The alarm goes off in my skull before dawn.
Not the palace bells. Not the usual HUD "good morning, please drink water" nonsense.
Something deeper.
CRISIS ALERT: MAJOR CAMPAIGN EVENT
Enemy Forces: ~80,000 troops detected on eastern border.
Our Forces: ~32,000 active, 10,000 reserves.
Projected Outcome without Final Calamity Intervention:
– Ridge Line Loss: 87%
– Capital Threatened: 63%
– Casualties: CATASTROPHIC
FIRE GENRE AMPLIFIER: ACTIVE
I sit up so fast I make myself dizzy.
The room is dark, just a faint grey leaking through the curtains. Mira is curled in the armchair, head tipped to the side, asleep with a book on her lap. Someone draped a blanket over her. Her hair glows faintly in the pre-dawn gloom.
For a moment the sight anchors me.
Then the numbers scroll again and the anchor snaps.
"Of course," I whisper. "Of course we couldn't just have tea parties."
The HUD pulses.
SUGGESTED ACTION: INFORM PARTY LEADERS.
SUGGESTED ACTION (OVERRIDDEN BY FIRE): …you already know.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
The movement is enough to wake Mira. Her eyes flutter open, then focus on me instantly.
"Fia?" She's on her feet in a heartbeat. "What's wrong? Are you dizzy? Short of breath? Is it—"
"Crisis alert," I say, pointing at the faint red glow only I can see. "Eastern border. Eighty thousand."
Her face goes white.
Before she can answer, the bells start ringing.
The war room hasn't changed, but it feels smaller.
Same long table, same massive map, same iron markers and red flags. Same exhausted generals. The difference is the weight of numbers.
"Scouting reports confirm," the High Marshal says, voice grim. "An army of approximately eighty thousand has crossed the Verdant Pass. They're marching for the Ember Plains. If they reach the river, the capital is within range."
"Ember Plains," I murmur. "That's—"
"Too open," Elira says, jaw tight. "If they break our line there, they can encircle the eastern forts."
Seraphine stands at the head of the table, armor half-fastened, hair braided for battle. She looks more like the general she is than the princess she was born to be.
"How?" she demands. "That many troops moving unnoticed—"
"Fog," Lyriel says quietly. She taps a spot on the map. "They used a weather shroud. I told the council if we let their stormcallers regroup—"
"Blame later," the Emperor says, voice cutting through like a blade. "We deal with the now."
He looks older than he did at the ball. More lines around his eyes, more grey in his hair. That scares me more than the markers on the table.
I stand a little behind Seraphine, the four of them forming a loose wall in front of me. I can see the map through the gaps between their shoulders.
Red markers for enemy units. Gold for ours. The scale makes me a little sick.
"Can we hold without committing the capital garrison?" Seraphine asks.
"Maybe for a day," the Marshal says. "Two, if the Saintess and Archmage push themselves. Beyond that…"
His eyes flick to me, then away quickly, like he's afraid looking too long will set him on fire.
I already know where this is going.
"I'll go," I say.
All four of them spin.
"No," Seraphine says instantly.
"No," Mira echoes, horror in her eyes.
"Elira," I appeal. "You saw the projections. We were at twenty thousand last time. This is eight-zero. I can end this before it gets to the river."
"We almost lost you at Dawnridge," Elira snaps. "You bled out on the ridge in my arms. No."
Lyriel's voice is calm, but her hands are clenched on the table edge hard enough that her knuckles are white.
"Your mana pathways still show microfractures from the last time you invoked your authority," she says. "If you channel at that scale again without letting them heal, you could suffer permanent neural burnout. Or cardiac collapse. Or both."
"So I'm what?" I demand. "A decorative deterrent? We sit here and hope they get scared off by war reports?"
The Emperor clears his throat.
"Fiametta," he says, carefully neutral. "Your last…intervention saved tens of thousands of lives. It also left you unconscious for two days and bleeding from every orifice, according to the healers' report."
"Rude," I mutter.
"The Fire Genre Mitigation Committee," he continues, as if that name doesn't make his eyebrow twitch, "has made its recommendation."
A familiar script floats into my vision.
FIRE GENRE MITIGATION COMMITTEE PROTOCOL 2:
– The Final Calamity is not to be deployed to active fronts more than once per season.
– Exception requires unanimous approval of:
• Emperor Albrecht
• Helena von Ardentis
• Cassian von Ardentis
• Crown Princess Seraphine
• Archmage Lyriel
• Saintess Mira
• Knight-Captain Elira
Current Vote: 0/7.
