Chapter 44
Versus Malacoda III (Break)
Malacoda lived for the thrill of battle. Years ago, he had resigned himself to death. After all, what was the point of living if there were no challenges left to conquer. But then Frey Sarto found him, and gave his life meaning again. She promised to find him strong opponents: the most powerful Maldrath, Soulsingers of the highest echelons.
His breathing was steady, his eyes locked on the Angel that stood before him—a childlike figure, despite its height and length, bathed in an ethereal, golden light that pulsed and twisted like fire. There was a coldness to the creature’s empty, circular eyes, an absence that all Maldrath shared. He knew he should have been afraid in that moment, a natural response to something so dangerous. But there was no fear in his body, only the excitement and joy that accompanied facing a powerful foe in battle. His lips curved into a broad smile.
The Angel’s head tilted, almost curiously, and then its hand rose. A single finger pointed directly at Malacoda’s chest, and the air around them went still.
Malacoda had faced Angels before. Their raw, unfiltered power was unlike any other magic he’d encountered—direct, devastating, without restraint. Forces of nature. And yet, this Angel was different. It was smaller, somehow incomplete, as if only half-formed. Show me what you’ve got!
There was a flash of light—blinding and sudden. The Angel’s finger twitched, and a searing beam of white-hot energy shot forth, cracking the air like a thunderclap. Malacoda’s instincts took over. He crossed his arms in front of him, the familiar rush of aether flooding his limbs. His aura flared, coating his forearms with a shimmering, blue barrier just as the blast struck.
The impact was immense. Energy rippled outwards, displacing the air and filling the clearing with a deafening roar. Smoke billowed from Malacoda’s arms as he dug his heels into the earth, the force pushing him back until the cliff’s edge crumbled beneath his feet. For a breathless moment, he teetered on the brink, the sea far below churning and roaring. Then he shifted his weight, steadying himself as the smoke cleared. His arms were untouched, but the smell of burnt ozone lingered.
Before he could react, the Angel was beside him, moving faster than his eyes could track—a blur of golden light. A laugh bubbled up from his chest, echoing across the cliffside. It had been so long since he’d felt a thrill like this.
“I’m actually going to need to use my Skills,” he muttered to himself, barely dodging a blow that would have taken his head off. “What a treat!”
[Skill: Aura Vision]
[Level: S-1]
They clashed, fists blurring, every strike sending shockwaves through the air. The Angel was fast, far faster than he expected, but it lacked the strength he associated with Angels. Malacoda’s blows were precise, controlled, and he could tell that the Angel was straining to keep up. They exchanged a furious series of strikes—punches, kicks, elbows—and yet neither managed to land a decisive hit. He was still toying around, testing the Angel—or Mags—he actually wasn’t sure.
Malacoda’s eyes narrowed, feeling the ebb and flow of aether around him. Let’s see how you handle this. He pulled in more aether, burning mana with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. The pool of water formed beneath his feet, a familiar chill spreading outward as his magic took shape.
[Spell: Vain Vice]
From the center of the dark pool, a massive crab claw—etched with blue, glowing lines—shot upwards and clamped down on the Angel’s leg. There was a jolt of satisfaction as he saw it work. The Angel struggled, its body jerking unnaturally as it tried to free itself. It reminded him of a trapped animal.
Malacoda seized the moment. He closed the distance, his fists a blur of motion as he pummeled the glowing figure, his knuckles connecting with satisfying force. Each blow reverberated with the impact of a landslide, the sheer power of his strikes forcing the Angel back again and again.
Finally, he drove a heavy uppercut straight into its chin, feeling the resistance of its light-clad jaw. The impact echoed like a thunderclap. The Angel staggered, and for a moment, he thought it was over.
But then it moved, faster than he’d thought possible. Its glowing hands shot out, seizing his shoulders with a grip that felt like iron. Malacoda’s eyes widened as the Angel’s face—smooth and empty a second ago—split apart. The mouth was too wide, too deep, filled with blinding light, and before he could react, the beam erupted point-blank, a torrent of raw power that caught him full in the chest.
The world spun. He was weightless, his body flying backward, the cliff edge falling away below him. The force of the blast left his skin tingling, raw and burned even through his aura, but there was no time to think about pain.
