The lead mage's eye twitched. "A… a reservation?" she repeated, the word tasting alien in her crisp, academic voice. "We are the Royal Mages' Guild. We do not make reservations."
"Then you're not getting a table," Gilda said flatly, arms crossed, unimpressed.
The four mages stood frozen, their faces locked in pure, logical confusion. They had prepared for magical anomalies, spatial distortions, even reality-bending paradoxes. They had not prepared for a hostess with a reservations policy.
While this beautiful stalemate unfolded, a very different kind of battle was raging in my own mind.
On one side, there was me, enjoying the most beautiful display of bureaucratic warfare I had ever witnessed. This was a problem solved not with magic or swords, but with pure, immovable stubbornness—and Gilda was a grandmaster in this.
On the other side, there was FaeLina, who was having a complete, high-speed meltdown.
