Updated Sep 16, 2025 • ~3 min read
The grand hall was a tomb of silent dread. The humming thrum of dark magic grew louder, pulsing through the floor like a heartbeat. The shimmering dome of light sealed over them all, a transparent cage of pure, malevolent energy. Courtiers—creatures of elegance and poise—were reduced to trembling prisoners, their jeweled eyes wide with terror. Some clutched at each other, whispering Isolde’s name as if her madness could shield them; others looked to Vale, too afraid to breathe, waiting for his wrath to fall.
Isolde stood at the center, porcelain-pale and blazing with triumph, her dagger raised high. No longer a mere weapon, it thrummed as a conduit, the shattered mirror’s fragments on the floor glowing like a hundred dark eyes staring back at them.
“The fool,” she hissed, her voice stripped of all pretense, thick with venom. “Did you think your little mortal could take my place? That her wild chaos could ever match my design? This hall is not a sanctuary, my prince—it is my snare. And she… she is the prey.”
Elara gasped, a low, guttural cry tearing from her lips as the raw magic within her surged like a storm unbound. Her eyes flared blinding white, her body trembling against Vale’s arms, every vein alight with power she could no longer control. The courtiers shrank back in horror. Some whispered she’s cursed, others she’s no queen. The fracture of fear split the court even as the dome held them captive.
With a scream, Isolde plunged the dagger into the stone floor. The sound was metallic, endless—a shriek that seemed to split the hall in two. Instantly, the obsidian shards rose from the ground, spinning into a whirling storm of glittering knives. Their black glow pulsed with hunger, drawn to Elara’s light like moths to flame.
Vale held her tighter, a living shield, his grip unyielding, his presence steady. The bond between them was severed, but the love remained, fierce and unbreakable. His eyes were voids of fire as he fixed them on Isolde. He did not waver. He did not fear. He had always known she would strike again.
But Isolde’s attack was not merely a flurry of blades—it was a ritual, fueled by hatred and designed to strip Elara’s very essence away. The shards shrieked through the air, battering her mind, clawing at her body, pulling at her soul.
Elara convulsed, caught between collapse and eruption. The courtiers screamed, some cursing her, others calling on Vale to end Isolde’s madness. The hall became a battlefield of not only magic, but loyalty.
The Fiancée’s Attack was no longer just Isolde’s vendetta. It was the spark of a civil war, ignited in the very heart of the ballroom.
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