Chapter 61: Mercy

Chapter 61: Mercy My name is Isabelle Vhagar. The logic is simple, clean, and absolute. There is no room for doubt or hesitation. At least, there wasn’t, until now. I stare at the five humans who have just stumbled out of Queen Alyssa’s shadow trap. They are children. Scared, out of their depth, and clutching their cheap, mass-produced swords. The boy in the lead, the one who called me a traitor, looks like he might be physically sick. He is trying to puff out his chest, to project an aura of heroism, but his knuckles are bone-white where he grips his sword, and a faint, betraying tremor runs through his hands. I know that look. I know that feeling. I have seen it in the mirror, in the reflection of my own blade, moments before charging into a battle I knew I might not survive. A pang of something cold and sharp, something that feels dangerously like pity, twists in my gut. These aren’t soldiers. They are sacrifices. They are a resource, just as I was. They are being used. "Commander?" Reina’s voice, quiet and cold as a grave, cuts through the fog of my memory. She has moved to my side, a silent specter of death. Her crimson eyes are fixed on the heroes, her fists already glowing with a faint, destructive energy that promises a swift and messy end. "Your orders?" My team waits. They have formed a loose semi-circle around me, a silent, monstrous wall. Fenris is a coiled spring of black fur and muscle, a low growl rumbling in his chest, a sound that is more anticipation than aggression. Lillith’s playful smile has vanished, replaced by a predatory stillness, her eyes sizing up the young heroes’ minds, searching for the cracks where she can insert her poison. They are ready. They are waiting for the word. A voice echoes in my mind, not my own, but as familiar to me now as the weight of Dáinsleif in my hand. It is Lord Ragnar. His command is not a shout, but a cold, clear whisper of absolute authority, a single, undeniable strategic truth. Eliminate them, Isabelle. The team’s survival is the only priority. No witnesses. The pity vanishes, burned away by the cold, clean fire of my new purpose. He is right. He is always right. These children are a threat. Their presence complicates the mission. They are a loose end, a random variable in a perfectly calculated equation. And in this new world, loose ends get you killed. The choice is not a choice at all. It is an inevitability. It is the only logical move on the board. "Wrecking Crew," I command, my voice flat and hard as the stone floor beneath my feet, stripped of all emotion. "Neutralize the targets. All of them." BOOM! I am the first to move. The young hero leader, desperate to prove his courage, lets out a battle cry that sounds more like a panicked squeak. "For the light of Aethelburg!" He raises his sword and charges me. His form is terrible. An absolute mess. All wild, angry swings and no thought for defense. He fights with his heart, not his head. In a duel, that is a fatal mistake. The wind shrieks as I close the distance between us, my body a blur of dark leather and steel. I don’t even bother to parry his clumsy, telegraphed downward slash. It is an invitation to his own demise. I flow around it, my body moving with a lethal grace I never possessed in my old life, a fluidity born from my new, Bloodkin-enhanced senses. CRACK! The pommel of Dáinsleif, my dark and beautiful blade, connects with the back of his helmet. The impact is a sharp, precise, and final sound. A small, contained shockwave ripples from the point of impact, just enough to scramble the thoughts in his head. The boy’s eyes roll back, and he collapses to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, his shiny sword clattering uselessly beside him. One down. The rest of the fight is not a battle. It is an execution. It is the brutal, unforgiving math of professionals versus amateurs. BOOM! CRACK! BOOM! A deafening, percussive storm of sonic booms and shockwaves erupts through the enclosed space as Fenris and Reina tear into the remaining heroes. The humans are brave, I will give them that. But bravery is no shield against overwhelming, monstrous power. BOOM! Fenris becomes a force of nature. The ground cracks under his charge. The wind howls as he slams into a young man with a shield, sending the hero flying backward, his shield arm bending at an unnatural angle. BOOM! Reina is a controlled demolition. Her fist connects with another hero’s breastplate. The impact is a focused detonation. A visible shockwave of white force blasts outwards, and the hero’s armor crumples like paper, the force running through his very bones and stopping his heart before he even hits the ground. A young woman in healer’s robes, her face a mask of terror, frantically tries to chant a protective spell. Lillith, who has been watching with a bored expression, blows her a kiss. A tiny, almost invisible shimmer of pink energy crosses the space between them. The healer stops mid-word, a dazed, blissful smile spreading across her face. She then turns and begins to meticulously organize a nearby pile of rubble by color, her brow furrowed in intense concentration, completely oblivious to the carnage around her. I face the last two conscious heroes, a spearman and an archer. They are back-to-back, their weapons trembling in their hands, their formation broken, their morale shattered. They are paralyzed by a terror so profound it has stolen the air from their lungs. "Please," the spearman stammers, hot tears of shame and fear streaming down his face. "We... we surrender. Don’t kill us. We’ll leave. We’ll never come back." For a single, heartbeat-long moment, I pause. The ghost of Isabelle Thorne, that foolish, idealistic girl, whispers a word in my ear: mercy. I clench my jaw and crush the whisper into dust. Mercy is a luxury my Lord cannot afford. Witnesses are a liability we cannot tolerate. Prisoners are a logistical nightmare. "No," I say, and my sword moves, a silent, dark blur in the dim light, a final, definitive answer to their plea. When the dust settles and the last echo of battle fades, the chamber is quiet. The floor is a grim tableau of broken bodies and shattered ideals. My team is untouched. I look down at the dead humans, at their young, terrified faces, and I wait for the familiar wave of sickness, of guilt, of regret to wash over me. It never comes. There is only a cold, clean satisfaction. The mission is proceeding. The threat has been neutralized. I am Isabelle Vhagar. I am Lord Ragnar’s sword. And my blade is clean.