How many times had it been now?
Each time the ground quaked beneath the Wampa’s massive blows, Alice staggered a little more. Her arms ached. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. Sweat ran down her brow, stinging her eyes—but she refused to fall.
If not for the strange energy guiding her limbs, urging her to move just a fraction quicker than she should’ve been able to, she might have been unconscious by now.
"Prove it..." she whispered through clenched teeth.
Her grip tightened around the greatsword—the ancient relic that seemed to pulse with a will of its own. It was this sword, she knew. This was the reason.
The guardian spirit—Wampa—wasn’t supposed to attack her. He wasn’t supposed to be capable of harming anyone in the Draken bloodline. That was the very foundation of their contract.
And yet, here he was—snarling, howling, swinging at her with every ounce of his monstrous strength.
But Alice had begun to understand.
The way his gaze lingered on her weapon.
The way his howls carried not just rage, but something deeper... more fractured.
It wasn’t fury driving him.
A desperate, aching sorrow.
Like a loyal pet who couldn’t understand why its master had abandoned it.
Or a child, betrayed by someone they’d trusted.
The greatsword wasn’t just a relic—it was a symbol.
To Alice, it meant duty, strength, and inheritance.
Proof that the one he once served was truly gone.
Proof that the bond he cherished no longer existed.
And the voice he was chasing—demanding—was never going to answer again.
"Prove it," he’d said.
But not like a knight demanding a duel.
More like a broken soul crying out for someone—anyone—to deny the truth.
To tell him this was all a mistake. That the old master still lived.
That nothing had changed.
The guardian’s bloodshot eyes weren’t filled with hate.
They were filled with grief.
So raw, so vast, it made her chest tighten.
"...You poor thing," she murmured, lowering her sword slightly—not in surrender, but in mourning.
The Wampa paused. Just for a moment.
And in that stillness, she saw it again.
Not a mindless beast.
But a protector who had lost his purpose.
And didn’t know what to do with the pain that came after.
...But knowing that doesn’t change the things, She has taken the sword and she wasn’t going to...back down now.
No matter how much sorrow weighed behind his fists—this was no longer the place for grief.
"I’m sorry," Alice whispered.
Then she raised the greatsword once more....To block.
Alice barely deflected the blow.
The force of the Wampa’s fist crashing into her blade sent her skidding backward, boots grinding against the stone floor. Her arms screamed from the shock. Bones rattled, but she didn’t loosen her grip.
The Wampa charged. No hesitation. No mercy.
His fist slammed into the ground where she’d stood a heartbeat ago. Stone shattered, fragments flying like shrapnel.
Alice ducked low, pivoted around his wide shoulder, and slashed across his flank—
Her sword glanced off his thick hide, barely drawing blood.
She leapt back. Too slow.
The Wampa spun, his massive arm sweeping through the air like a battering ram. She raised her blade in time, but the sheer impact lifted her off her feet—
She slammed into a pillar, coughing as the air punched out of her lungs.
Her boots hit the ground again. She charged.
Their movements clashed in short, brutal exchanges—
The Wampa’s claws tore grooves into the floor as he lunged forward. Alice slid beneath him, slicing upward—
The blade dug into his leg this time. He roared, stumbled—
She took the opening. Raised the sword high—
And brought it down with all her strength—
The blade struck his shoulder, sparks flying. The Wampa bellowed, grabbed the sword mid-swing, and yanked her forward.
His knee crashed into her ribs. She gasped, body folding around the hit.
He followed through with a backhand—
She hit the ground, rolled, came up coughing. Blood dripped from her lip.
The Wampa advanced, one slow step at a time, fists clenched.
She adjusted her stance, spat out blood, and raised the greatsword again.
But still in her hands.
Her muscles screamed. Her vision blurred. But she wasn’t done yet.
Steel met bone again and again, their battle echoing through the chamber with thunderous violence. Neither holding back. Neither retreating.
And the outcome still uncertain.
The legendary greatsword of the Draken Duchy’s founder pulsed in Alice’s grip—heavy with history, and heavier still with purpose.
She wasn’t going to give it up.
Not because of grief.
Not because of guilt.
And certainly not because of the sorrow of a guardian who had lost his way.
Valkrath wasn’t just a relic.
It was a symbol of peace, of power—of the unity once brought to the North.
And with it in her hands, Alice believed she could bring that unity back.
Just like the founder had.
"You want proof, don’t you?" she muttered.
The Wampa growled low, the sound vibrating through the chamber like thunder wrapped in pain.
His bloodshot eyes flicked to her sword again, then locked with hers.
Alice didn’t know what kind of proof he was searching for—what voice, what truth he hoped she’d carry.
But she knew one thing.
In the North, only one language mattered.
So if that’s what he needed...
"I’ll prove it," she said, lifting Valkrath to her shoulder. "I’ll show you who I am."
And what she was willing to fight for.
The Wampa responded with a roar that shook the very walls.
How many times had she lost recently?
Twice to Julies—her own servant.
Each defeat had stung. Bitter. Humbling.
But each had taught her something.
And now, watching Alice stand tall against the Wampa, something shifted in her.
’Just defending... won’t change anything.’
She clenched her fists at her sides.
’If I want to grow... I have to take risks. I have to strike.’
Alice and the Wampa clashed again—
—steel against bone, flesh against purpose.
This wasn’t just a test of bloodlines or ancient pacts.
It was a test of will.
She was determined to carve her answer into the world.
...And knowing that, Alice throw the great sword towards Wampa.
More specificlly, at ground near the monster.