A/N: The title is Italian, and it literally means "decisive." The idea that spawned this was quite simple: "I've never written a tragedy before." It should, therefore, go without saying that some parts of this are going to be dark. Oh, and this isn't going to be very longmaybe six chapters. That's all you're hearing from me for now.


"They will fail."

Admiral Westergard wanted very much to shake his head at the comment, but his queen's word was absolute; forever in servitude to her, and forever in obedience to her orders.

"They will still come. Do not forget, Queen Elsa—"

"I need not your concern, nor your pity. I will kill them in an instant, no matter who they are. Perhaps Weselton will finally get the message that I don't play games and have no reason to ever speak to them again."

She was called the Ice Queen for a reason. She would have no reason to not meet out her terms, that much Westergard was certain of. And so be believed her, as well he should.

"Aye, my Queen."

And with that he took his leave, not even requesting it, but he probably wouldn't have received a response in any case. As he shuffled away from the dais and of her impending presence, his leave was punctuated by the shutting of her palace's massive door. And, once again, as she was much used to, she was left alone. To herself and herself only, she muttered, "My words have never been hollow, to my knowledge. Test my patience like that again, Admiral Westergard, and I won't be so gracious."

That's what she would've said to him had he not left abruptly, but the situation didn't exactly call for a reprimanding. She merely wanted to voice her thoughts as a way to remind herself that she still existed.

All those people down in Arendelle depending on her. It was the reality, a weighty thing she never much took kindly to. Knowing that they literally needed her just to stay afloat was nearly sickening.

"They really are pathetic. All of them." She flexed her hand, materializing a menacing blade of ice from nothingness. "Assassins, heroes, politicians, do-gooders. All of them weak, mindless, powerless." She punctuated her statement with a clear, powerful swipe of the sword. The action caused a ringing throughout the palace. She imagined slitting the throats of her assailants deftly and with grace, proud of her powers.

But then she remembered.

"All except one."

The only one she regarded as truly, truly kindred. That fireball of auburn so in contrast to herself, yet revered so fondly by her. Anna knew of this, just barely, since Elsa had little time away from her rule, which she took to with great strength. It was the duty placed upon her by her family, and her family values would certainly not falter in the face of something so idle as a threat on her life.

It humored her to no end to think that some silly old man influencing his also-aging king actually believed he posed some sort of threat to her kingdom: Arendelle, the kingdom that had single-handedly claimed the seat of superpower in northern Europe. And nothing would stop her from furthering that, not when she had the means to affirm it, unlike many other monarchs before her.

They were all inadequate in her eyes. She, of course, regarded her parents fondly, and respected their seriousness in ensuring the safety of the people of Arendelle from her powers. But now that there was nothing to hold her affixed, she would never go back.

"Leonin," she called in an unfaltering tone, "some sherry, please." She did still have quite a spectrum about her. She was a queen, not a monster as some revered her. Threats were never, ever taken lightly, however. As much as they amused her, or so she would say, they never sat right with her.

Once her command reached the ears of her appointed servant, who had been with her for a few months now, he wasted no time in righting himself from the back of the throne room and going to the cellars. He honestly had no idea how she could manage it—keeping different temperatures in different parts of the palace. He simply thought, Cold is cold, right? But he grew to understand that her control of her powers was something else entirely. She could regulate specific parts of specific rooms, kind of like how she kept his spot behind her in the throne room more temperate, and all of the areas housing royal documents a more moderate temperature, as well.

This applied to the living quarters, also. His was kept as most humans would prefer: room temperature. She also delighted herself in a warmer environment as she slept, but the majority of the ice castle had to stay frigid to maintain structural integrity.

From the outside, the palace seemed to sparkle even at night. Blues, magentas, and golds had cemented themselves as the constituents of her signature aura. Some of her more friendly visitors had informed her that on clear nights, the palace stood out even more than the aurorae, shining like a far-off beacon atop the North Mountain.

She appreciated the attention. Well, she was queen after all. The fact that her people thought about her still gave some other reason to rule as she did, apart from ruling in and of itself.

Maybe that wasn't all right.

"Maybe." She said in the silence of the palace. She did not quiet her voice in the comfort of her domain as she looked to the serrated blade still grasped in her hand. "Maybe they're not all as pathetic as I make them out to be." She did harbor sweet spots for some of them—none of them outside of her dominion, however. She merely felt it necessary, or perhaps tasteful to clarify that she did not rule with an indifferent iron fist.

She did care about her people.

"I am the Queen, I am the protector, and I am the law. With my people under me, this kingdom will more than prosper." Bringing the blade up to her face, she smiled at her reflection in the immaculately-conjured ice. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure of that."

The blade then began to disappear from her grasp, no longer needing it. Truth be told, it was a design that she settled upon after much thought. It had to be ominous, toothy, and beautiful. Starting at the forked end of the blade, it slowly dissipated into intangible particles. They could be still be sensed by her, just like the air all around her. And at the moment the handle she had held finally dispersed, Leonin reentered with some sherry. The bottle didn't even swish as he walked in perfectly even strides.

