Shæz yawn-stretched like a cat, blinked once, and then her brain finally registered Fien's panicked face. The queen's robe was half-tied, hair a wreck, pupils wide enough to park a cart in.
"What do you mean the scepter is missing?" Shæz croaked.
"Gone. Vanished. Straight-up missing," Fien snapped, patting every corner of the tent as if the universe had misplaced its most dangerous flashlight under a pillow. "And the only person who could sneak in here without tripping a rune?"
"Gulutel" Shæz rubbed sleep-sand from her eyes. "Okay, that's… super not good. What's the play?"
"We hunt him down before sunrise," Fien said, grabbing her belt-dagger and an attitude.
Shæz squinted at the queen's half-empty wine jug. "Girl, we are fifty-percent pinot noir right now."
"Then we'll sweat it out on the trail." Fien flung the tent flap open. Cool night air slapped them both in the face, brisk and judgemental.
They strode through camp trying to look casual—two tipsy women in night gear, absolutely not on a scepter-rescue mission. Bear-handlers nodded. Centaur sentries side-eyed. Nobody asked questions; when your queen sleepwalks, you let her.
At the perimeter Geleam lounged on a crate polishing his sword, classic overprotective-boyfriend posture. "My queen, do you require—"
"I'm fine, General," Fien shot back, breezing past. "Just girl talk."
Geleam frowned, bemused, but stayed put. Shæz whispered, "We'll owe him an explanation later."
"Later is a luxury," Fien muttered.
Beyond the torches the desert was all starlight and crunching gravel. Fien dropped to a crouch beside the massive paw prints of Geleam's war bear. "Track starts here, ends… there." She pointed to open nothing.
"Smart move," Shæz said. "Ride till the beast's winded, ditch it, hoof it on foot."
Fien pressed two fingers to the ground, closed her eyes. Meg, to me. Across the dunes the red mare whinnied and thundered toward them like bad weather. Hooves skidded. Sand flew. Fien vaulted up; Shæz followed, hugging the queen's back. "I can still smell him," Shæz said. "Sweat, sandalwood, like he's been with since I was twelve."
"East?"
"Dead east."
Meg took off, mane lashing their faces. Minutes later they found the abandoned bear—snoring in the moonlight, reins twisted around a rock. No footprints. Stone flats for miles.
Shæz slid down, inhaled. "Scent drifts into those gullies. He's aiming for the canyon road to Gulia."
Fien swore. "That's an Ozelean highway. Runes every quarter mile—perfect for possession boosts."
Shæz nodded grimly. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Gulutel is heading to Hennekas." Fien's jaw clenched. "And if he hits Gulia before us, the scepter's in Ozelean hands."
Above, the Setrums floated on their chrome clouds like bored influencers watching a livestream.
Dias flicked a holographic map. "Queen's on the chase. Odds she catches him before the ridge?"
Myer sipped cosmic espresso. "Slim. Yern's juiced the brute to marathon-god mode."
She zoomed in on Fien's furious face, smirked. "Though credit where due—Shæz is basically GPS with legs."
"Don't remind me," Myer growled. "The day we break the pact, I'm throwing hands with that woman."
Dias laughed. "Get in line. You're much better than that."
Lightning crackled, courtesy of Setrum side-bets. Cosmic coins clinked in zero-G.
Back on the sand, Meg pounded forward. Fien whispered a velocity chant; the mare kicked into warp, dunes blurring. Shæz clung tighter. "If we eat it at this speed, we'll leave a crater."
Meg's red hooves were throwing sparks by the time she skidded into striking range. Up ahead Gulutel—really "Gulutel-with-Yern-inside"—was lurch-sprinting like a linebacker possessed. Spoiler: he was. Yern felt the queen's aura slam into his borrowed spine and swore in Setrum static.
Dias's voice crackled back like a bad Bluetooth headset.
Gulutel's muscles obeyed… right up to the moment Meg body-checked him like an angry comet. Horse, queen, and runaway bruiser all went bowling through the sand.
Fien tumbled, came up spitting grit. "What were you thinking, Gulutel?" she shouted—then froze. His eyes were wrong. No warmth, just neon migraine.
Shæz saw the same glitch and pushed back her dagger. "He is not alone—"
Too late. Possessed-Gulutel snapped a haymaker into her ribs, scooped the glowing scepter, and took off again. Meg lunged to bite, but he swatted the war-horse aside like it was a yappy puppy.
Fien hissed a curse. "He's clocking Setrum numbers. Definitely jacked."
High above, Dias face-palmed. Myer cackled. The betting screens went bananas.
Gulutel tore across the border ridge—three more strides and the runes of Gulia would light up, giving Yern home-court advantage. Two strides. One— THWIP—CRASH!
Weighted nets exploded out of the dark and wrapped him head-to-toe. He slammed down hard, cussing in two languages. Bears roared, paws thudding. Out of the gloom lumbered three armored ursines with riders—and at their head, Geleam, sword flashing silver.
He vaulted off the saddle, sprinted to Fien, and hauled her up by the forearm. "Figured you might need cavalry, my queen."
Fien wiped blood from her lip, shot him a grateful grin. "Your timing is disgustingly perfect."
Under the tangled net, Gulutel thrashed, then went eerily limp. Yern's presence blinked out like a bad signal—he'd bailed the moment the body was useless.
Gulutel's own eyes fluttered back, confused and terrified. "Wh… what…?"
Shæz knelt, feeling for pulses both physical and magical. "Possession's gone, but he's still packing a spirit hangover."
Fien retrieved the scepter, rage simmering. "He stole my stick. That's treason."
Geleam's jaw set. "Treason warrants the blade."
Gulutel heard that and panicked. "I didn't—It wasn't me! Something was inside me!"
Shæz exhaled. "He's not lying, Fien. You could tell that he was possessed."
The queen looked from Shæz to Geleam, then back to the trembling warrior in the net. Sand hissed across the dunes, carrying miles of silence.
From the heavens, Dias watched the standoff and muttered, "C'mon, Fien—show us whether you're tyrant or queen."
Myer rolled her cosmic eyes. "Either way, the drama's top-tier."