The chaos was over.

Or, at least, the kind of chaos that tears the sky, distorts the air, and even causes divine entities to intervene directly to prevent two absurd forces from turning an entire territory into ruins. The red still lingered on the horizon like an open scar, the last vestiges of dark energy slowly dissipating like smoke that refused to disappear completely, but despite this, the world had started working again. The wind blew naturally once more, the clouds regained their shapes, and the silence—that post-collision silence—now carried something different.

Embarrassment.

And it was almost palpable.

Shalom, who minutes before had advanced without hesitation against an entity that clearly surpassed the level of common threat, was now on his knees in a completely opposite posture. Her forehead touched the ground firmly, her hands pressed forward in a clear sign of absolute submission, and the contrast between that image and that of the woman who had cut off her own arm without hesitation was… almost comical, if it weren't so serious at the same time. There was a real weight to that gesture, a total acceptance of error, but there was also something almost too theatrical in the way everything happened too quickly.

Behind her, the group watched.

And none of them seemed to know exactly how to react.

Strax stood erect, his arms slightly away from his body, still with the remnant of that oppressive presence that had taken over the sky moments before, although now it was completely contained. His eyes showed no open irritation, but there was also no trace of lightness there—only a controlled calm that, curiously, was much more intimidating than the previous explosion of power itself.

Ouroboros, beside him, blinked slowly, as if trying to align two completely incompatible realities within her own head. The woman who had attacked without hesitation was now practically apologizing like a reprimanded child, and that was… too strange even for someone who had already seen the sky almost split in two that very day. Her eyes moved discreetly to Strax, as if trying to find some emotional reference in his reaction, but all she found was that irritatingly constant stability.

Tiamat crossed her arms, leaning slightly on one leg, her gaze carrying an expression of silent judgment that didn't need to be verbalized. She didn't seem surprised, but she didn't seem satisfied either—it was more like someone watching an absurd situation unfold exactly as expected, and yet still finding it a waste of time.

Scarlett, on the other hand, had a slight smile on her lips, not exactly mocking, but clearly amused by the situation. Her eyes scanned Shalom from head to toe, as if trying to reconcile the image of the fierce warrior with that completely surrendered figure on the ground, and the result seemed… interesting to her.

"I beg your pardon!"

Shalom's voice broke the silence, firm, clear, but carrying a tension that hadn't been present before. There was no hesitation in her tone, but there was urgency, like someone who knew perfectly well that she had crossed a line she shouldn't have even touched.

"I misinterpreted the situation! I thought it was a threat to the capital, not… not that it was literally the guest we were expecting!"

She didn't raise her head.

Not even a little.

And that, in itself, spoke louder than any justification.

In front of her, the man responsible for that abrupt change in posture remained motionless.

Derick.

His hands were positioned behind his back, his posture straight, his expression controlled to the point of seeming sculpted, and there was something in the way he simply existed in that space that imposed order. It wasn't brute force, it wasn't an overwhelming presence like Strax's—it was discipline. Structure. Authority consolidated not by explosive power, but by absolute control.

He sighed slowly. And that simple gesture carried more weight than any shout.

"Lift your head, Shalom."

His voice wasn't loud.

But it also left no room for negotiation.

Shalom hesitated.

Not out of defiance.

But out of respect.

"…With all due respect, sir, I—"

"Lift."

This time, there wasn't even room for a continuation of the sentence.

She obeyed.

Slowly.

Avoiding direct eye contact.

And at that moment, the contrast between them became even more evident—the warrior who had faced something absurdly beyond her level now behaved like a recruit being reprimanded.

Derick then looked away from her.

And turned his attention to Strax.

His eyes weren't hostile.

But they were… assessing.

He observed for a few seconds, as if confirming something he already suspected, and then, with a controlled and respectful movement, he slightly inclined his body.

"I apologize for what happened," he said, directly, without embellishment. "I should have been waiting at the entrance to the Kingdom to receive you properly, as had been planned."

