Sterlla fell to one knee, chest heaving. Her vision blurred at the edges. Each breath dragged as if drawn through smoke. The serpent slithered closer, unharmed, emboldened.

“No...” she whispered. “I’ve... faced worse...”

But her body trembled. Her bond with the dragons was severed. Her power—diminishing fast. She could feel the serpent drawing from her aura, drinking her strength like it drank the heat of the world.

EPISODE 20
SILKREIGN

The beast lunged.

Its coiled body slithered forward with an unnatural hiss—tail like a granite whip arcing through the smoke-draped air. Before Sterlla could command her stance, it crashed into her side with full monstrous force, its tail slamming her as if she were weightless. Her body spiraled violently through the sky.

She hit a tree.

The bark cracked, branches split, and Sterlla crumpled to the forest floor, her shoulder twisting unnaturally beneath her. The screen that broadcast her every motion flickered. Gasps spilled across the coliseum.

Then—a single voice.

“You can do this, Crown Princess Sterlla!”

A little girl, standing amid the seats, her fists clenched to her chest. Her friends echoed her, rising to their feet. One by one, more voices followed.

“Crown Princess Sterlla!”
“You are our flame!”
“Get up, Lady of the Curse!”

The chanting roared.
The crowd—once unsure—now cried her name like an anthem.

But atop the dais, beside the Emperor Serox, Linone’s fists tightened behind his back, hidden beneath the long sleeves of his royal coat. His posture was stone, but his brows betrayed him—drawn close, tense, sweat glistening near his hairline.

“This will not kill you,” he murmured under his breath, just for himself. “You are not so fragile, Sterlla. You were forged to rise from fire.”

On the screen—

Sterlla groaned, dragging herself up. Her bones protested. Her magic pulsed erratically beneath her skin, like an untamed tide. Blood touched the corner of her lips, but she wiped it with the back of her hand and stood straight.

“Fine then,” she whispered, her voice ragged but commanding.

She pulled her sword from its back sheath, the blade singing as it was drawn—drenched in the same violet flame that crowned her name. Then she snapped her fingers, the sound echoing unnaturally through the forest.

The ground cracked. The air distorted.
Six dragons burst forth.

Each wreathed in blistering purple fire, their forms immense, majestic, serpentine. They hissed, twisted, hovered above her like guardians. Her breathing grew heavier. Not because of the summons—she had done this before—but because her bond with them had weakened. The earlier disruption had frayed the channel between her soul and theirs.

And still, she smiled. Masking pain behind grandeur.

“A leader does not falter. A leader does not bleed where the world can see.”

The creature hissed—its obsidian body expanding like a balloon of coiled magic. Sterlla narrowed her eyes.

“Go,” she commanded. “Burn him into ruin.”

The dragons screamed in unison.

They rushed forward in a six-pronged assault, wrapping around the serpent, scorching it with a circle of violet inferno. The crowd gasped as the forest lit up in kaleidoscopic fire.

But the serpent—like before—opened its maw and drank in the flame, gorging itself on Sterlla’s magic. Then, with a grotesque belch, it vomited a wave of fire back, twice as large, blinding and searing.

Sterlla’s eyes shut against the blast. Her dragons roared in anguish.

The first dragon lunged toward the beast’s face—only to be caught in its mouth, crushed, and hurled into a tree.

But the second dragon struck, slamming into the creature’s midsection, throwing it off-balance. The third joined, biting deep into the serpent’s side, pushing it over.

The fourth dragon dove straight for the serpent’s chest, its flaming teeth tearing into the flesh—but the beast flailed, knocking the dragon aside.

Still, Sterlla controlled them. This was not instinct. This was command.
Every roar, every lunge, every bite—was her will made manifest.

Her eyes glowed with strain.

“Hold... hold it down,” she murmured between gasps.

The fifth dragon circled, gripping the serpent’s tail, twisting it with violent force, then hurling it into the ground, cracking the earth with its mass. Dust rose. The first dragon, now fading, exploded into glowing dust as its strength failed.

Sterlla swayed.

“Too much...” she muttered, pain etching across her face. Her vision blurred. Her skin tingled with overuse.

And yet—she smiled again, thin and noble.

“They must not see my weakness. They must never doubt their future Queen.”

With one final breath, she raised her hand—and snapped her fingers.

The dragons vanished.

Swallowed into light, their connection cut, their magic returned to her core.

She lifted her sword and pointed it at the slithering, wounded creature.

“My blade shall write your end, abomination!” she shouted, voice echoing through the woods and the screens alike.

And then, she charged.