I stare.
"That's cheating," I say.
Seraphine doesn't flinch.
"It's survival," she says quietly.
"We can't win this without me," I insist.
Lyriel's eyes flash. "Don't be arrogant," she snaps. "This empire existed before your authority woke up. It will exist after—"
She cuts herself off, breathing hard.
"After we stabilize you," she amends.
I fold my arms, more to keep from shaking than anything.
"Okay," I say. "Let's pretend I stay. Then what?"
The High Marshal looks between us, caught between imperial protocol and raw panic.
"We commit all available forces," he says. "The eastern legions. The river guard. The capital garrison. We blow the bridges behind us and make our stand on the plains. It will be…bloody."
"Define 'bloody,'" I say.
He hesitates.
"The last time we faced those numbers, at the Third Glassfield," he says slowly, "we lost nearly a third of our fighting men."
A third.
I stare at the map, at the little gold markers that might as well be actual people.
"My illness kills one person," I say, very quietly. "Me. Maybe a few more if I lose control. This kills thousands. And you expect me to sit here and…what? Drink tea and hope?"
Mira flinches like I've slapped her.
"You're not just 'one person,'" she whispers.
"Fia," Seraphine says, voice going soft in that dangerous way, "I understand why you want to go. I do. But this isn't just about numbers."
Her eyes shine with anger she's trying to hold down.
"I watched you stop breathing in my arms," she says. "I watched Mira pour everything she had into you while your heartbeat refused to stabilize. I watched Lyriel—" her voice cracks, "—Lyriel was shaking. She doesn't shake. They told us if your mana surged one more time, your heart might…burst."
Lyriel looks away, jaw tight.
"I will not," Seraphine says, "march you toward that again two weeks later because the generals can't do their jobs without your shadow."
The room is quiet.
The HUD flashes.
OPTION: OBEY ORDER – Stay in Capital, trust mortals.
Projected Casualties: HIGH.
OPTION: DISOBEY – Go to Front, use Authority again.
Projected Casualties: LOWER (External). HIGH (Self).
Genre Modifier: FIRE – Consequences cannot be trivialized.
I've been a player my whole life. Choices are my language.
I hate this choice.
"I won't promise," I say finally.
Seraphine's shoulders stiffen. "Fia—"
"I won't promise," I repeat, more steadily. "Not when the system is literally showing me numbers like that."
"You trust that more than us?" Elira demands.
I look at her. Her eyes are hurt, not angry.
"I trust you," I say hoarsely. "And I also trust math."
Mira is crying silently now, fingers twisted in her sleeves.
Lyriel pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a slow breath.
"I will triple the wards on your room," she says. "I will put a locator on you. I will station my own constructs at your door if I have to."
The Emperor raises a hand.
"For now," he says, "our course is decided. The heroines and I will lead our armies to the Ember Plains. Lady Fiametta will remain in the capital under strict rest, by imperial command."
The words slam into my status screen like a decree.
NEW STATUS: Grounded by Empire (Capital-Locked)
Attempting to leave will trigger:
– Alarm Spells
– Angry Girlfriends
– Possibly Helena
I swallow.
"Understood," I say, because that's what Fiametta would do in the face of an imperial order.
Seraphine looks like she doesn't believe me for a second.
"Fia," she says, softer. "Please."
I can't say yes.
So I say nothing.
They leave that afternoon.
I watch from the balcony as the army marches out: lines of soldiers in dark armor, banners snapping, sunlight glinting off spearpoints. Seraphine at the forefront, cape streaming. Elira riding just behind her, jaw set. Lyriel near the mage lines, staff slung across her back like a blade. Mira in white with the healers, head bare, hair catching the light.
Four threads of color moving away from me.
The HUD tracks them like party markers.
[Seraphine – HP: 100% – Distance: 12km]
[Elira – HP: 100% – Distance: 12km]
[Lyriel – HP: 100% – Distance: 12km]
[Mira – HP: 100% – Distance: 12km]
I grip the balcony railing until my knuckles ache.
Behind me, the room is full of…safety.
Extra guards at the door. Wards Lyriel etched into walls and floor. A small shrine Mira insisted on setting up, candle already lit. A sealed letter from my parents, unopened, which I'm fifty percent sure says "If you sneak out, we will haunt you before we're dead."
