After Alicia’s storm-hot roar, and a wave of Yokai pressure that rolled like mist—not huge, not small—the rowdy dragons finally fell quiet.

Relief slid through her chest like cool rain; wrangling brats was her daily grind. Without that, she’d be adrift in this whirlpool.

“Everyone, please hear me out.”

Iron in her voice, silk at the edges—she’d shouted for silence, now the “please” was ceremony, steam over hot tea.

“This one.”

Alicia lifted her hand, a pale arc cutting the air, and pointed at Arthas like a moonbeam finding still water.

“You can feel her aura, right?”

“She’s not like other Undead. You can see it in her face.”

An Undead in a cute little-girl shell—sugar over steel—no matter how you looked, it clashed.

The dragons traded glances, eyes flicking like fish in a river. No doubt about it, they were murmuring about Arthas.

“She’s the King of the Undead. We’ve already subdued her. Isn’t that proof enough?”

If the Undead’s king stood captured at our side, what proof could speak louder than that?

The swarm hushed for a heartbeat, then erupted like a kettle boiling over. Too loud to parse, Alicia still caught one drumbeat in the roar: Arthas, King of the Undead.

At the storm’s center, Arthas tilted her head, winter-bird calm. She didn’t get why surface folk were so excited.

One voice didn’t join the chorus—the big dragon who loved trouble. Head low, gloom leaked from scale-shadow like charcoal smoke.

He hadn’t expected them to pull out a king. That blow hit him sideways. But he wasn’t done needling Alicia; pride is a rock that doesn’t float.

“Calm down, all of you! Don’t panic. Think. The Undead are mindless, brutal Skeletons. This one’s clearly rational, even gentle. How could she rule those savage Skeletons?”

Smug warmth rose in him like baked clay; he admired his own keen insight, his neat logic.

“If you ask me, this little one can’t be the Undead’s king. Might be a random stand-in. None of us has seen the king, so we can’t verify a fake.”

Solid, reasonable, convincing—so he judged his words. Whatever proof Alicia brought, he believed he could overturn it.

It’s not that he was picking a fight; they’d slighted him first. Blowing him away so easily—trampling a dragon’s dignity like dry leaves.

With that thought, he noticed the air flatten into a hush, quiet as snow. Curiosity prickled like whiskers.

He looked left. Left-side dragons were watching him.

He looked right. Right-side dragons were watching him.

Humbled by his brilliant reasoning? He wanted to think so, but their eyes felt off. A mix of pity, a touch of sorrow, and mostly… the look you give a fool.

A fool—him?

Before he could deny it, pressure fell from the dais like a mountain shadow.

He snapped his gaze up. A silver-haired girl in armor stood there, not tall, holding a greatsword far beyond her height, moon-bright and ominous.

Behind her, space cleared like a shed skin. Bandages lay scattered like fallen snow—likely what had wrapped the blade before.

Dragon eyes on the girl. Her eyes on the dragon. Stillness like a string drawn tight.

Her lips moved.

But the first thing to arrive wasn’t her voice. It was her shadow, then her body—whoosh—already in front of him, a greatsword of ill omen resting cold at his throat.

The edge breathed frost. His scales took a skin of thin ice, winter glazing spring.

Then her earlier words from the dais reached him, crisp as snapped twigs.

“I’m the King. Any objections?”

Just a few words, no heat, all fact. Certainty edged in ice.

Cold enough to freeze his thoughts mid-flight.

He didn’t dare move—not for fear of nicking himself, but because he knew he couldn’t dodge that blade. Fate felt like a line already drawn.

The girl tilted her head, puzzled that he hadn’t answered, like a sparrow hearing no echo.

“Didn’t you have objections to me being King of the Undead? Why not bring them up now?”

His heart caved like wet clay; he could’ve cried without tears. He’d been taunting nonstop, while she, simple as clear water, thought he was just questioning her identity.

And that “any objections” wasn’t a threat—it was a sincere ask for feedback.

“L-Lady… I’ve got no objections! Why… why’s your sword on my neck?”

He asked with careful breaths, scared her earlier “I’m just asking questions” was an act. If it was, his head was already halfway off.

But Arthas didn’t think like that. Buried underground who knows how long, she’d forgotten most social gears. Where would schemes come from?

So Arthas pulled her sword back and ran a gentle wipe along the blade, like smoothing silk over a river stone.

Then she smiled.

“This is the King’s proof. Thought you couldn’t see it clearly, so I brought it closer.”

She smiled sweetly, pure and unforced, spring light on fresh snow.