"Now," said Cyanis. "We go now."

Cyanis had always been a creature of instinct, and above every other instinct: hunger. Once the tunnel was complete and she was amongst the hens then came time for savagery. Every careful lie, every patient breath, every moment pretending to be a good girl came apart the moment that she caught the scent of blood. Beneath the coat of angel fur, fangs.

Archer was the same.

He folded his angel's wings and dived towards the earth.

*

The talents that make a good killer are not the talents that make for a good soldier.

An affinity for lurking in the shadows becomes cowardice before the battle howl. A short blade does not have the reach of a greatsword. Padded civilian clothes are no proof against weapons of war. The highwaymen die like dogs, and with each one the great abacus of coin, favours and mana clicks lower and lower.

"I only need one," murmured Assassin, signing the next letter and all the price it represented. "A king must be lucky every time."

Another wave - the shudder of crossbow bolts. Again Opalis is the target. She writhes free of Saber amid the battle and scrambles for cover. Interposing between her and the assassins is Diaofei, bleeding freely, whirling and striking quarrels out of the air. She is no mean warrior, but even devoted entirely to defense she cannot keep pace with the onslaught. Where she falls short she takes the bolts to her own body. A second bolt joins the first. Then a third. That is all she can take, and she falls.

*

"What are you doing!?" said Actia.
"Finishing what you started," said Assassin mildly, looking up from his desk.
"I left nothing unfinished," snarled the fox.
Assassin had enough experience with kings not to question that tone. He held up his hands.
"Everything has played out exactly according to my calculations," said Actia. "I have it under control, and I do not need you going behind my back -"
"I only desire to serve you, Master," said Assassin, standing up and bowing. "I will, of course, call off my men."

*

The killer stands above Diaofei. The knife is in his hand.

He raises it without hesitation and goes for the kill.

*

"That was uncalled for," said Assassin, sounding politely hurt.
"Was it?" snapped Actia. Two command seals burn on her wrist.
"A waste of resources," said Assassin. "I offered my obedience freely, there was no need to compel it. Regardless, my ability to influence events has come to a close - Archer will conclude things from here."

*

Diaofei pulls herself to her elbows. Three bolts. But the killing blow had not come. Saber must have reached her in time...

A valkyrie stands above a scene of slaughter. An angel of the raven god, sent to judge the worthy dead. She finds none here. They died without valour or skill and there is no place for cowards in Valhalla.

And then, a vision descends from the heavens. An angel of the lamb god, sent to judge the worthy dead. He finds plenty here. They died in service to the Lord, and there is no sin that a Crusade cannot wash away.

"Ho, honoured ancestor!" calls Archer, haloed in light. "It does my heart good to see our people were as fierce in your day as they were in mine!"

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."

Archer smirks when the blow comes. He leans into it. The raw iron valkyrie blade cuts into his master with a shuddering impact like chopping wood.

Not like - the fox glamour falls away, revealing that Archer had been hauling a wooden log on his back, disguised with an enchanted leaf. In the moment when Saber's blade catches in the wood he strikes like a serpent, cutting sword answering the false blow with a true one. If Saber had committed to the attack she would be dead.

"Vengeance is mine, sayth the Lord," said Archer as they part. There was an angelic devilry to his teasing smile. "So, no. After all, what will happen when you drink your fill of vengeance? Will you return to the North, hitch your plough and tend your family? I don't think so. If there's one thing the Southerners never understood about us it's that no matter how much they gave us it would never be enough."

He steps about, holding his blade indifferently. This is no master swordsman and no match for the Saber class - his proof is in his arsenal and in his cunning. To stand his ground like this means that he believes he can bring it to bear in full.

"This ends tonight, ancestor," said Archer. "So come, and become another detail in my glorious history."

"Nothing ends tonight, child. Do not be so quick to claim the power of a past you yourself have rejected. There are always consequences for building your walls on a foundation you do not understand. After all..."

The tension in Saber's body unleashes all at once. Her sword lifts out of the ground, but not before it hefts a large chunk of rock up out of the soil and flings it at Archer. A simple trick, and easily deflected. But in the space of the motion required to counter it she has closed the distance and flashed her blade across his body three times.

"You mustn't forget: in this new world, your god is just as dead as mine!"

