Gergel squeaked, still trembling so hard his fat shook like jelly in an earthquake.
"Lan… Lord Lampard," he stammered, voice thin and wet. "C-can I go? I—I merely came to check on Princess Ellaria. That's all. If you could… perhaps… move from the doorway, I could… leave…"
His legs looked ready to fold.
Lampard didn't even glance at him.
"Go?" Lampard repeated, like the word tasted foul. "Gergel. You enter the Princess's bedchamber uninvited, strike her servants, and throw killing magic in a royal hall…"
Only then did Lampard's eyes shift.
Not fully.
Just enough.
"And you wish to go?"
Gergel's mouth opened and closed. Panic jammed his thoughts into nonsense.
"This—this is a misunderstanding!" he blurted. "I was joking—yes, joking! Her Highness and I—haha—we have… a friendly understanding! I lost control for a moment. Truly. I meant no harm. I meant to cast a… a protective spell. A healing spell!"
The lies poured out of him, fast and slippery, like vomit forced by terror.
"And besides—besides, I'm only a small apprentice! I have no star-rank qualification, my magic is weak, my casting slow and—"
He was so desperate he almost convinced himself.
Almost.
Lampard finally turned his head.
The air changed.
No dramatic aura. No glowing qi flare.
Just pressure.
Silent. Invisible.
Like a mountain leaning forward an inch.
Gergel's words died in his throat.
His face went gray.
Everyone in the Hold knew that kind of pressure. That was the presence of a man who could end an argument by ending the people in it.
Gergel forced a smile anyway—fawning, submissive—nodding like a dog trying not to get kicked.
Lampard's gauntlet tightened.
For half a heartbeat, the room felt smaller. As if the stone walls had shifted in. As if lungs had less space to expand.
Then Lampard paused.
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Not mercy.
Not softness.
More like a remembered rule. A boundary he hated but couldn't ignore. A name higher up the chain, watching even from far away.
His fist loosened.
The pressure vanished.
Lampard made a short, disgusted sound and waved his hand like shooing a fly.
"Silence," he said. "Get out."
Gergel almost collapsed from relief.
"And remember this," Lampard added, voice flat as steel. "There won't be a next time."
"Yes—yes! I understand—yes, Lord Lampard, thank you, thank you—"
Gergel bowed so hard his neck disappeared into his shoulders. He turned to scuttle past the doorway, not daring to breathe too loudly—
"Wait."
Aleria voice stopped him like a hook sunk into his spine.
Gergel froze.
He turned slowly, eyes snapping to Lampard first—begging silently for permission to keep living.
Lampard didn't answer.
So Gergel had no choice but to stand there, trembling.
Aleria climbed off Angela.
She was small—so small it was almost insulting. Barely 154 centimeters, light enough that Angela barely complained when she moved. A narrow waist beneath her nightgown, a compact hourglass frame that looked like it belonged in a sheltered life, not in a siege and certainly not in a room that had just tried to turn her into ash.
Her long blonde hair hung loose and messy from the struggle, catching the light like spilled gold.
She should've looked fragile.
Instead she walked like something in her had snapped into place.
Pain flashed through her body with each step—skull aching, ribs protesting—but she kept moving anyway. Straight toward him.
Angela rose to her knees near the bed, watching with wide eyes. Mira stood by the smoldering shelf, clutching a damp cloth, soot on her hands—frozen mid–damage control.
Lampard's brow lifted a fraction.
Confusion.
Interest.
The faintest edge of what is she doing?
Aleria stopped in front of Gergel.
She was a head shorter than him, and he wasn't even tall.
Gergel stared down at her, trying to rebuild his arrogance from the pieces. His eyes flicked over her with that same hungry entitlement—still convinced the world belonged to him, still convinced she was just a timid little Princess who would fold if he leaned hard enough.
Aleria smiled.
Sweet. Polite.
The kind of smile her old self would've used on stream when she was pretending not to be furious.
She lifted a hand and patted his shoulder.
For half a second the room misread it.
Angela's expression twitched—hopeful, confused.
Mira blinked hard, like she thought she'd hallucinated the courage.
Even Lampard's gaze sharpened slightly, assessing.
Maybe… she's smoothing it over.
Maybe… she's being gracious.
Alerias smile widened.
Then her eyes went cold.
Not royal cold.
Not noble.
Modern.
Personal.
Her hand slid off his shoulder.
And in the same motion—
SLAP.
