“Yes,” Irwen confirmed, voice sweet as sugar, smile innocent enough to make angels suspicious. “The Dreadmarch Host.”

  “Great,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face like I could wipe the situation off my skin. “That’s just great.”

  “I must say,” Irwen continued, and I raised my head, already bracing. “The forces you’ve gathered in such a short time are nothing short of extraordinary. Truly, I’m proud of you. So, naturally, I did my best to gather mine.” She paused, her tone dripping with that same terrifying maternal sweetness. “You see—”

  The world detonated.

  A sound like the sky snapping in half cracked through the air. Thunder, but sharper, primal. It didn’t just echo; it clanged through bone. My ears rang. My skull felt like someone had flicked a tuning fork against it and turned the volume to existential dread.

  Then the pressure hit, an invisible wall of force slamming into us. My clothes snapped like a whip behind me. Dust exploded upward in angry swirls, stinging my eyes, gritting my teeth, curling in my hair. The very ground beneath our feet quivered like it was trying to flinch away.

  Irwen’s head snapped around. Her expression, usually carved from the same unyielding metal as her crown, wavered. Just for a blink. Her brows pinched, eyes narrowing. “Who dares—?”

  THUD.

  No, not a thud. That was too soft. This was the sound of a mountain remembering gravity.

  Something, or someone, landed behind her with the impact of divine punctuation. The dirt beneath us jumped. I half-expected the horizon to split.

  Irwen turned. And I swear… she hesitated.

  “... You are?” she asked, voice tight, careful. That’s right. Careful. Irwen. Mythic Queen. And she sounded like someone checking for bees before sticking a hand in a bush.

  The answer came in the form of laughter, low, wheezing, and riddled with audacity. A laugh with no sense of occasion. Like it had crashed the wrong funeral and stayed for the wine. “Oh-ho-ho!” came the voice, old, cracked like a cursed bell, and gleeful enough to cause concern. “Thought I’d missed the party!”

  And there he was.

  Gatei.

  Dusting off his plate armor like he’d just tripped over time itself and didn’t want to make a fuss about it. One hand on his hip. The other holding a woven picnic basket.

  Yes. A basket. At a war declaration. In between two armies.

  “I brought snacks,” he said cheerfully, like we were all gathered for brunch and not on the precipice of destruction.

  And then he started handing things out.

  To Irwen, he offered a glass bottle, thin, dark, elegant, the liquid inside swirling like it had ambitions. It was stoppered with twine and crowned with a fresh petal that was not from this Rimelion dimension. “For clarity of mind,” he said, with a bow that was ninety percent sarcasm and ten percent doom. “Or utter madness. Depends on the mood of the liquid.”

  Irwen blinked, her fingers tightening ever so slightly. She didn’t take it.

  To Katherine, he turned and dropped a porcelain teacup into her battle-calloused hands. It was fragile, off white, with a single spidery crack running along its belly. The thing you’d find in an old house and instinctively know was haunted.

  “It shatters on impact,” he said reverently, like a priest describing a relic. “And when it does… something else will shatter too. Unclear what. Maybe time. Maybe bones. Fun, isn’t it?”

  Katherine looked at it like she was deciding whether to throw it or sip from it. Possibly both.

  To Lisa, he handed over a piece of coal. Just… coal. Uneven, brittle, dark as regret. Lisa held it between two fingers like it might be a trick. “It’s already remembering a fire,” Gatei whispered with wide eyes, like that explained anything.

  My friends took one collective step back, which, given the context, was less “retreat” and more “strategic emotional buffering.” A moment later, three messages flickered across my vision. All variations of mild panic, and one confusing suggestion from Lisa to yell “Res Gestae” if I need them to attack anyone. Whatever that two words meant.

  And then, finally… me.

  He reached into his basket with all the ceremony of an award presenter and produced… a rock. Not a gem. Not a glowing shard of ancient power. Just a rock. Rough. Round-ish. A little warm, like it had been sitting in a sunbeam.

  I stared.

  Gatei beamed. “It screams when thrown,” he said, so damn proud he might’ve teared up. “Like, properly screams. You’ll love it.”