Having seen his mettle once already, Saber's cuts are cautious and the kind of uncommitted that is only possible with a huge, lanky body like hers. Her arms extend the reach of her blade in confounding ways even as she twists as if pulled by wings of her own, over and around and back through again. It sucks some of the power out of her blows but they are each enough to be lethal against an unskilled opponent. Archer is not unskilled, for all that his power is tied up in trickery and his petty bombardments. She draws blood, which she catches. She throws it at his eyes.

"You have taken the shrine I meant to burn. Victory is yours tonight. But you are trapped. Your master will not want to leave this spot again. They will know this power was not theirs to begin with, and now this place is known to innumerable enemies. You cannot leave it unguarded. Which trusted ally will you place as its guard? The wilting child-king? Or the tiny English? Surely you can trust the mettle of Southerners to safeguard your own power."

With a shark toothed grin and a kick to the head, she is gone. Huge, powerful strides carry her across the ground too fast for mortal eyes to follow. Though her path is obvious. Retreat without her Master at a minimum is nothing more than fancy suicide. Retreat toward the shrine is impossible when she has no time to breach its new defenses, and it is the first and only place she could go if her words carried the promise of assault. She will seek the woods, with Diaofei and the little dragon as her plunder if her arms are strong enough to manage it.

But there is danger in the air behind her. The shadows that had been flanking her across this entire exchange are missing...

Archer fell to one knee. At first he rubbed his jaw, wiped the blood from his eye, made to rise - but then he paused in remembrance, and offered a prayer, looking up at the sky as anointed blood touched the earth. Every wound was sacred in such a war. Every mark of battle brought one closer to the Lord and the Lord's resurrection.

"Forgive my ancestor, O King of Kings, for she does not understand of what she speaks."

Two blackened shadows rise to either side of the kneeling Servant.

"Like Thomas, she doubts the Resurrection. Believing only in death she shall not have eternal life. She who believes only in the spear..."

Two flashes of murderous darkness closed in on the kneeling crusader.

"... let her die by the spear."

The detonation of golden light tears through the forest. Trees are ripped up by their roots. Boulders are shattered into powder. The earth howls and lies flat. Nature's tempest is but a shadow compared to this, the weapon that spilled the blood of God. The Holy Spear rises bright above the ruins of the woods, and in its light there is no place for shadows and no place to hide. Saber's shadows are burned away to nothing.

"Ancestor, when you plundered the English churches you imagined yourself strong," he declared with a voice of thunder. "But they knew you to be weak. For though their mortal flesh would die, it is your immortal soul that would be destroyed. I, Bohemond of Antioch, wielder of the Lance of Longinus, holiest relic of Christendom, now bring you your long destined judgement."

Of Diaofei and the dragon there was but the sign of a bloodstain on the ground. The fox - Bohemond's master had the same idea as you, and with the apocalyptic energy filling the air there was no time to hunt her down.

This should be impossible. Even accounting for the differences in their mana supplies and the relative quality of their Masters, what is happening is nonsense beyond her ability to calculate. His noble phantasm was a known quantity. His legend spoke of skill at siegecraft and a zeal for advancement and territory expansion. Even if he truly possessed a relic of such potency he should not be able to wield it to full effect.

Retreat should always have been an option. But there was nowhere left to run. For that matter she should not have been outmaneuvered so definitively by the fox. But she is here, holding nothing. This is a loss. An even more unsatisfying end to her campaign than the first time. There was no one around to bury her properly. If they only could, then...

Her spiritual core burns with a need for vengeance. It seeps into the ground beneath her and rots the grass she kneels on. Where her blood drips from cuts over her eyes and down the length of her arms it seers black burn patterns into the very earth. Even now she cannot help but paint with runes, though she has no mind to. Revenge, revenge, revenge! She must have it! She cannot die without visiting this pain on the one who caused it!

But there are no more reserves of mana to stitch her wounds back closed. Her noble phantasm lacks the magical energy required to even activate it, let alone empower it enough to turn the tide against such a famous relic in the hands of a warrior using the fullness of their true name. Her sword has shattered three quarters of the way down the blade; useless. She keeps a death grip on it anyway, despite her disgust. Better to die with a broken sword than empty handed.

