Keiser knew exactly what he was doing the moment he shoved Lenko down the crater.

He hadn't done it out of panic or cruelty, he'd done it because he knew the dragon child would catch him. He trusted that instinct as surely as he trusted the burn of his Muzio's mana. The little one wouldn't let Lenko fall or be struck by the arrow that had been aimed straight at him. She would protect him...

So as he heard Lenko's furious shout echo up at him, half curse, half disbelief, Keiser didn't look back.

He only yelled her name, the moniker he'd given her from the start... "Little Flame!"

The shout tore through the haze of dust and mana.

And as Olga drew back another arrow, the string singing with the charge of mana, Keiser moved.

His body knew the rhythm of her attacks by heart. He darted forward through the chaos, past cracked stone, shattered chairs, and threw his dagger.

Not at her, but before her, aimed not to wound but to stop the next shot.

The blade spun, slicing through the thick air, and struck true, not her bow, but the sheath of arrows she reached for. The impact made the quiver snap off its belt ring, spilling several arrows onto the ground with a sharp clatter.

Olga scowled, her hair sticking to her cheek as she knelt to grab one of the fallen shafts. Her movement was fluid, practiced, one pull, one draw, one release. The arrow whistled through the air toward him.

Keiser didn't even have time to think. His dagger was already on its return arc, pulled by his will and the tug of mana. He caught it mid-spin, and pain jolted up his arm, straight through the same hand that still had the rod of a broken arrow buried in it.

The impact sent sparks of white pain flashing behind his eyes. The dagger's blade screeched as the incoming arrow slid along its edge, deflected just barely before it could tear through him. It ricocheted off the wall and vanished into the dark.

Keiser exhaled sharply and straightened, his eyes darting past Olga, to the princess.

She was kneeling now, one hand pressed to the cracked ground for balance while Tyron held her upright. The glow beneath her palm was faint but unmistakable, her sigil once again spreading across the floor.

He had to keep Olga busy.

Without hesitation, Keiser drew back his arm and hurled his dagger again.

Olga had just gathered her arrows back into the sheath, dust streaking her cheek, her expression sharp and cold. When she saw him throw again, she smirked faintly, as if mocking the futility of it. Her hand reached for her bowstring, already planning to shoot the dagger down midair.

But she didn't expect it to curve.

The dagger spun past her head, the angle all wrong for a direct attack, and she turned instinctively to follow it. Her sharp eyes tracked its glint, right as she noticed the shadow rising behind her.

The carpet, freed from the ruins below, move like a veil over her.

Olga tried to leap away, but something flickered in her peripheral, another flash of light, metallic and fast.

Keiser's dagger.

It had turned in midair, guided by his will, and came spinning back.

For one split second, she hesitated, unsure whether to dodge the blade or the dark fabric unfurling.

That single moment of hesitation sealed her.

She stepped forward instead of back, closer to the looming shadow.

The carpet lashed out. The heavy fabric coiled around her midsection, the threads constricting with unnatural strength. Olga's bow fell from her grip as the air left her lungs in a sharp grunt of pain.

Keiser didn't wait to see what happened next, and ran forward through the rain of dust and falling debris.

Keiser finally reached the stable ground, the part of the upper floor that hadn't yet given in to the tilting, cracking ruin around the crater. His boots skidded against the stone as he stopped, chest heaving from the run up, dust streaking across his cheek. He caught his dagger out of the air in one smooth motion, the familiar weight grounding him again, and looked ahead.

Olga was there, wrapped tight in the coils of the carpet. The crimson fabric rippled faintly as if alive, its runes pulsing with restrained mana. She grunted, twisting against it, but every movement only made the threads bind tighter.

Keiser's eyes flicked away from her and toward the source of the runes.

The princess stood a few paces away.

From this close, the sight almost made him stop. Her hair, once pure gold, had begun to shift in color, green hues creeping upward from the tips like vines overtaking sunlight. Her eyes still burned a deep ruby red, yet her ears remained rounded, unmistakably human.

