"Are you really going to go up against that?" The voice belonged to Thomas, echoing not in the air but in the hollows of Ludwig's mind. It was less a question and more a whisper of doubt, one that lingered even after it was spoken.
Ludwig didn't answer immediately. His undead breath caught for half a second as his eyes tracked the enormity of the figure before him. The Queen towered like a thing born from a cathedral's fever dream, her form a mass of petals and thorns stitched together with the language of pain. Her presence distorted the air. Roots flexed beneath her feet like muscles about to contract. The battlefield itself recoiled at her mere existence.
"Do I look like I have a choice?" Ludwig finally said. His words were quiet, not weary, but spoken with the dull certainty of a man walking through the same nightmare again. He adjusted his grip on Oathcarver, the weight of the sword familiar and grounding, though it did little to lighten the burden ahead.