A brief pause.

"Some unforeseen events occurred."

Tiamat made a small sound through her nose.

Scarlett looked away, clearly holding back a comment.

Ouroboros just took a deeper breath, as if trying to maintain composure.

Strax inclined his head slightly.

"Unforeseen events?" he repeated, in a tone too calm for the situation.

His eyes briefly passed over Shalom.

And they returned to Derick.

"One of my wives being attacked without any prior check, followed by a fight that escalated to the point of divine intervention…" he paused briefly, just long enough for the weight of the sentence to settle. "…is quite an… aggressive way of receiving someone."

There was no direct accusation.

But there was no softening either.

Derick closed his eyes for a second.

And nodded.

"I agree."

Without justification.

Without any attempt to circumvent the issue.

"And I take full responsibility for it."

The silence that followed was broken by something completely different.

Footsteps.

Calm.

Unhurried.

Coming from behind Derick.

He didn't notice immediately.

Which, considering who he was, was already an important detail.

The footsteps continued.

Firm.

Until—

A presence appeared beside him.

And then—

Derick took a sharp step to the side, clearly caught off guard.

"—Don't show up like that!" he said, completely breaking the composure he had maintained until then.

The woman beside him didn't react to that.

She didn't even look at him.

Her presence was dominant in a different way.

If Derick was discipline, she was… natural authority.

Her body was enveloped in a tight black suit that outlined every movement with precision, golden details functioning both as ornament and stylized protection, while a long cloak with a deep red interior fell from her shoulders with almost theatrical grandeur. The military hat with winged details added an air of command, but nothing about her seemed to follow rigid rules—she seemed to be the type of person who defines the rules simply by existing.

Her eyes went straight to Shalom the instant silence fell over that small suspended courtyard, as if the very air had been compressed by an authority that didn't need to announce itself aloud to be recognized.

The woman's presence wasn't overwhelming like Strax's when he unleashed his aura, nor did it carry the chaotic weight of a recently concluded battle, but there was something even more unsettling in the way everything seemed to organize itself around her—as if discipline and consequence were natural laws that simply existed in her presence.

When she spoke, her voice didn't need to rise a single tone, yet it still pierced the space with absolute clarity, firm and unquestionable.

"Go inside. We're going to talk." There was no explicit threat, no shouting, not even a look harder than necessary—and yet, the effect was immediate.

Shalom, who moments before had faced Strax with the conviction of someone who doesn't back down from monsters, froze as if she had been reduced to something much smaller.

There was no resistance in her eyes, not even room for wounded pride; what emerged there was something far more primal—recognition.

The kind of recognition that doesn't come from titles or formal hierarchy, but from a much older and deeply rooted relationship. Her posture changed almost instantly, the shoulders that had been tense for combat now aligning in an almost automatic submission.

"…Yes, mother." The answer came without hesitation, without irony, without any trace of the woman who, minutes before, had cut her own arm without blinking.

She stood up quickly, making a minimal respectful gesture before retreating with a speed that wasn't escape… but wasn't far from it either.

None of them commented as she disappeared down the inner corridor, but her absence left a curious void in the room—as if a storm had been removed from the scene by someone who simply decided it was enough.

Tiamat was the first to break the silence, blinking slowly as she crossed her arms, her gaze still fixed on the path Shalom had taken.

"…That was frighteningly efficient," she murmured, and there was a genuine tone of assessment there, as if she were trying to classify it not just as a social interaction, but as a display of power unlike anything they were used to seeing.

Scarlett, on the other hand, let out a wry smile, clearly more amused than concerned by the situation, tilting her head slightly as she observed the newly arrived woman.

"I liked her," she commented, without any filter, as if evaluating someone who had just demonstrated a type of dominance that she, personally, found interesting.

Ouroboros remained silent, but her eyes were attentive, analyzing every detail—not just of the woman, but of the entire dynamic that had unfolded in a few seconds.

