Fifty-Nine: The Battle Begins

“What, you still want to take a swing at me?” Eve cupped her lips, eyes red as lacquered cherries, voice syrup-sweet enough to make one gag. “Terrifying. But I remember you’re just an apprentice Astrologer. How could you possibly beat me? Or will our dear Miss White Dragon flick me with that slender little tail, and we’ll see whether your dragon-tail or I hurt more?”

“Don’t underestimate me, or you’ll regret it,” Lilith gripped her hilt, fingers all occupied, tail-tip lifting like a needle toward the woman. She puffed like a steamy kettle. “The last guy who said that got cut down. You’re next.”

Eve kept a warm smile, eyes crescented, the neighbor-girl glow of spring in her face, head tilted, watching the Little White Dragon with gentled grace.

A chill first, then understanding. From those narrowed eyes came pressure like a snake’s stare, a cold spine wind, not the crushing storm a monster brings.

She’s dulling my guard. She’s serious from the start. The thought rang with iron. Lilith forced calm like a winter lake, telling herself twice to stay sharp, to show no cracks.

“So, our dear little dragon, will you open?” Eve bowed slightly, palm painting a “please,” baring soft places like petals, as if a straight thrust could pierce her chest.

Lilith knew: if Eve dares show a gap, she’s set a snare. The silver-haired woman offered honey over thorns. The trap waited like a pit covered in flowers.

She wasn’t clever, but battle years had carved caution like grooves in stone. Monsters loved dangling false weak spots—then swatted the attacker flat like a fly.

So first rule: test the water, toe in the river before plunge.

“Star Canvas!” Lilith slid Broken Sword to her right hand. Her left settled on her lower belly, a quiet palm over hidden feathers.

Under her sweater, blue feather-lattice lit like moonlight on plumage. Sparks of azure star-fire rose from within, rain reversed, drifting into the dark purple sky.

Above, the sparks traced a feather to match the one on her belly, a drawn wing on night’s silk, a sigil hung beneath the dome.

As with Abaddon, under the vault, an Astrologer’s first act is to resonate with the Star Canvas, to make the sky sing back.

No constellation? Then make one. Step under the arching roof, and the heavens fold into your map, a field claimed by will.

“Oh? I take back the apprentice part. Projection too?” Eve widened eyes like lanterns, but inside was still water. No ripple. Still acting.

Lilith spared her no breath. She raised her left hand. Pale Star Energy pooled in her palm, a white pearl forming in frost-light.

“Icicle!”

A spear of ice grew, bright and narrow, then whooshed like a loosed arrow toward Eve, a winter thorn shot from a bow of breath.

No Astrolabe meant no chant, no pause. But the craft suffered; the icicle looked brittle, sugar glass ready to snap with a touch.

Its shape was keen, though—a shard meant to cut, a cold awl meant for flesh.

Eve wore no armor, no bark or bronze on her skin. She wasn’t built to take hits; she had to block or bleed.

She lifted her hand. A small dark-red vortex spun open, a hungry whirlpool of dusk, swallowing the icicle tip-first.

Halfway in, it popped. The shard burst with a soft bang, white frost blooming like winter breath, veiling her eyes in cold fog.

“Playing that game, hm. Still, a handy trick,” Eve said, folding the vortex shut, voice a smooth ribbon cinched in velvet.

As her hand lowered, a blade came up from her flank, not razor-sharp but rising like a crescent cut of moonlight.

Lilith burst from the mist, frost clinging like scales, and swung Shattered Ark down at Eve, a winter arc aimed at the heart.

She was a magic swordsman, able to weave spell and steel, a river that splits and joins, water and edge in one current.

Classic move: catch the eye with a distant spark, then close and strike like a hawk from fog, surprise in the heartbeat gap.

Or in street terms: toss smoke, rush in, and whack her on the head.

But that trick only bags rookies. Eve smelled like old fox and midnight thorns. Lilith never believed one swing would draw blood.

Sure enough, the blade bit something tough, not skin, not bone—familiar resistance like old scar tissue she’d cut before.

A dark-red vortex bloomed in Eve’s palm. From it crawled a scarlet locust, a hunger-colored thing, legs ticking like tiny clocks.

The dim Broken Sword flared when it touched the insect, a forge waking, light flooding its cracks with oath-fire.

Confirmed. The blade was awake. Lilith hopped back like a cat off hot stone, and raised the sword, guard high, breath low.

Eve’s hands held two dark-red vortices. Her long fingers drew an inverted cross over her chest, a cut in the air like soot.

Blackness climbed her silver hair like ink spilled over snow, night swallowing moonlight, strand by strand.

Goat horns pushed from her crown, curved mountains of shadow. Small bat wings tore cloth, sprouting on her back like midnight leaves.

Behind her, a larger dark-purple vortex floated, round as a full moon, a halo of abyss turning slow as tide.

The black-haired woman opened her eyes. Not crimson now—true black, deeper than ink, night looking back.

Lilith swallowed, a pebble down a well. She knew it in her bones. The real fight had begun.