"You are not the first to lecture me about the supposed weakness of my soul, little crusader. They are all of them vanished into dust. I remain."

All the blue has melted from her eyes, replaced by dirty gold. There is only one ring on a finger on her left hand. Not a prize of war, but the first one she was ever given. Her legs are empty of power but she forces them to lift her anyway. Her braid whips behind her in the winds caused by the release of the great spear as she rises to her full, absurd height to face it.

"When I kill you," she snarls, "I want you to remember every word you said to me. I will show you the difference between a prince and a king."

Empty words. Empty promises. Hate burns inside her, wrapped around the twin fire of shame. It doesn't matter. Every weapon in a warrior's arsenal is to be used. So she howls. Death before anything less is the height of shame.

It took a certain kind of willpower to get up in the morning knowing that your entire day was going to be cringe.

Out of bed. Jumping jacks! Hi-ha! Hi-ha! Put the lungs into it, work those muscles! Do it in front of the mirror! Your body might not be anything like what those old superstars looked like, but - say it out loud now! This is what peak performance looks like! Nobody ever got anywhere with shame or self awareness!

Shower. Wardrobe! Put the fuckin' laurel wreath on the head Aeglesia! You have an entire wardrobe full of identically coloured and shaped black pants, black turtlenecks and black hoodies that practically guarantee that nobody will ever look at you. But you don't want that! Today they're going to look! A real Princess would have servants for this. They'd be able to glide out of bed on a waterfall of rosepetals and have their hair woven into perfection by flocks of hummingbirds. They wouldn't have to spend thirty minutes buckling up their armour, checking their gear, making sure their hair was bouncy but not frazzy. They wouldn't fumble when they hefted their giant stupid heavy tower shield that's too big for you but you got the wrong size and it took all your savings and you're stuck with it now - but they didn't use shields anyway! Despite how tactically cool and what an incredible canvas for showing off your heraldry a shield was! Many advantages! And if she ever found herself with friends then they could learn cool shieldwall techniques together! Many advantages!!

She used her spare hand to slap her cheeks. That's it! You're not nobody any more Aeglesia! You're not boring old Meng Yao any more! Nobody's going to ask you about your capsicums. They're going to ask you to slay the Swamp Giant - and you're going to tell them that you're not going to have time today because you'll be saving the world from a world-threatening threat! But you'll be back for the Swamp Giant later! With a Legion at her back, a Sunshard in her baggage, and a properly sized shie - no, she'd just master this one! The fact that it was too big was a cool and quirky advantage, and once she had more magic then she'd figure out how to use it to send energy waves or absorb energy waves or - or something!

All she had to do was prove that in this historical battle royale, Rome would crush every other civilization's champions. Easy! The only thing that could stop Rome was giving up on being Rome - and she would never make that mistake.

*

"I understand the scholarly consensus has turned on Gibbon," said Lancer, looking at the burning star in the sky. "And that Christianity, in retrospect can't be really blamed for the destruction of Rome."

She didn't say anything further. Lancer believed in Marcus Aurelius' Stoicism. Controlling her emotions, speaking only wisdom, embodying virtue in her person and her deeds. It would lessen her to say what her irrational emotions said when she looked up at Bohemond with his holy spear, that she felt like she should absolutely blame this shit in general and this guy in specific for the end of the Roman Empire.

"Even if Christianity wasn't to blame, the Crusades certainly did not help," suggested Aeglesia.
"No, no," Lancer waved her off halfheartedly. "They were there to help. An Imperial electorial crisis was hardly unprecedented. The structural problems ran far deeper and that was just the final kick to the whole rotten edifice."
She trailed off, duty to Rationality complete and unable to bring herself to stall further.
"All right," Aeglesia said, gripping her hands on her shield in determination. She had to get this right! "Looking at it rationally! Bohemond is merely a land-hungry invader wrapping himself in the cloak of righteousness in order to get political support!"
"Well put," said Lancer laconically. "Let's go further. That spear he wields - what is it?"
"D-didn't he say that was the Lance of Longinus?" said Aeglesia uncertainly.
"He would say that, yes," said Lancer. "But I am the cosmically ordained spear specialist here, and I can tell you that when you look past the flashy lights, that is just a standard issue Roman pilum. Likely cast in one of the Capua manufactories in batches of a thousand. Even if," here she slowed down, once again her duty to Reason preventing her from emotively dismissing something she lacked evidence to dismiss outright, "this somehow is indeed the spear that pierced Christ, why should that grant it any supernatural abilities at all? Christ was not a violent man, and Longinus was allegedly cursed for his crime and not granted a weapon of awesome destruction as a reward. One would imagine if he had something like this he might have fended off that eagle - I mean lion - that came to eat his liver every night."
"So... it's a fake?" said Aeglesia.
"Worse than a fake," said Lancer. "It is fanfiction. Give me a real spear."

