Gergel smiled.
It wasn't wide.
It wasn't manic.
It was calm.
"Time to burn, Princess," he said lightly. "No woman is allowed to slap me."
Then he flicked his wrist.
The fireball left his hand.
And time broke.
To Aleria, the world stretched thin and slow, like someone had dragged reality through syrup. The spell—no bigger than a clenched fist, no smaller than death—howled through the air toward her face. Heat rippled outward, warping the space around it. Stone shimmered. Shadows bent away, as if the chamber itself wanted to look elsewhere.
"No—!"
Angela screamed.
Aleria saw everything at once.
She saw the fireball.
She saw the distance.
She saw the math.
She also saw—too clearly—that she had nothing.
Nothing except the breastplate in her hands.
Angela moved.
She didn't think. She didn't hesitate. She just went—charging past Gergel, skirts flying, boots skidding as she threw herself after the spell like a goalkeeper diving for an impossible save.
For half a heartbeat, Aleria thought—
She might actually—
Angela fell short.
Her fingers sliced through empty air. She hit the stone hard, slid, and vanished beneath the bed as the fireball tore past where her head had been a moment before.
It was still coming.
Straight at Aleria's face.
This is it, her brain supplied calmly.
Then something older kicked in.
American.
Schoolyard.
Dusty baseball diamonds and cheap aluminum bats.
Aleria didn't brace.
She swung.
She stepped into it the way her coach had screamed at her to—hips first, shoulders following, eyes locked. The breastplate came around in a flat, desperate arc.
The fireball hit.
BANG—!
The impact was thunderous.
The spell didn't explode.
It ricocheted.
The breastplate rang like a struck bell as the fireball tore off at a sharp angle to Aleria's left, screaming into the wall. It slammed into a massive portrait of some long-dead king, obliterating his smiling face in a blast of sparks and flame.
The chamber erupted.
Fire sprayed outward. Heat washed across the room like an open furnace. Burning fragments rained down. The shelf beneath the portrait ignited instantly—
"Mira!" Aleria shouted.
Mira was already moving.
The smaller maid grabbed a heavy cloth, knocked over a pitcher, and charged the fire without hesitation—smothering flames, kicking embers away from the curtains, coughing through smoke like she'd done this before. Damage control. Survival mode.
The breastplate in Aleria's hands glowed.
Hot.
Too hot.
"AH—!"
She yelped and dropped it onto the bed, shaking her hands violently like she could fling the pain off with the motion. The mattress hissed but didn't catch—thank every god listening.
Her palms burned.
Not blistered—but close.
For half a heartbeat, Aleria just stood there on the bed in her nightdress, legs bare, chest heaving, lungs on fire.
Angela was under the bed.
Mira was fighting flames.
The fireball was gone.
She'd stopped it.
She'd actually—
Gergel laughed.
Not triumphant.
Pleased.
The sound crawled up Aleria's spine.
His smile wasn't victory.
It was delight—the expression of a man who'd found a toy that surprised him.
Heat gathered again above his palm.
Brighter.
Larger.
Hungrier.
The air began to scream.
This one wasn't a neat little orb.
It swelled—bloated and unstable—until it was the size of a small melon, its surface pulsing like a diseased heart. The air around it dried instantly. Heat tore the moisture from Aleria's mouth so fast her tongue felt chalky, like she'd been breathing dust instead of air.
Three meters.
That was all.
Aleria snatched the breastplate back up. It was still warm, but usable—good enough. She shifted her grip, feet braced on the mattress, shoulders squared.
Angela scrambled out from beneath the bed, coughing hard, hair loose and wild. One knee slid on the stone before she caught herself. She came up beside the bed, chest heaving, eyes locked on the swelling flame—clearly doing the math on whether throwing herself in front of magic again was bravery or just a different flavor of suicide.
Aleria pointed straight at Gergel, fury finally burning hotter than fear.
"Hey!" she yelled. "You cheating piece of garbage! Why don't you fight me like a man instead of lobbing glowing fruit?!"
Gergel sneered, lips still moving as he fed the spell, stroking it with murmured syllables like a man calming a vicious animal.
"If you wish to live, Princess," he said smoothly, "then throw yourself before me. Beg. Offer yourself. Become mine." His eyes flicked over her with ugly intent. "Then I might consider mercy."
For half a heartbeat, the thought crossed Aleria's mind—cold and invasive.
What if I just gave in?
It died instantly.
The way he licked his lips.
The way his gaze claimed instead of saw.