The sound cracked across the chamber like a whip.
Gergel's head snapped sideways.
His cheek bloomed red instantly.
Silence fell so hard it felt physical.
Angela stared as if the laws of the world had just been rewritten.
Mira's mouth parted in shocked delight.
Lampard's eyebrow rose higher, just slightly—an expression that said: …interesting.
Gergel turned back slowly, eyes bulging.
Aleria didn't step away.
She leaned in, voice low enough to be intimate, sharp enough to cut.
"That," she said, "was for touching me."
A beat.
"And the next time you raise magic in my room—protected or not—I will make sure you regret having hands."
Aleria slapped him again.
The sound cracked sharp and loud in the chamber.
Gergel blinked, stunned, his head snapping to the side. He didn't even lift a hand.
"What—" he started.
SLAP.
Aleria had to rise onto the balls of her feet to reach his face. She was small—frustratingly small—and every strike forced her to stretch upward like an angry child scolding a grown man.
SLAP.
Her palm stung. Harder than she expected.
"Who told you—" she hissed, voice shaking with fury, "—who the hell told you it was okay to throw fire at me—"
SLAP.
Her hand burned now. She sucked in a breath, teeth clenched.
"—and who told you—" SLAP "—that you could touch people like that—"
She swung again.
Pain shot up her wrist.
"Ah—dammit!"
She hissed, shaking her hand, blinking against the sting. She was small. Light. Fragile in ways she hated being reminded of. Every slap cost her.
Gergel… smiled.
Just a little.
A greasy, infuriating curve of the mouth.
"My apologies, Your Highness," he said smoothly, eyes watering but amused. "If I offended you—"
That did it.
Something in Aleria snapped clean in half.
She didn't think.
She didn't plan.
She just lifted her knee and drove it forward.
Hard.
Right where it counted.
The kick landed with a dull, final thud.
Gergel made a sound that shouldn't come out of a human throat.
His entire body folded inward like a broken tent. He dropped to the floor, gasping, hands clawing uselessly between his legs, face turning a sickly shade of gray.
Aleria staggered back half a step, then laughed—short, breathless, wild.
"Got you," she panted. "How dare you—how dare you laugh at me."
She pointed down at him, chest heaving.
"I'm a Princess of—" she faltered, mind blank for half a heartbeat, then snapped her fingers, furious at herself, "—Camelot. Yeah. Camelot. Respect me."
Angela stared.
Mira stared harder.
Lampard raised an eyebrow.
Gergel groaned, rolling slightly, trying to crawl away.
Aleria saw movement and, still riding the adrenaline, stepped forward again.
She kicked.
Not hard—she couldn't get the leverage—but sharp, right into his backside as he turned away.
"Stay down," she snapped.
That was when it happened.
A massive hand closed around her waist.
Firm. Instant. Absolute.
Aleria froze.
It felt like being caught by industrial machinery—unyielding, precise, impossible to fight. Her feet left the ground as Lampard lifted her back without effort, pulling her away from Gergel in one smooth motion.
"That's enough, Princess," Lampard said calmly. "Behave yourself."
She sucked in a breath.
All the fight drained out of her at once.
Not because of fear—
—but because her body knew it couldn't win against that kind of strength.
Gergel crawled.
Not stood.
Crawled—dragging himself toward the door, one arm wrapped protectively around himself. At the threshold, he looked back once, eyes full of fury and promise.
I'll remember this.
Then he vanished down the hall.
The room went quiet.
Too quiet.
Aleria blinked.
Then she looked around.
Angela was on her knees, staring at her like she'd just watched the sun punch someone.
Mira's hands were clamped over her mouth, eyes sparkling with shock and something dangerously close to admiration.
Lampard was looking down at Aleria with open suspicion now.
Not anger.
Assessment.
Who are you?
Aleria's stomach dropped.
Oh no.
She'd gone too far.
She was in the wrong world, the wrong body, with the wrong instincts—and she had just beaten a powerful mage like a bar brawler.
Her heart skipped.
Cover. Now.
She went limp.
"Oh—oh no," she groaned weakly, bringing a hand to her forehead. "I feel… very faint."
Lampard stiffened as her weight suddenly sagged.
"I'm so lightheaded," she murmured, eyes fluttering. "The stress… the fire… I think I—"
She let herself collapse.
Lampard caught her easily, arms closing around her like she weighed nothing at all.
"Princess?" Angela gasped, scrambling forward.
"Your Highness!" Mira yelped.
