“You have ten seconds for decision.”

  Ten seconds.

  That’s nothing. That’s a sneeze. That’s the time it takes for someone in the Sock Division to start a small fire and deny it with a wink. My brain slammed into override like someone had kicked it off a cliff and told it to solve physics on the way down.

  Unlimited mana. Unlimited. Mana.

  Was I hallucinating? Did Gatei spike my brain with celestial espresso from Roberto’s sister? No, this was real. Too real. The kind of real that comes with glowing runes and ominous clocks ticking in divine decimal.

  “Will it change the spell?” I blurted, panic-pitched and fast enough to make even Lola’s quill take a breath.

  “Yes,” the god replied. Immediate. Cold. Like it had been waiting for me to ask.

  Great.

  Of course it would. Nothing’s free. Even in the god-store, everything’s labeled ‘Mystery box with surprises included.’

  My pulse skittered like ice fracturing underfoot. “Forever?” I asked.

  “Forever,” the god confirmed, sounding way too pleased with itself.

  Cool cool cool cool—not cool. What even was that supposed to mean? “Forever” in Rimelion didn’t mean “until the next patch.” It meant you broke the universe and now you get to sleep in it. There was no undo. No respec. No backsies. If I took this, if I bonded with whatever frozen-blood mana-pit the god was so gleefully offering, then the spell he’d crafted, my spell, would never be the same.

  He could change. Wouldn’t though. Bargin. Okay, Charlie.

  “Make it fifteen, longer duration and we’re talking.” My fingers curled reflexively. I could still feel the scroll back in Lisa’s hands. My contingency plan. My goodbye.

  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

  “I agree. But you will wait even longer.”

  Damn you! Was this some cosmic revenge for all my cheeky commentary? For calling him out about the sovereign? Or was it worse? Was it approval? Was I becoming something the gods liked to watch?

  Wait, people were watching this. Riker said he’d market it. My decision wouldn’t just shake Rimelion. It’d ripple into the real world, too.

  No. Nope. Too late for existential dread. Tick, tick, tick.

  Could I win without it? Maybe. Mila’s reinforcements were still holding. Llama was still kicking. Lisa had the backup scroll. Maara’s mages would be back soon, with mana for it. But Irwen was casting something mythic-level and humming with elven spite. The spell that says “I love you, sweetie, now perish.”

  This change it might tip the balance. Prolong the wall. Give us a shot. This was going all in with blood in the pot and the dealer grinning. The spell is useless anyway. I don’t plan to have the next cinematic fight in the next three months.

  …Right.

  My heartbeat slammed once, hard. Last second. “Fine,” I whispered to the god. “Let’s break the game.”

  I glanced at the changes to the spell. Wow. He really did hand me power. Not just a buff, a full-on boost. Once every few months, I could become someone very powerful.

  No, not just powerful.

  With these changes, I could be the most powerful player in the game. But still just that. A player. Not Mythic Queen-tier. Not Irwen-level reality-shattering nonsense. But maybe… just maybe, it’d be enough.

  “Use this power well, Hero,” the god intoned.

  But… he didn’t send me back.

  I blinked. “I will,” I said, cautiously. Then glanced around the frozen death-painting of a valley. “Uh, anything else? Because last time you booted me out faster than a bad date.”

  The silence lingered just long enough to make me nervous before he replied, quieter this time, but heavier somehow. “Hero, be careful. You carry a soul not born of your world, but drawn from ours. You are not like the others. You are... fragile. I do not know what happens when you die.”

  Oh. Well, that’s comforting.

  “It may take longer,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “The god of the underworld must rebuild you from thread and echo.”

  I let out a sigh, dragged a hand through my hair. “Right. Of course I’m special.” My voice wavered on the sarcasm. “Add existential death weirdness to the to-do list.”

  As if he was happy with my answer, the world fractured once again.

  —

  In a lavish mansion…

  In the heart of his sky-dwelling palace, a mansion that flirted obscenely with the definition of excess, Riker was… pleased. Lately, his mood had not just risen, it had ascended. Shot past the stratosphere, winked at the stars, and kept going.

  The air was a curated blend of sandalwood and something expensive that defied definition, piped through invisible vents and designed to suggest old-world intellect with just a dash of rebellion.

  A massive beige sectional sofa, minimalist in design but maximalist in cost, dominated the sunken lounge. It looked like it had never been sat on by anyone lacking influence. The texture, smooth as liquefied suede, molded to his posture like it had been expecting him.

  And then there was the holo-screen, stretching from floor to ceiling, curved with obscene elegance and resolution so high it made reality look grainy. On it danced a vision of chaos and grace.

  Charlie.

  Long, cerulean hair whipped behind her like a battle banner, twin comets for eyes set in a face of calculated indifference. She wore blue and white like it was forged for her, gold accents catching the world’s dying light like sparks from a forge. Her bodice was sculpted nobility, sleeves flaring like wings mid-takeoff. She looked like a ballerina with blood on her shoes and revolution in her eyes.

  And she moved across rooftops like a story refusing to be written. She conjured sigils mid-air with one hand, skated on summoned ice across yawning gaps, then flipped sideways onto the next building like physics had politely asked her permission. The buildings weren’t just obstacles; they were her stage. Her rebellion was kinetic, wordless, beautiful.

