Katherine near the main gate…

  The Left Sock Division was more than ready—they were vibrating.

  A chaotic, barely contained, unfiltered hype. All players stood assembled in loose formation, if you could even call it that. Katherine stood at the front, practically bouncing on her heels, her oversized gray jacket flapping slightly with each movement. The fabric was worn but warm, with absurdly deep pockets and a single embroidered sock stitched proudly onto the back, bright red with a tiny golden crown above it.

  Gatei’s idea, obviously. He handed these jackets as if he had a factory for them.

  From where they stood, they could hear the sounds of battle echoing through the wall. It was no longer just tension; it was carnage in full swing.

  Screams, the metallic clash of blades, and the horrible, wet sound of something being split filled the air. Cursed spears had started to rain down nearby, because those weird birds missed their targets.

  Katherine tilted her head, her ears catching just enough. The sounds of Llama’s defense weren’t as ordered anymore. Shouts overlapped, orders grew frantic, and she could tell, just from the tone, that soldiers on that wall were buying time with their blood.

  “Stay strong,” came Gatei’s voice, as he placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

  She blinked and glanced sideways, lips already parting for a smartass comment, except Gatei was somehow eye-level with her despite being shorter.

  Wait.

  Her eyes flicked down.

  He was standing on air.

  Genius.

  Katherine’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “Wanna help ‘em,” she said, adjusting the jacket’s hem. It hung down almost to her knees, making her look like a walking hoodie. The others in the division wore the same gray coats, each tailored questionably, some even visibly stitched at the seams with a different thread. But the sock? The sock was always pristine.

  “We charge!” she declared, pumping one fist into the air.

  Gatei didn’t answer immediately. He turned his gaze upward, toward the eastern wall. Katherine followed it to Charlie.

  Charlie was mid-spell, surrounded by a cathedral of glowing runes and circles, the kind that made viewers pause and mutter a prayer. She looked… magnificent. Towering over the battlefield on a pillar of frost, her hair whipped by the wind, face set with terrifying focus.

  Katherine couldn’t help but grin. That? That was going to look amazing on the stream.

  The top of the wall groaned. A crack. Stone screamed as the eastern side of the wall fractured, splintered, and crumbled. A chunk of turret slammed down into the courtyard, sending dust spiraling up like war smoke.

  Katherine’s whole body tensed, her fingers twitching at her sides. Her boots slid half a step forward. “Order Sixty!” Llama’s voice bellowed from the wall above, full of urgency.

  A dozen of the Left Sock Division perked up like someone had just announced recess and free snacks. Teorn, that pervert who Charlie warned her about, was glancing at boobs again.

  Katherine growled low in her throat. “That’s taunting me.”

  Gatei clicked his tongue behind her, his hand still on her shoulder like a weighted leash. “I promised,” he muttered. “But the moment something interesting happens…”

  Another stone fell. Screams rose. Katherine vibrated. “This counts as interesting!”

  Gatei hummed thoughtfully. “Technically? Yes. Spiritually? Yes. Strategically? Also yes.” Her eyes widened with hope. “But,” he continued, tone a notch darker, “Lola threatened to revoke snack rights.”

  Katherine’s soul visibly left her body. “You too?” She whimpered. “She weaponized paperwork.”

  Gatei nodded. “And audits. Sock audits.”

  Another blast rocked the far wall, and Katherine practically howled. “I’m going to combust.”

  Gatei glanced at Charlie, then leaned closer, whispering like he was sharing an ancient secret. “One more minute. Just one. Then we unleash them.”

  She shuddered. “One minute.”

  The Sock Division around them glanced up at the chaos, hands tightening around blades, artifacts, firebombs, and a flute. Why someone had a flute, she didn’t know, but it felt right.

  The runes around Charlie spun faster, burning arcs of power into the sky.

  Then—collapse.

  A pulse of searing light burst outward.

  And then—shatter.

  From the broken wall, from every gap, from every ruined stone… figures rose. Hundreds. Armor forged of light. Weapons humming with spectral resonance. Soldiers made from spectral memory.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  And as one, they raised their blades to the sky and roared:

  “Glory to Eeleim!”

  Katherine’s heart slammed against her ribs. The surge, the energy, it poured through her like fire and thunder.

  Beside her, Gatei tilted his head back and howled with laughter. “She is even more resourceful than I hoped!” he roared, eyes wild, jacket flaring as mana whipped around him. “We charge now! Push!”

  Gatei glanced at the message and snorted. “Pfft. Nerds.” With one kick to the ground, the gate, which should take a minute to open, shot open in a second.

  And then he moved.

  No spell cast. No wind-up. Just… gone. Forward. Launched like a missile straight toward the frontline.

  Katherine screamed with laughter, adrenaline cracking like lightning across her skin. “LEFT SOCK, MOVE!” she bellowed, urging her teammates.

  The division exploded into action behind her, jackets flying, spells charging mid-run, someone already playing the flute like it was a war drum.

  They surged forward like a tide with chaos in their hearts and a screaming rock already airborne. At the front of it all, Gatei tore through the air, bellowing as magic flared off his heels, “GLORY TO WHATEVER HAPPENS NEXT!”

  —

  The prince Don leading the army…

  Prince Don was not supposed to be here, not like this, not against her. He wasn’t meant to face his title-sister across a battlefield soaked in blood.

  His army was supposed to crush the enemy within hours. His title-mother, Queen Irwen, was supposed to level the walls with a single spell and end the conflict before it ever truly began.

  But none of that had happened.

