Isabella slipped into the narrow side corridor, her fingers brushing the knife hidden in her apron hem. The castle halls were too watched, too wired with Nick's people, but this one corner still held an old scar from another life, a mark only King Salt would ever notice.
She knelt beside the wooden crate and angled her wrist exactly the way he had taught her years ago.
One clean movement.
She flicked the blade.
Thud.
The knife struck wood, the first beat.
Ting.
It ricocheted off the metal torch sconce, a sharp ring carrying down the stone corridor.
Then it hit the mark.
A small patch of wall King Salt had cut during training.
Silence.
The third beat, the one that made no sound at all.
Isabella didn't need to listen for anything. She simply waited.
King Salt walked the length of his palace's northern terrace, a long open walkway lined with pale stone pillars and tiled murals that caught the morning light. His kingdom stood high above the cloudline, where cold winds swept through open walkways and carried the distant rush of waterfalls below. Every surface gleamed with the designs he crafted by hand. Smooth emerald tiles, patterns that curved and spiraled like frozen waves.
He carried a slate of new tiles, whistling quietly as he inspected the terrace wall. A hairline crack cut through the design near the edge, breaking the symmetry. He clicked his tongue, set the slate down, and selected a fresh tile. Fitting it into place was effortless. This was the part of ruling he preferred, the quiet work of shaping his home into something worthy of the wind and sky.
He pressed the blue tile gently to test the alignment, then brushed the excess dust away in a slow, steady motion. Nothing about this work rushed him. It grounded his thoughts, letting the rest of the world fade into a soft, distant whistle.
A small sound drifted through that whistle.
A distant thump. Harmless. Forgettable. He kept working.
Another sound followed, sharper this time, bright enough to carry across the wide stone halls of his kingdom. It tapped lightly at the edge of his senses, as if asking to be noticed.
He paused.
The third strike wasn't a sound at all. It was the sudden absence of one, a brief hollowing of the air.
Salt lifted his head.
Three beats.
Wood, metal, a swallowed echo.
He rose from the floor, leaving the unfinished mosaic behind. His steps were steady at first, then quicker, the shift in momentum sending a soft whistle through his teeth. The tune followed him down the hallway, curling along the walls as his focus sharpened.
Someone had used his signal.
Someone who knew exactly how to call him.
Isabella.
He didn't alert his guards or send word to his queen. He didn't need to. The message had been clear, urgent, and meant for him alone.
The courtyard shook when Arlenna hit the ground and rolled, dirt scraping her palms. She sprang up with a sharp breath, eyes locked on the man circling her with slow, deliberate steps. The Perceptive King wasn't breathing hard. He wasn't even sweating. His gaze moved over everything—the dust, the air, her footing, the angle of her stance. As if the battlefield were a puzzle only he could see.
Arlenna lunged. Fast. A clean strike.
He was already gone.
He had stepped aside before her blade even reached him, sliding past with almost lazy precision. His movements weren't fast, only early. Far too early.
He could feel her coming.
Arlenna pivoted and slashed again. The Perceptive King ducked beneath it. Sound traveled through the cracks in the floor and told him everything. Her weight, her next step, the tension in her shoulders.
"Your form is excellent," he said calmly. "But you breathe too loud."
Arlenna gritted her teeth and advanced, trying to break his rhythm.
This time, he didn't bother dodging. He moved backward instead. He shifted left, then right, always in the exact direction she wasn't aiming. She swung again, but her blade cut only air.
He was predicting her.
Not through foresight. Through sensation.
Every shift of her muscle, every exhale, he mapped it all in real time.
Arlenna adjusted her footing and lunged low.
"Better," he murmured, stepping precisely where she swung, "but not enough."
He guided her past him with a light hand on her shoulder, not shoving her, just nudging. Enough to force her slightly off balance. In that moment, she realized he wasn't trying to defeat her outright.
He was setting a trap.
His eyes flicked toward a broken pillar where a jagged slab leaned at an angle, its shadow ready to catch anyone stumbling toward it. He intended to funnel her straight into it.
Arlenna's heartbeat stuttered, then steadied.
Not happening.
She feinted left, then dropped into a sliding sweep that caught him off guard. His eyes widened a fraction. She had shifted tempo so violently the environment hadn't predicted it yet.
He hopped over her leg, graceful and quiet, but she had gained space.
She rose, rolling her shoulders, blade steady in her grip.
"All right," she muttered. "Think you can read everything? Read this."
She rushed him again.
This time with no rhythm at all.
Random strikes. Broken breathing. Unpredictable angles. A dance with no pattern. Her blade moved like chaos—sharp, uneven, utterly irregular.