  Riker laughed, loud and free, his voice bouncing off imported stone columns and vanishing into the mansion’s cavernous ceiling. “Is she doing that on purpose?”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The answer came from behind him, dry, clipped, English-wine vintage. “Probably not. But she’s using the most effective route. That has its own… aesthetic.”

  The man was, of course, his Rob. Today he wore a tailored three-piece suit that cost more than most people’s lifetime savings. Still a discount compared to his cloak. Riker turned back.

  He kept watching Charlie somersault off a crumbling antenna, land sideways on a vertical wall, and fling herself forward using nothing but momentum and a shimmer of arcane frost. “Ah, my dear comrade,” Riker said, shaking his head with a wistful, almost paternal air. “She is a na?ve young girl… idealistic, impulsive. No idea how far she’s about to fall.”

  He reached for a crystal decanter on the glass end-table and poured himself a drink like he was conducting an orchestra.

  “She’s due for a rude awakening. So we prepare. We must prepare.” He took a sip, eyes still locked on the screen.

  “Yes, master. Even despite our massive advertisement, some may say excessive, though I’d say strategically overwhelming, or perhaps because of it… we’ve already broken even.”

  Riker paused, one leg crossed over the other, his fingertips steepled in front of his lips. The shimmering holo-display still blazed across the vaulted living wall before him, but his gaze had drifted. He turned his head slowly, theatrically, toward the voice, toward Rob.

  “You must be joking?” he asked, though his tone suggested he wouldn’t mind if it were true. His smile was thin, amused. His eyes, however, were bright as cut obsidian.

  “I would never,” Rob replied without flinching. The man’s voice remained measured, deferential but not sycophantic, the perfect assistant’s tone. “Project Princess Charlie has already grossed seven hundred and twelve million credits. Break-even was projected at six-fifty hundred.”

  Riker blinked. Then, slowly, turned back to the screen.

  On it, Charlie soared toward the wall. To help her comrades.

  Riker sat back into the opulent embrace of the sofa, the ultra-soft fabric yielding around him like warm memory foam laced with pride. He tapped the rim of his glass against his lip once. Twice.

  “What’s outside of our projections?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the girl dancing across the battlefield.

  Rob didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tapped the side of his temple, activating the data interface connected to his lens. A faint shimmer passed across his right eye. He scrolled through invisible rows, the glow of numbers reflecting faintly off his cornea.

  “The sister company coordinating Rime-Con,” Rob said finally, “sold out of all official merchandise. The rights to the Sword-Queen event netted more than expected. Adjacent revenue was... sizable. However, the lion’s share of recent surplus comes from two sources: the livestream license agreements, particularly the surprise deal with Pan-Asia Broadcast, and... merchandise.”

  Riker blinked. Then he let out a sudden, boisterous laugh, rich, unrestrained. “Merch?” he repeated, incredulous and delighted. “Merchandise?!”

  Rob didn’t flinch. “The Sword-Queen Charlie plushie was released as a limited-edition collectible a few days ago. It sold out in under seven minutes. Public demand turned it viral. That momentum carried into the release of the Ice Princess Charlie plush, and the, uh, Annoyed Princess Charlie plush.”

  Riker snorted into his drink. “Ah yes. That particular face of hers. So... marketable.”

  “Indeed. Express drone delivery helped fan the frenzy. We’ve already sold over six million combined units in. Current demand exceeds production capabilities by an estimated factor of four. Additionally, the Hugging Lisa plush and the Fiery Katherine variant are spiking in popularity. In the last fifteen minutes alone, orders have quadrupled. Shirts, posters, pins, holo-cards, AR filters... the trend is spreading laterally across all demographics.”

  “Enough, Rob,” Riker said, lifting a hand, still grinning like a man who’d found a diamond mine under his bathtub. “You’re only fueling my amusement at this point. I know all this. I just didn’t expect such... unfiltered devotion. There’s something charming about it, isn’t there?”

  Rob inclined his head slightly. “People are hungry for figures who can’t be bought. Or at least appear that way.”

  “Indeed.” Riker swirled the amber liquid in his glass, then took a slow sip. His gaze returned to the holo-feed. Charlie had joined the fray, her spells lashing out like arctic flames. She fought with intensity, passion, fury.

  Poor girl still thought it was all a game. “Any updates on Nathan’s side?” he asked, almost casually. The warmth in his voice cooled by a single degree.

  Rob stiffened. It was subtle, a tightening at the shoulders, a slight shift in posture. But Riker caught it. He caught everything.

  “I...” Rob hesitated, then glanced at the invisible text feed scrolling before his eye. “Yes. The overwhelming success of our stream, five point two million concurrent viewers, has added significant political weight to the argument. The interim council is reevaluating positions. Damon and Travis were brought in, and are considered. Jeffrey attempted to drop or delay the vote, but his influence is... insufficient.”

  Riker gave a slow, almost disappointed shake of his head.