He saw the Angel—relentless, emotionless—lunging after him through the air.
Malacoda’s grin returned, wild and exhilarated. Not yet, kid. Not yet. He reached out with his senses, feeling the echoes of his Spell left behind, the shimmering pool of water still glimmering where they’d clashed. He tugged on the threads of aether, and the remnants of the fish that had scattered in their fight came to life.
[Spell: Twisted in Folds]
Silver and blue projectiles shot upward like a cloud of shimmering darts, homing in on the Angel’s exposed back.
The impact was immediate. Each fish exploded on contact, brilliant flashes of blue light rippling across the Angel’s back, forcing it to stagger in mid-air.
But they were too close to the Temple grounds—he could feel the strain of magic pressing against the wards placed on the towers, the pulse of danger humming in the back of his mind. He would be in serious trouble if the temple was destroyed. His brow furrowed. He couldn’t afford to destroy half of Bijel Garden just to satisfy his curiosity.
His eyes flicked down to the pool, the center now swirling with darkness. He poured his will into it, channeling a greater spell, one he’d been perfecting for moments just like this.
[Spell: Umiboshi]
From the pool, a massive face composed of blue and white aura—old and wrinkled, the lines of time etched deep into its translucent form—rose upward, its eyes glowing with an ancient, knowing light. The face took a deep breath, the very air shuddering around it, and then it exhaled.
A cold wind, fierce and biting, howled across the cliff. It struck like a physical force, a wall of icy air that drove both Malacoda and the Angel backward. The spell shoved them off the cliff’s edge, the ground disappearing beneath their feet.
Malacoda felt himself falling, the wind screaming in his ears as the world became a rush of swirling clouds and crashing waves below. With a flick of his fingers, he latched onto aether, weaving invisible threads that coiled and tightened, stopping his fall abruptly. He hung there, suspended above the roaring sea, his heart hammering in his chest.
The Angel plummeted, a streak of golden light falling towards the black waves.
“Let’s see if you can fly,” Malacoda muttered, his gaze locked onto the falling figure, his body poised for whatever came next.
A streak of golden light shot up from the depths of the sea, and Malacoda’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He watched as two radiant, golden wings unfurled from the Angel’s back, each feather shimmering with a brilliance that lit up the dark cliffs like a second dawn. It moved like a comet, a blur of light and raw power streaking towards him, leaving a trail of glowing sparks in its wake.
He couldn’t help it—he laughed. A deep, booming laugh that echoed across the crashing waves below.
“Well, I see my challenge was accepted! Well done. But—”
The Angel hit him like a cannonball, slamming into his chest with enough force to send shockwaves rippling outwards. The air was driven from his lungs, and he had just enough time to cross his arms and brace himself as the Angel’s claws tore into him. They were relentless, the glowing fingers raking across his chest and shoulders, leaving thin trails of white-hot pain. The creature’s face was a mask of fury, those empty, luminous eyes reflecting nothing back at him.
Despite all of this, he couldn’t stop laughing. Even as the Angel’s fists pummeled him, every blow accompanied by a flash of pain that sparked adrenaline, despite not being able to scathe his aether-enforced body. He felt . . . alive.
“Yes! That’s it!” he roared between hits, the excitement and pride swelling inside him like a surging wave. Each strike from the Angel sent him staggering back through the air, and when its fist caught his chin, his head snapped back with a crack that might have rattled a lesser man’s skull.
The next blow sent him plummeting, his body a ragdoll spinning helplessly towards the earth. He felt the wind roar past his ears, his vision filled with a blur of swirling colors. He roared with laughter. He twisted in mid-air, feeling the rapid approach of the crashing waves like a pressure at his back, but before he could adjust, the Angel was already upon him. It slammed into him again, driving him faster towards the sea with the force of a falling star. Then, it yanked upward, pulling them both into a straight line towards the heavens.
“A bit of whiplash,” he said between laughs.
The Angel held onto him tightly, spinning and then launching him hurtling towards the temple grounds. Malacoda could barely breathe he was laughing so much. He slapped a hand over his eyes, hoping to hold back the tears of painful laughter. This is too much fun!