As he approached, she reached down to the glass at her side to receive her request. She looked at the bottle in his hands and smiled slightly. "You didn't have to get my favorite, Leonin." Perhaps he thought she was stressed. Whatever it was, she was openly appreciative and more than ready to oblige. "1706, Amontillado. Only the finest for her majesty." He nodded as he poured the precious liquid into her frozen goblet adorned with the rosemailing from her coronation dress. No one had ever explained to her its origins, but she took a fondness to it.

She tipped her head to Leonin, and with that he deftly left her side to return the priceless bottle to the cellars.

She relished in the medium dry sweetness of the sherry. She knew well enough that age of a wine held most of its value, but, as queen, she'd probably be the only one to ever taste the contents of the vintage bottle. Royalty never had to worry themselves with mediocrity.

A ripple in her glass. Her eyes shifted at once to observe the motion. Starting from the very center of the goblet, a circle slowly enlarged as the surface of the liquid rose upwards toward the edge of the glass. Normally it would have gone completely unnoticed. The cup, however, sat at her side completely still. She had not stirred since her third sip of the wine.

The disturbance was unmistakable. Her only means of detecting it was the glass, which, like all of her conjured ice, acted as an extension of her perception. The instant that the liquid shifted within the goblet, she had felt it.

A disturbance.

She counted 13 seconds before the next one finally came, making sure to remain completely still. She still said nothing. She could say nothing—only to wait for the inevitable next one. When the next 7 seconds had passed, the wine rippled twice with residue shaking.

It's getting closer.

The knowledge seeping into her mind was genuinely telling. Not even Marshmallow shakes the ground.

She would have none of it; fear was nothing. She stood from her throne, re-conjuring her familiar blade, Frostbane into her left hand. A large and especially reflective shield came into the grasp of her right.

As she stepped towards her front door, the rumble from outside only confirmed her suspicions. She had a fair idea ever since the second ripple, but slowly grew in certainty as to what the intrusion was.

These aren't assassins.

They had certainly gotten bolder. Weselton had a lot riding on this operation, it would seem. Her air of effortlessness thought otherwise, however.

As she threw the doors of her ice palace open to the raging storm outside, she knew with finality that she had, indeed, been right.

"They most definitely upped the ante."

The sight would absolutely terrify anyone—literally anyone—other than her. She was still a young queen, but in her two-and-a-half years of reign she had already slain two of the foe before her.

And this won't be any different.

She only smirked with impossible confidence.

"Touch me even once and I'll openly applaud you, gentlemen. Or, should I say, dragon trainers."

The roar that met her felt like a feather through her ears, almost like one of Anna's jokes but without the humor.

The men atop the massive creature said nothing. They could say nothing in the face of her majesty. Surely they were coming to terms with the fact that no one had ever exaggerated her sheer beauty and intimidation. She appeared as a valkyrie before them, with only one possible outcome.

In a moment, they lunged forward at her imposing form, seeing no immediate danger. The dragon beneath them roared mightily as all 100 tons of its form flew towards her, mouth gaping open to swallow her whole in one swift motion.

And then time stopped. Their vision, in a similar fashion, continued on for what seemed like an eternity—staring on and on at the exact same sight. And then a splash of red, consummate in its effect, ripped them from the trance. Given a scant few instants to make light of the occurrence, they fell short by a few miles to make heads or tails of what had just happened.

Poised perfectly before their motionless forms was the queen they had believed to be dead, her azure-blue blade pressed clean to the floor from where she was standing. Her eyes were closed, probably to ensure a most decisive blow.

In an infinitesimal span of time, the vision of her mind manifested corporeally as a searing wave of frost springing forth from Frostbane.

When she finally opened her eyes, the sight did nothing to surprise her. It was exactly as it had appeared in her head. The corner of her mouth curled up slightly at the sight.

Nice try, Weselton. But still not good enough.

Suspended in the air by the strength of her icy projection were the dragon and its riders. With one true strike, she had ended their existences so quickly that surely no one could've caught the exact moment.

Sighing at the necessary disposal, she dissipated the articles of battle from her hands.

For a moment she thought she could've gone without Frostbane, but quickly remembered why she came to love the blade so: it acted as a very effective catalyst for her magic because it was paper-thin. While her magic blasts alone could petrify most anything, concentrating the blasts down into something so incredibly pinpointed yielded lethal results.

To say that it had been like cutting through butter was an understatement. As she could feel an attachment to all her ice, it came as a surprise to her that she felt nothing as the ice ripped through her assailants. It had been the opposite of a struggle, even falling short of a cakewalk.

In one motion, she scourged all three of the bodies—one far larger than the other—with an onslaught of ice, merging their bodies with it. And just as quickly, she dissipated them into nothing. She had long-since concluded that it was the best way to keep the place spotless.

The slightly hurried steps behind her were awarded with the attention of her ears. She could hear a very slight pant, perhaps indicating that he hurried from the cellar.

"Your Majesty?" He called out. She closed the doors, and with a flick of her wrist she re-stabilized the internal conditions of the palace. Turning to Leonin, she smiled warmly. "It was nothing."

He gave her a knowing smile. Walking back to his place behind the dais, "I bid you goodnight, Leonin. As always, I appreciate your services." And with that, he again turned to her. "Goodnight, Your Majesty."

As he left her alone in the throne room, he could only think of how proud he was to have such a powerful queen.