Aeglesia put a pilum in Lancer's hand. In every way it was the mirror of Bohemond's holy relic, but as a leaden thing of military utility without even a glimmer of divinity to it. Lancer hefted it up to his shoulder in a professional, Olympic pose, judged the distance and air, took her time...

And threw it right through Bohemond's chest.

It punched through his holy armour and crusader tabard. The golden spear fell from the Angel's hand and dissolved into light. He reached up to clutch the javelin, wings folding on himself, and he fell like a struck swallow from the sky. Only near the ground was he able to recover enough strength to avert a fatal collision and bring himself up into a limping retreat back towards his newly conquered shrine.

"Great throw!" cried Aeglesia, trying to clap against the hand that was wrapped up in the shield - before instead figuring out and then banging against the shield instead. Many advantages! That was a military clap!
"Every legionnaire is trained in the javelin," said Lancer modestly. "Now, let's go and see if we have finally found someone on this new green earth who is not hip deep in fox schemes."

"I," says Saber to the empty air, "Remain."

Not that she can claim much beyond that. Her magical energy is burned down to nothing, her wounds sap her physical strength, and her Master is nowhere to be found. It is only by her continued presence in this state she can even infer that Diaofei survived this encounter. Perhaps that dragon proved its worth after the lackeys had been dispersed. Or perhaps they'd both been captured and the fox was simply not strong enough to drag her prey far enough away for the connection to break.

"Master?" she calls, "If you can move, then come. I have need of your head."

And if you're not then good luck. Your Servant is no longer in good enough condition to give you princess rides.

Saber drops to one knee, propping herself up by the broken remains of her sword just to keep from toppling over any farther. Pathetic. Damage like this should be nothing to her. With even an approximation of her true strength she would have been swift enough to finish off Bohemond given this kind of opportunity, with power enough left over to tend to her wounds herself or even threaten her savior.

But blood still seeps from these unworthy wounds she suffered at the hands of nothing more than debris and the pressure of the princeling's lance. Her core is intact, and burning with hungry fire, but that is the most optimistic assessment of her condition she can manage. Everything else is pain and fatigue. She had not expected to be called to war and wind up weaker than she'd been in life.

This was a desperate moment. The solidarity of their shared pain had softened Saber's heart on the matter, but she could not afford to give Diaofei more than one more chance. Either they found a real source of usable mana, or she'd have to cut off her Master's hand and carry the remaining command seals to someone like Fluffymountains to forge a new contract.

Power. She needed power. Strength enough to use her own gifts properly. To kill Actia it was worth any price.

"As for you, newcomer: I take it from the lack of a second spear that you are interested in speaking? My head is not difficult to claim at the moment. Well if you are not here to deliver a warrior's death then step into the open. At minimum I would propose an exchange of information..."

Lancer held up her hand - wait! She was, after all, changing.

Shining light burned away her armour and panoply. In its place she adopted modern civilian clothes - a soft violet vest over a crumpled white shirt with rolled up sleeves and a partially undone forest green necktie. A laurel wreath sat atop hair that artisans might have worked for hours to get so casually messy; a tangled bun pierced through with multiple hairpins. Green-edged half-rimmed glasses took the glare off the dark circles beneath her eyes and an old and heavy book appeared in her hand. The combined look came together to imply that she was a librarian and a scholar, but with an implicit Imperial destiny - like the 'nerdy' girl who only needs to take off her glasses and let down her hair in order to become a heartstopper.

"I have no interest in your death, Northerner," said Lancer, snapping open the book and reading from it as she spoke. "But I read that your people became loyal friends to Rome. That is all the recommendation I need."

