The air still shimmered with leftover magic, hot enough to sting when I breathed.

  Every inhale tasted like burnt copper and frost, a mix that probably wasn’t medically advisable, but at least meant I was still alive. I stepped down from the crater’s edge, heels crunching over glassed stone. The world looked warped; too bright, too still, like reality hadn’t quite caught up with itself after the summoning.

  Lola stood near the ruins, her hair wild, streaked with soot, and her armor, or what Cloudy forced her to wear, hanging off one shoulder.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Two shapes flanked her; half there, half not. One of them was Llama, translucent and flickering like a projection running on laggy Wi-Fi. The other had Fty’s unmistakable silhouette, eyes glowing faintly from somewhere inside the haze.

  My brain lagged for a full second. I blinked. Then squinted. “Lola?”

  She turned, surprise flashing across her face, quickly replaced by a grin that looked way too proud for someone standing between two ghosts. “Lady! I, uh… got a new skill. I can summon them to help me fight!”

  I stared at her.

  Then at ghost-Llama, whose spectral mustache flickered every time he moved. “Yeah,” I said slowly, because words were all I had left. “That’s… convenient.”

  A pulse of leftover frost rippled off my cloak as I exhaled. My crown still hummed faintly against my scalp, runes crawling like cold ants under my skin; the price of burning thirty levels for thirty minutes of glory.

  Every second felt like a candle melting straight down my spine. “I don’t have time, Lola,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “My time’s literally burning. Do we have people to take care of the loot?” I glanced at the grandmasters and Karzi. “And watch her body, so nobody raises the dead.”

  Lola straightened, the commander mask snapping back on. Even with sweat and ash streaking her face, she looked ready to lead another siege. “I’ll make sure you get all the items!”

  “Uh, what… Lola?” I sidestepped. “Queen’s Square? You’ve already renamed it?” I glanced at Llama and back at her. “You know what… I don’t have time for that. Report, now. Fast.”

  Lola glanced up from her interface. “Good, average and catastrophe. South Barracks contested, we lost it.”

  “Got it. Llama,” I interrupted, glancing at his spectral self, “where am I needed most? South Barracks?”

  Both Llamas, the flesh one and his translucent doppelg?nger, turned toward me in eerie synchronization. The real one’s jaw tightened; the ghost’s face didn’t move at all, just shimmered like an echo caught between worlds. “Yes,” Llama said. “We were facing Damon and his Empire army here. Katherine was called by Sera and left, but when he saw you…” His real lips curled, humorless. “Damon turned and fled toward the south.”

  Damon? Oh. Coward had the survival instincts of a cockroach in a raid.

  “Let’s get him then.” I started moving before my brain caught up. The glassed stone under my heels crunched, still warm enough to soften the soles. Lola dismissed her phantoms. One wave, and both flickered out like bad holograms; then jogged after me. Her breath came quickly, boots hitting the fractured cobbles in uneven rhythm.

  “Lady,” she said between breaths, clearing her throat. “We…” She hesitated, eyes flicking to the tatters of my clothes; half torn, half frozen. Already regenerating. Her face went scarlet before she tried to hide it behind her clipboard. “Let me… let me read the reports.”

  She flicked her wrist, the air above her hand filling with invisible text as we jogged.

  She muttered as she worked, voice clipped and efficient, copying system updates with the speed of someone who definitely used spreadsheets for stress relief. “Lucas, Lucy, Pearl, and Lisa secured the port barracks. We have a steady stream of players coming in to help fight—uh—runaway demons, or guards not loyal to you. Both groups are, um… everywhere.”

  The city streets stretched before us, smoldering under what was left.

  We passed a barricade made of overturned carts, splintered wood crusted with blood, and a few shattered shields tossed aside like trash. The air still hummed faintly with aftershocks; residual mana clung to the stone like static before a storm.

  Not a player or NPC to be found.

  Smart ones hid or joined whoever looked like they’d win. “Loyal to me?” I asked, stepping over a broken spear. My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.

  Lola gave me a grin too big for her soot-streaked face. “Yes, Lady! The two allied grandmasters are going around the city, forcing the guards to disband or pledge loyalty to you.”

  Her voice had that spark again; the kind of stubborn optimism that made her impossible not to like. So I couldn’t stop smiling. “Troublesome,” I said, mostly to myself, the word tasting faintly like pride. “Wait, Lola,” I continued out loud, ducking under a fallen beam as we rushed through a side street, “who’s at the southeast barracks while you’re with me?”

