The bells of Notre Reine rang out across the city in the early night, calling the frightened to shelter under its eaves. Atop the grand spire of Notre Reine, a radiant light shone out, casting a glow that pierced the eternal night. Creatures from the Umbra dared approach the cathedral, but as they reached the edge of the light, they faltered and were stopped, unable to cross into its sanctified radiance. It was a beacon of sanctuary, and slowly, hesitantly at first, the people of the city began to make their way towards it. What began as a trickle grew into a flood, the frightened masses driven by instinct and hope to seek refuge beneath the cathedral’s protective glow.
High in the night sky, unseen but heard in a thunderous roar, the dragon queen circled the cathedral. Waiting. Testing. Her massive wings churned the air with each beat, creating gusts that rattled windows far below. Aeloria strafed the cathedral repeatedly, unleashing volleys of fire that cascaded in relentless waves. Each strike was a tempest of wrath, a declaration of her fury, but the unseen shield surrounding Notre Reine held firm against the onslaught.
Still, the dragon queen did not relent. She adjusted her angles with precision, her firestorm intensifying as she tested the limits of the cathedral’s protection. The shield began to quiver under the sustained assault, and a faint fracture appeared, allowing a tendril of fire to snake through and scorch the stone below. Each pass grew more calculated, her rage transforming into a methodical attempt to break the sanctuary’s defences entirely.
Moments later, it became clear that Aeloria was no longer the only one skyborne. Across the storm-laden sky, R?zvan ascended, his levitating form radiating an unearthly malice. A whorl of darkness and lightning spiralled outward from him, the flashes illuminating the chaos below. Flames and bolts of raw energy struck the city streets, shattering the earth and leaving devastation in their wake.
“We need eyes on the streets,” Maximilian commanded from the centre of the room. “Send runners to report back.”
“That won’t be necessary, my lord,” Divina interrupted, stepping into the room alongside Ursula, who carefully wheeled in a large, smooth bronze mirror. The polished surface reflected the dim lantern light, its sheen catching the eye like still water that promised answers in its depths.
“This,” Divina began, gesturing to the device, “is inspired by something I saw on the Nautilus. I had a fellow artificer mark it with sympathetic runes—trade for trade. With some help, it can focus on distant places.” She turned to Laila. “My lady, I believe your magic could guide it. Weave your illusions into the surface, and we might see what’s happening on the streets.”
? Artificers have a saying: ‘Inspiration is just theft with better documentation.’ The Nautilus crew, being pirates, found this philosophy deeply relatable.
Laila stepped closer, studying the intricately worked surface. “It’s worth a try,” she said. “If it works, we’ll finally have a way to see what’s going on and coordinate our response.”
Divina gestured to the mirror. “Try focusing on the Champ de Soleil. That should give us an idea of what’s happening near the heart of the chaos.”
The family gathered around as Laila raised her hands, her fingers weaving a delicate spell. Illusions rippled across the surface of the mirror, its bronze sheen shimmering faintly before an image began to form. A hazy view of a city street came into focus, revealing the devastation below.
Where R?zvan’s fire had struck, bodies lay motionless: citizens felled by the monstrous horrors roaming the city. But as they watched, the corpses began to convulse, their lifeless forms stirring unnaturally. One by one, the dead rose with eerie precision, their eyes glowing with a dark, malevolent light. The cacophony of screams from the living grew louder as the newly risen dead joined the chaos, spreading terror across the city.
The room fell silent, the weight of the vision pressing heavily on all of them. Laila broke the silence, her voice trembling slightly. “We have to act. This... this is getting worse by the moment.”
Maximilian clenched his fists. “If we don’t do something, the city will fall.”
Wylan stepped closer to the mirror. “We need to be smart about this. Sending anyone out there without a plan will just add to the body count.”
Gawain’s voice cut through the conversation, bringing focus back. “The estate must be defended, but the city can’t be abandoned. We need to balance our forces carefully.”