  Instead, he sat in a command tent, thankfully elven-made, with graceful curves and reinforced enchantments, listening to reports and terrible voices. He couldn’t even ride with the front-line vanguard. Protocol kept him tucked behind layers of troops and high command. So he hid. Like a coward.

  This was not what he signed up for.

  Arrayed before him stood three demon warlords. His “advisors.” Each one towered over him by two heads, encased in perfect, impassive gray armor inscribed with ancient symbols. Their helms covered them entirely, faces erased, voices cold and unfeeling.

  They didn’t breathe. They didn’t shift. They existed and expected obedience.

  One read aloud in a dead tone, “The river diversion was successful. The mortal Dmitry’s infiltration met objectives. Enemy forces were pulled. They are pressing deep into the flank. Full breach within the hour.”

  Another said, “We have breached the primary wall, but—what?!” The demon’s monotone cracked, barely but enough. “What’s this nonsense?” it continued, voice sharper now, spiked with disbelief.

  “The Twir are charging!” the third snapped. “All their elites! They’re going all in!”

  A gauntleted fist smacked the third across the shoulder, a clank of steel on steel. “Wait, something’s wrong at the wall. Our forces stalled. A massive reaction spike. A casting…” The demon faltered. “The enemy commander cast a… a legendary siege-tier spell.”

  “Oh?” Don whispered, his eyes narrowing. He brushed past them, ignoring their stiffness, their unreadable stares. His fingers twitched with sudden energy, curiosity, as he stepped out into the daylight.

  And there, standing just outside the command tent, her silhouette cutting against the chaos beyond, was Queen Irwen.

  Tall. Regal. Her form cloaked in trailing layers of her new combat dress, black and silver, untouched by dust or blood. Her hair, not one strand out of place. A proud smile curved her lips. Not one of amusement, but of recognition. “The world heard her plea,” she said, her voice precise, as if delivered not to Don, but to history itself. “And the world answered.”

  She turned slightly toward him, her chin lifted. “Henceforth, and for all the ages to come, she shall be bound in name and spirit to the Kingdom of Eeleim. It is not merely a title anymore. It is a legacy.”

  Don’s throat tightened. “What happened?” he asked.

  He turned his gaze toward the wall, far in the distance, but clear. There were more defenders now.

  Too many.

  A shimmer rolled across the ramparts, and he saw them, figures not quite real, silver forms reflecting sunlight like blades of the moon. Rows of translucent elves, glowing with ancestral fire, holding the line that should have broken ways ago.

  The Queen turned to him, her every movement deliberate, posture regal even amidst the hum of war magic and distant screams. “General,” she said, her voice silk over steel, “what is our next move?”

  It wasn’t a request.

  It was a test.

  Everything about this cursed expedition had been a test. Of loyalty. Of will. Of identity.

  Don clenched his jaw. The title she used still rang unnaturally in his ears. General. He hadn’t earned it. Not truly. “How should I know?!” The words burst from him before he could stop them. Frustration burned behind his eyes like a too-bright spell.

  He had dreamed of serving her for years. Not in some foolish, romantic way, but in the purest, most devoted sense. Queen Irwen, the Immortal Shadow of all elven Kingdoms. United again. Fight their oppressors. When he’d first seen her, it had been like meeting destiny. Her presence was everything the stories whispered: flawless, resplendent in command.

  And when she gave him his first real order, to kill his title-sister, he had obeyed without hesitation. But as with all things that bore the Queen’s mark, that, too, had been a test. Of her. Of him.

  She passed with flying colors.

  He had barely scraped through.

  How was he supposed to know when following orders was right… and when it was fatal? Sometimes loyalty was defiance. Sometimes obedience was failure. There were no instructions for this kind of war. He gritted his teeth, fists tightening at his sides. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “How could I?”

  Irwen’s smile was faint. And deadly.

  “Your sister managed this,” she said, her tone light as falling snow, but Don flinched anyway. He forced his gaze toward the distant wall again, where the silver army still shimmered. Then downward, to the gate. The enemy’s elite.

  Dark jackets, moving totally random. Not dozens, hundreds. And at the front… “That’s not fair,” Don muttered, jaw tightening. “She has an imperial general at her side! And that Lola commander!” He turned to Irwen, voice rising. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t even want to be a general!”

  Irwen’s smile deepened. Never unkind, but never warm. “Every prince is a general, Prince Don,” she said, as if stating a law older than kingdoms.

  The shadows shifted behind him.

  The demon advisors crawled from the tent, not walked, not strode, but crawled, as if limbs were optional suggestions, and movement was a matter of geometry. Their armor hissed against the ground, slick gray plates flexing without creases or seams. One rose to full height behind Don, towering like he used to over that cute girl.

  “General,” it intoned, voice a monotone. “The enemy has committed their elite forces. We must react.”

  The second emerged, unnaturally fast, its helm tilting as it leapt to its feet with a predator’s fluid grace. “We commit everything,” it said, without emotion. No hope or urgency. Just inevitability.

  Don didn’t respond.

  The third spoke then, its voice lower, smoother. “When the flank reaches the fort…” It turned slightly, eyeless gaze fixated on the far-off wall. “…we will be in prime position to win.”

  There was no celebration in the words. No fire. Just calculation. As if the death toll was already acceptable. As if victory was a puzzle solved with enough limbs thrown into the grinder. Don’s mouth was dry. He looked to the horizon again, where the silver army still stood, slowly killing his frontline.

  Queen’s gaze held his. “You have your advisors. You have your name. You have your war.” She took a single step toward him, casting her shadow over his boots. “So…” she said, perfectly calm. “…the time for decisions is now.”

  Don let out a sigh, feeling as if he was doing a grave mistake. “Send elites to intercept the Twir.”