"Lenko!"

The shout cut through the din, the screech of bending metal, the trembling hum of a structure ready to fall, the roars of beasts clawing their way out. From below came the screams, caught and mangled by those beasts that had broken free.

Lenko jerked his head up just as the lance vibrated, an ominous hum that ran through the floor and into his bones, before it flew back toward the mercenary. The air whistled with its speed. He barely had time to duck before the weapon sliced past, the gust of wind it carried cutting against his cheek.

Olga was already moving.

He saw her sprinting around the edge of the crater, boots sliding over the rubble-strewn marble, her bow already drawn. "Don't just stay there!" she hisses, her voice sharp over the roar of echoing mana. She drew back her string, eyes narrowing in focus.

The mercenary turned his head toward the sound, too slow.

Another twang echoed.

The arrow streaked through the haze. Lenko caught sight of the one arrow already lodged in the man, one through his elbow, one grazing his shoulder, and thought, 'That's three.'

But the mercenary wasn't done.

With a snarl, he caught his returning lance mid-air, the weapon spinning into his grasp with a pulse of mana. The weapon gleamed like lightning in his hand.

It cut through the smoke and struck, metal on metal. The arrow hit the spear's head dead-on. A violent clang! rang out, echoing off the broken walls. Sparks burst between them, bright and furious, scattering light across the crater.

Lenko shielded his eyes as the air sizzled.

For a second, the arrow held, its mana flaring against the mercenary's weapon. Then the light died. The arrow lost its glow and fell, clattering into the depths below.

The mercenary looked at it, then grinned.

"Got you..." he taunted, his voice low, mocking.

Lenko felt his chest tighten. Olga didn't flinch.

Instead, she exhaled, steady, sharp, and loosed another arrow. Then another. Then a third.

Three flashes of steel in the air, fired so fast the sound almost blended into one.

The mercenary swung his lance wildly, catching the first arrow in mid-flight with a ringing strike that scattered its mana, his smirk still carved across his face. But his grin faltered when the second arrow slammed into his knee, burying itself just beneath the joint.

The third struck his boot.

"Fuck---!"

The man's breath hitched, his entire frame twisting as his leg buckled. He staggered back, his weapon scraping against the cracked floor as blood gushed from the wound, dark and hot, splattering the marble.

"Fucking bitch!" he roared, his voice breaking from pain.

Olga didn't stop. She adjusted her stance, eyes narrowing, the faintest curl of a smirk tugging at her lips. "You talk too much," she muttered, already drawing again.

Lenko stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching as his sister's arms moved like clockwork, draw, aim, release, each motion precise, deadly. Her braid whipped behind her as mana flared from her bowstring, every shot guided by instinct sharper than thought.

The mercenary stumbled back another step, blood dripping down his armor, his lance trembling in his grasp.

The look in Olga's eyes said it all...

She wasn't aiming to kill him yet.

She was aiming to hurt him enough that he'd remember who he'd just tried to stab.

Lenko barely had time to catch his breath before Olga's hand shot out, yanking him by the collar and dragging him down behind the shattered row of seats. A lance strike split the air where his head had been a moment ago, the tip embedding deep into the wood with a violent thunk.

"Damn it," Olga muttered under her breath, crouched beside him. Her bow was still raised, her breathing steady but sharp. The flicker of light from the fires below cast her face in red and gold, the streaks of grime on her cheek making her look like a war spirit pulled from an old story. She scoffed, glancing toward the mercenary as he stumbled to regain his stance. "Incompetent bastard…"

Then she turned to her brother.

Her green eyes cut through the dust and smoke. "Plan B, right?"

Lenko, still gripping his cloak, gave a quick nod. "Got it."

Without another word, Olga slung her bow over her shoulder and reached into the inside pocket of her cloak. From it, she pulled out a small parchment, folded and sealed with wax, crude, uneven markings burned into the paper, like a child's doodle that somehow pulsed faintly with mana.

She shoved it against Lenko's chest. "From your lordling," she said, her tone flat, but her gaze softened for the briefest second. "Burn it with your mana when you need help, okay? Don't hesitate."

Lenko stared at it, his fingers trembling slightly as he felt the faint warmth of the parchment. He could tell it was Muzio's craft, messy, crude, but undeniably alive. "Got it," he said, his voice quieter this time. "Be careful, okay?"

Olga's lips twitched into something between a smile and a sigh. "You're telling me that?" she said, rolling her eyes. "You really have grown, huh."

Then, almost seamlessly, she turned her bow and loosed three arrows in quick succession. Thwip, thwip, thwip. The bowstring sang each note like a heartbeat. She didn't even glance at her targets, her aim was pure instinct, each arrow glowing faintly as they vanished into the smoke.

Somewhere beyond the haze, a man shouted in pain.

Lenko peeked from behind the seats, only to flinch as a shard of glass shattered near his face. Olga exhaled slowly, lowering her bow again, her expression calm despite the chaos.

"Look how much you've grown in just a few years…" she murmured, not quite looking at him. There was pride in her tone, muted but real.

For a second, Lenko saw her not as the sharp-tongued, untouchable archer everyone feared, but as the sister who used to drag him home from trouble, who used to tell him stories while patching his scraped knees.

Then she straightened, her bowstring drawing back once more.

"Stay low, little brother," she said, her voice sharpening again. "I'll clear us a path."

Lenko tightened his grip on the parchment, feeling its faint thrum of power against his palm, like a heartbeat waiting to ignite.

Olga's smirk faded in an instant. Her bow lowered slightly as her head snapped toward the faint sound, a cough, light but ragged, coming from the far side of the wrecked hall.

Her eyes narrowed. The sixth princess was still there, crouched low on the scorched carpet, her pale hands pressed firmly against the glowing sigils she had conjured. The intricate runes pulsed weakly with golden light, holding the torn edge of the floor together. One wrong move, and the entire section would collapse into the crater below.

"Damn it…" Olga muttered under her breath, scanning the floor. The princess's hair shimmered faintly in the light, and for a split second, Lenko thought he saw a streak of green run through her golden strands. The sight made him pause, confusion flickering across his face.

But he didn't have time to question it.

A harsh whistle cut through the air. Olga's instincts flared, too late. She moved before she even saw it, slamming her arm into Lenko's chest and shoving him sideways. "Move!"

Lenko stumbled, barely keeping his balance as he leapt toward the broken row of seats, rolling across splintered wood. A split second later, the world behind him exploded with a violent crash.

The lance tore through the cushions where they had been hiding, shredding cloth and foam, the metal tip sinking deep into the seatback and then bursting through. Sparks and fragments rained everywhere.

"Shit---" Lenko started, but the rest was drowned out by the sound of cracking wood.

The mercenary stepped up from the dust, his silhouette monstrous against the flicker of light. One boot crushed the armrest of a shattered chair as he hoisted himself onto the table, the massive weapon gleaming in his hand.

His face twisted into a grin, too wide, too wild. His eyes glimmered faintly, veins of mana crawling along his temple.

"If long distance is your fight…" he growled, bracing his lance dragging the tip across the ruined table, sparks flaring as it scraped the wood.

"…I'll bring it closer, then."

The grin that followed was feral. The air seemed to warp around him as his mana surged, thick enough to make Lenko's breath hitch.

Olga was already pulling another arrow from her quiver, the string of her bow singing taut under her fingers. "Lenko, keep your head down," she hissed.

Lenko ducked lower, his eyes darting between the glint of the mercenary's weapon and the trembling light of the sigils beneath the princess's hands. One wrong move, one hit to that floor, and they'd all fall into the crater.

And judging by the manic look on the mercenary's face, that was exactly what he wanted.

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