? Military academies teach that defending a fixed position while protecting a city requires careful force allocation. They typically spend less time on what to do when the city is actively raising its own dead, though this is considered an oversight by those who’ve experienced it.
Maximilian’s frustration was clear. “So, we just stand here and let this happen?”
Laila placed a steadying hand on his arm. “No, Max. We’re going to fight this. But we need to do it strategically. The estate is our stronghold. If we lose it, we lose everything.”
Maximilian exhaled sharply, nodding reluctantly. “Fine. But we need to act now. If the situation changes, I’m going out there.”
The tension in the war room grew unbearable, teetering on the edge of a confrontation. Maximilian’s fists clenched, his frustration ready to boil over. “We can’t just sit here—”
? War councils are a delicate balance of strategy, shouting, and the occasional dramatic hand gesture. Maximilian, at this moment, was tipping the scales heavily towards shouting, threatening to plunge the entire room into a full-blown opera.
“Max,” Laila interrupted, her tone sharp and commanding, “you need to think this through. If you go out there without a plan—”
His voice rose in response. “And if we wait too long, the city will burn to ash!”
Before their argument could ignite further, the air in the centre of the room shimmered with a flicker of light. The sudden burst of energy caught everyone off guard, silencing them as a projection took form. The wearied image of Theodora emerged. Her eyes, however, held a flicker of defiance.
Laila raised a hand to silence Max and turned to the projection. “I’m glad Elizabeth reached you. We need you to convince Aeloria to help take out R?zvan. He’s the immediate threat to both of us.”
Theodora’s face became taut. “Clearly, that is why she sent Hamish to find me. But I don’t think you fully understand what you’re asking of us.”
Wylan interjected. “If you help us take him out, we can help you get into Notre Reine.”
Theodora’s gaze flickered with interest. “If we do this for you, Aeloria will not be able to help you take down Valère.”
Lambert gave Theodora’s projection a steady gaze. “It is a necessary risk. R?zvan must be stopped first.”
Theodora’s expression softened. “The future remains unclear, but one truth emerges: Aeloria can survive facing either R?zvan or Valère alone. Against both, I see only her death.” She paused, her expression darkening. “The choice we make now determines which battle she fights.”
Laila nodded slowly. “Then we choose R?zvan. Help us stop him, and we’ll help you get into Notre Reine.”
The projection flickered and faded. The war council resumed, voices rising as they debated timing and tactics.
In a corridor far from the war room, Isabella paused to get her bearings. She had slipped away while the others argued, and now the manor felt different in the darkness. Quieter. More dangerous.
A nearby portrait flickered. The painted visage shifted, and the face of Theodora emerged in its place, her expression calm but purposeful.
“I saw you leave,” Theodora said. “And I know where you’re going.”
Isabella didn’t bother denying it. “L’Orsienne. The Sun Crown. Wylan said it himself—deny Valère the Crown, deny him ascension.”
“If you are willing to risk yourself to steal it, I will ensure you get there and back.” Theodora’s voice was steady. “Your courage will serve as my price to convince Aeloria to act. She values bravery above all else. Seeing you take such a risk for a common cause will tip the scales.”
Isabella’s expression hardened. “Then open the portal.”
“Are you prepared for what waits on the other side?”
“I’ll find out when I get there.”
The portrait shimmered, and reality folded.
The reprieve had been brief.
Commander Viktor Vaziri stood at a shattered barricade on the Rue de la Victoire, watching his gains evaporate. The beam from the de Vaillant estate had bought them hours, driven the creatures back, let his Watch reclaim half the eastern district. But now the light had faded, and the darkness was returning with interest.
“They’re regrouping, Commander.” His lieutenant’s voice was hoarse. “The Inquisitors are reporting movement near the Bassin-de-Marne. Something big.”
Viktor didn’t ask how big. He’d learned that such questions rarely had comforting answers.
Above them, the sky split with thunder. Not natural thunder. This was something else. Viktor looked up and saw fire streak across the clouds, saw a shape that might have been a dragon wheeling against the darkness, saw lightning answer from a figure that blazed with stolen starlight.
