She loves power, but that desire is not always evil.

Fia shook her head. “She craves it, 'your majesty.' And I'm afraid her only purpose is to destroy.”

She loves that most, there is no denying that. But she also loves the power to lead, and the power to protect.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Fia asked bitterly.

Nothing, child. As you have lamented countlessly, I love to ramble. Especially if I have a listener who can’t escape.

Fia furiously rose up. “Damn you to the deepest parts of hell,” she growled.

In my days, we call that place Shade. The modern word doesn’t really resonate with me.

Fia kicked a nearby bucket. However, it ended up landing on the face of a knight named John. He had a long, black hair; it was silkier than that of the most beautiful women in the city. He was drowsing on a stool until a heavy object landed on his treasured face. He fell to the floor, but he did not seem to be in pain, only aggrieved.

John placed both palms on his cheeks. “Prophetess, not even the Queen dares to offend my visage! Do you dare risk my wrath?” he screamed.

“Shut it, John,” Fia said. She kicked another bucket at him, and this one carried dirty water. Only then, the blue-eyed man suddenly moved. A sword appeared in his right hand, along with the sound of the wind’s whisper. The metal container was cleanly sliced in half--the fluids remained inside until everything landed on the ground. Not even a strand of his black hair was wet, and Fia clapped in awe.

A mad smile bloomed on John's face. His fiery anger seeped into the cold, unsheathed blade. “You have provoked me again, Prophetess,” he said quietly.

Fia raised her dagger. Her mockery would have to wait.

Unlike her expectations, John walked slowly. He kept his weapon at the same upward position, pointing towards her eyes. She did not dare to blink as he drew her closer to his range.

When she stood five steps away from John, he turned his wrist and sliced towards her left shoulder. After he drew his blade back, Fia lunged. Her left side was exposed, but so was his.

In the battlefield, the better soldier often lost. Not because of dumb luck, but because he did not gamble everything to live.

When Fia was certain John would back off, the man unexpectedly smiled and spitted on her eyes. The aim was glorious: the mucus landed on both of her pupils. In that moment of blindness, she could only keep charging until he locked her arms with his own. Then, a knee gouged into her abdomen. Air fell out of her lungs, and she dropped like a corpse.

Fia struggled to rise, but she immediately fell again. “You call yourself a handsome knight, bastard?” Fia gasped. "You abandoned your weapon and hit a woman!"

“All is fair in love and war," John said mischevously. He raised her left arm, revealing her plated armguard. "Why should I let you block my blade and slash my throat?”

“Not the complete script,” she grunted, “But you almost got it right.”

“Enlighten me with your infinite wisdom, Prophetess,” John said mockingly. He gave a condescending bow to celebrate his victory, but he did not insult her after that. Since Fia was technically his superior, he borrowed her his shoulder and helped her sit on the same stool he was napping on.

After Fia rested for a while, she finally talked. “I wasn’t going for your throat,” she admitted.

John paused. “And should I know where you were actually aiming for?” he asked cautiously.

The noble Prophetess frowned, but she looked calm and collected. "Your genitals," she murmured. "I thought you would never expect it, but your instincts still stopped me."

John's playful expression had now crumpled into coldness. "I should have killed you when I had the chance," he hissed.