But Maris fought like a girl who had been denied everything and chosen to rise anyway.
Their magic collided in bursts of light and shadow. Eiren summoned visions to shake her: Kael on his knees, bleeding. Alarik dead in the dirt. Calyrix in flames.
But Maris didn’t break.
Because she knew better.
Because she knew herself.
Eiren lunged again, fury cracking across her face. “You think this is yours to win?”
Maris parried, twisted, and slammed the goddess back with a blast of white fire.
Eiren staggered.
For the first time.
Eyes wide.
Breathing hard.
She looked up at Maris, a line of blood trailing down her chin.
And smiled.
“Interesting,” Eiren whispered. “I thought you’d be easy to break.”
Maris pivoted sharply on her back foot, shifting her weight with a duelist's precision. Eiren caught off guard tried to deflect. But in one fluid motion, she brought her blade into an arc. The edge bit deep beneath Eiren's ribs, slicing deep through leathers and skin. The wound was not fatal, but it didn't need to be.
She now returned the smile.
“You don’t know me at all.”
Eiren stumbled.
Her magic, once wild and infinite, now flickered across her fingertips in dying pulses. Like the tide pulling away from a shore it would never kiss again.
Maris moved closer now.
The goddess reached for one final spell, her lips whispering a language older than the stars, but nothing happened.
No lightning.
No veilfire.
Just a dull shimmer that sparked… and sputtered out.
She looked up, eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear.
“You,” she gasped.
But Maris was already there.
Sword raised.
Crown burning.
Power still humming behind her like a song of war and mercy alike.