“What in the Fourteen Hells—”
“Hold your positions!” Viktor bellowed, tearing his gaze from the sky. “Whatever’s happening up there, our job is down here. The line holds until dawn or until we’re dead. Understood?”
The Watch understood. They always did.
As Maximilian stood before the assembled estate guard, the soft glow of enchanted light cast long shadows across the estate’s courtyard. Behind him, the bronze mirror Divina had wheeled out earlier hummed faintly, its surface shimmering as Laila wove her illusions into it. The mirror now displayed a bird’s-eye view of the estate, rendered in ghostly detail.
Maximilian planted his feet before the assembled guard, his voice cutting through their murmurs. “Listen up. The estate is the anchor point. If we lose this, we lose everything.” He gestured sharply towards the gates. “Every resource, every advantage, every life that depends on us defending this ground will be forfeit. The streets may be burning, the city may be crying out for help, but right here, right now, we hold the line.”
He gestured to the mirror behind him, where faint outlines of the estate’s perimeter glowed against the dark canvas. “Divina and Laila have provided us with a strategic advantage: we can see what’s coming before it gets here. Use it. Coordinate your movements. Don’t waste your energy chasing shadows when we have a clear picture of the threats heading our way.”
A murmur of acknowledgement rippled through the ranks. Maximilian’s gaze swept over the assembled guards, ensuring he had their attention before continuing. “You’ve trained for this. You’ve prepared for this. Trust your instincts, trust your comrades, and trust that we’re going to hold this estate no matter what they throw at us. Tonight, we prove that the de Vaillants stand unbroken.”
Behind him, Lambert stepped forward, his presence commanding yet subdued. His voice carried a weight that brought silence even to the restless soldiers. “Before you take your positions,” he began, his tone calm but firm, “I offer you this.”
He raised a hand, and a soft radiance began to emanate from his outstretched palm, spreading across the assembled guard. The light was warm but not blinding, and as it washed over each soldier, their expressions shifted from weariness to resolve. It was a benediction, a prayer made manifest.
? Invictus’s vacancy as a higher power was causing complications in the prayer department. On the other hand, it had simplified matters considerably for theologians who’d spent decades filing contradictory miracle reports.
“You stand in defence of more than just stone and soil,” Lambert said, his voice steady. “You stand in defence of hope, of those who look to you for protection. Let the light guide your hand, and let it remind you that you do not face this darkness alone.”
The light faded, but the warmth lingered. Lambert lowered his hand and stepped back, his expression resolute. “Go now. Hold the line.”
The soldiers dispersed, their movements orderly and purposeful as they took their positions around the estate. Maximilian turned to Lambert, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That was a good speech, brother.”
Lambert inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained sombre. “It needed to be said.”
High above the storm-torn streets of Pharelle, Aeloria and R?zvan clashed in a storm of fire and lightning, their forms silhouetted against the roiling clouds. Each pass brought devastation, their attacks carving scars into the cityscape below. The dragon’s wings beat with thunderous force, sending gusts of wind cascading through the streets, while R?zvan’s dark magic twisted the air into a maelstrom of shadow and lightning.
The dragon queen banked sharply, avoiding a barrage of dark energy. She twisted mid-flight, her jaws snapping towards R?zvan’s levitating form as she unleashed a torrent of flame. The fire engulfed the vampire lord, but he emerged unscathed, his form wreathed in protective darkness.
R?zvan’s laughter echoed through the storm, cold and mocking. “You think you can defeat me? I am beyond your reach, dragon. You fight for a dying world, and I—”
His words were cut short as Aeloria surged upward, her claws raking across his form. The impact sent him spiralling, his levitation disrupted momentarily as he fought to regain control. But his shadows reformed, thickening around him like armour. Dragonflame alone wasn’t enough.
Then, from the rooftop of the de Vaillant estate, a lance of brilliant light pierced the sky.
Justice fired.