She snapped the book closed and looked up, green eyes burning bright. "This world sought to crush us. Four Servants in alliance sought our deaths as their opening gambit. I say they did not bring enough! So I offer you an alliance: swear by the Old Gods to fight as my Varangian and I will exalt you and yours above all others."

Standing this time costs her the most effort she can ever remember making. Her body is a thing of spirit particles and grudges, but the memory of muscles calls to her to ache and tremble. The willpower to resist it is exhausting. Food and rest. If the Roman had promised her only these she would have had to at least consider it. But she must not risk looking desperate. And she must not present as weak. An alliance represented the first real opportunity to turn things around she'd seen since her summoning. Losing her handle on it was absolutely unacceptable.

And so, she rises. Her back straight and her tattoos gleaming, she lets her long arms rest at her sides and holds her shattered weapon like it was meant to be a sacred relic, a thing of pride and purpose and not a broken thing of blackened metal. Even with her neck lifted high to present the fullest sense of her physicality the heavy iron bands at the bottom of her braid of faded golden hair brush against the ground. She does not smile, and she does not settle into a battle stance (as though she could). But she does offer the slightest of nods as she tilts her head down to look at these newcomers properly.

Tch. Showoff. The things that one gets up to with an ample mana supply. Saber cannot help but be jealous.

"The gods have perished, Child of Rome. And dead gods are not a thing to swear by, though I honor them still. I am surprised that I am alone in understanding this. It is a thing to be celebrated. The world around us is the proof: this green land of few and plenty can only have been forged in the crucible of the divine and the shattering of what came before. If you are an adherent to the old ways it is wrong of you to deny the honor of their sacrifice."

Her eyes gleam with cold, hard understanding as she gestures to the pockmarked and freshly battle scarred land around her. The broken trees lie scattered at her back; she honors them like fallen soldiers. Still no sign of her Master. Or the dragon. Useless cretins, both. No matter: in this moment the land counted for more than both of them put together.

"I will swear by this, instead. I am the enemy of that which threatens this reborn world. I am the enemy of the blight named Actia who formed the preposterous alliance of foxes that has harassed your every step and mine since we answered the call of our masters. The Varangian Guard were slightly after my time, but if Rome seeks the end of these enemies as well then I do not mind wearing the mantle.

"I do not seek the sunshard or its wishes. If you can offer me the opportunity to restore myself to a true, battle worthy condition then I shall win this war in your name. So long as it brings me Actia I do not mind serving you in the role I offered to my father when he first took me in."

"The Gods of Rome are not dead," said Lancer. "Distant, perhaps. They were so in my time - withdrawn to the stars and planets, waiting for us to rediscover the rituals that might summon them. But instead I have found here a kingdom of Epicurians who do not even attempt to win their favour - though neither, I suppose, do they anger them. A curious bargain for the world to have made."

She snaps her book closed and turns it over in her hands; the colour shifts to a deep and warlike red, expanding three times in size. She opens it and places it on the stump of a fallen tree, revealing a page of maps. "There are two sources of mana I can identify on the board, both controlled by our foes. The first is a Sunshard, the catalyst for this ritual. The second is the temple shrine that even now will be fortified by Archer and, I expect, Berserker. However, my Master presents a unique opportunity for us to acquire a third. As a Princess -"
"A princess," corrected Aeglesia.
"That's what I said," said Lancer, irritated. "A Princess -"
"I'm not a Princess," insisted the centurion girl. "I'm only a princess."
"Please," said Lancer, touching her head. "What?"
"If I was a Princess we wouldn't even need the plan, we'd have already succeeded," said Aeglesia.
"Am I having a stroke?" said Lancer.
"It's very simple!" said Aeglesia. "I'm a princess, which lets me fight Princesses, and if I win I'll get to become a Princess and they'll be demoted to princess. And when I'm a Princess I'll have all the mana we need!"
"... Perhaps you are right, varangian," said Lancer. "Perhaps the Gods are dead."
"Anyway, the only one nearby is Princess Jezara," said Aeglesia. "I mean, Princess Qiu is also nearby, but she's the strongest and I don't think we could fight her. But with your help we can probably beat Jezera!"
"The nature of this conflict means we will only win the prize without friction if the victory clearly belongs to my Master and not either of us," said Lancer. "Our roles in this battle will be to lend her all the indirect support we can manage - sharing our arsenals, disorienting and goading the enemy, manipulating wind and weather. Success will secure our strength for the remainder of the campaign."

