He must admit–he’s impressed with the agility displayed by the young samurai. She’s small, but clearly capable, and she’s able to vault over Ezekiel entirely. If it weren’t for his armor, he might have actually been injured by the blow–singular, because her second one misses (if only just).
“Is that all you’ve got?” he asks, goading them as if he were in a training session with one of his siblings. But this is no training session, and he will grant them no quarter. Siegfried thrums with dark energy as he brings it upwards, Ezekiel and he in a well-practiced grace as he aims to make her death a quick one. But as he expected might be the case, her speed is quick enough to make what could have been a near-fatal blow cuts through air instead.
No matter. He has no intention to lose. Again and again he strikes, taking advantage of Siegfried’s ability to hone dark power into a force as sharp as any steel to make up for the samurai’s speed. The blank mask across her face cracks, revealing ruby red eyes–a trait rare enough to give him pause, but only for a moment. Surely there’s another with red eyes out in the world.
Another slash, and another near-miss, this time cutting through dark strands just enough that a pointed ear peaks through. It’s only then that he stills his blade, expression close to disbelief.
“You…” His chest tightens, and Siegfried’s tip drops downwards, no longer poised to kill. “Kotaru?”
— A FEW INCHES OFF. Had they been but a bit to the right, and his blade would have struck true; how funny, that some part of them foolishly believed he ever loved them. Dedication to their death should’ve been proof enough, the power of his dark blade nearly knocking them out cold. Spots dance in front of their eyes, and they barely manage to send themself sideways, to avoid death - snippets of black hair soar by, their heart beat is heavy in their ears.
And the mask is BROKEN. They hear porcelain shatter beneath them, what little is left of the mask slipping, leaving little cuts; blood drips down their face, marring freckled skin, the cut near their head making them weak. Their knees knock, and their arms sag, but they must go on, even as their arms shake with the effort. Kotaru raises their sword once more, readied stance carefully rooted to the ground. Oozing blood still causes their head to spin.
❝ Raise your sword, general! I’ll not fight a fool who drops a blade. ❞ Is their anger believable, they have to wonder. Does he hear the rage of generations, of a frightened child, of someone who has begged him so many times, see me, see what has become of me? See how Garon has hollowed me out. Only now, when they are not begging, would he care.
So, Kotaru snarls, letting pointed canines be visible, something primal raging underneath their skin. He cannot take them back to that hell. ❝ I am not the royal your people murdered, so save your false grief. ❞ They cannot help themself, and they add, a hard edge against their throat, ❝ Don’t mourn for someone you killed, general. ❞
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