The silence between them did not last.
The Hand of Veyr shifted their stance, blade steady, movements measured. They had seen what Vanitas could do. They had felt it in the way Alpha moved, how his blade found openings that should not have existed.
And yet, they did not retreat.
They adjusted.
Alpha steadied his breath, but it was uneven, forced. The weight of Vanitas pressed against him—not in his hand, but in his mind. His thoughts felt slower, his body distant. The sword was guiding him, pulling him forward.
He wasn't sure if he had truly won the last exchange… or if Vanitas had.
"You are beginning to understand," the voice whispered. It was not his own. It was something deeper, woven into the blade itself.
Alpha clenched his jaw. Now was not the time to question it.
The Hand moved.
They surged forward, closing the distance in an instant. The ground cracked beneath their feet, raw magic rippling through the air. Alpha barely raised Vanitas in time, and when their blades met, the impact sent a tremor through his arms.
A feint. A shift. A downward strike.
Alpha moved before he could think, his body twisting away, his counterattack already in motion. Vanitas carved through the air, aiming for the gap in their armor.
Too slow.
The Hand twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike, their blade lashing out in return. Alpha caught it, steel screeching against steel. He braced himself, expecting another heavy blow.
Instead, The Hand stepped back.
They were watching him.
Studying him.
Alpha narrowed his eyes. His grip on Vanitas tightened.
"You fight differently now," The Hand said. Their voice was smooth, distant, as if they were making an observation rather than standing in the middle of a battlefield.
Alpha did not answer.
Because they were right.
The fight had changed.
Not just because he had improved. Not just because he had survived longer than before.
But because something was wrong.
He could feel it, beneath his skin, in his bones. The way his body moved without hesitation. The way his blade struck without thought. It was too perfect. Too precise.
Like he was no longer the one deciding.
Vanitas pulsed. The weight in his chest tightened.
"A blade must have a wielder."
The words curled around his thoughts like a chain.
The Hand took another step forward, their grip on their weapon tightening. "Do you even realize it yet?"
Alpha inhaled sharply. "Realize what?"
The Hand tilted their head, just slightly. "The chain around your neck."
Alpha moved.
He wasn't sure if it was because of anger, or because Vanitas willed it, but he closed the distance in a breath. His blade cut through the space between them, sharp and unyielding.
The Hand met it without hesitation.
Steel clashed against steel. Sparks erupted. The force of the impact sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield. Alpha pressed forward, attacking again, faster, harder.
Vanitas guided him.
Strike. Block. Parry.
Each motion was seamless. Each attack honed. It was like he had fought this battle a thousand times before, each movement refined to perfection.
But The Hand did not break.
They adapted.
Their blade moved like a shifting current, flowing around his attacks, redirecting his momentum rather than fighting against it. It was not strength that kept them standing. It was control.
And Alpha was losing his.
The weight in his chest grew heavier. His vision blurred at the edges. Vanitas pulsed again, stronger this time, like a second heartbeat beneath his own.
"You cannot hold back."
He didn't know if the words were meant to be encouragement or a warning.
But he listened.
He pressed forward, abandoning hesitation, letting Vanitas guide him completely. The Hand met him strike for strike, their movements flawless, but Alpha could feel it now.
They were slowing.
Not by much. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Alpha noticed.
He pushed harder.
His blade found openings it shouldn't have. His movements were faster than his body should allow. The fight was no longer one of skill, but inevitability.
The Hand of Veyr could not keep up.
And for the first time, Alpha felt something close to victory.
But then—
Pain.
Sharp and immediate, burning through his side like fire.
His breath hitched. His steps faltered.
The Hand's blade had not touched him.
Vanitas had.
A crack of dark energy pulsed from the sword, searing through his veins like a brand. His vision wavered. His grip tightened, but his body felt—
Wrong.
Like something else had just reached inside him and pulled.
The Hand did not attack.
They simply watched.
"You feel it now," they said quietly. "The chain tightening."
Alpha staggered back, chest heaving. His body still moved, but it no longer felt like his own. His fingers ached from holding the sword, but he could not loosen his grip.
Vanitas pulsed again.
A whisper slid through his mind.
"You are mine."
Panic shot through him, raw and immediate.
No.
No, that wasn't right. He had control. He was the one wielding Vanitas. It was his blade. His power.
Then why couldn't he let go?
The Hand exhaled, their blade lowering just slightly. "Do you see it now?"
Alpha gritted his teeth. "Shut up."
They took a step forward. Alpha tried to move, to raise his weapon, to attack—
But his body hesitated.
The moment stretched.
And The Hand tilted their head. "You are not the first to hold that sword."
Alpha's breath caught in his throat.
The battlefield felt distant now. The fight no longer mattered. Only the weight in his hands, the voice in his mind, the cold creeping into his bones.
"You think you are the master." The Hand's voice was quiet. "But a blade does not serve. It consumes."
Alpha wanted to deny it.
Wanted to strike them down.
Wanted to prove them wrong.
But he could still feel it.
The weight of the chain.
And no matter how hard he tried, he could not break it.
Vanitas pulsed one final time.
"We are not done."
The pain vanished.
His strength returned.
The whispers receded.
And the battle continued.
But Alpha knew.
Something had changed.
And no matter how this fight ended, he would never be the same.