Malacoda hit the clearing with a bone-jarring impact, the earth buckling beneath him. Dust and debris exploded outward in a billowing cloud as his body carved a small crater into the grass. His vision swam for half a second, the sky above swirling in a kaleidoscope of colors, but even through the haze of pain, he saw the Angel descending, its face utterly calm, haloed by a shimmering crown of stars that spun like a constellation woven from pure aether.
The Angel’s feet touched down lightly at the edge of the crater Malacoda’s body had formed upon impact, the golden wings folding back with a rustle like the flutter of silk. The glow was more intense now, almost blinding, and Malacoda’s grin only widened.
He forced himself to his feet, rising from the crater’s depths with a groan. His muscles ached, bruises already darkening beneath his skin, but he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up from his chest. The minor wounds already healed themselves with the use of his mana, which he burned away effortlessly. He was exhilarated, his senses sharpened to a razor’s edge by the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Well played,” he said, his voice hoarse but filled with pride. He looked at the Angel, those featureless eyes staring back at him like twin suns. His eyes locked onto the Angel’s, his smile turning almost feral. He had let the Angel do what it wanted for a little while, to test it. To test Mags, and see if it was her he was still fighting, or if she had lost control of the Angel she hosted. He had seen enough. Just another Maldrath, it seems. He glanced up towards the silent figure of Frey Sarto and sighed. “Time to put on a show for the boss.”
Malacoda’s arm moved to his side, his fingers curling inwards as he channeled aether. His aura flared, burning in brilliant blues and purples, and he felt the familiar heat at the edge of his consciousness—the pull of the forge within his soul. He closed his eyes, focusing on the spiritual nexus deep within his chest. Then, he activated his soulforge. The swirl of energy emerged from his chest, burning aether around him with a hunger of its own.
There was a deep, resounding thrum that reverberated through the air, a low hum that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. A circle of blue light ignited beneath Malacoda’s feet, casting strange, flickering shadows up the sides of the crater. Within the circle, lines and glyphs—complicated and interlocking—began to form, a glowing pattern that spread like wildfire until it encompassed the entire clearing.
The air grew thick and heavy with aether, and he could feel the raw power vibrating beneath his skin. His fingers curled as if reaching for something unseen, a weapon—Leviathan—began to materialize from the swirling air, a blade half-forged from his very soul. With a mental command, he canceled the summon of Leviathan’s totem form and instead called upon its true power.
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The Angel’s head tilted slightly, watching him with a curious intensity. Its mouth opened, lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out—only the crackle and hum of power.
The golden wings sprouted from its back, spreading wide, and the Angel took a single step forward, the ground rippling under the weight of its aura. The stars around its head pulsed, the halo spinning faster, the energy building like the calm before a storm.
Malacoda’s grin stretched wider, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light.
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Mags’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, her chest heaving as she fought against the suffocating shadows clawing at her throat and face. She was drowning—no, being devoured—consumed by the liquid darkness that poured into her mouth, nose, and eyes. Her senses were overwhelmed, every nerve screaming in pain as the shadows coiled tighter around her limbs, dragging her deeper into their cold embrace.
But somewhere, beneath the suffocating torrent, a flicker of her will remained. A spark, buried beneath the waves of shadow.
“No,” she whispered, the word barely a breath, but the darkness recoiled, hissing. “No!” Her voice rose, fierce and unyielding, cutting through the gloom like a blade. She thought of Solstice, and the soldiers marching on her home under the banners of the Crown Coalition. She thought of Vitomir and Sabo, the children they had cared for and protected. She thought of Soulgrave House, of being discarded and fighting for control of her own body again. She had been scared, so scared. And yet each and every time she had found the strength to move forward. I will persevere. I will continue to move forward!
Her fingers twitched, then clenched, forcing her arms to move despite the heaviness that threatened to lock them in place. Aether surged through her veins, wild and uncontrolled, burning away the cold. With a scream, she shoved against the liquid shadows, the darkness splintering around her as if struck by a hammer.
She pushed herself upwards, her muscles straining, her face twisted in defiance. The darkness roared and writhed, a thousand screaming voices echoing in her ears. But Mags was relentless. She was in control. This power would bend to her will. She would not be consumed. She would not be a puppet.
