Chapter 62: the Witch and the Lion

A dark sky hung low over the hills at dawn, veiled in storm-brewing clouds.

War banners unfurled above the assembled forces, matte black fabric catching the rising wind, the sigil of House Matteo shimmering with arcane protection. New magical wards surrounded the crest: lightning encircling a lion's roaring head, alight with subtle mana glow.

The air was thick.

Tense.

The kind of air that holds its breath before something breaks.

Beneath those blackened skies, Elena stood tall, cloaked in leather armor reinforced with polished mana-stone inlays. She pulled her wild curls into a tight knot, her gloved fingers steady. Her expression was sovereign—fierce and unreadable.

A faint light flickered behind her eyes.

Not just magic.

Purpose.

Nearby, Niegal swung up onto his warhorse, the reins taut in his gloved hand. His sword rested across his back, its hilt etched with old Matteo script. Mana-infused bandages wrapped his forearms like ceremonial war markings, humming with light. His face was hard and focused… until he looked at Elena.

Then, it softened—almost imperceptibly.

They rode side by side down the center of their assembled legion, through rows of warriors who stepped back and saluted in silence. Their armor clinked like distant thunder, but no one dared speak.

The Witch and the Lion, some murmured.

House Matteo reborn.

Elena's aura burned like starlight. Niegal's presence was ironclad, grounding. Together, they looked like something out of prophecy.

They came to a halt at the cliff's edge. Below them: their target.

A fortified chapel nestled in the hills; humble by design, but beneath it ran dungeons rumored to hold relics, documents, and witnesses the Church had "removed" from public view. The chimney smoked. Guards paced the courtyard with halberds tipped in holy silver.

Elena raised her hand.

Tension snapped like a bowstring across the troops. Magic thrummed. Swords gleamed in the low light.

Her voice rang out, low and resolute.

"No mercy for those who torture the innocent in the name of control."

She dropped her hand.

And the assault began.

Mana-light split the air in bursts of searing blue and white. Arrows screamed overhead. The frontline surged forward.

Elena, already charging, raised a warded palm and deflected a bolt of divine fire. Her fingers etched a sigil into the dirt beneath her boots, lightning crackling outward in response. The spell launched upward and fractured a protective barrier surrounding the chapel gates.

Niegal remained calm in the chaos. His blade sliced cleanly through enemy lines, his stance both brutal and elegant. When needed, he sent healing waves through the ranks without hesitation. His sword glowed faintly, rippling like water.

A bolt arced for Elena—too fast, too close.

Niegal tackled her.

They tumbled hard into a ditch, tangled together in the dirt. Her gasp broke the rhythm of battle.

"I had it handled," she breathed out, laughing in disbelief.

Niegal grinned wickedly and kissed her.

Quick. Deep.

His voice husky against her lips.

"I know. I still won't let them touch you."

She smiled back, wild and feral. They rose as one.

The gates crashed open beneath her second sigil.

Inside the chapel, the fighting narrowed to brutal close quarters. Smoke and fire choked the rafters. Church sentries pushed back with desperation, but Matteo forces pressed harder.

Elena's dagger flew from her hand, striking a guard square in the throat. Niegal blocked a blow aimed at her back, parrying with a twist and counter.

Every move was synchronized.

Every glance, instinctual.

A flash of cursed blue magic struck Niegal across the ribs. He staggered, blood spilling.

"Niegal!" Elena caught him before he fell, dragging him behind a fractured marble pillar. "Hold still."

Her hands lit with green-white healing light. Her palms hovered over the wound, trembling as her breath grew sharp.

He smiled despite the pain, eyes glassy with adoration.

"You always look so beautiful when you're angry."

Before she could answer, the chapel's final commander, a hulking figure clad in plated robes, charged at her with a halberd, blade gleaming with divine fire.

Niegal stepped forward, blood still wet on his tunic, and plunged his sword through the man's heart.

The commander choked. Blood foamed from his lips as he stared at Elena.

"Your god failed you," she said, red gleaming across her cheek from the spray. "We never will."

Behind her, Matteo troops secured the chapel and its vaults. Prisoners emerged, blinking against the light, faces hollow, limbs bruised. Witnesses to the Church's cruelty.

Elena stepped forward.

She grasped Niegal's hand, their fingers lacing, and raised them high into the air. Around them, the soldiers of House Matteo roared with triumph.

Niegal leaned in, his hand gently cradling her cheek.

She closed her eyes. Her lip trembled.

And then they kissed.

Fierce.

Bloody.

Triumphant.

His hand wound into her curls, her grip tight on his torn tunic. Around them, fires burned and smoke rose- but in that kiss, they were untouched.

Their army hooted, cheered, shouted lewd encouragement.

"Save it for the wedding!"

"Oye, Let the rest of us breathe!"

"We'll follow you both to the end!"

But Elena didn't care. Neither did Niegal.

After all the blood, the loss, the grief-

This wasn't surrender.

This wasn't weakness.

It was survival.

It was fire.

It was them.