THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

As the robed watchers drifted closer, their crackling threads of runes illuminating the oppressive gloom with their crimson glow, a subtle shift occurred beneath David. The shadows, previously inert, stretched unnaturally, elongating like living things, deepening into liquid pools of night. They pulsed with a hidden vitality, a silent current of immense power that seemed to anticipate David's every unvoiced command.

From the deepest part of these expanding shadows, a figure calmly stepped forth. It was Death. Her form, cloaked in robes of swirling midnight, was a stark contrast to the oppressive gold and shadow of the throne room. Her movements were fluid, effortless, utterly devoid of fear or hesitation. She moved with the quiet grace of inevitability itself, her presence a silent promise of destruction to any who dared to oppose her master.

Without a word, without a complex incantation, Death raised a hand. The air around her rippled, bending and distorting as if reality itself was being reshaped. From the swirling darkness of her cloak, a barrier bloomed, not of solid force, but of fractured twilight.

It shimmered with an impossible spectrum of colors, like light shattered into a thousand tiny pieces and then reassembled into a protective shell. It was ethereal, yet impossibly strong, a shimmering veil that pulsed with silent power, easily capable of deflecting the oppressive energy emanating from the descending watchers. It hummed with a low, resonant frequency, a silent defiance against the Mistress's domain.

Beside her, with the suddenness of a struck gong, the Devil materialised. Not stepping from shadows, but seemingly born from the very tension in the air. Her obsidian sword, a blade of solidified night, was already raised, its surface not merely dark, but actively smoldering with an internal heat that warped the air around it.

Wisps of dark smoke curled from its polished edge, hinting at the raw, destructive power contained within. her eyes, usually a calm, calculating red, now burned with a fierce, unwavering loyalty, fixed on the approaching threats. Her stance was perfect, rooted, poised for immediate and decisive action. Her aura, though less overtly grand than Death's, hummed with a sharp, lethal edge, like a coiled viper ready to strike.

Both Death and Devil stood guard, their forms radiating a silent, unshakeable resolve. They were a bulwark against the encroaching judgment, their combined presence a testament to the immense power that served David. They formed an impenetrable defensive line, their gazes fixed on the Mistress and her descending puppets, their forms tense with readiness.

And David, the eye of this brewing storm, simply gazed upward. He did not move, did not speak, did not even seem to acknowledge the impending confrontation with anything more than a passing curiosity. The vastness of the throne room, the chilling power of the Mistress, the encroaching threat of her watchers – none of it seemed to disturb his profound calm.

The cosmic gate churned, the black flame dripped, and the robed watchers descended, their crimson rune-threads crackling with power. Death's fractured twilight barrier shimmered, and Vivian's obsidian sword smoldered, ready to unleash devastation. The air thrummed with ancient, forbidden magic, pregnant with the promise of conflict.

And David?

David did not act. He did not prepare a spell, did not ready a weapon, did not even shift his weight. He remained utterly still, his gaze fixed on the Mistress floating serenely above the dark gate. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips. It was a smirk. Not a cruel smirk, or an arrogant one, but a smirk brimming with amusement. It was the smirk of someone who had meticulously planned a grand spectacle and was now settling in to enjoy the show.

It was the smirk of a man who loved such an impossible, thrilling scene.

"For once…" David's voice cut through the thrumming tension, calm and surprisingly light, "…I think I'll be the one getting carried."

His words, simple and direct, held a subtle layer of irony. The Mistress, in her ultimate domain of judgment, believed she was the one orchestrating the demise of trespassers. Yet, in David's mind, this was merely another stage for his loyal subordinates to shine, another opportunity for him to enjoy the dramatic flair of his grand design. He wasn't the one fighting, not actively, not yet. He was the director, the audience, and the hidden power behind the scene.

He raised a single finger, slowly, deliberately. It was not a gesture of defiance, or of attack. It was a simple beckoning, a silent invitation, as if challenging the entire realm to bring forth its best.

It was a gesture of supreme confidence, a quiet, almost theatrical challenge issued to the Mistress and her entire domain. The very air around his finger seemed to hum with an unacknowledged power, a silent promise of unimaginable might, ready to unleash if the show required it.

The Mistress's burning sun eyes seemed to narrow, just a fraction, as David's words and gesture reached her. Perhaps, for the first time, a flicker of something other than serene certainty crossed her ancient gaze.

However, in the intricate theatre of David's mind, as his gaze swept over Vivian and Seraphina, ready to confront the Mistress's descending puppets, a profound certainty resided. He knew they couldn't handle her, alone, if necessary. The Mistress of the Creed was no mere sorceress; she was a leviathan among magic-users, a power player whose name resonated with fear even among the most ancient covens she had once led. Before her enigmatic expulsion as a heretic – a schism the 'novel' vaguely attributed to a pool of her sisters' blood – she had perched at the very pinnacle of the witch hierarchy.

Witches in this realm were a species intrinsically loved by mana, their very essence vibrating with its currents. Their connection to the Sovereign blessed them with an intimate command over Dark power, making humans and other races wary of their veiled might.

But among these mana-blessed beings, there were prodigies, those deemed "kissed by darkness" and the Sovereign herself. Such individuals were capable of bringing entire small cities to their knees with a mere flick of their hand, and the Mistress was undeniably one of them. David understood this well, the 'novel' having meticulously detailed her formidable strength.

Yet, he also knew a crucial truth: witches of her kind, especially those of the Sovereign's blood, possessed an almost supernatural ability to smell fear. Any hint of weakness, any tremor of doubt in his resolve, and his meticulously crafted plan would crumble to dust. He needed to even the playing field, not with his own power, but with sheer, unyielding bravado. And just in case, flanking him was Vespera. Luna, merged together with his flowing amor of darkness to replicate their strongest skill:

Shadow Wrath.

His strongest servants, his ultimate aces.

Maintaining his theatrical nonchalance, David breathed out, his voice resonating with the quiet authority of a monarch of shadows. "Shall we talk, Mistress of the Creed?" He opened his arms wide, a gesture of defiant, open challenge that drew a subtle, curious raise of the Mistress's ancient brow.