I pace.
I try to read. I can't focus.
I drink the tonic Mira left; it tastes like flowers and guilt.
By nightfall, the HUD is flashing again.
BATTLE EVENT: EMBER PLAINS – COMMENCING
Enemy Forces: 80,000
Our Forces: 31,500 (present), 9,000 (en route)
Real-Time Update:
– Frontline pressure: RISING.
– Casualty Rate: MODERATE.
– Weather: Dark clouds, high winds (Stormcaller interference).
I see it in snapshots, data feeding in like a live stream overlay.
Seraphine's units clashing on the left flank. Elira redirecting shield walls to plug gaps. Lyriel countering stormcallers, her magic straining against theirs. Mira's healing area flickering across the battlefield like small suns.
It's…bad, but not catastrophic. Yet.
Then the numbers shift.
Enemy Reserves Committed: +20,000
Total Enemy Engaged: ~60,000
Line Integrity: STRAINING.
Projected Breach in:
– Left Flank: 17 minutes.
– Center: 29 minutes.
I slam my fist lightly against the desk.
"Do something," I whisper at the map. "Do the scripted genius maneuvers. Pull a third route twist. Anything."
Seraphine is good. All of them are. But numbers are numbers.
The clock ticks down.
My heart hammers.
"You promised nothing," I remind myself. "They told you no. You're grounded. They'll hate you if you go. They'll be right."
The HUD throws another screen up.
NEW EVENT: FIRE GENRE ESCALATION
Hidden Trait Revealed:
Pain Filter – Previously ACTIVE (suppressing physical feedback from Terminal Illness to prevent early breakdown).
Due to repeated use of Final Calamity Authority, Pain Filter's integrity is compromised.
Projected: Next large-scale Authority use will DISABLE Pain Filter.
Result:
– You will feel all of it.
– You will not forget it.
– FIRE demands burn marks.
I stare at the words.
I remember what it felt like last time—the surge, the heat, the way my body felt like a conduit, not a person. The aftermath blur, the exhaustion, but no pain. Just…absence.
This time, there will be pain.
All of it.
"Nope," I say out loud. "No thank you. Denied. Declined. Hard pass."
On the map overlay, a section of the left flank collapses.
ALERT: Left Flank Breach – Active.
Projected Casualty Spike: SEVERE.
I close my eyes.
I see faceless soldiers dying. I see Seraphine's jaw set as she orders a desperate fallback. I see Elira taking hits she shouldn't have to. I see Mira pouring herself out until she drops, Lyriel burning her reserves to cover the retreat.
I also see my four girlfriends standing over my bed while I drown in my own blood because my heart exploded.
Choice.
"I hate this stupid genre," I whisper.
Then I stand up.
Lyriel did good work.
There are wards on my windows, on the doors, under the floor. Layers of detection and inhibition spells that would catch any normal "sneak out and go save the world" attempt.
Good thing I am not normal anymore.
Fiametta's memories aren't just public knowledge and spell theory. Hidden underneath, like secret bonus content, there are things she never showed anyone.
Including the emergency exit.
The Ardentis estate once maintained a private teleportation circle. Not the big, stable commercial ones you use for merchant caravans—those are expensive, regulated, watched. This is an ugly little thing carved into the bones of the world by someone who thought regulations were for other people.
Fiametta found it when she was fourteen.
She never told.
The circle is under the city, buried in an old cistern no one uses anymore because the palace plumbing got upgraded three generations ago.
Getting to it is a problem…unless you can slip through the walls.
I stand in the center of my room.
"Final Calamity Protocol," I say softly.
The HUD flickers.
WARNING: You are flagged Capital-Locked by imperial decree.
Bypassing this will:
– Trigger alarms.
– Break trust.
Proceed?
My hand shakes.
"I'll apologize later," I whisper. "If there is a later."
"Proceed," I think.
The world stutters.
For a heartbeat, I'm both here and not here. My body…thins. Becomes an outline of heat. The walls around me glow in my vision like layers of translucent glass, lines of wards blazing in Lyriel's careful handwriting.
I slip.
Every ward I pass screams in my ears—but I'm behind them, under them, inside the cracks between their definitions. I'm not "leaving the room" in the way they understand. I'm a misfiled error, a line of code the system can't categorize fast enough.
Cold stone gives way to colder air.
When I solidify again, I'm in the cistern.