  I looked at the rock.

  Then at him.

  Then back at the rock.

  It did feel warm in my hand. Not magic-warm. Just slightly off. I half expected it to grow teeth. “That’s…” I began, then stopped, because what do you say to a man who just handed you a rock? “…Thoughtful,” I finished, deadpan. “Really.”

  Gatei wiggled his fingers at me. “You’re welcome.”

  My mother recovered first, of course she did.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Her posture reassembled like a collapsing star gathering gravity, spine straight, voice polished into regal ice. “Who you may be?” she asked, each syllable clipped clean, like she was filing paperwork mid-interrogation. Her fingers hovered near the bottle Gatei had given her, as if it might explode or recite poetry.

  “Me?” Gatei barked another laugh. “I’m just a friendly Twir here to bash some demons.”

  Then, without even glancing down, he kicked the ground casually.

  A bench, a thing that used to be a bench, lurched up from the earth like it had been summoned from retirement. Moldy wood, lopsided legs, and an armrest that was obviously a femur, maybe or maybe not cleaned. It creaked like a ghost sighing as it tilted upright, perfectly upright, somehow.

  Gatei flopped onto it with a groan of victory, his armor clanking like a drunk orchestra. He pulled out a piece of crumpled paper, torn edges, ink stains, possibly a cursed treasure map or someone’s forgotten whiskey contest invitation, and used it to fan himself like he was the belle of the battlefield.

  Irwen didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  But I saw it.

  A flicker, small, brief, the kind of twitch you’d miss if you blinked. The corners of her mouth ticked down, just a hair. That subtle micro expression that translated to this is wrong. Wrong like a puzzle piece that looks right but doesn’t fit. Wrong, like smiling when you spill a bottle on a bar.

  Gatei saw it too.

  He leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees, fingers laced together like a priest about to confess to something extremely illegal. His grin widened, slow, teeth gleaming just a bit too much like they’d tasted things they shouldn’t.

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” he whispered, but we all heard it clearly. “I won’t break the battlefield.”

  —

  I coughed once, clearing my throat and my pride. “Ir… Mom,” I began, biting my lip because wow, this was already veering off-script. “Let me introduce Gatei. He’s a Twir, sort of, but not actually, a god. Just a helpful guy who… agreed to assist.”

  Gatei beamed like a cult leader mid-recruitment. “Never heard it more correctly!” he declared, tipping an imaginary hat so flamboyantly I half-expected confetti. Or at least [Blight Mages] starting throwing corrosive hexes again.

  Then he straightened, offering Irwen a formal nod that carried just enough flourish to be polite and just enough smug to feel like an insult in disguise. “She gets it. We’re not gods. Just humble travelers with catastrophic hobbies.”

  Irwen’s eyes narrowed. “And what kind of help do you offer, exactly?”

  Gatei threw his arms wide like he was about to hug the battlefield. “I destroy things!” he announced cheerfully. “Sometimes on purpose!” Then he leaned in, his voice sinking into conspiratorial velvet. “Mostly demons. Occasionally gates. There was… a city. But that was a misunderstanding involving a goat, some fireworks, and a treaty I technically hadn’t read.”

  Irwen studied him for a moment, her posture elegant but coiled like a scroll ready to snap open.

  She drew in a breath, her tone clipped. “I know what Twirs are, Mister Gatei. Especially about the terrifying weapon.” Her gaze flicked back on me, softer now. “So that’s why you were so confident. You brought help from a god.”

  “Not a god!” Gatei barked, his voice slightly muffled by the fact that his mouth was now stuffed with what looked like a glowing mana shard and, was that a folded map made of jerky? The crystal sparked faintly with each crunch of his teeth, letting out tiny, distressed hums that sounded vaguely like screaming fairies. I watched, more fascinated than horrified, which probably said a lot about my week.

  Irwen blinked. “Is… is he eating a mana core?”

  I sighed, long and deeply. “Honestly? That might be the least alarming thing happening right now.”

  Gatei raised one finger in dramatic declaration, only to choke, probably on the map portion. He thumped his chest, ineffective because of the plate armor, coughed twice, then swallowed it down like an oath-breaker swallowing shame. “Cartography tastes better than memory!” he announced, somehow proud.