The Perceptive King faltered.
Just a step.
But was it enough?
Thiago slammed into the Fearsome King like a battering ram. His axe locked against the man's forearm, sparks scattering. The Fearsome King didn't move. Didn't even blink. His eyes were cold and still, as if he had already witnessed Thiago fail.
The aura hit a moment later.
A weight. A warning. A voice in Thiago's skull that wasn't made of words, only instinct.
Run.
You're going to lose.
You're going to die.
Thiago's stomach clenched. His muscles locked before he could stop them. His hands trembled for a single breath.
Then he growled.
"I don't think like that."
The Fearsome King tilted his head, unimpressed. His presence expanded, heavy and suffocating. The aura pulsed like a heartbeat, whispering failure straight into Thiago's bones.
Thiago shifted back and swapped weapons in one smooth motion, axe to short blades. He darted forward, slicing in tight, precise arcs.
The Fearsome King blocked everything with bare hands. His movements were minimal, efficient, and his expression never changed. He used every flicker of Thiago's hesitation to slip closer, step by step.
Thiago bared his teeth.
"You don't get to tell my body what to do."
He dropped the blades and hooked a spear with his foot, flipping it up into his hands mid-swing. He jabbed repeatedly, pouring all his weight into each thrust, turning momentum into brute pressure. The Fearsome King stepped through every strike.
The aura pressed harder.
Thiago's heartbeat stumbled.
His breath hitched.
Don't fight.
Don't fight.
Don't fight.
He roared through the suffocating wave and switched again, spear to fists. His punch cracked like thunder.
The Fearsome King caught it with one hand.
Thiago felt his bones strain, felt the fear rising cold and tight.
But he pushed anyway.
"I'm not scared of you!" he shouted, even though his body disagreed.
The Fearsome King leaned in, voice low.
"That is what makes you dangerous."
He shoved Thiago back just as, across the courtyard, Arlenna broke the Perceptive King's perfect prediction with a chaotic strike.
The battle shifted.
Balance tipped.
The Pinnacle Crew might still lose.
But the Kings had just realized something important.
They weren't fighting ordinary intruders.
They were fighting people who refused to break.
King Wonek stopped moving.
The realization hit him slowly, sinking through layers of disbelief. His gaze swept over the chaos—Arlenna pushing the Perceptive King back step by step, Thiago roaring through the Fearsome King's aura—and something in his expression cracked open.
His voice came out low, thick with anger, regret, and something like betrayal.
"It shouldn't have been this way."
He said it under his breath, barely louder than a sigh. No one heard him, but Nick was watching, eyes narrowing, not in fear but in calculation.
Wonek took a slow step toward him.
Then something went wrong.
Something was shifting.
Solace's fingers twitched against the dirt. Warmth pulsed under her skin, slow at first, then spreading through her chest like a quiet spark coming awake. The pain in her ribs faded. The ache in her jaw thinned, then disappeared entirely. Cuts knitted closed without a sound. Her breathing steadied.
She shouldn't have been able to move.
Her body had been wrecked.
But suddenly it wasn't.
Solace pushed her palm against the stone and rose carefully, confusion flickering in her eyes. Her muscles felt whole. Her bones no longer screamed. Her vision blurred, then sharpened again.
She stood.
Arlenna's voice broke out in a whisper. "No way..."
Thiago blinked hard. "She was out cold. She wasn't supposed to get up."
Even Nick's expression faltered, genuine confusion slicing through his mask.
Solace didn't understand it either.
She only knew one thing.
She wasn't done.
Not yet.
Wonek heard her movement and turned, too late.
Solace stepped forward and drove her fist into his jaw with everything she had. A full-power punch. Pure instinct. Pure fury.
Her knuckles sank into Wonek's jaw, snapping his head sideways. The impact echoed through the courtyard with a sharp crack that brought every fight to a halt.
Wonek flew backward.
He hit the ground hard enough that the stone dipped beneath him, his face slamming into the dirt almost exactly as he had slammed hers.
For a single heartbeat, no one breathed.
Solace shook out her hand, expecting pain, but none came. Her eyes narrowed, steady yet confused. Her body, unbroken in a way that made no sense.
She exhaled once.
"Okay," she said, her voice low and cold, "let's try this again."
Wonek groaned, dazed and blindsided. The Perceptive King froze mid-step. The Fearsome King's aura flickered. Thiago let out a quiet, stunned laugh. Arlenna was already sprinting toward Solace.
Solace lifted her chin.
No more talking.
No more pleading.
No more waiting for Wonek to understand.
She hadn't risen to reason. She had risen to fight.