The beam struck R?zvan squarely, divine fire searing through shadows that had weathered dragonflame. He screamed—a sound that shattered windows across half the city—his form flickering, destabilised. Aeloria seized the opening, her talons piercing through the weakened shadows and tearing into his form.
On the rooftop, Wylan sagged against the cannon’s frame, the weapon glowing dangerously hot. “Direct hit,” he breathed.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Divina warned, already working to cool the overheated runes. “One shot won’t be enough.”
But in the sky, one shot had been enough to tip the balance.
Aeloria reared back, her maw glowing with an incandescent light. She unleashed a final, devastating blast of fire, the flames consuming R?zvan entirely. His form twisted and writhed within the inferno, his screams echoing across the city before they were swallowed by the roar of the flames. When the fire finally subsided, there was nothing left but ash, scattered by the wind and falling towards the dark waters of the Bassin-de-Marne below.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Aeloria circled once, her movements slower now, the toll of the battle evident in the laboured beat of her wings. Victory. But at a cost the dragon queen was only beginning to understand.
Then the water erupted.
Something vast and dark surged from the Bassin-de-Marne, tentacles thick as ship masts whipping through the air. The kraken—ancient, patient, and hungry—had been waiting. Shadow-dark limbs wrapped around Aeloria’s wings, her neck, her thrashing body, and dragged her downward with inexorable force.
The dragon queen’s roars became gurgles as dark water closed over her.
On the rooftop, Wylan was already repositioning Justice, ignoring the way the bronze frame groaned in protest. “Come on, come on—”
He fired.
The beam struck the kraken’s exposed bulk, searing a wound across its hide that made the creature shudder. Tentacles flailed. For a moment, Aeloria’s head broke the surface, golden eyes wild with fury.
Then the kraken pulled her under, and the waters of the Bassin-de-Marne went still.
Wylan stared at the dark surface, his hands still gripping Justice’s controls. The weapon let out a high-pitched whine, runes flickering dangerously.
“It’s overloaded,” Divina said, pulling him back as steam vented from the joints. “The runes are destabilising. One more shot and—”
“Can you stabilise it?”
Divina hesitated. “Maybe. One more shot. That’s all we’ll get.”
“Then save it,” Wylan said quietly. “We might need it.”
From the command post, Laila watched the dark waters through the scrying mirror. Nothing moved. Nothing surfaced.
She found Wylan still on the rooftop, slumped against Justice’s frame. The weapon was scorched, its bronze discoloured, but Divina was already working on the runes. He looked up as Laila approached, and she saw the same question in his eyes that burned in her own.
Was it enough?
She pulled him into an embrace, fierce and wordless. He was shaking—from exhaustion, from the cold, from everything they had just witnessed.
“You did well,” she murmured against his hair. “You gave us a chance.”
“I don’t know if it was enough.”
“It never feels like enough.” She pulled back, hands on his shoulders. “But R?zvan is gone. Whatever happens next, we face it without him.”
Below them, the sounds of battle drifted up from the estate. The creatures from the rift were still coming. Lampetia was still out there.
The night was far from over.
The portrait’s eyes followed Isabella down the corridor until she reached a dead end, where a shimmering tear in reality awaited her. Theodora’s voice emerged from nowhere in particular.
“L’Orsienne lies on the other side. The palace is largely abandoned, but Valère’s agents departed for it an hour ago. You’ll need to move quickly.”
Isabella stepped through without hesitation.
The cold hit her first. L’Orsienne in midwinter was a study in frozen grandeur, its white stone walls crusted with ice, its gardens transformed into a crystalline maze. The portal deposited her in what had once been a servant’s entrance, now thick with frost and disuse. Her breath misted in the air as she assessed her surroundings.
? Winter palaces, as a rule, were designed to be impressive rather than practical. The heating bills alone had bankrupted more than one noble house, which explained why so many of them stood empty for most of the year. The servants, meanwhile, had developed an elaborate system of hand signals to warn each other about which corridors had frozen pipes.