The serpent hissed in fury and pain. It reared back, coiling around a nearby tree like a spring, then launched itself at her—

Sterlla ducked beneath the mass and slashed at its tail once, then twice—deep cuts splitting obsidian skin. The creature screeched, writhed, its burning blood hissing on the soil.

And then—it collapsed on her.

With full force, it threw its massive body upon her, its ribs crashing onto the very earth where Sterlla stood.

A gasp tore through the crowd.

And on the dais, Linone’s mask cracked.

“STERLLA!” he shouted, voice piercing above the sky for the first time.

His cry was swallowed by the crowd's chorus—but Emperor Serox turned his head sharply, and the Empress reached for the Emperor’s wrist, squeezing it, both of their faces etched with concern.

No one breathed.

The screen flickered.

The forest trembled.

A terrible crack echoed through the glade—the sound of ancient roots breaking and stone groaning beneath pressure. The screen flickered violently. Static snarled across its surface, shrouding Sterlla’s fate in a cruel fog of uncertainty. The spectators held their breath. The arena was silent now—terrifyingly silent. Even the wind dared not whisper.

Then—

The screen blinked back into clarity.

The image sharpened.

The beast was there, its massive, coiled body lying unnaturally still across the broken earth. Scorched trees surrounded it like charred bones. The view panned slowly, its enchantment humming—and gasps escaped the lips of thousands.

Sterlla was nowhere to be seen. She was still underneath that massive giant.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd like a plague. Panic laced even the voices of the noble-born.

Then it happened.

The beast groaned—a wet, horrid sound from within its belly. And in the next breath, its massive obsidian hide split open with a loud, meaty tear. A wound, deep and burning, glowed from the creature’s center. Purple fire hissed from the inside—magic still searing its flesh from within.

The wound spread, devouring the beast’s innards. Its howl was long and agonized. Black steam poured from its eyes and nostrils as its body began to convulse, twitch, and then—

Burn.

The creature crumbled into ash, its skin curling inwards as if pulled by some divine heat. A heavy silence fell.

And then—

With a grunt of rage and triumph, the massive corpse was flung aside, as if by a sudden force. The heap of muscle and scale rolled once, thudding across the dirt in a trail of soot.

From beneath it—Sterlla emerged.

She rose with fire still crackling faintly from her body, her hunting clothes stained, and smoldering. Her limbs trembled, but she held fast. Her eyes gleamed with a predator’s pride, and in her right hand, her sword—still burning violet—was raised high.

A victorious smile, graceful and poised, curved her lips. She looked not like someone who had barely survived, but like someone who had conquered.

The crowd erupted.

Their silence broke into a storm of thunderous cheers. The stands shook with the force of their roaring praise. Nobles and commoners alike stood, clapping, shouting, howling her name. A sea of raised arms. Tears from elders.

To them—she was unscathed. Unbreakable. A goddess of war.

But the truth was far crueler.

Beneath her clothes, wounds bled slowly. Her skin was scorched, ribs bruised. Muscles screamed with every breath. But she did not flinch. She would not let them see.

“They must believe I cannot bleed,” she thought. “Only then will they follow me.”

On the imperial dais, Emperor Serox exhaled deeply. His shoulders loosened, and he leaned back against his gilded chair, his hand finding Empress Seradole’s. Her eyes were glossy, but her smile was proud.

“Our daughter…” she whispered. “Truly, the Flame of dragons burn in her veins.”

Beside her, Adena finally unclenched her fists. Her gaze lingered on the fading image of Sterlla with quiet admiration.

But Linone—

Linone did not rest.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t cheered.

His gaze was glued to the screen, jaw locked, brow deeply furrowed, shadows dancing across his expression. His fingers trembled slightly behind his back. He had seen the truth. He had known the cost.

“She is hurt...” he muttered to himself, the words barely audible.

Seradole turned her head. “What did you say, dear?”

Linone didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned to Adena. His voice was low, clipped, commanding.

“You are in charge now. Maintain protocol. Don’t let the royal cadence falter.”

Adena blinked, startled. “What—?”

Serox’s voice came sternly. “Linone, what is going on?”

But by the time the Emperor spoke, Linone was already moving.

In one swift motion, he summoned a golden orb of arcane transport beneath his feet—hovering above the dais with a sharp hum, then shooting into the air like a comet, robes snapping in the wind behind him.

He raced across the sky, straight toward the forests.

The crowd below barely noticed. Their chants still shook the very stones:

“CROWN PRINCESS STERLLA!”

“VICTORY!”

“THE CURSE IS OUR BLESSING!”

But the two screens that had once held Simore and Sterlla had now faded to black—indicating that their battles were done.

And yet they could not leave. Not yet.

The competition had not ended. The remaining contenders were still locked in combat across the blood-soaked woods.