  “Poor Charlie. She’s getting banned. At least we made a fortune.” On-screen, she blasted a frozen spike into existence and leap, cape fluttering like the banner of a future not yet born. “She’ll fight harder now,” Riker murmured. “The more she’s celebrated, the more she’ll believe. That’s what makes her perfect for our future plan.”

  He leaned forward slightly, placing his glass on a sculpted obsidian table, and folded his hands.

  “She will overcome it and become our icon. Somehow playing despite the ban. A martyr not yet fallen. She is pure enough to be believed in, reckless enough to be followed, and unaware enough to be sacrificed. People follow celebrities. All we need is her word.”

  Rob said nothing.

  Riker smiled faintly, watching as Charlie vanished from the wall. “This,” he said softly, “is why we do it. Every revolution needs its symbol.”

  —

  The god spat me out like I’d insulted his father, straight into the open air under Irwen’s casting.

  And when I say “under,” I mean directly beneath her mid-apocalypse spell. Really considerate.

  “Mother!” I shouted, my voice cracking.

  The world had teeth around me, demon soldiers, corrupted monsters, skeletal mounties with attitude, but something in the air shifted. Like the show had started, and I was the lead actress. They didn’t charge. They parted. Stepping back in a synchronized ripple until I stood in a wide-open circle of death and very broken armor.

  Irwen, glowing like a goddess in mid-ascension, looked down at me through the crimson arc of her spell. “Welcome, daughter,” she said, voice as sweet as venom. “Are you here to surrender?”

  I tilted my head. “What?!”

  She was dead serious. Or mythic-level delusional. Same thing.

  “It is foolish to resist any longer,” she continued, fingers calmly adding another rune to the monstrous lattice of magic above her. “Your side has achieved its symbolic objectives. If you vacate the wall and the fort, I will spare your friends.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And what about Mila? The Doan? The refugees? The shopkeepers and stableboys? That old lady who sells questionable bratwursts near the gate?”

  She didn’t blink. “A necessary sacrifice,” she said with all the warmth of a landslide. “To end the empire’s tyranny over elven lands.”

  “Mom, this,” I growled, clenching my fist, “is absolutely pants-on-head crazy. And I’m going to stop you. With everything I’ve got.”

  I was surrounded, nowhere near the safety of the wall, but it didn’t matter. Because if this was the endgame, I was going out full throttle, no brakes.

  Then I felt it, behind the wall, behind the chaos, a pulse of mana. A red rune surged into the sky. I froze.

  No. Lisa, it’s too soon.

  Irwen followed my gaze, her lips curling into a smile. “What a fierce spirit,” she said, like she was praising a particularly ambitious child with scissors. “Another siege spell? Aren’t you full of surprises?”

  She raised her hand toward the sky. “But if that is your ultimate move, Princess Charlie… then I’m afraid you’ve already lost. And so has everyone else.”

  I looked back up at her, my pulse pounding, my throat dry.

  “So be it,” I whispered.

  Irwen’s smile softened, but final. “You surprised me,” she said. “This fight was tough. Briefly. But we both knew the moment I entered, the outcome was never in doubt.”

  Oh, Mom. You really don’t know me. How could you?

  I smiled back, cold as ice. The [Hero Call] felt beneath my skin like a loaded gun.

  “Let’s see how wrong you can be.”

  “I am never wrong,” Irwen replied, with all the certainty of a god wearing lipstick and murder. And then she unleashed the spell. No dramatic chant. No screaming crescendo. Just a single, radiant exhale.

  The sky shattered into gold.

  It wasn’t lightning; it was something worse. Golden rays stabbed out like divine spears, each one streaking across the sky faster than thought, striking down toward the battlefield like a thousand vengeful suns. They didn’t explode. They sank into the enemy troops, absorbed like ink into cloth.

  Every demon soldier, every plated Bone Reaver, twitched as the magic took hold. Their armor flared, their weapons glowed faintly with heat, and a low roar began to spread across the battlefield like a storm front breaking.

  “Fantastic,” I muttered, staring up at her like she’d just served me a five-course betrayal. Then I raised my hand and screamed, “[Hero Call]!”

  The air didn’t tremble. It detonated.

  It wasn’t like the first time with the spear, not that brief burst of heroic nonsense where I felt like I’d eaten a lightning bolt with a side of adrenaline. No, this time was different.

  The moment I flipped the switch, I felt it.

  The cold.

  Not winter chill. No snowstorm freeze. The cold of command. The cold that carves rivers, topples mountains, stamps truth into glaciers. My body didn’t just fill with mana, it drowned in it.

  A tidal wave of ice surged through me, infinite. My veins didn’t burn, they crystallized. My breath came out in puffs of white steam, even as I stood under Irwen’s golden apocalypse.

  The ground beneath me cracked, not from force, but from obedience. Ice spider-webbed outward in an intricate bloom, not random, but ruled.

  I felt the frost now. Not just wielded it. It knew me. Responded like a beast to its sovereign. Because I wasn’t just a hero anymore. That god underestimated the sovereign.

  I was sovereign-chosen.

  Power sang in my bones, and the chorus was cold, proud, and absolutely furious. I smiled and looked up at my mythic mother’s golden storm, eyes blazing with defiance. “Let’s dance, Mom.”