I always find it funny how grand plans never start in grand rooms. They don’t emerge from marble halls or mystical chambers humming with arcane light.
No, they usually begin exactly where I was standing now—in a drafty, poorly lit barrack crammed with stacked bunks, the scent of sweat, steel, and damp laundry clinging to the air like a stubborn fog.
Maybe that was the universe’s way of keeping me humble, reminding me that even the most brilliant schemes—yes, brilliant, I refuse to undersell myself—sprouted from places where chaos and disorder were simply part of the décor.
Brutus sat on the bunk he’d claimed as his throne, the metal frame groaning under the weight of what was essentially a mountain with opinions. His single arm was crossed over his chest, muscles bulging in ways that felt almost unfair.
Nearby, Freya lounged sideways on a top bunk with the kind of lazy, predatory energy that made you wonder if she was relaxed or simply waiting for someone to irritate her enough to regret it. Her fingers absentmindedly picked at her nails with a small knife, the metallic tap and scrape punctuating the quiet of the room like an ominous drumbeat.
Mia perched on the edge of the bed beneath her, hands knotted in her lap, her shoulders quivering not from fear, but from that constant, unsettled energy she carried with her like a shadow.
And then there was Renly—flames incarnate, red curls tangled like he’d wrestled gravity itself and lost—leaning shirtless against the bed frame, bandages snug around his waist, radiating that calm, almost careless energy that made him impossible to ignore.
It was the first time I’d seen him back from the infirmary since that brutal wound to his stomach, and I couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he carried himself despite everything, like the injury had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his world.
The rest of the crew lounged in various states of relaxation across the bunks and floor, forming a chaotic constellation of intent, impatience, and quiet anticipation.
I cleared my throat, mainly to keep up the image that I was a person who did things intentionally and not someone who routinely stumbled into catastrophes with suspicious confidence.
"Good news," I announced, hands raised in a grand gesture. "I come bearing brilliance."
There was a beat of silence—one of those heavy, hanging moments where the world seemed to inhale, where even the lantern light paused mid-flicker as if bracing for someone to say something catastrophically stupid.
Then Brutus barked a laugh—short, explosive, and absolutely earned. The sound rolled through the barrack like a tumbling boulder, knocking the tension clean off its feet. "You say that every time."
"And every time I’m correct," I countered, strolling a step closer as if I owned the place, which, in spirit if not legality, I absolutely did. "Now gather round. The time has come to unveil—" I gestured dramatically, "—my latest masterpiece." I paused, letting the moment settle for a beat. "I’ve formulated a plan—one I assure you is both elegant and completely possible unless physics decides to take personal offense."
Renly raised his brow. "That sounds like the start of a terrible idea."
"That," I said to him sweetly, "is because your imagination is tragically underfunded."
He pushed a hand through his hair, sighing, "Just get to the point before Freya starts throwing something."
Freya’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned forward, twirling her knife deftly between her fingers. "Oh, I was already planning to," she drawled, "I was thinking of going for that crate over there, but I suppose your whining counts as a target too."
I let out a sharp exhale, hands raised in mock surrender, and cut in before her teasing could escalate. "Okay. Enough foreplay," I said, letting my voice carry just enough authority to command attention without killing the humor in the air. "Here’s the plan."
What followed was a long, winding explanation—one I delivered with the theatrical flair of a street performer and the wild-eyed conviction of a prophet burdened with the world’s most inconvenient revelation. Their expressions changed in waves—confusion, disbelief, horror, curiosity—and then, the moment I hit the climax of the explanation, Brutus exploded.
The stoic giant threw his head back and howled with laughter so loud the bunks trembled in their frames. His remaining arm slapped against his thigh hard enough to leave an imprint. "Gods, you’re insane."
I grinned smugly. "Correct. Any thoughts?"
Mia leaned forward just a little, curls swinging around her cheeks as she studied me. "Are you sure... this is safe?" Her voice wavered—just barely.
I placed a hand over my chest dramatically. "Safe? My dear Mia, nothing in this tower is safe. Nothing beyond it is safe. Safety is a myth told to soothe children and dim-witted idiots. But what I can promise"—I pointed at her with a teasing flourish—"is that everything I do, everything I plan, everything I scheme... is done because I want to see you walking out of this place one day with your head held high and your dignity repaired."
Her breath caught at that, lips parting, eyes softening in the way that struck something behind my ribs and squeezed. Very inconvenient of her, really. I truly wasn’t built for this kind of emotion.
"Thank you," she swallowed, eyes shimmering with fragile warmth. "I mean it. You... you didn’t have to go this far for me."
Something soft and stupid tugged at my heart. "Mia, darling, look at me." She lifted her gaze; I held it. "Of course I do. That’s what we do. We go far. And then farther. And then we trip, fall down a staircase, break six laws of physics, and somehow land on our feet looking fabulous."
Her smile grew slightly. Brutus—mountain that he was—gave me a small, approving nod.
"Gods, Loona, really I—" Mia whispered.
"Don’t get so sentimental, it’ll ruin my reputation," I teased gently, brushing it off before things grew too warm and sticky with sincerity. "Besides, if anyone here should be thanking anyone, it’s me thanking all of you for thanking me for being the only one with enough creative brilliance to come up with this plan in the first place."