Sterlla stood alone in the darkness—her sword alight, her strength bleeding. Unseen. Unspoken.

And somewhere high above, Linone flew like a storm, his heart racing.

“I’m coming,” he thought. “Before the wounds she hides break her spirit apart.”

A hush spread over the coliseum once more as another screen flickered to life—this time with a shrill crackle of energy. The crowd leaned forward. There, deep within a gloomed quadrant of the forest tangled with black vines and rotting leaves, the area shimmered—and Frina’s battleground unveiled itself.

Gasps bloomed like wildflowers.

The beast before her was grotesque—a towering, abominable hybrid, with the upper body of a woman, gaunt and draped in matted black hair, yet below the waist, the chitinous bulk of a spider, glistening with slime and segmented legs that scraped the earth with deadly grace. Saliva dripped in grotesque rivulets from its snarling mouth, each drop the size of a man's fist, sizzling as it hit the forest floor.

The audience shuddered. Children hid behind their mothers’ sleeves. Nobles stiffened in their seats.

But Frina…

She smirked.

With a flick of her wrist, a dense cyan mist—like coagulated icy moss—formed beneath her feet, curling into the shape of a hovering magical platform. She stepped upon it with ease, rising slightly off the ground, her gaze locked upon the beast with amused indifference.

“This shall be easy,” she murmured to herself, brushing a jet curl behind her ear.

Then—snap!

Her fingers struck the air, and an invisible spell surged outward, the scent of poppies and dreamroot thick in its trail. A powerful drowsiness enchantment weaved through the trees, wafting toward the monster with the weight of poisoned sleep.

But the beast did not slow.

Frina’s brow furrowed—eyes narrowing.

The scent in the air had grown stronger, intoxicating even to her. The magic should have already begun its work. Yet the spider-creature remained alert, its mandibles twitching.

She deepened her spell, weaving layers of sleep into the air until even her own limbs began to falter, the edges of her vision tinged with black.

“No—no, not me too—”

Frina gritted her teeth. “If I fall asleep here, I will not awaken again…”

Another snap.

The spell dispersed, sucked back into her body with a violent gust that sent her cloak whipping.

A scream tore through the forest.

The creature’s screech was inhuman—raw, serrated agony. Frina staggered, blood beading at the edge of her nose.

And then the creature struck.

A spider leg—longer than a pike and ending in a jagged, ivory point—lunged toward her. The air hissed in its wake. Frina’s instincts took over.

She jumped straight into the air, abandoning her cloud. In mid-flight, her fingers snapped once more—another cyan platform appeared just in time for her boots to land on it. She crouched low, catching her breath.

Then—without hesitation—she drew her sword.

“Very well,” she called down coldly, voice sharp with venom. “I shall deal with you the old-fashioned way.”

Her blade was steel kissed by garnet—a thin, curved weapon built for speed and cruelty. The second her feet gripped the platform, she launched herself like a harpy from above—twisting in the air, her cloak fluttering like blood-stained wings.

With unerring precision, she landed upon the creature’s head.

It screeched again—a horrid, eldritch sound—as Frina grabbed its tangled black hair for balance and drove her blade into the nape of its neck.

The impact was brutal. The sword sank halfway, hissing as if the creature’s blood was acid. The beast shrieked and reeled, slamming its body into the surrounding trees, snapping branches like twigs in an inferno.

Frina winced, her hands trembling as the screech threatened to pierce her eardrums. She pressed her forehead to the creature’s crown, gritting her teeth, suppressing the pain.

“Shut. Up,” she hissed—and then, with a cry of fury, carved the sword down the length of the monster’s spine, cleaving flesh and shell apart.

A spray of thick, black ichor shot into the air as the creature thrashed violently, trying to throw her off. Its limbs flailed—one massive clawed arm reached toward her—but it was too late.

She had broken its balance.

The creature slammed itself against a tree to throw her, and finally, her body was wrenched free. She hurtled through the air, head spinning—but before she could crash into the earth, her gloved hands latched onto the gnarled bark of a dead tree.

She dangled there for a breathless moment—panting, blood on her lips, sword still clutched in her right hand.

The creature below screamed and thrashed, its back split wide open, purple smoke rising from the deep wound she had carved into its flesh. It stumbled wildly, nearly collapsing.

Frina looked down, eyes burning.

She smirked once more—though her vision blurred and her ears still rang.

“You’re not as easy as I thought,” she whispered, wiping the blood from her chin with the back of her glove. “But neither am I.”

The crowd watched in stunned silence.

Another battle had begun—and Frina, sharp as steel and twice as cold, had already tasted the edge of death and bitten back.