Isabella moved through the darkened halls with the quiet precision of someone who had spent years hunting prey far more dangerous than palace guards. The war bow strapped to her back was too cumbersome for close quarters; instead, she kept one hand on the knife at her belt, its blade already warming against her palm.
The palace was a monument to the Sun King’s vanity. Gold leaf covered every surface that would accept it, and several that shouldn’t have. Portraits of Lucian XVI in various heroic poses lined the corridors, each more flattering than the last. In one, he appeared to be wrestling a bear. In another, the bear appeared to be losing.
She found the first of Valère’s agents in the east wing.
He was young, dressed in the practical dark clothing of someone who fancied himself a spy, and he was very obviously lost. He consulted a hand-drawn map, then looked up at a junction of corridors, then back at the map, his expression suggesting the map had personally betrayed him.
Isabella considered her options. She could wait for him to wander off. She could incapacitate him quietly. Or she could simply walk past and trust that someone that thoroughly confused posed no immediate threat.
She chose the second option, largely out of professional courtesy. The young man never saw her coming. A precise strike to the nerve cluster at the base of his skull sent him crumpling to the marble floor with barely a whisper. Isabella caught him before he hit, lowering him gently behind a decorative suit of armour.
“Amateur,” she murmured, though not unkindly. Everyone had to start somewhere.
The treasury was on the third floor, according to the palace layouts she’d memorised during a long-ago diplomatic function. Isabella had a talent for remembering floor plans; it came from a childhood spent mapping the undertow currents of the Autumn Court, where knowing every exit could mean the difference between survival and becoming someone’s political leverage.
She encountered two more agents on her way up. The first she avoided entirely, pressing herself into an alcove while he passed, muttering about the cold. The second required more direct intervention: a woman with sharp eyes and sharper instincts who noticed Isabella a half-second too late. They exchanged a brief, violent conversation conducted entirely in blade and fist. Isabella won, though her knuckles would bruise by morning.
The treasury door was locked, which was expected, and warded, which was not.
Isabella studied the faint shimmer of protective magic around the lock. Royal wards, old and layered, the kind that accumulated over generations of paranoid monarchs. They hummed with the self-satisfied certainty of magic that had never been seriously tested. Fortunately, Isabella had grown up in a household where circumventing magical protections was considered a useful life skill.
? The de Vaillant family motto was officially “Light Through Duty.” Unofficially, it was “Always Have a Backup Plan.” The two sentiments were not considered contradictory.
She produced a small vial from her belt, one of Wylan’s creations. The liquid inside shifted between colours like oil on water. Isabella had no idea how it worked, only that Wylan had pressed it into her hand before a previous mission with the instruction: “For magical locks. Don’t get it on your skin. Or in your eyes. Or really anywhere near your face.”
She applied a single drop to the ward. The magic flickered, sputtered, and died with a sound like a disappointed sigh.
The lock itself was purely mechanical, and Isabella knew exactly what to use. She reached up to her hair and withdrew the bronze flower pin Maximilian had given her. It had been barely a month since he’d pressed it into her hand, yet she’d already carried it through more dangers than she could count. A small piece of her brother’s faith in her.
The lock surrendered in twelve seconds.
The treasury was smaller than she’d expected, though no less stuffed with concentrated wealth. Gold coins, jewelled goblets, ceremonial weapons, and enough silverware to set a table for the entire aristocracy. But Isabella’s attention went immediately to the pedestal in the centre of the room.
The Solar Diadem sat beneath a glass dome, its golden arches catching the faint light from the windows. Sunburst motifs radiated from its crown, set with jewels that seemed to hold their own inner fire: crimson and amber, like captured sunrise.
Isabella lifted the dome carefully, half-expecting some final trap. None came. The crown was heavy in her hands, the weight of history and power compressed into metal and stone.
For a moment, she simply held it, feeling the faint warmth that emanated from its surface. What Valère needed to complete his ascension. What could give them leverage over a would-be god.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor below. Multiple sets, moving with purpose.