Brutus snorted. "Creative brilliance," he repeated, deadpan. "Is that what we’re calling it now?"
"I’m insulted by your tone, big guy," I shot back with a grin. "Truly. Deeply. My fragile heart—shattered."
"Your heart’s fine," Renly said. "It’s your brain we’re worried about."
"Why thank you," I said sweetly.
Freya sat forward sharply, elbows on her knees, eyes gleaming with a wild spark that always made me want to take three steps back and two to the side. "This is chaos. Pure chaos. But..." Her gaze flicked up and down my posture, my grin, my pride. "Could be fun."
"Fun?" I gasped playfully. "Freya, sweetheart, it’ll be glorious. The kind of moment that gets recounted in taverns for generations—provided we don’t all end up dead or imprisoned."
Brutus let out a low, gravelly laugh, his single arm slapping the side of the bunk. "Glorious, huh? Sounds more like the kind of plan that’ll get us all pantsed and left for dead."
"Oh, Brutus," I said, flinging my hands wide in mock despair, "I expected nothing less from the voice of reason and pessimistic charm." I paused before grinning at each of them in turn. "All right. You all know your parts. Don’t get caught. Don’t improvise unless you’re positive it won’t doom us all. And if anyone asks, I was never here."
With that, I waved a hand and strode out of the barrack like a victorious general who hadn’t yet realized he’d misplaced half his army.
The hall stretched ahead, glowing faintly under the lanterns that hung at measured intervals.
Eventually, I reached the bronze elevator leading to the second floor. I spotted a figure waiting near the base, Iskanda’s attendant.
Our eyes met for a brief moment, then I gave a small nod in acknowledgment, feeling that unspoken sense of purpose pass between us. I fell into step behind the attendant, letting their steady pace guide me, the elevator clunking and groaning beneath us as it carried us to the second floor.
When we emerged, not even a few minutes went by before the hall shattered with a flurry of motion barely a few steps ahead.
A bundle of limbs and parchment, teetering and rolling, came hurtling toward me, accompanied by the high-pitched squeak of sheer panic.
Dunny, bless his twitchy little soul, was tumbling down the hall with a handful of scrolls, some of which had already begun to slip and curl under the pressure.
He rushed right past us without noticing.
I squinted, trying to judge his trajectory with a mix of awe and dread, before shouting, "Wait up!"
The words barely left my mouth before he froze mid-step, spinning on the balls of his tiny boots, and turned toward me with that signature nervous giggle, the kind that made your heart pinch just a little because you knew he wasn’t sure whether the world was about to fall on him or not.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" I asked, my voice echoing lightly down the empty hallway, my eyes tracking the scrolls precariously balanced in his grasp.
Dunny’s little shoulders rose and fell as he tried to straighten himself, as if the act alone would lend him some authority over the chaos surrounding him.
"I...uh...have to drop these off in the library," he stammered, and I swear, he nearly tripped over the very words themselves. "The scribes—they’ve gone absolutely mad! They’re demanding half the Spire’s supply of paper for some reason. Some huge copying job or whatever."
He held up the pile of scrolls for emphasis, and the ends waved like tiny flags of surrender in the air, threatening to escape at any moment. I nodded slowly, a sharp grin spreading across my face.
"Perfect," I murmured, letting the word roll out with the weight of conspiratorial delight. "Now listen up."
I edged closer to him then, letting my voice drop into a whisper across his ear. His face flickered with confusion as I spoke, eyebrows knitting together, sweat dripping faintly from his temple.
"I thought we’d already given up on that?" he whispered back.
I giggled before leaning back a fraction. "Just play along," I said.
Dunny let out a long, weary sigh. He was halfway between compliance and total surrender, when movement in the shadows behind him snapped us both to attention.
The figure appeared almost instantly, tall and imposing, casting a long shadow across the polished floor. Dunny and I jumped back in unison, the scrolls rattling slightly in his hands.
"Lady Iskanda!" he yelled, voice pitched somewhere between relief and alarm.
Iskanda’s silhouette advanced slowly, deliberately, her footsteps measured yet carrying that certain, impossible weight—heavy enough to make the ground itself reconsider its solidity.
"What were you two whispering about just now?" Her voice had that crisp clarity, cutting through the hallway’s faint hum like a knife through silk.
Dunny began to stammer out an explanation, the words tripping over one another, flailing in midair, as if his mouth had suddenly decided to perform a circus act independent of his brain.
But before he could form a coherent sentence, my hand shot out faster than he could blink, slamming over his mouth.
The act was rough, abrupt, yet perfectly calibrated—not enough to hurt him, just enough to command silence. I leaned in slightly, letting my voice take over, smooth and confident. "We were just...discussing the upcoming match. Nothing to worry about."
"Mhm, I’m sure you were. Well no matter." She stepped forward then, ruffling Dunny’s hair in a gesture that was part exasperation, part endearment, entirely disarming. "Hurry along now. The scribes are waiting."
Dunny’s eyes darted between the two of us before he nodded frantically, muttering something about "right away," and scampered toward the library.
Iskanda turned to me then. "Come with me," she said finally, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Your match will begin soon."