Royal Guards Of — Ethyria -final- -yukari-chan- F...

The blade remained where it was—embedded in his grip, still glowing. And then it sang . A high, thin note that rose and rose until it passed beyond hearing. The Praetor’s eyes went wide. His armor began to crack—not from impact, but from resonance . Every joint, every seam, every rune carved into the metal vibrated apart.

Yukari-chan looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time, something like sorrow crossed her face.

“By the throne,” Marcus whispered. “She’s not a guard. She’s a cataclysm .”

“If I die,” he hissed, “my master will unmake this city. You’ve seen nothing. Nothing .” Royal Guards of Ethyria -Final- -Yukari-chan- F...

She moved again. Three strikes. The first severed the tendons in his right wrist. The second opened his throat—not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to drown him in his own blood if he didn’t retreat. The third…

It never landed.

, shield splintered, leaning on a broken pillar. Sera the Swift , one arrow left, her quiver long since turned into a splint for her arm. Old Marcus , blind in one eye, still reciting the Oath of the Unyielding in a low, rasping whisper. Lian the Quiet , who had not spoken in three years, but whose greatsword sang a dirge with every swing. The blade remained where it was—embedded in his

“Maybe,” she said. Blood ran from her nose freely now. “But you’re slower.”

The Praetor himself climbed the final stair. He was a giant in crimson plate, his helm shaped like a snarling lion. Behind him, two dozen war-golems. Behind them, the click and hum of a hundred arcane rifles.

Not hopeless , Yukari-chan thought. Not yet. The Praetor’s eyes went wide

But her eyes—pale violet, almost colorless—flicked toward the door behind her. The door to the Princess’s sanctum. Inside, she could hear the Princess praying. A soft, hopeless sound.

Yukari-chan reached down and picked up her cloth doll. It was stained now—with her blood, with his. She tucked it back into her belt.

“Be brave,” she said. “Be kind. Be stubborn .”

“I’m not fighting for Ethyria,” she said. “I’m fighting for the little girl inside that room. The one who prays for a world where no one has to become what I became.”

The queen knelt and placed a fresh cloth doll at the base of the marker. She had made it herself. Poorly. The stitching was crooked, the eyes mismatched. But it was made with love.