Saber tilts her head, as a predator might when it needs to take in extra sensory information to process a situation. She blinks, also like a predator but this time in the manner of one invited to a tea party. Silence is her only master for the better part of a minute. She shares a long and weary look with Lancer before her body folds into an energy-conserving hunch.

The people of this new world were unimaginably strange. The surest sign that the gods were all dead was that none of the innocents living here now had the single slightest clue of how things used to be. They couldn't possibly understand that and still be as they are.

"You can increase your mana supply by winning a battle against a specific worthy," she says through a clenched jaw, "I do not need to understand the politics of the matter. Very well. I advise that we move swiftly in that case, and advance this plan to a point where it cannot be easily unwound. If we are slow to act my Master will surely attempt to cut it off; she will have a poem prepared about the wrongness of grasping for power and then no doubt will burn a Command Seal compelling me to insist you live like beggars. Not that I am bitter."

Her scowl is, somehow, even toothier than her smile. Row after row of razor teeth show themselves as she works her jaw, but the aggression dissolves into a sigh. It is impossible to remain worked up in this state. Not about anything other than her target, and with it so far removed it's like her heart has been sealed inside a wooden box.

"I assume, however, there are severe penalties for losing this ritual combat? You prioritized an alliance over securing your personal power: this tells me it was beyond your reach without my involvement, right of title or no. In that case we must be sure of ourselves before we proceed, even with our need for haste."

Saber's body hunches even lower, striking the animal pose she fought and hunted with when she first arrived, holding her shattered sword in front of her like a battle-chipped claw. There is a flash of a smirk, only for an instant, before it is once again swallowed by the cold calculation engine of the Valkyrie.

"Come at me, little shieldmaiden. Princess though you are, I would test your mettle here. Fight as if you mean to kill me. When you fail we will be able to discuss what tactics and aid will properly secure your victory."

"Alright!" said Aeglesia, taking a deep breath. "Here I go!"

This was not an age that had forgotten its swordsmanship.

Aeglesia had been studying the blade since she was a child - most people do to some extent, it's part of gym class. If you're particularly into it then you can take various elective classes with your local blademaster - maybe the local Queen runs a course, or there's a Handmaiden passing through town who'll teach advanced techniques. Many kids study the blade to some degree or other, but to stick with it as long as Aeglesia has and taking the princess title... well, for all her nerves about being in a genuine war of spirits, she's also a regional bronze medalist in dueling.

That is to say that her bladework is good. She knows how to stand and how to move, she understands reach and distance, and she's even not entirely surprised by fighting someone whose size is unpredictable. Dueling is a mixed martial art where shapeshifting, magic and various unique heart weapons are all permitted so she's got an eye for tricks and is quick on the uptake. Even the fact that she's evidently not trying to kill doesn't seem to hold her back at all; the level of control she has over that in particular seems unreal.

So, a solid foundation. A perfectly respectable warrior. But it's definitely not enough.

The first reason she'll lose is because she's not a Servant - simple differences in experience, composition and raw power means that she's just not on the same playing field. The second reason she'll lose is because you're not wearing a shirt (isn't she cold? oh. oh yeah, okay, she is). The third reason she'll lose is an array of minor flaws, mostly coming from overthinking things and trying to come up with clever plays in situations when solid fundamentals would do her better...

But the main reason she's going to lose is the shield. It's a stupid weapon, a heavy Roman style tower shield made for formation fighting, and sized too large for her. She's out on a limb with it, too - it's clear that her swordfighting classes didn't involve the use of the shield, and what moves and techniques she does have are ones she came up with herself. But at the same time it's clear that this is where her heart is. She's inscribed the exterior of the shield with runes of health; an opponent who strikes them heedlessly will break them, invisibly weakening themselves until they're too sick to fight. That's a cunning move and you get the feeling there are a lot more ideas like that banked up inside her.

So the shield is at once her biggest limitation and the source of all her potential. Without it she's a solid 6/10 swordswoman and isn't likely to be any more than that. With it, she might flourish into a legitimate combatant - eventually.