  Lola gave me a bewildered look mid-run, her clipboard flickering with half-visible notes. “You remember—you remem— Charlie, slow down, you’re running too fast! You remember where we assigned people?” Her breath came out in sharp bursts, armor jingling as she tried to keep pace. Llama wasn’t even winded; he had that calm, long-stride thing going with a bonus to stamina.

  I skidded to a stop at the next corner and shot Lola my best Queen-pout-glare?.

  She lasted half a second before bursting into laughter. “Got it, you always remember out plans… The original plan was…” she checked a report. “Hm, Pancake is taking care of that?” she glanced at Llama, who nodded.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Alone? We trust him?” I jumped over the cart, which was still smoldering.

  Lola caught up, brushing ash from her cheek. “You said to trust him,” she reminded, smiling. “Frozna and Tramar secured the northeast one, Fty’s holding the north. Slave army’s still waiting; they were supposed to reinforce the south, but the enemy pushed with everything they had. Dmitry and Luminaria are…” Her voice faltered. “Dead. Reported by Princes… uh, weird name, but she is NightSwallow.”

  We sprinted across a smaller square, which used to be a market, judging by the crushed stalls and the smell of charred fruit. The stones were cracked, glazed by leftover fire magic. No demons here. No screaming either. Just a few wisps of steam rising from puddles that hadn’t decided if they were water or blood.

  Then movement.

  A squad of guards in the center of the square—ten, maybe twelve—helmets catching the faint light from burning rooftops. Tramar probably had a field day. I raised my hand, frost already creeping down my arm, ready to make the first move—

  —but they didn’t attack.

  The moment they saw me, they dropped to one knee, weapons clattering against the cobbles in perfect unison. The sound echoed metallic in the stillness.

  “Uh…?” I froze mid-spell, side-glancing at Llama and Lola.

  The captain, older, and with a voice full of exhaustion, lifted his head. “We secured this square, Miss Queen.”

  Their armor was Altandai semi-standard: layered steel and dark leather, scorched at the edges from earlier fighting. But the ugly slave crest was gone. In its place, someone had roughly painted over the metal with white enamel, and carved a snowflake in its center.

  The symbol was big and uneven, yes. But… The sight hit harder than I expected. Allegiance made real with a knife and stubborn will, probably over watch of grandmaster. I looked at them: battered, singed, standing at attention in armor still steaming from battle.

  And for the first time since I started, I felt something like pride warming beneath the cold crawling through me. “Nice touch,” I said quietly, lowering my hand. “Tell your men—good work.”

  The captain bowed his head. “We already did, Lady.”

  Lola shot me a quick look, half a grin, half a question. I didn’t answer. I just nodded once and kept walking. The snowflake gleamed faintly as we passed, like frost refusing to melt, somehow magic pulsing through it. Enchanting?

  “What about the Wealth Liberation Squad?” I asked, and the name still made me want to laugh: Wealth Liberation. Like calling arson spontaneous heat redistribution.

  Lola didn’t answer. Her shoulders stiffened, eyes darting away toward the street ahead.

  “Lola?”

  Llama’s voice came instead. “Purple, white, and black vaults secured. Money’s already on Lucy’s flagship. She’s heading there now to stop any funny business. She’s rallying… her pirates.”

  “So…” I looked between them as we ran, the cold air scraping my throat. “No problems?”

  Silence.

  Lola kept her gaze down. The light reflected from her clipboard flickered across her face, casting her eyes in shadow. She looked… off. The kind of off where something terrible had already happened, and she was deciding whether to soften the blow or just hand me the knife.

  “What happened?”

  She bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark, scrolling through invisible data. “They’re robbing the yellow vault next. But… when Brian retreated…” Her voice caught. “Lunaris left the squad. She went after him.”

  I stopped dead.

  The sudden halt made dust rise around my heels, the echo of our running vanishing as if someone had cut the sound. “Brian?!”

  My voice cracked through the street like thunder. Lola nodded. “Apparently, he’s a competent leader. And swordsman.”

  Brian. That Brian.

  The one with the smug build guide videos.

  The one who said, “Support mages don’t count as real mages” back during the first pvp tournament.

  Who was carried by a sword.

  That Brian.

  My pulse spiked. No. No, no, no. My stomach dropped as if the ground had vanished. We delivered the sword to him. “What was she thinking?” I demanded. “Who killed her? Where is she?”

  Lola’s expression collapsed from commander to friend in a heartbeat. “NightSwallow reported Brian killing Lunaris,” she whispered. “Swallow tried to deal the killing blow to her, but was stopped. They took the sword. And… he is Chronosblade.”

