Eladril is watching me like she absolutely expects an explanation.

I step toward the crown prince. “Before I say anything to embarrass myself, I think I’ll leave the diplomatics to the diplomatically inclined.”

Alaric steps forward.

He doesn’t kneel. He bows—deep, precise, crownless but unmistakably royal. The kind of bow that carries the weight of a nation without trying to impress anyone.

“Eladril of Daelion,” he says, voice steady, reverent without desperation. “I am Alaric, Crown Prince of this kingdom. On behalf of my people… thank you for answering a call we did not know how to make properly before.”

Eladril studies him for a long heartbeat.

Then she smiles—small, approving.

“You didn’t,” she says frankly. “But he did.” A glance over her shoulder at me, fond and exasperated. “And sometimes that’s how worlds survive.”

Iseph wipes his eyes. Edrin looks like he might pass out from relief. Cassian’s shoulders ease a fraction, though his eyes never leave the saintess. Rook grins like he’s witnessing history and already planning how to retell it badly.

Eladril shifts her weight, the light under her foot dimming as the circle settles into a low, steady hum. She looks around the chamber again—less like a revelation now, more like a professional taking stock of a messy situation.

Then she turns to me, lowering her voice a touch as she regards me more seriously. “So. How bad is it, really?”

“Let’s just say this might be my most difficult summons yet,” I admit. “But! Let us discuss in the war room. I know it’s late, but there’s no rush, and I can catch you up over some wine.”

I turn to Edrin. “You think that necklace is stable enough for me to take back?”

Edrin blinks, then peers at the plinth like it might bite him.

“Yes—well—now it is,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “It’s… remarkably stable, actually. The managems have fully synchronized with your—ah—signature.”

She turns as I mention wine, one brow lifting. “War room and wine? Look at you, being responsible and hospitable.” A pause, amused. “What kind of wine?”

Rook grins. “I’ll secure the wine—a good vintage courtesy of the royal cellars.” Then he slips away, presumably in search of said wine.

I slip her necklace back over my neck, where it’s lived for the last seven years. The managems warm against my skin, settling like they never left.

We start toward the doors, the others falling in around us.

“For starters, demon king escalation is expedited. Their purification church has already been gutted by the demons—the high priest is missing. Maybe already dead.”

Her expression doesn’t change. It sharpens.

“And I was granted a support power as my hero ability. I have no natural mana generation. None of my artifacts work.”

Cassian’s stride tightens at that. Rook mutters something under his breath.

“All the past saintesses they’ve summoned have self-combusted.”

That earns a look from Iseph.

“And, oh, I can somehow ignore the laws of reality.”

I tap my chin.

“Yeah, that about covers it. Any questions?”

She hums softly. “Mm. Speedrun apocalypse. Classic."

She reaches over and adjusts the fall of the necklace against my collarbone like she’s checking a pulse. Then, she straightens again, expression sharpening. “I do have a few questions.” A beat. “But let me hear the rest first.”

We reach the war room and I hold the door open for her as we enter.

She takes in the space with a quick, assessing glance—maps, notes, books splayed open—then she claims a chair without asking, turning toward the table with interest.

I slide into the chair next to her, crossing an ankle over my knee and resting my right hand on the edge of the table.

At the movement, her eyes catch the glint of my rings. She leans forward, squinting at the artifacts like they personally wronged her.

“Oh wow,” she says. “Yeah. They’re sulking.”

She reaches out—not touching, just hovering a finger close to one first, then the other. The air around them prickles faintly, like static that never quite discharges.

Then back to me, eyes bright. “So. Want to complain about your toys first, or do you want me to tell you how to make one of them functional again?”

I wave her off. “We can discuss my toys later. For now, take a look at what we’re dealing with.” I slide a few of the maps toward her.

“Your Highness—if you wouldn’t mind?” I say to Alaric, indicating he should fill her in.

Alaric inclines his head and steps closer to the table, one hand braced on the map as he turns it so Eladril can see.

He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t dramatize. He explains like someone who’s had to live with this information.

“The corruption originates here,” he says, indicating a darkened region in the north. “At first it spread slowly—villages, outlying shrines. We thought it was a curse. Then cult activity. Then demons.”

He moves his finger along the borderlines. “In the last six months, escalation accelerated. Coordinated attacks. Desecration of churches first, then infrastructure. The purification orders collapsed within weeks. Survivors scattered.”

Eladril’s gaze sharpens. She leans in, elbows on the table now, tracking every movement. “And the demon king?”

“Confirmed,” Alaric replies. “Manifested roughly four months ago.”

Eladril taps one of the corrupted regions lightly. The air ripples—just a touch—as if the map itself resents being examined so closely. “This isn’t simple taint. This is layered corruption. Old seals failing. New influence exploiting the gaps.”

Her eyes flick to me. “They didn’t just lose their church. They lost their maintenance system.”

She straightens, thoughtful. “All right. Then we’re not talking about ‘defeat the demon king’ first. We’re talking about containment, stabilization, and triage.” A glance around the table. “Which means I’ll need to move. A lot. And openly.”

She looks back at Alaric. “How does your kingdom feel about a saintess who doesn’t stay politely behind the lines?”

I look to Alaric.

Alaric doesn’t answer immediately.

He studies the map again—not the borders, but the people implied by them. Then he looks up at Eladril, expression composed but honest.

“They’ll be afraid,” he says. “And they’ll argue. Some will try to use you as a symbol. Others will try to lock you in a cathedral and call it protection.”