Saber allows herself time to come up to speed. More time to analyze this way, more diverse data points to arrange in the aftermath. It continued to spark some dull sense of pleasure in her increasingly eroded heart that the people of this young world had dedicated themselves so completely to the arts of combat, but that did not make Lancer's Master a worthy foe or a challenge that would require even her current full speed and strength.

Not a disappointment. Not a failure. When she was alive there were not more than a dozen warriors in all the wide world who were her match. It was simply the case that this was still true in the present. But the fact remains that a competent but flawed warrior amounted to what the kids would call a "speed bump": someone that she would cut down without breaking her stride if she were of the mind to. Not a concern. The Master's fight was not against Saber now that they were allies, but with someone who stood closer to the plane of power represented by that overlarge shield.

In the end she doesn't wind up employing anything that an onlooker would even describe as interesting in order to win. In her incarnation as a King she might have weaponized her toplessness but now it doesn't even occur to her. There are several minutes of slow, curving hammer blows with a shattered sword and subtle bends away from clever feints and schemes or lazy seeming parries before with a final snap of sudden speed and power she simply grips the top of the tower shield and lifts it and its owner several feet off the ground before throwing Angelesia to the ground in an undignified heap.

She tosses her sword into the ground the moment after. Her single nod to decorum and the heart of her opponent comes now, as she leans forward and lifts the girl's chin up in her fingertips, which in this moment feel as dangerous and rough as if they were a fresh blade. And then her hand curves and softly pats the girl's cheek. This is how she taught young warriors in her time. There is nothing more or less to the gesture than that.

"A smaller shield would suit your frame better. I would recommend a thick, soft wood for the material. That way you will not only block an opponents blows but also steal their weapons. But as you are about to ignore that advice, I will gift you an axe instead. A larger weapon will compliment your little wall better, and it is useful to have an armament you do not care about, so that you will become stronger rather than weaker when you are disarmed."

Saber rises and turns away to share a long look with Lancer. The other woman had not moved a muscle during the test except to look at something in her book, even when her Master had suddenly been overrun. It could not have been faith in such fresh vows that gave her such confidence. What had she placed her trust in?

"I have nothing to say to her potential as a warrior," she says with a cold shrug, "Are we allowed, at least, to select the site of battle?"

"Hmm?" said Lancer. "Oh, sorry... I was just reading about a historical nation called "Nippon". Did you know their "Samurai" had blades called "Katana" that were folded over 10,000 times and could cut through the armour of modern main battle tanks?"

What had she placed her trust in? Perhaps it simply been herself - which was a frightening prospect. Everyone hedges, worries, calculates contingencies and backups - and in that split attention they create weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Every so often someone arose who did not have any of that hesitation, and they were the greatest and most terrible rulers all throughout history.

Perhaps, though, it was her books. That might somehow be scarier.

"I..." gasped Aeglesia, still touching her chin where Saber had held it. "I think that's a myth?"
"Nonsense, it's cited by numerous historians," said Lancer. "Now, the Varangian is right about the axe and the shield. Will you listen to her?"
Aeglesia fidgeted, looking down and holding the edge of her shield tighter.
"What about a "Wazikashi"? I read that those also pair well as an off-hand weapon." said Lancer.
"I want to fight as a Roman!" Aeglesia blurted out, staring at the ground and blushing.
"Hmm," said Lancer. She glanced again at the samurai illustration in her book, then sighed. "All right, we don't have time to fully retrain you anyway. But if you want to fight as a Roman you'll need sisters in the line; you have an implement for formation fighting and the formation will be essential. Varangian, we will both bear shields identical to hers, and we will cover our faces with helmets identical to hers. Though the rules prevent us from intervening directly, if the enemy pri - royal is confused and strikes at us by accident then we can get away with some aggressive self-defense."
"Really?" said Aeglesia, eyes sparkling. "You'll be handmaidens for me??"
"I think the term "Kosho" is more appropriate," said Lancer. "But anyway, no, we cannot demand the field of battle. It is part of the system here that Princesses -" she froze and looked at Aeglesia, who stared at her blankly. "- do not battle decisively unless stakes have been selected. So we must kidnap one of the enemy royal's "Kashin" in order to draw her out. You will handle this, I will prepare the field of battle."