Avenger was born from the pain of betrayal. Naturally she now lived every moment expecting more of it. This invincible body of hers was constructed knowing that anything and everything might break from her at any minute. It did not matter one bit. So long as her own promises were held to, the castle would not fall from the sky. And as its keeper, the Avenger would never know defeat. 

But even so. When the gates open, her scream tears the skies asunder. Amplified by receptors on the towers of the castle, the waves of sound pour down like lances upon the siege works of Boehmond. They tear the earth until it is unwalkable; mangled wreckage of stone and forest covered in unseemly tilled earth. Within the floating palace, hot tears pour down from underneath Avenger's mask. 

"Tarry alone but a moment, my Queen," her voice is a chorus of sorrowful song and barely restrained fury, every note of which is another dagger that falls to the earth beneath them, "I shall see to the guests."

All at once, the power in the wondrous machines lighting this place and filling it with the sounds of their labor shuts down. Avenger's castle morphs into a place of silence and darkness, broken only by the gleaming of her own weapon and armor, and the quiet sound of her hissing breath. She glides rather than walks, so even the sound of her footfalls is denied to the hallways and launchpads that will eventually carry out her grand assault.

Later. Now there are wrongs to be righted. A blood price to be extracted. She vanishes into the castle in search of her prey. Not the pawns of Assassin, but her own corrupted soldiers. These she will butcher with her own hands. When the task is done it will hardly matter what poisons and cretins have attempted to seep into her being. If this opening had been left for Lancer and her dismantling logic the wound might have meant something, but any creature that owed loyalty to Actia was powerless before her. So much the more if they should attempt to betray the great betrayer themselves. So far as she was concerned, the hired knives were nothing more than bits of undigested mana to be ground down into more soldiers and ammunition inside her gears. 

The first traitor, a Saber Class Shell, gurgles in its empty casing when the great laser sword rends its chest open. Black sludge bubbles out of the armor as it shudders hideously, staining the pristine walkway beneath it with the foul mud of disloyalty. She tears the head off of a Caster and uses its staff to impale the faceplate of an Archer. The darkness fills with clattering, empty armor and the slosh of disgusting sludge dripping everywhere. 

Avenger does not spare a single shell. Not a thought is given to the wasted resources. It does not occur to her that she could simply capture and reprogram them again and cleanse the sin of her palace without losing a single unit. She does not care. It is time the world ceased underestimating her. This is not a campaign that can be brought down by scheming. This is not the campaign of a king. This is a Promise, this is vengeance, this is wrath that can burn entire cities past recognition and then dump the loot in a river for the wolves to pick at. This is anger that could forge an entire nation within the quivering chest of a civilization that had come before it. 

Her sword sings. Her voice chokes with painful sobbing and something beneath it, something bordering on ecstasy. The tears pour down her face heavier than the rain outside. Her cloak of demons howls and snatches bodies out of the air, crunching them into powder beneath a snapping of the idea of jaws and teeth. Her castle is filled with violence, and in some way or another most all of it is directed at herself. There's probably a metaphor for the monks and mystics in that, somewhere.

"Those of you who hear my voice and obey, descend now. Yours is to test my so-called descendant. Make him prove himself before the ancient ways, as I have done before him. Whomever among you manages the deathblow, I shall grant a soul. Those who opt to remain, I shall paint this place in your filth."

She melts away toward her throne room, where the Assassin's blow would fall. She would weather it there, and watch. And if her entire army should fail? Nothing changes. She remains.