Surrender didn't mean survival.
It meant something worse.
A chill raced down her spine. She lifted the breastplate fully, setting her stance like she was back on a dirt field with chalk lines and a coach screaming from the sidelines.
"I refuse," she shouted. "Now throw it already! I've seen more heat in an Amish kitchen than in that fireball!"
Angela and Mira stared at her.
Neither had any idea what that meant.
Gergel's face twisted.
"You dare mock my magic?!" he shrieked, voice cracking, cheeks flushing an angry red. Humiliation boiled over into pure fury.
Whatever restraint he'd been pretending to have shattered.
This wasn't a duel anymore.
This was correction.
A noble mage punishing a disobedient princess.
And pain was the point.
Gergel raised his hand.
The fireball flared—brighter, hotter, unstable—like flame barely pretending to obey.
Too fast.
Too close.
Angela tensed, arms lifting again, ready to jump—ready to die if that was the price.
Gergel released the spell.
WHOOSH—!
The fireball tore through the chamber like a cannon shot—melon-sized, unstable, roaring straight for Aleria's face.
"No!" Angela screamed.
Time collapsed into a single image.
Angela—arms lifting, palms open, body lunging forward as if she could catch the thing. As if flesh and will alone might stop fire.
She was too close.
Too slow.
Aleria didn't think.
She threw.
The breastplate left her hands like a brick hurled in blind desperation, spinning end over end through the superheated air. It passed Angela by inches—
—and met the fireball directly in front of her face.
CLANG—!
For one impossible instant, metal struck flame like it was solid.
Then the spell bounced.
The fireball shrieked sideways, deflected hard, skidding off its path like a kicked hornet. It screamed past Gergel's shoulder—close enough to singe his sleeve—and shot straight toward the double doors.
At the same moment, Aleria launched herself forward.
She grabbed Angela mid-stumble and dragged her down, twisting her body around the maid as they hit the floor together. Stone slammed into Aleria's shoulder. Breath tore from her lungs.
The doors burst open.
A figure stepped through.
Tall.
Broad.
So large he had to dip his head slightly to clear the frame.
The fireball flew straight at him.
A massive, gauntleted hand reached out.
And caught it.
Just caught it.
No spell.
No incantation.
Just brute strength closing around raw magic.
The gauntlet squeezed.
Not violently.
Almost casually—like testing fruit at a market.
The fireball popped with a soft, humiliating phfft, like a balloon dying of embarrassment, and vanished.
Smoke drifted.
Heat evaporated.
Silence fell so hard Aleria could hear her own heartbeat hammering.
The gauntlet wasn't scorched.
Not blackened.
Not cracked.
Nothing.
Aleria finally exhaled. Her grip on Angela loosened. Angela's didn't—arms still locked tight, body shielding her Princess by instinct alone.
Aleria barely noticed.
She was staring at the man in the doorway.
He wasn't wearing a helm.
Long, blazing red hair fell down his back, tied loosely with rough cord. His face was all hard lines and stubborn angles—strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, icy blue eyes that looked like they'd never learned how to blink at danger.
He was enormous.
Not fat.
Not bulky.
Dense.
Like a bodybuilder carved out of stone and wrapped in steel.
His full plate armor fit him like it had been forged around his body. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Thick arms. And yes—Aleria's eyes betrayed her for half a second, flicking downward to the prominent codpiece built into the armor.
Whoa.
Her brain immediately screamed at her.
What the hell are you thinking right now?!
She flushed and snapped her gaze back up, mortified.
Something was off, though.
Despite the power, despite the sheer physical presence, there was a faint pallor beneath his skin. A tightness at his brow. The subtle look of someone enduring pain they refused to acknowledge.
The knight stepped fully inside.
Heavy boots met stone with a quiet, final sound.
He didn't look at Gergel.
He looked at Aleria first.
And bowed.
Not deeply.
Not theatrically.
Just enough.
I see you.
I acknowledge you.
I respect your rank.
Aleria, still sprawled on the floor with Angela half-on top of her, nodded back dumbly.
At the center of the room, Gergel went rigid.
The color drained from his face until he looked like wet flour. His entire body began to tremble, fear and fat wobbling together.
"Lan… Lan—" he stammered, voice shrinking. "L-Lord Lampard…? Why are you—how are you— I—"
Cold sweat poured off him.
Lord Lampard finally turned his head.
Slowly.
And fixed his gaze on Gergel.
The room seemed to shrink around that look.
And the world very clearly understood—
Whatever happened next would not be fair.