The shadows seemed to realize their prey was no longer helpless. They lashed out, forming into the shape of a young boy—Enoch. He was on top of her, clawing and scratching at her face, his eyes wide with desperation and fury. His batlike wings flared, sending gusts of chill wind through the room as he screamed, “LET ME GO!”
Mags’ bared her teeth, a feral snarl ripping from her throat. She caught Enoch’s wrists, feeling the sharpness of his claws rake against her skin. The shadows hissed and spat, the liquid darkness trying to seep back into her flesh. But she didn’t stop. She held on with an iron grip, forcing his thrashing form away from her.
“No!” she roared, her voice shaking the walls of the chamber. “This is my power!” Enoch’s eyes widened in horror as Mags stood, her legs shaking but unbroken. The altar loomed above them, and she felt a surge of raw, unfiltered rage flow through her. It was like holding lightning in her hands, but she didn’t flinch. She owned it. This was hers to wield.
The shadows clawed at her as she half-dragged, half-carried Enoch’s wailing form up the steps of the altar. His face was twisted with pain and confusion, his eyes pleading, as if begging her for an answer. He thrashed, his wings flapping wildly, but Mags held him tight, her grip unrelenting. The liquid shadows continued to pour from him, staining her hands black, but she didn’t care.
“I will not be controlled!” she screamed again, and with a final, brutal shove, she forced Enoch back into the shallow stone bowl at the top of the altar. His form twisted, writhing like smoke caught in a gale, his arms flailing as he struggled to escape.
“Why am I here?” he cried, his voice cracking with anguish. “Why won’t you let me go?”
Mags’s eyes burned, her entire body trembling with the effort to hold him down. She was covered in his darkness, her fingers bleeding from the shadow’s razor edges, but she pushed him deeper into the bowl, refusing to give ground. His wings thrashed, his hands clawing at the sides of the altar, but her weight was unyielding, pinning him in place.
“You’re here,” she said, her voice low and hard, “because I will it. You’re mine to command!”
Enoch’s mouth opened, but no words came. Only a long, hollow wail, as his body began to sink into the stone basin, the darkness coiling and writhing as if trying to escape her grip. His fingers grasped at the rim of the bowl, desperately clinging, but Mags’s hands were already there, her fingers closing over his with crushing force.
The shadows surged one final time, a wave of despair and fury that rose to swallow them both—but Mags did not flinch. She felt the power coursing through her, wild and potent, and instead of fighting it, she embraced it. With a snarl of triumph, she shoved Enoch’s hands down, forcing his fingers to release their grip.
“No one,” she said, her voice a whisper that resonated with the very stone beneath her feet, “controls me.” Not you. Not the Empire. Not Frey Sarto.
Enoch’s form shattered, the shadows exploding outward in a rush of cold wind. Mags was thrown backward, landing on the cold stone, the darkness vanishing as quickly as it had come. She gasped, staring up at the strange, false moonlight above, her chest heaving as the power settled inside her—a deep, resonant pulse that echoed in time with her own heartbeat.
The altar was silent, the shadows gone. But she could still feel it—the darkness within her, coiled and waiting. Hers to command.
Mags’s vision cleared, the world snapping back into focus with a clarity she’d never known. She was flying through the air, the wind rushing past her in a furious roar. Below her, Malacoda stood in the middle of the smoking crater, his posture relaxed, yet taut with anticipation. His grin was wide, wild and feral, his eyes burning with delight. Energy surged around him, warping and bending.
She looked down at her hands and saw them blazing with golden light, radiating outward from her fingertips like the corona of a small sun. Her body was suffused with a warmth that pulsed and throbbed, powerful and intoxicating. It was as if every particle of her being hummed with energy, her senses heightened to a razor’s edge. The aether in the air sang to her, its hidden patterns and currents revealed in blindingly intricate detail. Everything made sense—every movement, every shift of power. She could feel the threads of aether that bound the world together, the subtle hum of the energy that connected her to everything else. It was like a new language, spoken directly to her mind, instinctive and undeniable.
But she was still falling, the golden light propelling her ever faster toward Malacoda. Her limbs moved without her conscious will, her body striking like a golden comet descending from the heavens. She tried to slow her descent, but the Angelic power surged, unrelenting and overwhelming. Panic clawed at her mind, a raw, gnawing fear that she was losing herself again, that she would be a vessel for the Angel’s rage, a passenger in her own skin.
