The Bloodline of the Just

1 / JEANNE

Hours had passed since the first assault.

At Orléans the battle still raged without pause.

French and English soldiers locked together with savage determination, their bodies tangled in a shapeless mass. Axes and swords crashed against one another, the blows ringing through the air like a warped symphony of steel. Banners soaked in red, the colors of the French troops, lashed in the wind, clashing against the dark iron of English armor.

The ground resembled a sea of mutilated bodies, the grass drinking deeply from the blood that spilled across it. The groans of the wounded and the dying blended with the clang of metal in a desperate chorus.

Jeanne, clad in her shining armor, galloped through the chaos of the battlefield.
The banner of the lily whipped high above her.

The plates of her armor rang as she dismounted with swift precision. Buio—her powerful warhorse, black as night—moved away, trained to seek shelter from the clash of battle.

The young commander planted her feet firmly in the mud. The sword's hilt, chased in gold, glimmered beneath the afternoon sun.

She began to breathe slowly, deeply, feeling the rhythm of her heart begin to settle. Each breath drew her closer to the transcendental calm she had long ago learned to reach. She felt the divine warmth moving through her, a current of pure energy flooding her body with strength.

She closed her eyes.

From her helmet she lowered a solid protective plate—without holes, without slits—leaving her completely blind.

Then, driven by a supernatural force, she hurled herself into the heart of the melee.

Moving with agile precision, Jeanne cut down her enemies with lethal certainty. Every strike found its mark. Every parry broke the enemy's assault. She carved through bodies, dodging and thrusting, her blade flashing in deadly arcs.

The English fell one after another, unable to withstand her divine fury.

Their chainmail shattered beneath the power of her blows. Shields—whether wood or iron—split open with equal ease, and a heartbeat later Jeanne's steel plunged into British flesh.

An enemy soldier rushed her with a savage cry, swinging a massive axe.

Jeanne slipped past the blow with effortless grace and, in a single fluid motion, drove her sword straight through him. The blade pierced the metal weave of his armor as if it offered no resistance at all.

With a sharp pull she tore the sword free from the man's body. He collapsed at her feet, lifeless, blood spilling across the ground.

A second knight stepped forward, fearless. His heavy armor bore the scars of countless battles, and his sword rose high above his head.

But the young commander had already measured the moment.

She sprang forward, striking before the attack could fall, opening his side with a mortal blow.

The man staggered backward, uncertain, as blood seeped between the dented plates of his armor.

"Demon...!"

The word died with him.

Around them the battle roared on.

The French, driven forward by their warrior angel, fought like enraged beasts while Jeanne moved through the slaughter, dancing among the broken bodies of her enemies.

Many times her soldiers had watched her perform that ritual. And every time they whispered to one another—barely audible words slipping from parted lips—wondering how a woman could fight with such ferocity while denying herself the use of sight.

The state of grace.

That was the name they had given to the supernatural condition into which their commander—famous for the divine voices that guided her—would descend.

And once there, she became the blind fury that had decided the outcome of so many battles.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, the metal finally fell silent.

The English, defeated, withdrew from the field, leaving behind hundreds of their dead. Jeanne, her steel drenched in blood, walked through the bodies while her soldiers saluted her, raising their blades toward the sky.

Her sword now rested in its sheath.

The plate of her helmet slid back, and she finally opened her eyes, letting her gaze fall upon the carnage she had wrought in the name of God.

Buio approached her. The great warhorse bowed on his forelegs, offering his back.

Once in the saddle, she spurred him into a gallop toward the Abbey of Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire—a place of peace, her refuge.

The stone walls of the monastic complex rose solemnly against the orange sky of sunset.

Jeanne entered the building. The metallic echo of her steps rang across the stone floor.

In a recess hidden behind the statue of a martyr, she removed a stone, revealing a small niche. From her leather satchel she drew out a manuscript whose heavy cover bore characters carved in an unknown language.

Carefully, Jeanne wrapped the book in a wool cloth and placed it inside the stone hollow, sealing it again with care.

Then she knelt in prayer, thanking the Lord for guiding her once more.

The Codex was finally safe.

With her heart still pounding from the battle, she mounted her warhorse again—black as night—and rode away.