If anyone else saw her now, they would not believe she was the Saint, no longer as divine and distant. Even though her golden strands of her mana had spilled across the floor, alive with light. They slithered across the broken stone like glowing roots, threading themselves into the fissures and holding the crumbling surface together. The mana that surged through them hummed, a low, constant vibration that kept the structure from collapsing further.

Keiser let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He gave her a short nod, a wordless thank you for keeping the place stable, for saving them from falling into the depths below. She turned her head slightly, her expression sharp and unreadable, her lips pressing into a thin line.

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even acknowledgment.

But it was enough.

Keiser turned his gaze back to Olga. The archer's face was tense, her jaw tight as she strained against the cloth that bound her. Her hands flexed, testing the strength of the cloth. The look she shot him was pure venom.

"You're not going anywhere," Keiser muttered, though he doubted she heard him through the noise of shifting cloth.

He crouched, glancing down toward the crater's edge. The dark maw below still pulsed faintly with mana residue, like an open wound in the ground. He could barely see through the swirling dust, but movement flickered below.

"Little Flame!" he called out, voice echoing down the pit. "Did you get him?!"

For a heartbeat, there was no answer, just the distant hum of mana and falling stones.

Then, faintly, he saw it... a flicker of light, red and copper. The child's small figure, her tail flicking as she stood beside Lenko, both of them standing amidst the wreckage. Even from up here, he could tell they were talking, Lenko's mouth moving rapidly, the dragon child's head tilted in response.

Keiser narrowed his eyes, relief mixing uneasily with exhaustion.

At least they were alive.

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly, though his grip on the dagger didn't loosen. The night wasn't over, not yet.

Keiser's attention shifted when he heard a low, guttural sound nearby, a weak, strained groan that broke through the constant hum of mana and crackling stone. He turned sharply, scanning the floor until his eyes caught movement a few steps away.

A man lay there amid the wreckage, his body riddled with arrows. Several jutted out from his knees, elbow and shoulders, another from his thigh, and one particularly deep wound bled heavily from the side of his neck, pulsing with every labored breath.

Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading fast. Yet despite that, the man was still conscious, barely. His fingers twitched faintly, reaching toward the long weapon that had rolled out of his grasp.

Keiser frowned, his eyes narrowing as recognition clicked.

The man was one of Mr. Genevra's guards, the one with the brown goatee and the heavier build, the larger of the two cloaked figures that had accompanied the man earlier that day. The memory came back in fragments, the man's silent stance behind his employer during the meeting.

Keiser's gaze slid toward the long weapon beside him, a lance, finely made, its shaft engraved with faint sigils. Blood streaked the metal near the blade, the tip cracked. He glanced back at the man, and the pieces started to connect.

He turned slightly, eyes shifting toward where the archer was still restrained by the carpet. She was struggling, her breath coming out in sharp, angry bursts, her teeth clenched as she tried to reach for her bow lying a few feet away. Her usually sharp, precise movements were sluggish now, as if something was clouding her focus. The runes pulsing through the carpet glowed against her.

Keiser frowned deeper.

He looked again between Olga and the downed mercenary. From the pattern of wounds, it was clear enough, she'd been the one to take him down. Her arrows had been merciless, precise even. Yet the way she was now, snarling and disoriented, attacking her own brother, didn't fit the Olga he knew.

His jaw tensed. "What the hell happened here?" he muttered under his breath.

The man on the floor made a weak sound, half a gasp, half a laugh, and tried to speak, but the blood bubbling from his mouth drowned the words. Keiser crouched, his instincts torn between finishing or interrogating first, but before he could move closer, the mercenary's eyes rolled back, a final shudder running through his body.

Silence followed.

Keiser slowly stood, wiping his hand on his cloak. His eyes flicked back to Olga again, her struggle quieter now, but her gaze still fierce, almost feral. The faint shimmer of corrupted mana flickered around her, and that more than anything made the hair on his neck rise.

He recognized that that corrupted mana… he'd seen it before. The kind that could twist a person's will. And it would make sense if someone from that faction was here.

Whatever had happened between Olga, Lenko, the mercenary, and the princess before his arrival…

It had to be part of their plan. Gideon's plan.

Which meant… Aisha was here.

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