He straightens slightly, not posturing—deciding. “This kingdom has already learned what happens when it clings to tradition while the world burns. If you need to move openly, you will. I’ll make it law if I have to.”

His gaze flicks—briefly—to me, then back to Eladril. “If people panic, they’ll panic behind soldiers who know better than to interfere.”

Cassian shifts subtly behind him.

Alaric finishes, calm and clear. “You won’t be hidden. You won’t be caged. And you won’t be wasted.”

Eladril’s mouth curves, just a little.

“Good,” she says simply.

She straightens and rolls her shoulders, the faint glow around her dimming until she looks almost ordinary again—almost. “Then here’s how I see it,” she continues, tapping the map once more. “I’ll start by stabilizing key nodes. Ruined churches, ley fractures, places where purification used to happen. I won’t cleanse everything—that would tip the board too fast—but I can stop the bleeding.”

She glances between me and Alaric. “While I do that, you”—a nod at me—“go north. Not straight at the demon king. You’re not a hammer, even if you could be. You’re a lever—a mechanism to start shifting the tide of the war.”

I grin at her. “Cassian, what did I tell you? North. Right?”

Cassian exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“You did,” he says. “Repeatedly. With hand gestures.”

Rook returns just then, setting a carafe of wine on the table with pleased finality, before taking a chair, boots up on the table with complete disregard for the actual work being done there.

He glances between us, then grins.

“He also said it like someone who’d already decided and was just being polite about letting us catch up.”

Eladril’s smile turns knowing. “Of course he did.”

Cassian straightens a little, professional instinct sliding back into place. “North means contested ground within two days’ travel. Corruption pockets, displaced civilians, demon scouts. Not a straight march.”

He glances at me. “If we go north, we’ll need to move light and fast. No banners. No announcement.”

Alaric nods once. “I’ll have supplies prepared quietly. And riders ready if you need to relay information back.”

The room hums with motion again—maps shifting, plans sketching themselves out in real time.

Cassian looks back at me, eyes steady. “So. North,” he says. “Anything specific you’re looking for up there?”

I shrug. “Demons, I guess.”

Cassian huffs a short laugh. “Refreshingly specific.”

Rook snorts. “Ah yes. Demons. Plural. Love that for us.”

Eladril, on the other hand, looks pleased. Not reassured—pleased. “That tracks,” she says. “If corruption’s accelerating, the north will be where the system is loudest. Demons don’t hide when they think they’re winning.”

Cassian looks back at me, expression settling into something familiar—focused, ready. “All right. Demons. We can do that.” A pause. “Anything you don’t want us engaging?”

I frown. “Preferably civilians. Demons are people too. This may be a war, but that doesn’t mean it needs to be a slaughter.”

Cassian’s expression doesn’t harden—but it does sharpen.

“Understood,” he says. No hesitation. No argument. “Rules of engagement adjusted.”

Rook lifts a brow, studying me.

Eladril nods slowly, approving. “Good. That mindset matters more than people think. Corruption feeds on absolutes. Mercy disrupts patterns.”

Alaric exhales, a fraction of tension leaving his shoulders. “Then we’ll prioritize evacuation corridors and suppression over eradication. If there’s a chance to break command without mass loss of life, we take it.”

Eladril glances at me again, eyes keen. “Just be aware—some demons won’t want saving. And some will try to use your restraint against you.”

Cassian rolls his shoulders once, readying himself. “North, then. Careful. Quiet. And humane where possible.”

He looks at me. “When do you want to move?”

“Day after tomorrow,” I say. “For now. Rest. Tomorrow. We finish planning. Then the next day we leave.”

Cassian nods immediately. “Good. Gives us time to prep without rushing into something sloppy.”

Rook stretches, popping his neck. “Tomorrow: planning. Tonight: sleep like we’re not about to walk into hell. I can get behind that.”

Eladril leans back in her chair, satisfied. “I’ll start at first light,” she says. “Stabilization runs, quiet miracles only. Nothing flashy enough to start a cult before breakfast.” A glance at Alaric. “Yet.”

Alaric inclines his head. “You’ll have access to whatever you need. And escorts—discreet ones.”

The room loosens. Not relaxed, exactly—but no longer braced.

Cassian looks at me once more. “I’ll have final route options ready by morning,” he says.

Eladril stands, rolling her shoulders again, then gives me a sidelong look. “Wine still happening? Or are you collapsing somewhere with a pillow?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why we can’t make both of those things happen.”

I collect the carafe Rook procured along with two cups and tuck them under one arm like this was always the plan. No hesitation. No ceremony.

The room watches.

I pause just long enough at the doorway to glance back at Alaric and give him a wink.

I’d blow a kiss, but I figure that might be too much.

Alaric catches the wink—and very deliberately looks back down at the map in front of him. The corner of his mouth betrays him anyway.

Then I step into the corridor, Eladril falling into stride beside me.

Taking a woman back to my room in a royal palace probably looks like something. In another world, in another context, it might even be scandalous.

But for two otherworlders who spent more than a year sharing inns, rooftops, battlefield tents, and one very questionable hayloft, it’s just… familiar.

Eladril doesn’t slow, doesn’t look around. She’s already taking the carafe and a cup and pouring herself a drink before we even reach my door, like the palace belongs to her as much as it does anyone.

“Bold choice,” she murmurs as we walk. “Taking the Saintess back to your room. Winking at royalty.” A beat. “You always did have a flair for testing social fault lines.”

“What can I say,” I shrug, taking the carafe back from her and filling my own cup. “I’m a rebel.”