  I rubbed my temple.

  Irwen gave me a long look, one that said this is your circus, and tilted her head. “He won’t help you defeat me, will he?” Her voice was light, but her eyes had cooled, sharpened.

  I shrugged. “Sadly? No. Just here to bash some demons.”

  We all turned to Gatei for confirmation.

  He gave us a cheery thumbs-up, shards of mana core glittering in his teeth. Didn’t say a word. That was probably the most reassuring part.

  “And if I may honestly?” I glanced back at my friends.

  Katherine gave me a firm nod, arms crossed. Lisa’s smile was small but fierce, her eyes already glowing with restrained magic.

  “I don’t need a full army,” I said, voice steady. “I need idiots who know when to duck, a wall that holds, and enough explosions to convince death to take the day off.” I took a breath, then met Irwen’s gaze without blinking. “We will hold you.”

  She laughed. Not that careful, court-masked kind of laugh, but something lighter. It rolled off her tongue like music, like pride hidden beneath amusement. “If you manage that,” she said gently, “I will be happy.”

  Then she lifted her chin. The warmth faded, replaced with something ceremonial, powerful. “Shall we start?”

  I nodded once. No more games.

  Irwen’s smile dropped like a broken bottle. The weight of her presence shifted, warping the air like a subtle gravity well. “I, Irwen,” she intoned, voice echoing slightly, “Queen of all United Elven Lands, invoke the God of War, under Agreement Twenty-One!”

  For a monent nothing happened. But then…

  “You called,” said a voice beside us, soft and melodic. “I answered.” A young woman in heavy armor with silver-red plating. Her black hair curled beneath her helmet in defiant strands. Her a deep brown skin reflected the light of the runes.

  Katherine jumped like a kid spotting her favorite streamer mid-raid. “Sera! ’Sup!” She marched forward with zero hesitation. “Amazin’ class, by the way!”

  Sera’s jaw tightened, visibly trying to maintain her celestial professionalism. “Present your case,” she said, voice measured and dutiful. “And as for you, Katherine the Juggernaut, fifth glory seeker… please be quiet.”

  Irwen said nothing. But her smile twitched. She was enjoying this.

  Sera’s command bounced off Katherine like a feather against a boulder. She closed the distance, pulled the armored girl into a hug like it was normal behavior when summoning a god’s envoy, then fist-bumped her breastplate with a solid thunk. “Your sword’s also awesome.”

  Sera’s fist didn’t move. But her composure cracked, just a hairline fracture. But I saw it. “There is a protocol,” she snapped, the words intense enough to cut air. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I could feel Lola nodding with approval from whatever logistical hell she was buried under.

  Gatei, of course, had already lost it. He doubled over laughing, wheezing like someone had just performed an interpretive dance using only tax law and explosives. “Protocol,” he managed between snorts. “Oh, where’s that brat?”

  Sera blinked. “Brat?”

  But Gatei wasn’t answering. Not really. His eyes had gone glassy, tracking something none of us could see. He tilted his head like listening for a distant echo, and muttered, “C’mere.”

  Then he kicked the dirt.

  No fanfare. No runes. No cinematic light show.

  Just… wrongness.

  A silent snap echoed across no medium. The air didn’t ripple, but I felt it pull, like gravity hiccupped. The ground remained still, but it felt watched. Even Sera stiffened. Her hand tightened around her weapon. The tension in her jaw sharpened to a blade.

  Gatei tilted his head, gaze still distant, voice low and cutting. “Still recruitin’ only pretty young girls, huh?” he muttered into the void, like an older brother judging a very dumb sibling’s dating profile.

  “Please not,” Sera hissed, panic blooming in her tone. “Don’t call my boss here!”

  Irwen raised an elegant eyebrow, her voice sweet as whiskey dipped in malice. “The God of War?”

  “Yeh,” Gatei replied, more grumble than word, “that brat.”

  Then, deliberately, tauntingly, he kicked the dirt again, like poking an angry dragon with a toothpick just to see what would happen.

  The earth hissed back.