I didn’t wait.

  Not for orders, not for a second opinion, not even for someone to yell, “Are you insane?!”. Because I already knew I was. I launched myself from the tower as if Roberto was coming for it with a wrecking ball.

  One flick of mana, and a spire of frost erupted beneath my boots, shoving me skyward with all the subtlety of a bar fight. Wind slapped my hair back, cold biting through the sweat on my skin, but I didn’t care. I landed in a crouch on the roof of a barrack, knees complaining, cape flaring like a dramatist’s fever dream. Didn’t mean to look cool.

  Absolutely did.

  Then I moved. More ice. More speed. I skated across rooftops, leapt gaps, twisted in midair like I actually knew what I was doing. The rooftops blurred beneath me, the whole fort rushing past in a streak of movement and panic. I shot down a slanted wall like a broken sled, flung myself into another arc, and summoned a winding slide that spiraled me toward the main wall, cold and fast and absurdly dramatic.

  The frost clung to the edges of my cloak, catching light like scattered starlight. Every turn left a shimmering trail behind me, a glittering ribbon through the chaos. A prettier entrance than most weddings get. Not that I noticed.

  Because everything else was burning.

  The air ahead was thick with ash and magic residue. The scent of scorched stone and sulfur clung to everything. Fireballs, some from us, some from them, lit the horizon like war fireworks, each one landing with a jarring boom that made the stone beneath my feet vibrate. Screams echoed from the wall. Not training shouts. Real ones.

  Irwen’s magic was still building in the distance, runic tendrils clawing up into the sky, drawing in clouds, twisting the light like it was embarrassed to be here.

  I surfed down the spine of the fortress like a frost-drenched lunatic, ice flaring under my feet in controlled bursts that made every rooftop and spire a launch point. It must’ve looked epic on the stream, cape fluttering, mana flaring at my heels, face set in grim focus like some battle-scarred heroine. But I focused on something else.

  I was thinking about how the air crackled. How the ground trembled beneath even the stone. Irwen was preparing something. Something Mythic. And I needed to be where things were worst.

  Naturally, that meant Llama’s line.

  I landed in a three-point crouch on a battered rampart and immediately had to duck as a flaming hunk of something not-previously-airborne soared past my head. “Nice to see someone’s throwing a party,” I muttered, sprinting toward the only patch of wall that hadn’t collapsed or caught fire in the last hour.

  And there he was. Llama, the goddamn bulldozer in plate armor.

  He stood in the center of the chaos, shield raised high, half his helm dented from a previous exchange that should’ve knocked someone unconscious. Blood streaked down one cheek, already drying. Around him, his squad moved like parts of a machine, block, pivot, strike, retreat, repeat.

  No flash, no dramatics. Just brutal, ugly survival.

  “Rotate left! Reaver incoming, Anna, you drop your shield again, I swear—” Llama barked, parrying a blow that would’ve turned someone else into puree. The [Bone Reaver] he repelled snarled, if you could call that gurgling noise a snarl, and lunged again. Llama didn’t flinch. He pivoted, letting his shield absorb the blow, and shoved, sending the massive undead warrior sprawling back into its own line.

  Then came the Ghouls. Fast. Crawling over debris like roaches with vengeance issues.

  I winced as one launched itself over a pile of crumbled stone, only to be impaled mid-leap by a flash of steel and grace. “Back off, creep!” Lunaris shouted, blades spinning as she twisted, flipped, landed in a crouch, then surged forward again with deadly rhythm.

  Her Sock-emblazoned cloak flared behind her like she was starring in her own hero anime.

  She wasn’t the only one earning visual effects. Luminaria stood behind Llama, elegant robes somehow not stained with soot, glowing faintly with enchantment. Lightning danced from her staff like she was conducting a furious symphony. Every time a [Bone Reaver] tried to flank Llama, she zapped them with clinical precision. No showboating. Just efficiency wrapped in nobility.

  A [Blight Mage] popped up near. Sickly green fog drifted toward Luminaria’s position, thick with decay. Without missing a rhythm, she flicked her wrist and redirected the storm. Arc-light cleaved through the air, the mage evaporated, and the ground hissed where his remains dared to touch it.