It's vast and dark, pillars rising from a shallow pool, echoes bouncing. In the center, half-buried in silt and old magic, is the circle: a ring of black stone inlaid with dull red fragments.
It hums when it feels me.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "Hi to you too."
I step into the circle.
The glyphs flare.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the world slams sideways.
I arrive on the Ember Plains just as the left flank breaks.
The sky is a boiling sheet of grey, clouds roiling with trapped lightning. The air stinks of ozone, blood, and churned earth. The sound hits me like a wall: shouting, metal, screams, magic detonations.
I stumble as the circle spits me out on a low rise behind our lines. My stomach lurches. Teleport nausea. Great.
The HUD updates.
LOCATION: Ember Plains – Rear Command Ridge
Distance to Frontline: 0.8 km
Party Status:
– Seraphine: HP 72%, Armor Integrity 63% (frontline, left)
– Elira: HP 68%, Shield Integrity 51% (reinforcing gap)
– Lyriel: Mana 39%, Overload Risk: HIGH (countering stormcallers)
– Mira: HP 54%, Mana 22% (mass healing, depleted)
They're hurting.
I look down at the battlefield.
Our left line is buckling, soldiers pulled back in ragged knots. Enemy troops pour through the breach, banners making a dark river. Beyond them, I can see Seraphine's white-and-gold form, sword flashing as she tries to stem the tide. Elira is a battering ram of steel near her, moving like a storm. Lyriel's spells crackle overhead, but her shield dome is visibly thinning. Mira's healing light pulses weakly, flickering around clusters of wounded.
We're outnumbered more than two-to-one in places. The next push will break them.
The sickness inside me wakes up.
It's been quiet since Dawnridge. Just fatigue, dizziness, occasional warning coughs. Background noise.
Now, as I draw in breath for a spell, I feel it.
A weight behind my ribs. A wrongness in my blood. Like someone lined my arteries with glass shards and filled my lungs with smoke.
I lean against a rock for a second, eyes squeezed shut.
"I don't have to do this," I tell myself.
The system floats silent, for once.
I open my eyes.
On the far side of the breach, a unit of our healers gets overrun. I see white robes trampled underfoot. I see Mira's aura flicker in distress.
I step forward.
"Fine," I whisper. "Let it hurt."
I lift my hand.
The dragon under reality wakes like I've kicked it.
Last time, it felt like heat and light moving through me, overwhelming but distant. This time, it feels like molten metal being poured into my veins.
I bite back a scream.
The HUD flashes danger red.
FINAL CALAMITY AUTHORITY – OVERRIDE
Pain Filter: OFFLINE
Vessel Integrity: 52% and dropping
Mana Output: SPIRALING
Spell Construct: [CRIMSON DOMAIN – VARIANT]
Scope: Narrow focus, high density
Target: Enemy Forces within 2km radius of breach
Collateral Risk (Friendly): LOW (if you stay conscious)
My vision wavers. Every breath scrapes. My heart is a pounding drum trying to break out of a cage that's suddenly too small.
"Contain," I tell myself. "Not annihilation. Not a wall across the whole world. Just a…storm. There. Not here."
I picture a ring of fire dropping just beyond our lines, encircling the enemy forces pounding through the breach. A cage, not a scythe. A spiral, tightening.
The dragon laughs in my bones.
It likes big.
"Do it small," I whisper through clenched teeth. "Or I'll take us both down."
For a moment, I think it'll ignore me. The power swells, pressure building, my chest screaming, my bones creaking.
Then, grudgingly, it yields.
The sky over the breached flank splits.
It doesn't look like fire, exactly.
It looks like someone took all the red in the world and wrung it out in sheets.
Scarlet light slams down in a ring around the enemy troops. Ground blackens. Air wavers. From the ridge, I see men and beasts skidding to a stop as a wall of searing heat erupts around them, cutting them off from the rest of their army.
Inside the ring, the temperature spikes. Weapons glow and drop from blistered hands. Armor becomes ovens. Horses scream.
I clench my fist.
"Lie down," I whisper.
The air in the ring…changes. The heat doesn't cook; it suffocates. It strips oxygen from the pocket I've created, leaves nothing but a crushing, heavy pressure.
Inside the flaming ring, the enemy army drops like toy soldiers knocked over by an invisible hand. Unconscious, gasping, alive—for now—but on the ground.
Our troops on the edge of the ring stumble back, coughing, but the heat doesn't cross the line.
I do not, I repeat, I do not let the flames touch my own people.
