Niko rushed in.
His legs were sore, his lungs burning, but his body—thanks to Mena's healing—held together just enough. Pain and fatigue roared inside him, but so did determination. His blade shimmered in the morning light as he burst forward once again.
Mena's voice echoed in his mind.
"His ability is One Blessed of the Gale. Though I'm sure you've already realized that."
A sharp burst of wind spiraled from Lancer's hand—Niko barely managed to twist his torso mid-sprint, skimming beneath the air-blade just before it sheared across the ground like a guillotine. Stone split behind him, chunks flying past his ear.
Niko (thought):
"I've taken enough of those to figure that much out… But what's his punishment?"
He leapt, sword over shoulder, blade gleaming. But as he came within striking range, a brutal current slammed into his side. It wasn't even visible—just a crushing force. Niko spiraled through the air, catching himself with a tendril at the last second and swinging low to the ground in a rough arc.
Mena (thought, calm and clear):
"I can't see it directly. But… it seems he uses his lungs as an engine. That's the center of his ability. When he manipulates the gale, he does it through breath. The more force he exerts… the closer his lungs come to collapsing inward."
Niko hit the ground with a skid, his boots grinding sparks off the stone. His eyes went wide.
His lungs?
That… was a horrible price. Not just painful, but slow. Invisible. A creeping self-destruction hidden behind all that pride and arrogance. A tragic punishment.
But Mena wasn't finished.
Mena (thought):
"There's more. I can't see it clearly, but there's a fracture in his mind. I believe part of the punishment affects his emotional aptitude. Or maybe it's something else. Whatever it is… he's not whole."
Niko's gaze flicked toward Lancer again. And for the first time… he really looked.
That smug face. The cocky grin. The desperate cries for his father's approval. His mocking insults. All of it.
It was a mask, wasn't it?
Underneath all that power—was a boy barely holding it together.
But he didn't have time to think about sympathy.
Lancer's arm lifted—another gale strike surging.
"JUST DIE ALREADY!" the prince barked, voice raw.
No more rushing in. That wasn't going to work.
His only successful strike had come from a feint—so if he wanted to stand a chance, he needed something new.
Niko narrowed his eyes.
He reached down and touched his blade—and from his wrist, a tendril shot out, slithering along the steel until it gripped the hilt and extended further.
A makeshift long-range weapon.
His control over the tendrils wasn't perfect. He'd never even tried something like this before.
But it didn't need to be perfect.
It just needed to be enough.
With a grunt, Niko pulled back on the tendril—his blade lunged forward, slicing through the air like a whip. Lancer's eyes twitched, caught off guard by the sudden distance. He brought up a palm to send a burst, but it came just a fraction too late—the sword scraped across his shoulder.
A clean hit.
Blood flicked out into the wind.
Lancer's expression darkened. "Clever little insect…"
Niko exhaled.
He was still losing. Still exhausted. But he wasn't done yet.
Not by a long shot.
Niko's breath came ragged as he swung, the makeshift whip of tendril-bound steel lashing forward with each movement. The weapon—born from urgency and desperation—gave him reach, gave him hope. He wasn't precise with it, not yet, but it forced Lancer to stay light on his feet, weaving and shifting between strikes. To any outsider, it looked as though Niko—this ragged, bruised, skinny kid—had the upper hand.
And maybe, just for a moment, he did.
Niko's mind pulsed as he connected with Mena again. "How do you know his abilities?" he asked her through the silent tether of thought.
A soft chuckle echoed in his mind. It caught him off guard—not because of what she said, but because it was real. Not a sweet giggle, not the cheery voice she used with Juno. This was… tired. Honest.
"It's my ability," she said simply. "And as you could probably guess… my eyes are my punishment. I can see things no one should ever see… so in turn, I cannot see at all."
Niko blinked, mid-swing, absorbing that. Blind. And yet—she sees more than most ever will. It was tragic. And it was powerful.
But he had no more time to think.
Lancer blurred forward like a gust of force—dodging Niko's attacks with more precision now. The tendril blade hissed through the air, grazing fabric, missing flesh. Niko's arm was beginning to ache. Fatigue clawed up his shoulder, numbing his grip. He raised his hand to retract the blade—but it was a second too late.
WHAM.
A gust slammed into him like a hammer. Lancer's hand had clamped down on Niko's face—fingers digging into his cheeks and temple with such pressure that his vision blurred instantly. The world shrank to a pinhole of light through his right eye.
And through that eye, he saw Lancer's face.
No cruelty. No joy. Just rage.
Not the cold kind. Not the twisted kind. A child's rage. The kind born from being overlooked. From yearning. From failing again and again in silence.
Lancer's voice roared in his ears.
"WITH THIS—FATHER WILL LOVE ME!"
Then he slammed Niko down—once. Twice. Again.
The ground cracked beneath them as the force spread out in every direction. Dust exploded from the impact point. Stones split and wood splintered. Civilians in the distance screamed and fled, but the two of them were locked in a world all their own.
Fist after fist. Like he was trying to punch approval into himself.
Niko's body screamed. He couldn't tell where one bruise ended and another began. But through all the pain, his thoughts clung to one image: Lancer's eyes.
They didn't shine with pride. They didn't shine with hate.
They were desperate.
And that desperation might be the key.