The miracle was not subtle. As Himari's earth-magic created a minor tremor beneath the dais, Sakura acted. Tapping a sequence on her wrist datapad, she activated the modified sonic emitters woven into the princess's cloak. Instead of a defensive shield, they projected a focused, high-frequency sonic blast—invisible, silent to human ears, but carrying immense kinetic force.
The effect was cataclysmic. The solid stone dais did not just tremble; it exploded. A concussive wave, appearing to emanate directly from Himari's outstretched hand, ripped through the air. The two guards holding the Silver Throne were thrown back as if struck by a giant's fist, the throne itself spinning through the air and landing with a deafening clang far from the forge. The Duke was hurled from his feet, his amplified speech cut off in a surprised squawk. The forge, its structural integrity compromised by the sonic blast, collapsed in on itself, sending a shower of embers and black smoke billowing into the sky.
For a heartbeat, the entire plaza was frozen in stunned silence. The crowd stared, their minds unable to process what they had just witnessed. It was not the subtle magic of a Weaver; it was raw, untamed power. It was the wrath of a goddess.
Himari herself was shocked. She had intended to shake the ground, to make the guards stumble. She had not expected to shatter the very stage of her uncle's hubris. She felt the alien power that had surged through her, a force that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
Then, a single voice from the crowd, old and defiant, screamed a name that had not been spoken aloud in months. "HIMARI!"
The spell was broken. The name was picked up by others, a ripple that turned into a wave, a wave that became a roar. "PRINCESS HIMARI!"
The Duke scrambled to his feet, his face purple with rage and disbelief. "Sorcery! Kill her! Kill the witch!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the cloaked figure who now stood as the epicenter of the chaos.
The Shadow Weavers were the first to recover. Dark energy coalesced around their hands. But before they could unleash their spells, Sakura opened fire. Her plasma pistol, set to a non-lethal concussive setting, was a silent, invisible weapon. The first Weaver crumpled as a bolt of kinetic energy slammed into his chest. The second cried out as his arm was snapped by an unseen force.
"Time to go," Sakura said, grabbing Himari's arm and pulling her back into the surging crowd.
Simultaneously, Minato's plan ignited. On the far side of the plaza, a massive merchant's cart, loaded with oil and hay, erupted into a towering inferno—a diversion. The Black Guards, their command structure shattered, were caught between two crises: a riot forming around the dais and a raging fire threatening the market district.
Chaos became their shield. Himari and Sakura plunged into the panicked, surging mass of people, their drab cloaks making them indistinguishable from the terrified citizens. The roar of the crowd, the crackle of the fire, and the bellowed, contradictory orders of the Guard captains created a perfect storm of confusion. Sakura guided them with brutal efficiency, using the panicked movements of the crowd as cover, shoving them through gaps in the Guard's broken skirmish lines.
Himari, her mind still reeling, followed Sakura's lead. She looked back once, over her shoulder, at the scene of her impossible miracle. The Silver Throne lay on the ground, dented but whole. Her uncle was screaming orders that no one was following. And the people, her people, were chanting her name.
She had come to Silverwood seeking allies. She had left as a symbol of divine retribution, a living legend born in an explosion of stone and fire. The infiltration was over. The rebellion had just begun. They were no longer hiding. Now, they were being hunted.