Isabella tucked the crown into her satchel, which Wylan had helpfully enchanted to hold more than its exterior suggested. She moved to retrieve the bronze flower from the lock, but the mechanism had bent one of the petals, jamming it fast.
More footsteps. Closer now.
She tugged once, twice. The pin held. Maximilian’s gift, evidence that would lead straight back to her family, and she couldn’t free it.
Isabella made the only choice she could. She left it behind.
She crossed to the window, assessed the distance to the nearest rooftop, and threw herself through the glass.
The landing was harder than she’d hoped. Her ankle twisted as she hit the icy tiles, sending a spike of pain up her leg. Isabella rolled with the impact, coming up in a crouch, already moving toward the next roof. Behind her, shouts erupted from the treasury window.
She ran.
The rooftops of L’Orsienne were treacherous, their tiles slick with ice and loose from years of neglect. Isabella navigated them with the desperate grace of someone who had no other choice, leaping gaps that would have given a sensible person pause, sliding down slopes that ended in lethal drops. Her ankle screamed with each landing, but she’d dealt with worse pain and less motivation.
A crossbow bolt whistled past her ear. Then another. Valère’s agents had reached the roof.
Isabella ducked behind a chimney, caught her breath, and assessed. Three pursuers, maybe four. Armed with crossbows and, judging by the shouting, limited vocabularies. She had perhaps thirty seconds before they closed the distance.
She unslung her war bow.
The first shot took the lead pursuer in the shoulder, spinning him off the roof entirely. The second missed, but sent the remaining agents scrambling for cover. The third found its mark in someone’s thigh.
Isabella didn’t wait to see the result. She was already running again, heading for the rendezvous point Theodora had indicated: the eastern tower, where a portal would be waiting.
She almost didn’t make it.
The final gap was wider than the others, and her injured ankle chose that moment to buckle. Isabella launched herself into empty air, felt the sickening certainty that she’d misjudged the distance, and then her fingers caught the edge of the tower parapet. She hung there for a moment, the city sprawling below her, ice crystals forming on her eyelashes.
Then she pulled herself up, her arms burning with the effort, and collapsed onto the tower roof.
The portal shimmered before her, patient and steady.
Isabella reached into her satchel, confirming the crown was still there. Her fingers brushed its warm surface, and she allowed herself a small, fierce smile.
She stood, tested her ankle, winced, and limped toward the portal.
Behind her, Valère’s agents finally reached the tower, just in time to watch her disappear.
On the rooftop, Divina worked to coax one last shot from Justice while Wylan watched her hands move across the damaged runes. Below, the battle raged without them.
The defenders of the estate worked in tight coordination. Laila’s illusions flickered across the bronze mirror, providing real-time updates on the enemy’s movements. Maximilian led the estate guard with precision, his commands sharp and decisive as they repelled wave after wave of Umbral creatures. Lambert remained near the centre of the courtyard, his benedictions bolstering the defenders and driving back the darker forces that sought to breach the perimeter.
Despite their efforts, the tide of enemies seemed endless. The creatures poured forth from the darkness, their numbers replenished faster than they could be cut down.
“How much longer?” Wylan asked.
Divina didn’t look up. “As long as it takes. These runes weren’t designed for this kind of abuse.”
As the battle at the estate raged on, a new threat emerged from the darkness. Lampetia strode towards the courtyard with deliberate, earth-shaking steps. She was monstrous—wreathed in shadow and flame, her eyes glowing with unholy light. The ground trembled beneath her weight, and the air around her crackled with raw, destructive energy.
“Hold the line!” Maximilian shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle.
The estate guard formed a defensive wall, their spears and shields raised against the oncoming behemoth. Lampetia’s laughter echoed across the courtyard, a sound that chilled the blood of even the bravest soldiers. She raised a massive hand, and a wave of fire erupted from her palm, washing over the defenders. The enchanted shields held, but the heat was unbearable, and several soldiers staggered back, their armour glowing red-hot.