That line in my head is clear as a rail.
The HUD is losing its mind.
TARGET AREA NEUTRALIZED – 19,000 HOSTILES DISABLED
Warning: Vessel Integrity 31%
Organ Stress:
– Cardiac: CRITICAL
– Pulmonary: CRITICAL
– Neural: SEVERE
Pain Filter: DISABLED
You are feeling:
– Full systemic burn of authority conduction
– Micro-tears in vascular system
– Cellular screaming (technical term)
My knees buckle.
For the first time since I got here, my illness doesn't feel like an abstract status condition.
It feels like death tugging on my tendons, one by one.
White-hot pain roars up my spine. My ribs feel like they're being pried apart with crowbars. My heart is a hammer trying to shatter itself. Every nerve in my body is on fire.
I don't even realize I'm screaming until I hear it, raw and animal, torn from my throat.
The spell holds, but my focus slips.
The ring wavers.
No. No. No.
If I let go completely, the dragon will either eat more than I want or snap back and backlash through me.
I pour everything into one thought:
Hold the line. Just the line. Nothing else.
The flames freeze in place, a solid wall of heat.
My vision goes white.
I hit the ground.
Somewhere above the pain, there are voices.
"—FIA!"
"Stay back, the ground—"
"Her mana signature—Sia, stop—"
"Let me through—"
I can't move. My body is heavy, a broken thing. Breathing is a task and it hurts. Every inhale is knives. Every exhale is worse.
Someone drops to their knees beside me.
A hand, gauntleted, slides under my head, lifting it gently.
"Fia," Seraphine's voice, ragged. "Open your eyes. Please."
I hadn't realized they were closed.
I force them open.
The sky is a grey blur. Seraphine's face is a smear of white and gold over me, eyes wide and wild. There's dirt on her cheek, blood—not hers, I hope—spattered across her armor.
"Hi," I croak. It feels like my throat is full of glass.
Her breath catches.
"Idiot," she whispers, a tear streaking a clean line down the grime on her face. "You promised nothing, and you still—"
Her voice breaks.
Another pair of hands press against my chest, warm and glowing.
"Fia, breathe with me," Mira says, voice trembling but steady. "In—one, two, three. Out—"
I try.
It hurts.
"Oh Saints," she whispers. "She's…feeling it."
"This is bad," Lyriel's voice, tight and controlled. "Her entire system is lit up. It's as if—" she bites the words off. "The pain filter is gone."
"Can you fix it?" Elira demands. She's there too, somewhere at my side, her gauntlet crushing my hand like a lifeline. "Tell me you can fix it."
"Not here," Lyriel snaps. "I need a circle, equipment, time. If I try to modulate that much feedback in the open field, I'll fry her nerves."
"I'm right here," I gasp. Every word is an effort. "Stop…talking like…I'm not."
Seraphine laughs helplessly, half sob. "Sorry," she says. "We're…panicking."
"Good," I wheeze. "Means…you're alive."
Mira's magic pours into me, cool against the burn. It doesn't erase the pain, but it blunts its edge enough that I can think.
"Status," I whisper. "Battle?"
Elira barks a laugh. "You're dying and she asks for a report," she mutters.
"Not dying," Mira says fiercely. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
Lyriel takes a breath.
"Your little stunt," she says, voice clipped, "took out a good quarter of their engaged forces in one strike. The rest are in disarray. Our lines are stabilizing. The commanders are already moving to encircle and force a retreat."
"See?" I manage. "Worth it."
Seraphine flinches like I hit her again.
"Worth it?" she repeats, voice shaking. "Your veins are literally burning."
I want to tell her that's melodramatic.
I can't.
Because it does feel like that.
It feels like my blood has been replaced with acid. Like every beat of my heart is a hammerblow against cracked glass.
"I can't…do this again," I whisper.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
The world goes very still.
Mira's hands tremble against my chest.
Lyriel's breath catches.
Seraphine's grip on me tightens.
Elira's fingers crush mine even harder.
"What do you mean?" Seraphine asks, very quietly.
I swallow. It hurts.
"The pain," I say. "Filter's gone. System—" I cough, the motion sending a spike of agony through my lungs. Mira gasps, more healing light flaring. "System says…next time, it'll be worse. If there is a next time."
Lyriel closes her eyes for a second, then opens them, fury and fear blazing there.
"Of course," she hisses. "Of course the Fire Genre would do this. Can't have a clean sacrifice. It has to hurt."