No. She gritted her teeth, the world narrowing to a pinprick focus. I am no one’s to control. The words echoed in her mind, burning like a brand. This power—it was hers. It was hers to command, hers to master. The Angel—Enoch—was nothing without her will.
She dug deep, deeper than she’d ever dared, reaching past the golden radiance that filled her limbs, feeling the pulse of something darker, something colder. A power she’d only just touched but already knew was hers alone. The Angelic energy burned through her veins, screaming for release, but she pushed back, shoving it down, forcing it to bend to her will.
Mags landed with a deafening crash, the earth beneath her feet cracking under the impact. Malacoda was there, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden shift in her descent. She rose to her full height, golden wings spread wide behind her, the ethereal light coating her body like armor. But her movements were now her own, deliberate and controlled, the power answering to her command. A familiar sensation tickled the back of her mind, and a screen of silver, flowing script filled the corner of her vision.
[Access Granted: Yggdrasil]
[Temporary Access Granted: Improved Class]
[Soulsinger Designation: Enoch]
. . .
[Soulsinger Designation: Magdalena]
[Class: Angelic Host (Type: Aeon Ennoea)]
Malacoda’s grin only widened, his wild eyes flashing with approval. “Mags . . . I see you! You’ve found it, haven’t you?” he laughed, his voice low and exultant. “That’s it! That’s what I’ve been waiting for! Show me what you can do!”
But Mags wasn’t listening to him—she was feeling the power under her skin, the force that roared through her veins like a raging storm. She focused inward, wrestling the Angelic energy into submission, forcing it to bend to her will. She felt the power surge—a second heartbeat alongside her own—and in that moment, she knew she had it.
Her eyes locked onto Malacoda, the aether around them swirling like a storm. Her voice, when she spoke, was steady and clear. “This ends on my terms.”
Malacoda’s expression shifted, surprise mingling with a wild delight. “I like your attitude!” he roared, his own aura flaring around him, deep and shimmering like the depths of the sea. “Let’s see if you can make me believe it! One more chance: try and hit me!”
They moved as one, a blur of light and shadow, clashing in the center of the clearing. Mags was a storm of controlled fury, her blows precise, each movement calculated and intentional. The Angelic light that encased her body no longer dictated her actions, it merely enhanced them, moving with the fluidity and power of a master swordsman wielding a favored blade.
Malacoda’s laughter echoed around them as he met her strikes, his fists glowing with a deep blue aura, each impact sending shockwaves that split the ground around them. He fought with a brutal grace, relentless and powerful, his movements like the crash of waves against the shore. But Mags was unyielding, her eyes blazing with determination. She had felt the power of the Angel and had bent it to her will. She could feel the shifting currents of the battle, anticipate his every move, sense the flow of aether around them.
“Is that all you have? An improved Physical Enhancement?” Malacoda taunted, his voice rising above the sound of their furious clash. He swung, aiming a heavy blow at her side, but Mags was faster, her golden wings snapping open as she twisted, dodging the strike by a hair’s breadth.
“No,” she said, her voice cold and certain. “This is only the beginning.” She surged forward, fists wreathed in golden light, the power she’d fought so hard to control finally unleashing in a torrent. The raw energy surging through her body was still so new, and it was difficult to control. In the moment, she could only move and attack with her body. The power she was wielding was still far too foreign. Deep in her core she could feel a twisting pain, similar to when she reached the end of her mana reserves.
It didn’t matter. She would see this battle to its end.
Just one strike. One clean strike is all I need!
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Malacoda’s body was alive with the thrill of battle. He could still feel the shape, the true shape, of Leviathan in his mind’s eye, ready to be summoned from the Aethereal Sea. But he was no longer fighting an unrestrained Angel. The being of raw power before him was his student, after all. The test was still ongoing, and he didn’t want to destroy her. He effortlessly canceled the summoning, but kept his soulforge open. Instead, he summoned Leviathan in its lesser form.
A brief flash of light, and his silver ring vanished. In his hand formed the long, silver fencing foil. A thread of silver light materialized, extending from the guard of its pommel, continuing to the tip of the blade, and then extending through the air, ending in a small gleaming fishing hook made of blue aura.