Lambert stepped forward, his staff raised high. “Protect the innocent!” he called, and a radiant barrier sprang up around the defenders, deflecting the worst of Lampetia’s assault. The light of his faith clashed against the darkness of her power, creating a shimmering boundary that held firm—for now.
Lampetia lunged forward, her massive form moving with terrifying speed despite her size. Maximilian intercepted her, his blade flashing as he struck at her legs, trying to slow her advance. The blade bit deep, drawing a gout of dark ichor, but Lampetia barely noticed. She swatted him aside with a backhanded blow, sending him crashing into a nearby wall.
“Max!” Laila’s voice was sharp with alarm, but Maximilian was already rising, his expression grim but determined.
“I’m fine,” he growled, wiping blood from his mouth. “Keep the pressure on her!”
Lambert moved to Maximilian’s side, his staff glowing brightly. “Together,” he said, his voice steady.
Maximilian nodded, and the two brothers charged in unison. Lambert’s light clashed against Lampetia’s darkness, creating openings that Maximilian exploited with brutal efficiency. His blade struck again and again, each blow carving deeper into the titan’s corrupted form. Yet Lampetia’s rage only grew, her attacks becoming more frenzied and unpredictable.
From the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, a new group emerged. The Rogues Gallery, a motley crew of adventurers who had answered the call to defend the city, moved with practised coordination. Their leader, a wiry halfling with a grin that belied the gravity of the situation, called out to the others.
? The Rogues Gallery had learned their coordination the hard way: through a series of heists that went spectacularly wrong before they went impressively right. Their leader maintained that the first three failures had been ‘valuable training exercises,’ though the halfling’s singed eyebrows suggested otherwise.
“Flank her! Don’t let her focus on one target!”
An orc woman wielding enchanted chains lashed out, the glowing links wrapping around Lampetia’s legs. She yanked hard, pulling the titan off balance. A monk darted in, her strikes precise and devastating as she targeted the creature’s joints. An elf phased through Lampetia’s defences, her spectral form disrupting the dark magic that sustained the titan.
Grappling hooks shot out from the shadows, their enchanted tips digging deep into her flesh, locking her in place. Enchanted bolas followed, spinning through the air and tangling her legs, reducing her once-feral grace to a stumbling wreck.
Together, the Rogues Gallery forced Lampetia into a corner. Chains tightened. The monk’s silence deepened around her, leaving her sluggish and disoriented. The elf phased through her form once more, disrupting whatever dark magic held her together. When the last bola locked into place, she was immobilised—a trapped beast struggling in vain.
“Now!” Laila’s voice cut through the chaos. “Divina—now!”
On the rooftop, Divina finished the last stabilisation rune and stepped back. “It’s ready!”
Wylan was already behind Justice’s controls. The weapon hummed dangerously, heat radiating from its bronze frame, runes flickering between stability and collapse.
One shot. That was all they had.
He aimed. Breathed. Fired.
A lance of brilliant light erupted from Justice, piercing through the night and striking Lampetia squarely. The divine fire consumed her utterly. For one single, blinding moment, everything was bathed in searing light.
When the brightness faded, there was nothing left of Lampetia but a smouldering pile of ash.
Behind him, Justice let out a final groan. The mirrors cracked. The runes went dark. The bronze frame sagged, warped beyond repair.
“It’s done,” Divina said quietly. “Properly done, this time.”
The silence of near dawn crept in once more as motes of ash floated gently through the air, glinting faintly in the dim light. The battlefield, moments ago a cacophony of fire and fury, now lay quiet, the ground beneath the de Vaillant estate marked by the scars of a hard-won victory.
As the dust began to settle, Laila turned to Lambert, her soft voice breaking the fragile stillness. “How are you holding up, Lambert? That was your mother—your birth mother at least.”
Lambert stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the smouldering ash. His mouth opened, closed. Opened again. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quiet and heavy. “I don’t know if I ever really thought of her as family,” he admitted. “She was always more of a threat, a looming presence. Even now... I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still there, watching, waiting.”
