Her golden blade is dripping red now. And where crimson passes, luster peels away little by little. The privilege of a king is in weapons that glitter in the sunlight, in blades that win fights merely by being drawn. The duty of a king is to maintain that image of invincibility, even if it means she fights less than she had in her warrior's prime. It is a heavy burden, the duty to protect into tomorrow and the tomorrow beyond.

A Valkyrie has no use for these things. Steel is steel and even mystics are simply another shape of weapon. Let the runes remain, but for the sword leave only sharpness. Keep weight and good metal, well balanced, but however finely forged a warrior's weapon is ultimately replaceable. She must fight as such. Win victory, and know that at any point the tools she is called upon to use may change. The sword she cuts a throat with now may shatter in their spine, or a skilled opponent might wrench it from her fingers. The path of the valkyrie is to carry the projections of battle beyond mere skirmishes, all the way to the final battle at the end of everything if she can.

The tip of her sword is pitted black now. Cold iron, hard iron, star metal, who cares? Splotches at the edges carry the new color as well, and where the gold melts most the story written on the blade burns all the brighter. A moment later, it lifts up in her arm and points coolly in the direction of the angel. Saber tilts her head and watches him with bloodshot eyes.

"Are you what passes for my descendants, then? I need no longer wonder why my colors are not to be found amidst the ruins of the dead world. You may keep your praise, child of the White Christ. Slaughtering a thousand lambs like this would at best do me honor as a butcher. From where I stand the only one here to have fought a worthy opponent..."

Her massive body blurs as she lunges. There is nothing fancy in her overhead strike: its only purpose is to threaten the fox riding atop Archer, and to find out whether he will respond with power or with speed. Will he hold her off, or get out of the way? This alone motivates her.

"...Is you," she finishes. 

It is cold praise, delivered like ice floating in the sea as she curves her spine and lurches out of the way of the followup attack. Her sword bites into the earth and she tenses herself against the hilt. Her body twists and holds, promising either danger or escape depending on what happens next but committing to neither. 

"Give me Actia. That alone I ask. The wishing shard is no longer my concern, go take it if you think you can. But you shall only do so after I have had my vengeance. This I promise."