moves. Like it’s breathing."
A chill crawled up Alice’s spine. Bardic, who had returned just in time to hear the report, stiffened beside her.