Lampard carried Aleria back to the bed and set her down carefully. She clutched at the sheets dramatically.
"Oh dear," she whispered. "I feel terribly weak. Could someone… please bring me some water?"
She paused.
"…No. Better wine. I think I need wine."
Mira bolted upright. "Y-yes! Right away!"
Angela sat beside her at once, fussing, brushing hair from her face, eyes wet with worry.
Lampard stepped back, arms crossing.
He watched Aleria for a long moment.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
Just a little.
Amused.
Angela returned a moment later with a small silver cup cradled in both hands.
"Here, Your Highness," she said softly, kneeling beside the bed. "Wine. Just a little. It will help steady you."
Aleria lay back against the pillows, still playing the part of the shaken, fragile princess. She accepted the cup with both hands, managed a weak smile.
"Th-thank you," she murmured.
She took a sip.
Instant regret.
The wine hit her tongue like liquid fire—strong, sharp, burning straight down her throat. She coughed hard, choking, eyes watering.
"Ah—shit—!"
Angela gasped. "Your Highness!"
Mira hurried closer. "Princess, are you all right?!"
Aleria waved them off, coughing again, face flushing. "Y-yeah—yeah, I'm fine. Gods. That's—wow. That's… strong."
Angela looked stricken. "I should have diluted it—"
"No, no," Aleria said quickly, forcing herself to breathe. "I just… need to rest. That's all."
She sank back into the pillows, heart still racing.
Lord Lampard had been watching in silence.
Now he exhaled slowly.
It wasn't relief.
It was the tired breath of a man who had already accepted how this would end.
He turned toward the door, pausing only once.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice low and steady, "the Black Banner army is regrouping. The next assault will come soon."
The room seemed to grow colder.
"Our soldiers are exhausted. Supplies are thin. Morale is… fragile." His mouth curved into a bitter half-smile. "Unless the gods grant us a miracle, the walls will not hold much longer."
Angela's fingers tightened in her skirt.
Mira swallowed.
Lampard continued, each word measured.
"If the city falls, the men will be slaughtered. The women will be taken." He didn't soften it. "That includes the servants. The maids. And you, Your Highness."
Aleria's chest tightened.
Prepare yourself for the worst, he had said earlier.
Now she understood what that meant.
Lampard inclined his head—just barely.
"I will fight," he said simply. "As long as I can stand."
Then he turned and left, boots receding down the corridor like the ticking of a clock.
The door closed.
Silence rushed in.
Aleria stared at the ceiling, breath shallow.
The walls.
The siege.
The men she'd seen on the battlements—black armor, brutal eyes, looking at her like she was a prize already claimed.
They're still coming.
Her hands trembled beneath the blanket.
What happens when they get inside?
Angela noticed first. She sat on the edge of the bed, placing a gentle hand over Aleria's.
"Your Highness," she said softly, forcing calm into her voice, "our people have defended Camelot for generations. The gods have not abandoned us yet."
Mira nodded quickly. "Yes. Our ancestors held these walls against worse. Surely… surely we will endure."
Aleria wanted to believe that.
She really did.
But the memory of the wall—of dying men, of that black-armored brute staring at her like she already belonged to him—wouldn't let her.
I can barely slap someone without hurting my hand, she thought weakly.
How am I supposed to save a city?
The wine sat heavy and useless in her stomach.
Angela set the cup on the nightstand. "You need food," she decided. "Cake, perhaps. You've barely eaten."
"And the doctor," Mira added quickly. "Yes—we should fetch the doctor."
They moved with purpose now, clinging to routine.
"Rest, Your Highness," Angela said, brushing Aleria's hair back gently. "We'll be right back."
"You're safe," Mira said, trying to smile. "Everything will be fine."
The doors closed behind them.
Aleria was alone.
The silence pressed in.
Then—
A voice spoke.
Inside her head.
Flat. Cold. Wrong.
> "Initialization sequence detected."
Aleria froze.
"What…?" she whispered.
> "Beginning ascension protocol."
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
No answer.
Only a tone.
A countdown.
> "Transition to Nightmare World in… 5… 4…"
The room blurred.
Her vision darkened at the edges.
"Wait—stop—!" she gasped, clawing at the sheets.
> "3… 2…"
Pressure closed in from every direction.
Her body felt heavy. Unresponsive.
> "1."
Darkness swallowed her whole.
And Aleria fell—
Not into sleep.
But into something far worse.