He paused, his shoulders sagging. “This... It feels like an echo, that will haunt me for a while to come.”
Isabella stepped through Theodora’s portal onto ash-strewn ground. The de Vaillant estate lay before her, scarred but standing. Her family moved through the wreckage like ghosts, heavy with exhaustion. The early morning air was thick with ash and damp earth, and the first pale rays of light struggled to pierce the gloom. She moved forward, breath visible in the frigid air, her face flushed with the thrill of success. In her hands, she held the crown of the sun king aloft, its golden arches and sunburst motifs glinting faintly. The jewels, a mix of crimson and amber, refracted the dim light into fiery glimmers on the frost-kissed ground.
? The weight of history is heavy, but the weight of a crown made of solid gold and encrusted with jewels isn’t exactly light either.
The family turned as one—shock, relief, apprehension crossing their faces in quick succession. Laila’s gaze fixed on the crown, her features taut with a mix of anger and relief. “Isabella,” she began sharply, “what have you done?”
“I got the crown,” Isabella replied simply, her voice steady despite the fatigue that pressed on her.
Wylan rushed forward to pull her into a tight embrace. “You did it, Issy!”
Laila’s lips tightened, her eyes darting between Isabella and the crown. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or scold you for taking such a reckless risk.”
Wylan chuckled softly. “Why not both, mother?”
Before more could be said, the air shimmered violently, and a tear in reality appeared with a sound like shattering glass. From the rift stepped Theodora, her figure tall and commanding, though her expression betrayed the weight of immense sorrow. Her usual poise was intact, but it was undercut by the haunted look in her eyes.
Laila approached cautiously, her tone steady and gentle. Though her instincts urged her to comfort Theodora, something held her back. This was, after all, someone who had been her family’s enemy until recently. “Theodora, how are you holding up?”
Theodora’s shoulders sagged, then straightened—spine rigid, held upright by will alone. When she spoke, her voice carried the careful steadiness of someone refusing to break. “Harrowed, Laila. I’ve just lost Aeloria—the one who taught me everything, who believed in what we’re building.” Her hands trembled before she clasped them together. “But grief will not stop me. Not when we’re this close to the brink. If I’m to stop Valère, I need you.”
Laila inclined her head. “We’ll do what we must. The time to act is now.”
Theodora’s gaze shifted to the crown, her expression sharpening with recognition. “Now that you’ve got it, what do you plan to do with that?”
Wylan’s tone carried both urgency and caution. “We need to confront Valère sooner or later, but without the crown, his plans can’t proceed in the way he intended. This gives us some breathing room to take the fight to him on our own terms.”
Laila nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. “The Caul of Night is fading. Wylan believes it’s been weakening Valère—blocking whatever solar power he hoped to claim. If that’s true, we need to strike while he’s still diminished.”
Theodora interjected, her voice steadying. “The Caul is disintegrating rapidly. Even without the crown, I would not underestimate Valère. He has contingencies—he always has contingencies. Whatever is going to happen will happen today, on Yule. It must. I don’t know what will occur if there is no one in the House of Agony when the Pendulum reaches its eastern arc, but I assure you, waiting him out is not an option.”
Wylan turned to Divina. “Any updates on Aeloria?”
Divina’s expression remained grim. “The harbour’s unnervingly still. My best guess is that their battle left both of them weakened—possibly downed. Re-establishing the light line to see into the dark waters will take time, and sending people to investigate directly is far too dangerous.” She hesitated, her tone softening slightly. “For now, we have to accept that Aeloria’s fate remains uncertain.”
Lambert held up his hand. “Then our focus must turn to Valère. We have only a few precious hours before the hour of dawn.” He exhaled sharply, a flicker of frustration breaking through his resolve. “I had hoped the Inquisition would stand with us, but it seems they have rejected both Valère’s authority and mine. Let them concern themselves with restoring order to the streets. We shall do what must be done.”