The woman then turned her attention to Strax, and for the first time since she had arrived, her expression underwent a slight alteration.

It wasn't a sudden change, nor something theatrical, but a subtle adjustment, as if she were consciously shifting her posture. She stepped forward with controlled elegance, each movement precise enough not to appear stiff, but disciplined enough to make it clear that nothing about it was casual.

And then, to the surprise of absolutely no one—and yet everyone at the same time—she bowed. It wasn't an exaggerated or submissive bow, but a formal, calculated one, perfectly aligned with someone who knew exactly when and how to show respect without losing authority.

"I apologize for my daughter's indiscipline," she said, her voice now carrying a diplomatic tone that contrasted with her previous firmness. "She will be duly punished."

Strax observed the scene with the same calm he had maintained during much of the previous confrontation, his eyes analyzing not only the words but the intention behind them.

He didn't respond immediately, letting the weight of the silence settle for a few seconds, as if deliberately deciding how much of the situation deserved to be taken seriously and how much could be treated with the same slight disdain he often displayed.

"…I imagine so," she finally replied, her voice neutral but not disinterested. There was no direct provocation there, but neither was there absolution. It was a response that made it clear he understood—but was still evaluating.

She slowly raised her gaze, holding his without any sign of discomfort, fear, or arrogance. What was there was something much rarer: balance. She didn't try to impose her presence, didn't try to compensate for her daughter's mistake with excessive authority, nor did she place herself beneath him more than necessary. It was a precise position, meticulously adjusted for that specific moment.

"I hope this doesn't compromise your experience in our Kingdom," she continued, maintaining the same controlled tone, like someone fully aware that this interaction was not only personal but political.

Strax tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question for a moment before answering. "It depends," he said, with a slight pause that already carried a touch of subtle humor. "That was an exception… or should I prepare for more assassination attempts during my stay?" The question fell on deaf ears with an almost absurd nonchalance, as if he were asking about the weather or the quality of the local food, and not about being attacked by a monarch armed with multiple weapons capable of killing dragons.

Scarlett couldn't hold back her laughter this time, the sound escaping with a lightness that contrasted completely with the surrounding scenery, while Tiamat let out a heavy sigh, bringing her hand to her face as if mentally reviewing all the decisions that had brought her to this point. Ouroboros, for her part, only closed her eyes for a second, clearly trying not to react as overtly as the other two, but the slight movement of her shoulders betrayed the effort. Derick, who until then had maintained a rigid posture beside her, looked up at the sky as if seriously reconsidering his career choices and, possibly, his own existence at that very moment.

The woman, however, did not lose her composure. If anything in that question could have been considered provocative, she simply didn't react that way. Instead, a small smile appeared on her lips—subtle, but imbued with a confidence that didn't need reinforcing. "I can assure you," she said, tilting her head slightly in response, "that this was an… exceptionally enthusiastic reception." There was a brief, calculated pause, just enough to let the irony settle without becoming disrespectful. "And it won't happen again."

Her tone wasn't an empty promise, nor an attempt to appease the situation with pretty words. It was a statement. Simple, direct, and underpinned by something that went beyond formal authority. And that, more than any elaborate excuse, was what truly stabilized the moment.

Strax observed her for a few more seconds, and then, slowly, a slight smile appeared on his lips. It wasn't wide, nor particularly friendly, but there was a clear trace of interest. "Good," he said, relaxing his posture slightly, as if officially concluding that silent assessment. "That already improves the reception considerably."

Tiamat uncrossed her arms, still with a slightly tired expression, but now less tense, while Scarlett simply seemed satisfied with the way things were going. Ouroboros, in turn, looked at the woman in front of him with a more attentive gaze, as if trying to better understand not only who she was, but the role she played in that place.

Derick finally let out a sigh, almost imperceptible, like someone who had just survived a situation that could have escalated catastrophically with frightening ease. And, in a way, everyone there knew it.

Because, in the end—

It could have ended very differently.