"You knew," I rasp. "You all knew. Numbers. Risks. You weren't…keeping me from heroism. You were keeping me from this."
Seraphine bows her head over me.
"Yes," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "And you went anyway."
"I'm…sorry," I say.
Not for saving people. I can't be sorry for that.
For lying. For slipping through the wards. For forcing them to watch me burn.
Her shoulders shake.
"Don't say sorry," she whispers. "Just…don't leave."
I try to smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.
"Not…today," I say.
Mira digs deeper, sweat beading on her brow. "I can keep her stable," she says. "But we need to get her off the field. Now."
Elira shifts. "I'll carry—"
"No," the Emperor's voice, distant but approaching, booms across the ridge. "We move her by circle. I won't have her jostled through this."
Lyriel's relief is almost painful to hear. "The old cistern circle," she mutters. "Of course she used that to get here. I can piggyback on the residual link."
"Can you?" Seraphine asks.
Lyriel lifts her staff, eyes blazing.
"I am not losing her on a logistics problem," she says.
The world tilts again as she begins to draw a circle in the air over me, lines of blue light intersecting, creating a gate.
Mira's hands never leave my chest. Elira never lets go of my hand. Seraphine's forehead stays pressed to mine, her breath warm and shaking.
"Listen," I whisper, because I don't know if I'll get another chance this clear-headed.
They all quiet.
"If this…goes badly," I say, "if I come back and I'm…less. Slower. Weaker. If I can't just…wipe armies off the map without dying—"
"Fia, stop," Mira pleads.
"—you still have to go fight," I say. "You can't keep me in a box and…hope the world decides not to be ugly. Promise me. You'll still go. You'll still…live."
Tears spill down Mira's cheeks.
Elira's jaw clenches.
Lyriel's hand falters for a second, then continues her spell, lips tight.
Seraphine looks at me like she's trying to memorize my soul.
"No," she says.
I blink. "No?"
"No," she repeats. "I'm not promising that."
Anger flares, weak and small in the bonfire of pain.
"That's not fair," I whisper. "You don't get to stop living because I'm—"
"I'm not stopping," she says, fierce. "I'm changing tactics. If you can't be our walking calamity anymore, we adjust. We fight smarter. We build alliances. We train more. We lean on the parts of you that aren't world-destroying magic."
She lowers her head until our noses almost touch.
"You are not only useful if you can kill thousands," she says, every word a brand. "You are not only worthy if you can save us all by yourself. You are not…a resource. You are Fia."
My eyes blur.
"That's…stupid," I whisper. "And very you."
"Good," she says.
Elira's thumb strokes the back of my hand.
"I'm not promising either," she says roughly. "I'm not promising to leave you behind. I am promising to drag you back if you try this without us again."
Mira sniffles. "I promise…to always be at your side," she says. "Even if all you can do is sit in a chair and glower. I like your glower."
Lyriel exhales slowly.
"I promise," she says, "to rewrite whatever rules I must to stop this pain from killing you. And to slap you if you try to 'noble sacrifice' yourself again without a proper plan."
The circle above us snaps into place, a ring of blue-white light humming in the stormy air.
The Emperor's face appears at the edge of my fading vision, eyes tired but determined.
"Hold on, Lady Fiametta," he says. "We're bringing you home."
The world starts to dissolve around the edges.
The HUD flickers, text swimming.
BATTLE EVENT: EMBER PLAINS
Outcome: Kingdom Saved (Again)
Enemy Forces: ROUTED
Friendly Casualties: HIGH, but below catastrophic threshold
Personal Cost:
– Pain Filter: PERMANENTLY DISABLED
– Vessel Integrity: 27%
– Future Authority Use: EXTREME RISK
New Trait: Flame That Feels
You can no longer separate saving others from the pain it costs you.
The pain spikes one last time as the teleport takes hold.
I scream.
Then there's only light.
When I wake, I know three things immediately.
One: I'm in my bed in the palace, because the pillows are ridiculous.
Two: Someone is holding my left hand. Someone else is stroking my hair. Someone is chanting softly nearby. Someone is pacing.
Three: My body hurts.
Not as sharply as on the field. Not the all-consuming, every-nerve-on-fire agony. But the ache is everywhere now. In my chest, like a bruise wrapped around my heart. In my lungs, like a weight. In my limbs, like invisible shackles.
Terminally Ill just got upgraded from "background lore" to "constant companion."