The golden light that encased Mags shimmered, growing impossibly bright, and he felt the familiar shudder of power, the way reality itself seemed to warp around the sheer force of her presence. This was it—the moment he’d been waiting for, the chance to clash with an entity no one had ever witnessed before: a Soulsinger who had bound the power of an Angel.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent Leviathan’s line hissing through the air. It caught Mags’ Angelic body near the nape of its neck. He pulled, sending the line and his shining opponent flying through the air.
Mags quickly corrected herself midair, reaching over her shoulder and snatching the hook. She held onto the line and as she landing, tearing apart the earth as she skidding to a halt, she pulled on the line, yanking Malacoda towards her at terrifying speeds. Malacoda let himself be pulled forward by her, using the momentum while simultaneously shaping the aura of Leviathan’s line to turn the hook into a serpent. The snake shot forward, wrapping itself around the Angelic silhouette.
Malacoda slammed into the Angel, unleashing a fusillade of jabs.
Mags flexed her arms and the aether in the air around her quaked before the aura-constructed serpent exploded in a shower of aetheric dust. The Angelic form rocketed forward, fist cocked back, ready to strike. She cleared the distance faster than Malacoda had witnessed before, and for the first time he wasn’t ready. He prepared himself to take a clean punch on the chin. Grinning as wide as ever, he whispered, “Good job, kid.”
But then, just as the Angel was upon him, so close that he could see the golden radiance reflected in his own wide eyes, the light wavered. It flickered, fractured, and in the span of a single heartbeat, the glowing form dissolved, as if it had been caught by an unseen gust. The Angel disintegrated like a Maldrath breaking apart, golden flecks swirling upward, drawn into the winds, leaving behind only the soft, silent fall of aethereal dust.
And standing there—small, fragile, and so utterly human—was Mags.
Malacoda’s eyes widened. Mags looked like she’d been chewed up by the jaws of the abyss and spat back out. Her face was a mask of blood and bruises, her clothes tattered and clinging to her in strips. Dirt, blood, and sweat covered every inch of her body, and the light of the Angel had faded entirely, leaving her swaying on her feet like a dying ember. But her eyes—her eyes were still fierce, burning with the same defiance he’d seen when they’d first crossed paths.
Her hand, the same hand that had held the Angel’s power, was raised, cocked back for a final punch. Malacoda froze, his laughter caught in his throat. The intent was there, clear as day, even though he knew she had nothing left—no aether, no mana, nothing but raw, unbroken will.
She swung. There was no strength behind it, no aura to back the motion. Her knuckles grazed his cheek, barely a feather’s touch, and the force of the blow—if it could even be called that—was nonexistent. She stumbled forward, the momentum of the punch carrying her straight into him.
Before she could collapse to the ground, Malacoda’s arms moved on their own, catching her. He felt the weight of her small, exhausted form sagging against him, her breaths shallow and ragged. She was done. Spent. He cradled her gently, feeling the warmth of her blood-streaked face against his chest, and for a brief moment, he was reminded of that day in Solstice, when he’d seen her plummet from the sky.
Stepping out of the crater, he held her carefully, as if she might shatter at any moment. The earth was cracked beneath them, evidence of their titanic struggle, but all that mattered now was the girl in his arms, limp and utterly human.
Around them, the Ghost Hounds watched in silent awe, their expressions muted and solemn. Even Scarmiglione, who never missed a chance to crack some asinine joke, stood in an unusual silence.
Malacoda ignored him. He looked up, his eyes finding Sarto’s in the distance. She was high above them, the shadows of the cliffs casting half her face in darkness. She betrayed nothing—no flicker of approval, no disappointment, just that familiar, serene calm. But Malacoda could feel it, that quiet, unspoken acknowledgment. Mags had done it. She had proven herself, taken the power of an Angel and made it her own, even if only for a moment.
The test was over.
Malacoda’s lips twisted into a proud smile, and he tightened his grip on Mags, feeling the faint, steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest. She had fought and clawed for every inch, defied the expectations of everyone around her. She had won, in her own way.
“Well done, kid,” he whispered, so softly that only she might have heard, even though she was unconscious in his arms. “Well done.”
With deliberate care, he began to walk, carrying her away from the ruined battlefield.