  Okay, fine. That was a little showboaty. She was camera-friendly.

  A fresh gust of heat rolled over me, and I turned just in time to see a fireball the size of a carriage slam into a siege tower that had somehow survived this long. Tramar’s mages were still very much alive and torching everything that moved.

  Less finesse than Luminaria, more nuke it from orbit energy. A good contrast, honestly.

  The surrounding wall groaned again. Chunks of stone crashed down below as yet another cursed javelin from a [Sky Reaver] zipped overhead, trailing smoke. Our archers picked it off before it could circle back, but they were losing height, one by one.

  The sheer mass of the demon army was staggering.

  [Foot Soldiers] poured in like gunk with swords. [Bone Reavers] smashed into shield lines with enough force to shake bones loose. [Ghouls] clawed up siege ladders and flesh-piles like macabre cheerleaders. And behind them, the [Blight Mages] kept hexing away, melting armor and rotting morale.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Fty and the remaining healers were ducked behind shattered stone, dragging the wounded to whatever cover they could find, pushing their mana reserves to the edge. His eyes looked like they’d been hollowed out and restaffed with potions. Like caffeine.

  I stopped just behind Llama, crouched down to catch my breath. “You good?”

  He grunted. “Define good.”

  “Still yelling order numbers at subordinates instead of bleeding out.”

  “That’s my bar,” he replied. “You?”

  “I’m the definition of not good, but at least I’m here,” I said, glancing around, trying to figure out where I could plug a hole that wasn’t about to explode.

  The worst part?

  It felt real. This didn’t feel like a game anymore. This was a meat-grinder with UI overlays. Every second stretched, soaked in grit and blood and shouts. Players and NPCs weren’t treating this like fun anymore. As if this was real. As if this was survival.

  A Ghoul lunged, I froze, and Llama’s shield was there, ramming it into the wall. “Eyes up, Princess!”

  “Working on it!”

  Another vibration rippled through the ground. No, not a vibration. A pulse. Something building.

  Irwen.

  My gaze shot toward the horizon. Over the battlefield, the sky itself was twisting. Runes bloomed like stars overhead. Magic crackled, heavy and endless. Mythic level. No ifs now.

  There was a loud noise, the sound of the crunch of reinforced shields shattering like cheap pottery, followed by the unholy roar of something way too confident about its armor stats.

  I whipped around just in time to see a [Bone Reaver Champion] barreling through what used to be our defensive line, two of our soldiers flung off the wall. Its armor wasn’t just mismatched, it was practically a museum. Spiked pauldrons, blackened steel, something that might’ve been part of a portcullis welded to its thigh, and two axes the size of Gatei’s ego on a good day.

  “ORDER 54! ORDER FIFTY-FOUR!” Llama bellowed, eyes wide.

  I did not know what Order 54 was. But I didn’t wait to ask. I slapped my hand to the stone under it and shoved every ounce of will through my palm. The wall groaned. Mana screamed. And a spire of ice erupted from beneath the Champion, skewering through its hip and tossing it off balance with an inhuman bellow.

  It didn’t fall.

  Lunaris was the first in, blades gleaming, slicing at its flank with whirlwind grace. Sparks flew. Metal screamed. “It’s like hitting a dummy! Fun!”

  Then Tramar hurled a firestorm directly into its face. “I’M HELPING!” he roared, as flames rolled over its body like angry confetti.

  Luminaria struck next, lightning arcing through the Reaver’s armor gaps with surgical cruelty.

  And then me again, ice forming chains around its legs, trying to lock it in place, even as it tore through them like twigs.

  Llama met it head-on. Shield up, feet dug in, pure unfiltered defiance in human form.

  Together, we threw everything we had at it.

  And finally, it dropped.

  Llama stood over the corpse, breathing hard. “Order 54…” he growled, “...means everyone hits the bastard. They only bring a few. But those few?” He nudged the corpse with his boot. “Are real bastards.”

  I felt it before I saw it. The spike I’d just created beneath the Bone Reaver Champion shuddered. Not like it was breaking under weight. No. It cracked from within. The crack you feel more than hear. A fracture that echoed down my bones, not my ears. And it wasn’t just the ice, it was everything.