I open my eyes.
All four of them are there.
Seraphine sitting on the bed, still in half-armor, shadows under her eyes. Elira in a chair at my side, armor stripped to the undershirt, hair a mess, clutching my hand like it's the only thing keeping her here. Mira kneeling, hands resting light on my chest, eyes closed as she murmurs over a soft glow. Lyriel at the foot of the bed, leaning heavily on her staff, stacks of notes and diagnostics floating in the air around her.
I croak something that might be "hi."
Instantly, they're all focused on me.
Mira's magic flares, checking vitals. Lyriel's hand flicks, notes reordering. Elira squeezes my hand so tight it almost hurts (but compared to everything else, it's nothing). Seraphine leans in, eyes searching my face.
"How bad?" I ask, because of course that's my first question.
Lyriel's answer is dry, brittle.
"On a scale from 'you stubbed your toe' to 'the universe is trying to delete you,' we are at about 'your body is a very angry bonfire,'" she says. "We managed to stabilize the worst of the internal damage. Mira kept your heart from tearing itself apart. But the…pain filter, as you call it, is gone. Your illness is…fully present, now."
"Can't turn it off," I murmur.
"No," she says softly. "Not without shutting you off too. And I am not in the habit of murdering my girlfriends."
Mira's eyes fill with tears again.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I couldn't— I tried to—"
I lift my free hand with effort and touch her cheek.
"Hey," I rasp. "You…got me back. That's…enough."
She presses my hand to her face, eyes squeezing shut.
Seraphine swallows.
"We won," she says quietly. "The enemy retreated in chaos. The Marshal says your…intervention saved the line. Again."
"Good," I say.
"Not good," Elira mutters. "Necessary. There's a difference."
I look between them.
"So now…" I start. "What? I'm grounded for real?"
Seraphine actually smiles, a shaky thing.
"Yes," she says. "Even your system will agree this time."
The HUD, traitorous, pops up a new message.
NEW STATUS: Fragile Flame – No Longer a Convenient Nuke
System Recommendation:
– Avoid large-scale Authority use unless absolutely necessary.
– Expect pain as constant.
– Lean on party.
I snort weakly.
"See?" I croak. "Even the tutorial says…'lean on your girlfriends.'"
Mira laughs through her tears.
Lyriel huffs softly. "For once, I agree with the interface," she says.
A quiet settles over us. Heavy, but not suffocating.
"You scared us," Elira says finally, voice low. "More than Dawnridge. There, you just…stopped. This time, you hurt."
Mira's fingers tighten on my blanket. "It felt…wrong," she whispers. "Like the world was punishing you for helping."
"It was," Lyriel says flatly. "FIRE genre. Pain as tax. But we can…work with that. Slowly. Carefully."
Seraphine leans her forehead against mine.
"No more sneaking out alone," she says.
"Okay," I whisper.
This time, I mean it.
I'm not afraid of the pain. Not exactly. I've lived with worse in my old world, in quieter ways. But I can't put them through that again if I can help it.
I also can't let 80,000 soldiers march on our capital if I can stop it.
So we compromise.
"We'll find another way," I say.
Lyriel's eyes sharpen. "We will," she says. "We'll redistribute some of your load. Find conduits. Artifacts. Allies. If the world insists on making you the fulcrum, we'll widen the lever."
Mira nods fervently. "And I'll…adjust my healing," she says. "Less numbing, more…sharing. So we can take some of it."
"That's not—" I start.
"To spread the burden," she insists. "Not to hurt ourselves. I promise."
Elira grins crookedly. "I'll just hit things harder so we need you less," she says. "Simple."
Seraphine smiles, eyes still damp.
"And I," she says, "will do what princesses do best."
"Look…pretty and wave?" I wheeze.
"Make laws," she says. "Build systems. Force old men in councils to accept that our survival doesn't get to rest on one dying girl's shoulders."
She kisses my forehead, very gently.
"You saved the kingdom again," she whispers. "Now let us save you."
The HUD dims, settling into a quiet background glow.
Outside the window, the sky is a soft, washed-out blue. Somewhere beyond it, the world's FIRE parameter hums, hotter than before.
Inside, for the first time, the heat isn't just burning me up from the inside.
It's shared.
It hurts.
It also feels…like I'm still here.
"Okay," I breathe, closing my eyes and letting their hands, their magic, their presence anchor me against the waves of pain.
"Let's…fight this one together."