  I slammed my palm down, and mana surged before I even realized what I was doing. Frost spiraled up my arm, my crown flaring. A sphere of ice coalesced midair, and I hurled it to the ground. It shattered with a roar, snow exploding outward, glittering through the smoky light. The cobblestones froze under us in an instant, the air cracking with the crystalline shriek of magic.

  Lola flinched back but didn’t move away. She just stood there, her hair dusted in frost, clipboard trembling in her hands. “Lunaris left the capsule; she’s in the cafeteria now, crying. Eating chocolate fondant icing by the kilo.”

  I let out a chuckle. That’s so her.

  “Stars above,” I muttered her favorite swear word, pressing my palms to my eyes. “We lost our Chronosblade; we lost our legendary sword. Damn.” I exhaled, frost streaming from my breath, and lowered my hands. “We’ll deal with Brian. After I’m done turning him into a decorative ice sculpture.”

  “Do you have more Chronosblade shards?” Lola asked, voice small enough that the frost on my sleeve nearly swallowed it as I motioned for us to run again.

  “No, of course not, I don’t know…” I rubbed my temples like I could knead sense back into my skull. “I was counting on her to be the key player. Lola… you’re HR. She lost company assets. What do we do with her? I know about a dungeon with a shard, but that’s level forty elite. Wanted to go when the time was right…”

  “We don’t know what happened.” Lola blinked, honestly confused for once. “Maybe she had a reason. We need to take Altandai first.” She jabbed with a trembling finger toward the end of the street.

  NightSwallow, some time earlier…

  The square was chaos pretending to be strategy.

  Dmitry kept shouting, as if order could be bullied back into existence. Luminaria turned the sky into storm again, all blue fire and righteous marketing.

  The rest bled and shouted on cue. NightSwallow moved through it the only way she knew how: half-breath, half-shadow, slipping between boot heels and broken banners. The air still tasted of ozone from the last lightning strike; demons had fallen through the cracks.

  None of that mattered.

  Her job hadn’t changed; disappear, wait, and remove problems before they became someone else’s headline. She told herself it was just work.

  It sounded convincing.

  The square had folded in on itself. Dmitry’s line was now a cracked mirror catching light from both ends. Demons clawed at the front, fresh traitors pressed from the rear, and every breath came flavored with blood and static. The formation still held, but only because the Vainqueurs hadn’t realized yet that they were surrounded.

  [Dmitry: Focus healers.]

  Swallow-of-the-Night, as she called herself when nobody was listening, rolled her eyes behind the mask. Of course, healers first. She supposed he was right, but he didn’t have to make it sound like an accounting memo.

  [Me: On it.]

  She slipped from cover, the shadow skin of her class flexing around her like cool breath.

  Every movement came frictionless: a glide between footfalls, a melt against thrown light. Daggers stayed low, parallel to her thighs. A soldier turned her way, and his eyes slid right past her; the class didn’t just hide the body; it made the brain refuse to register it.

  She wove through the churn with practiced ease.

  Two steps through the open, then into someone’s silhouette, dissolve, emerge again. Her shadow trailed like smoke, reattaching itself to each new corner of ruin she passed. A spear glanced off a shield near her ear; she didn’t even flinch.

  The market stalls had collapsed into a maze of ribs and canvas, but some still stood, and one tall enough to matter. She climbed it in silence, her boots barely hissing against the wood. The air trembled with the heat of Dmitry’s wards.

  Swallow-of-the-Night pulled a small glass sphere from her belt, thumbed the runes, and dropped it on the stall’s roof. The observation orb blinked once, then split her vision with a faint echo of itself; a transparent overlay shimmering in the corner of her sight.

  Then, she was gone.

  The shadow took her like an inhale.

  The world dimmed to outline and movement. Colors bled out, replaced by lines of heat and mana signature. Her remaining orbs—four placed earlier—lit up in her mind’s eye, each pulsing faintly from different corners of the square.

  She flicked between them: right flank was stable but thinning; left… no way through there; center… lightning residue too thick for clean movement; rear… too many shields, but there: a cluster of healers tucked between a broken awning and a wagon.

  Overconfident, loud with aura.

  Her lips curved, not quite a smile. The best path shimmered in front of her: through the guttered shadow of the kettle cart, under the orange banner Dmitry had flared too high, and past a demon whose attention was currently elsewhere.

  She exhaled once. The shadows folded tighter around her like approval.

  Alright, Swallow, princess of the Night. One clean flight.