Hennekas—yes, that Hennekas, the legend himself, king of kings, bearer of the Sword of Arven, warrior of ten thousand wars—was now just like a corpse in a tomb that smelled like wet stone and old regrets.
And into that tomb, the Ozelean triplets dragged Ella, gagged and furious. One of them, the grumpy-looking one (which was hard to tell, because they all looked like they'd been raised on sarcasm and dried fish), yanked off the cloth from her mouth.
"What the actual hell?" she spat, wiping spit and humiliation off her chin. "Why have you brought me here? Unless this is some goth-kid funeral cosplay, I'm really not in the mood."
The triplets said nothing. Of course they didn't. Because that would make sense. In the far corner of the tomb, Ziz stood, trembling. Big oxed warrior Ziz, big bird that once crushed a bears' skulls with a boulder, was now hunched over like a kicked puppy beside his master's motionless body. He once carried his master across a field of flames. His sorrow didn't even need subtitles.
Ella's eyes flicked from the oxed to Hennekas. Then to the triplets. Then back.
"Oh no," she said, backing away like the air had suddenly gotten toxic. "Nope. No-no-no-no. You have to be kidding."
"We are not," said the onr of the triplets with a crown of bones , voice as dry as day-old toast. "Do the needful."
"The needful?" Ella scoffed. "What, you want me to just boop his forehead and boom—king of glory resurrected? What do I look like, a divine life pack? I cannot heal a spirit of the old. You know this."
Still, no answer. And that silence? That was the answer. She looked at the three of them. Yeah. They weren't letting her out of here unless Hennekas started breathing again. And he? Was not breathing. And hadn't been for a while.
This was, by all definitions, a lose-lose-very-much-dead situation. Except…
Far away—but also not far at all—Deliah was watching. Not with eyes. Not with presence. But in the realm where things could be seen that no one dared speak of. She saw Ella. She saw the tomb. And she smiled because every failure was just an opportunity with good PR.
Deliah tapped into the realm deeper, whispered into the spiritual stream, and sabotaged Ella's sight—just a little. Just enough to plant a new possibility, a crack in reality, a vision that pulsed like a heartbeat. And suddenly, Ella's eyes glazed with something not entirely hers.
"I… I think he can still live," she whispered. Ziz lifted his bat head. The triplets straightened.
Ella's voice was steady, but her mind was spiraling. "The Scepter of the End. It holds enough power to… maybe. But you'd have to fight the Queen. You'd have to join the King of Dalab."
One triplet narrowed his eyes. "You speak of alliance?" Ella nodded slowly, heart thudding.
"Gideon cannot win this war alone," she said. "But with that scepter… you might bring back Hennekas. And change everything. Fight with him on a condition."
Behind her, the crown-of-bones triplet smiled for the first time. And just like that, the stone tomb wasn't so quiet anymore. Plans were forming. Danger was shifting and Fien? Fien had no idea what was coming.
Now Fien and her army were parked right outside Dalab's gates like an ancient apocalypse-themed tailgate party. Wars didn't just pop off like that. No, there was always this awkward little tradition where rulers pretended they might talk things out like adults. Like, "Hey, maybe we can be reasonable." (Spoiler: they usually couldn't.)
Fien sat high on her saddle, hair braided like a crown, rage curling at the edges of her voice. Behind her, about a million bears huffed steam like living siege engines and the centaurs were tossing spears back and forth just to kill time.
"He's going to open the gates," Shæz muttered, eyeing the city with unreadable calm.
Fien snorted. "Pfft. That coward? I bet my left tit he won't."
The warriors behind her tensed. The silence was thick enough to slice with a butter knife—and then eat dramatically.
Meanwhile, inside Dalab, Gideon was chill as fuck. In his chamber, he spoke to his right-hand Meta like this was a fancy brunch instead of impending war. He poured for Meta tea with the care of someone who knew exactly how this day was to end. Then he stepped out, all decked out in king robes—judgy, ceremonial, not one wrinkle out of place. Like he was about to sentence someone to twenty years of exile, not defend his damn kingdom.
Back outside, the moment of negotiation was ticking away like a bad date. Fien cracked her knuckles. "Time's up," she growled. "Someone get me the mic."
A Zela warrior—bare-chested, scarred, and somehow still chewing on honeyroot—handed her a horn-shaped ancient megaphone that looked like it could summon dragons and call your mom. Fien lifted it to her lips and let her voice fly:
"Dalab, listen to your queen!"
The sound echoed off the towers, rolled across rooftops, and made more than one grandma drop a pot. Inside, even Deliah—deep in her temple—perked up. Her eyes narrowed in fond recognition, and she whispered,
"Cometh thou, friend…"
Then smiled like she'd been waiting for this plot twist all week.
Fien's voice rolled on, crisp and thunderous:
"Your queen has come back for you. Your long-awaited queen. I built this city from stone and stubbornness. But now you get a choice. Die today… or don't."
Behind her, the bears roared. The centaurs howled. Someone in the back tripped over a spear, but no one cared—war was coming.
Fien raised her hand. Shæz narrowed her eyes. Geleam reached for his war horn.
And just as the signal was about to drop—the gates creaked open. Wide. Slow. Welcoming.
Shæz turned to Fien and smirked. "Told you."
Fien blinked. That was not what she expected. Opened gates weren't for Gideon to come out and grovel. No, they opened wide... for the queen to enter. She felt her heart hitch. Just once. Then she set her jaw and rode forward like she'd been planning this all along.
But if there was one thing Fien never prepared for—it was respect from someone like Gideon.