  The wall.

  The sky.

  The air.

  I blinked, and suddenly the world looked like a mirror someone had head-butted out of spite. Long, glimmering fractures spider-webbed across the sky, across the battlefield, across faces. Luminaria’s calm expression shattered like glass. Lunaris’s cloak froze mid-whirl, her body twitching at wrong angles like a poorly animated puppet.

  Sound distorted. No, stretched. Like someone had taken normal battlefield noise and run it through an old cassette tape left in a microwave. Shouts became wails. Footfalls dragged. The hum that had been growing since Irwen started her little “I’m Mythic and you’re not” vanished.

  My breath caught.

  And then I sank.

  I landed on a frozen lake so clear I could see my own confused reflection staring back like really, this again? Ice-blod god’s realm? Towering mountains stabbed the sky in every direction, their peaks slashed with snow like someone gave a painter too much contrast.

  A frozen waterfall at the center, mid-cascade, was still pouring blood. Or something very blood-adjacent. Crimson icicles hung like the world’s most terrifying Christmas decorations. Overhead, the sky smoldered with an eternal sunset, bleeding red across the valley like the whole place was caught between apocalypse and art exhibit.

  “Was it really necessary to drag me that weirdly?” I asked the god.

  “Yes. Your own doing.”

  Oh great. The voice again. Not booming, not yelling, no, that would be too kind. This one liked to resonate. Right in my skull.

  “You sought the whispers of the Weaver when the echoes of frost and blood were already bound to you,” the god said, like it was reciting from an ancient book that hadn’t passed editing. “Sovereigns meddle. They tangle with threads. You should have asked Me.”

  So what? Should I play nice and grovel? Or defy him? Well, I could play nice again, but… I don’t wanna.

  I groaned, rubbing my temples and glaring up at the frozen bloodfall like it might be the voice’s mouth. “Look, she was nice. Offered cookies, metaphorically speaking. And let’s not kid ourselves. She’s stronger than you, isn’t she? Despite the whole call me god thing.”

  The valley seemed to freeze harder around me. A layer of cold even deeper than the snow. “Mortal…” the god warned, syllables dipped in disapproval.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not sorry. And newsflash, I have friends now. For example, Sovereign. Or Twir friends. One’s currently trying to deep-fry logic. With a sock, or I don’t know. I’m fine.”

  There was a pause. Not empty, but waiting. Like the air was holding its breath. Then he said, “that is not why I called you.”

  Of course not.

  “Your mother wields power no... Mortal... can face. An imbalance. But... entertaining.”

  “Wow. Glad our mass bloodbath qualifies as your version of prime-time.”

  “You fight with passion. And ice. Good.”

  I felt so sassy. I shouldn’t should I?

  “Is that a compliment or a weather forecast?” I couldn’t resist.

  Another pause. “A boon, then. To make the spectacle worthwhile. Your [Hero Call] burns brightly, but briefly. I offer... fuel.”

  That caught me. I frowned. “Fuel?”

  “Unlimited mana.” The words echoed with an undercurrent of temptation. “Draw upon the heart of winter, the wellspring of frozen blood, for the entire duration of your Call. Let your ice reshape the battlefield. Let it be unlimited. As much mana as you control.”

  My jaw dropped a little. That was... that was absurd. I could flood the field. Bury siege towers. Freeze half the demon army in a sculpture gallery full of modern art.

  And that’s when the sarcasm kicked in.

  “The catch?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the sky-which-was-not-a-sky.

  “Power demands an echo. A resonance. When the Call fades, the silence will be longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Quadruple the wait until its return.”

  I sucked in a breath, teeth clenched. That was… steep. [Hero Call] was already limited. Multiply that? I’d be naked in the next proper fight.

  “A chance. Nothing more,” the god added, like it was offering a mildly cursed raffle ticket. “Your mother is potent. Perhaps this offers... balance the battlefield.”

  I looked around at the valley again, the blood-ice waterfall. And then I smiled. “I always enjoyed cheating. But this feels… A bit too much, even for me.”

  Should I accept that? With that, I may prolong the fight long enough. But…

  “You have ten seconds for decision.”