"And you seem to have forgotten," the princess said quietly, her voice cutting through the mayhem with unshakable calm, "who you're fighting with."

The air shifted.

Lenko didn't realize he had been holding his breath until that moment, when suddenly, it became easier to breathe. The pressure that had been coiling tight in his chest seemed to loosen, the suffocating heaviness of mana around them cracking like a thin shell.

And then he saw it.

The carpets, the same ones that had been holding the collapsing floor together, moved. They slithered with impossible grace, alive with the princess's mana. Their edges curled and coiled like serpents, then, with a violent crack, they lashed out.

One, two, three, each strike was precise and devastating.

The beasts that had managed to crawl onto the ledge or clamber up the wreckage were struck down like insects. The carpets swatted them off, their bodies thrown back into the crater below, vanishing into the smoke and dust. The sound of tearing claws and shattering debris filled the hall as the princess's mana surged through the floor in a wave of gold light.

The ground groaned beneath them, trembling. The sigils rippled outward, runes of spiraling vines and blooming flowers intertwining across the marble and wood. They pulsed rhythmically, almost breathing, before solidifying into a pattern that held the fractured floor in place.

Lenko steadied himself, realizing that the tilting had stopped. The floor remained slanted, yes, but it no longer creaked or threatened to collapse. It was suspended in a strange, perpetual balance, neither falling nor stable.

The princess stepped forward.

Her heels made no sound, her movements fluid and effortless. Even as she walked across broken tables, overturned chairs, and loose shards of marble, nothing moved beneath her feet.

Every object she touched seemed anchored by invisible threads, her mana wrapping around them like living vines, binding them in place.

Lenko's eyes widened in awe.

He had seen nobles use their magic before, structured, controlled, polished by years of training. But this was different. This was alive. It wasn't cold, academic runescripting, it was wild, organic, beautiful. The sigils crawled like roots across the debris, luminous and breathing, veins of light branching through everything her magic touched.

Then Lenko noticed it, the seeable change.

Her hair, once the soft golden hue of sunlight, now shimmered in shifting shades of green. It glowed faintly in the dim light, strands catching the reflection of her golden mana as it rippled through the air around her. The green deepened near the tips, like ivy soaked in golden light.

Lenko couldn't look away.

The beasts below continued to shriek, but quieter now, hesitant, as if they too felt it. The power that radiated from her wasn't loud or chaotic, but inevitable.

Lenko swallowed hard, the breath he'd just regained catching again.

The princess turned her gaze toward the enemy, her green-tinted hair flowing with the same pulse as the runes spreading underfoot. Her eyes glowed faintly with light, not blinding, but sharp enough to pierce.

But the man threw his head back and laughed, a sound sharp and mocking, echoing through the fractured hall.

"So it's true then," he sneered, his grin feral as his gaze locked on the princess. "The saint doesn't need chalks or coal to write her sigils. How shocking that your people still believe you're just a human."

His voice dripped venom, and it made Lenko's stomach twist. Dragging himself upright with one hand clutching a toppled chair. For a moment, he hesitated, half expecting it to slide down the slanted floor, but it held steady. The runes that spread across it glowed faintly, as if even this simple chair was anchored by the princess's mana.

Still catching his breath, Lenko looked toward her. The carpets, snapped like restless tails, hissing softly as mana coursed through them, reflecting the princess's mood.

The mercenary, though still smirking, had tensed his stance. His gauntleted hand flexed around the haft of his lance, ready to strike again, until a faint whistle sliced through the air.

Thwip!

He hissed, jerking back as an arrow grazed his knuckles. His glove split open, and the intricate sigil etched into its surface flared briefly before dying out, the light dimming to nothing.

Lenko's eyes darted upward, Olga stood above them, balanced precariously on the railing of the tilted floor. Her bow was drawn taut, her expression sharp and unwavering.

"Like her highness said," she called down coolly, her voice steady, "don't forget who you're fighting with."

Her gaze shifted then, down to Lenko. For a heartbeat, the noise around them seemed to fade. He caught the brief flicker of movement in her eyes, the smallest of nods. A silent signal.

'right, Plan B.'

Lenko's jaw tightened. He understood.

Without a word, he turned and began moving, quick, low, and fast. He didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. Every sound behind him, the hiss of the mercenary's lance, the crack of a bowstring, the metallic clang of impact, he forced himself to tune it out.

All that mattered now was the mission.

The air was thick with dust and smoke, the scent of burnt wood and mana residue choking the breath out of him. But he pushed forward, ducking under a broken beam, his eyes darting through the dim light.

He leapt over fallen beams and shattered seats, his boots slipping slightly against the unstable incline of the floor. The glowing sigils beneath them pulsed faintly, helping him find his footing as he moved closer to what had once been the stage, a place now half-collapsed, scorched by the earlier explosion.

His sister could handle herself. She always did.

He reached the edge of the crater at last, where the floor still smoked from the earlier blast. Shadows flickered from below, and he could hear faint movement, something scuttling, whispering in the darkness.

"Alright… let's do this."

And with that, he jumped down toward the wrecked stage.

Lenko landed hard, his boots skidding slightly across the warped wooden planks of what used to be the stage. The floor groaned beneath his weight but, miraculously, held. It tilted downward at a dangerous angle, right at the edge of the crater that had devoured half the theater place.

He crouched low, steadying himself, the smell of burnt resin and dust choking the air. The glow from above had dimmed, whatever mana light still survived was flickering, unstable, making shadows dance wildly across the ruins.

Below, movement caught his eye.

Men, three, maybe four, were scattered near the base of the crater, holding flickering lamps that bled dim gold against the blackened walls. Their silhouettes moved hurriedly among fallen debris and twisted metal cages. The light barely reached them, beyond that, darkness churned.

Lenko frowned. From down there, the echoes rose in uneven bursts, cries, shouts, snarls. He couldn't tell anymore if they came from people or beasts.

And he didn't have the time to find out.

He reached into his vest and pulled out the parchment Olga had pressed into his hands earlier. It was creased, stained with ash, yet the runes, if they could even be called that, still glimmered faintly in the dim light. Only one word was scrawled across its surface, jagged and childlike in its shape.

'Help'

Lenko stared at it, disbelief tightening in his chest.

"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, the word rough with exhaustion and doubt. The script looked crude, something a child might scribble as a prank, not the careful work of a scholar or mage. It didn't even seem like something that could work. Too vague. Too simple.

But it was Muzio's handwriting.

He flipped the parchment over, frown deepening. The ink shimmered faintly under his mana, shifting, alive, in a way that made his skin crawl. He didn't understand it, didn't want to. But after everything he'd seen the young lord do these past few weeks, Lenko had learned one rule when it came to Muzio's magic...

'If it looked stupid, it was probably dangerous.'

He swallowed, recalling the sigil branded on his arm, the one that bound him to his lord, the one that burned whenever Muzio's mana reached for him. It hadn't even been carved with words, only a shape, an empty spiral that somehow meant 'connection.'

He clenched his jaw and unfolded the parchment completely. "Alright… I'll trust you on this one, Muzio."

The paper pulsed once in his hands as his mana brushed over it, just a flicker, then the edges began to burn, like a breath catching on flame. But before the fire could reach the runes in the center, a voice interrupted him.

"I wouldn't suggest that…"

The words came from behind the stage curtains. A man stepped out, the same one from the dungeon, wearing the same mocking smile, though this time he looked far more composed.

Lenko's blood ran cold. He knew exactly who he was.

The elven, whom he had bargained his life with, for everyone else's.

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