Sylva cursed violently.
Basil tried to run.
Lyssara grabbed Vorrik by the collar. “Not like this!” she shrieked. “Not by a giant flaming chicken!”
The phoenix struck the center of the circle. Fire swallowed everything. Heat. Light. Freefall.
A roar vibrated through Nythir’s bones. His stomach dropped. The world spun—
And his feet slammed into solid stone.
He gasped.
They were standing at the front gates of the Draewyn palace. Very alive. Entirely intact. Somehow not ash.
War surged around them immediately—real war, with trained soldiers shouting formation orders, Kraggmar’s cavalry sweeping down the ridge in coordinated strikes, Valedaran knights charging with banners held high. Spells cracked through the air, illuminating the courtyard in flashes of violet and gold.
Hovering above the chaos in a skin-tight outfit was Luna. Wings outspread. Tail flicking lazily. Succubus charm radiating from her like perfume.
Half the guards stared at her in slack-jawed devotion.
“Hello, boys,” she purred. “Put your weapons down, breathe deeply, and reassess your life choices.”
Weapons hit the ground in a chorus of clangs.
Sylva stared. “She is horrifying.”
Sable nodded. “She is.”
And then the Baroness charged.
She glowed like a fallen star, Estella’s blessing turning her into a golden comet. Her purse struck the first guard; he cartwheeled into two others. The glow rippled across the citizens behind her, blessing each movement with impossible protection.
“For Esther! For Lucy! For Valedara!” she hollered, barreling toward the palace.
Basil chased after her, horrified. “Irene! You are not a frontline fighter!”
“I am whatever I want to be!”
Lyssara stood frozen. “I want to be her when I grow up.”
“Stay with her,” Nythir ordered, drawing his blade. “If she dies, I’m never hearing the end of it.”
The mismatched army surged forward, and the real armies faltered at the sight of civilians—not dying, not fleeing, but winning.
A Valedaran knight yelled, “Are those… bakers?”
A Draewyn guard cried, “A woman with a rolling pin just broke my shield!”
Nythir vaulted over a fallen column, silver magic flashing down his arms. A guard lunged; he deflected, countered, and cut through another. His team moved with chaotic precision.
“Lyssara, left!”
She flipped off a statue and kicked a man unconscious.
“Vorrik, stop trying to take their weapons—just hit them!”
“I am hitting them!”
