They sat in silence for a moment.
Silence stretched between them—heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Above them, the castle groaned—distant shouts, the faint thunder of movement echoing through stone. The war was no longer an abstract future. It was here.
Esther closed her eyes. If she didn’t say this now, she never would.
Then she whispered, “Lucy… there’s something I need to tell you.”
Lucy tensed. “If you say another stupid thing, I swear I’ll bite you.”
“No,” Esther murmured. “It’s about… sex.”
Lucy blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“It’s not like in the books. It’s awkward. And it hurts.”
Lucy stared at her. Then gasped.
“You got laid before me!?”
“Lucy—”
“No! Unacceptable!” she raged. “I am kissing someone before I die! I don’t care if he smells like cheese and works in the stables—I refuse to let you win in death!”
Esther laughed—a soft, choked, terrified little sound. But it was real.
And above them, the first explosion rocked the castle.
42
Nythir
How to Lead an Army: gather your loved ones, your enemies, some raccoon-coded civilians, and pray.
Dawn had not yet broken, but Nythir stood as if it had. The cold wind scraped across the frozen plains outside Draewyn’s ridge, tugging loose strands of hair, carrying the faint metallic smell of awakening magic. The fields were silvered with frost, the sky bruised with the promise of morning, and the earth waited beneath him as though unsure whether it was about to witness glory or disaster.
Nythir felt it settle over him like a mantle he had never asked for. They were watching him. Refugees, guild members, half-trained fighters, civilians clutching whatever weapons they had found—all of them waiting for him to decide what came next. Not because he was the strongest. Not because he was noble.
Because he hadn’t broken.
The realization tightened his chest. He had led small groups before. Missions. Raids. Survival. This was different. This was raw faith—and it terrified him more than the enemy ever could.
Behind him gathered… well, not an army. He refused to call them that. Armies had discipline. Formation. Matching equipment. A shared understanding of the wordstrategy.This group had none of those things.
Instead, they had:
Orphans clutching brooms like divine weapons.
Farmers gripping pitchforks with the grim resolve of men who’d spent lifetimes fighting drought.
Women brandishing iron pans with holy conviction.
The Baroness screeching about posture.
Sylva pacing in agitated feline arcs.
Sable staring ahead with the serenity of a corpse.
