F’N Calloway
The thought flickers and smolders, an ember
refusing to die—before I shove it into the ash heap. Priorities.
I steady my breath, forcing my voice into
something measured, something Elara can grasp without drowning in the horror of
it all. Words coil in my throat, edged with the raw sting of battle.
“Elara,” I start, low and reverent, “the
Broker—that snake draped in velvet—he’s more than just a merchant of dark
bargains. He’s Soul-Bound. Like my father.” The words burn on my tongue. “His
essence is steeped in the dark arts, a conduit for the blood-soaked legions of
the Raiders.”
The images slam into me. A cavernous lair, thick
with the stink of blood and brimstone. Shadows slithering over jagged weapons,
their edges glinting in the sickly glow of the portals. The air itself
poisoned, thick with whispered oaths of conquest.
“In a hidden grotto, he kept an army—a horde of
nightmares made flesh.” My voice drops, the weight of it pressing against my
ribs. “Blood trolls, ogres, kobolds… things that shouldn’t exist. They moved
like a plague, their breath a festering rot in the air. And at the heart of it
all—his portal. A wound in the world. He funneled them through, slipping his
monsters into your lands like a sickness waiting to bloom.”
Elara stands there, the illuminous light around
us turning her sharp features into shifting shadows. She doesn’t speak. But I
see it—the calculation behind those semerald eyes. She’s already placing the
pieces, already imagining the battlefield.
“He thought himself untouchable,” I murmur.
“Hidden. Safe. A puppeteer in the dark.”
A voice—thick, resonant, and unbearably
smug—shatters the tension.
“Correction, mi’lady.”
Mr. Spuds, ever the scholar, adjusts his monocle
with a tuberous little hand. “He had a portal. I am afraid its dimensional
integrity was… compromised. During Reginald’s demolition run.”
I blink. A flash of fur, a mad gleam in the
squirrel’s eyes, tiny paws wielding explosives with entirely too much
enthusiasm.
Reginald.
A slow, grim smile tugs at my lips.
“Well.” I turn back to Elara. “That’s one problem
solved.” A beat of silence, then I exhale, the weight of reality settling in
once more. “But the army remains. And it won’t stay hidden for long.”
Elara’s breath catches—a soft gasp slipping past
her lips. Her pupils shrink, like the weight of realization is pressing down on
her ribs, making it harder to breathe.
“It can’t be…” she whispers, voice thin, frayed
at the edges.
I arch a brow, crossing my arms over my chest.
“What? Don’t believe me ‘cause I’m rocking the horns-and-tail aesthetic?” I
flick the tip of my tail for emphasis, letting it curl lazily in the air.
Mr. Spuds, ever the dutiful potato knight, leans
forward, his voice a soft, tuberous inquiry. “Mi’lady?”
Elara doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifts
inward, lost in something old, something heavy. A memory I can’t see.
“No… that’s not it.” A breath—shaky, like she’s
trying to steady herself. “I was a child when the Blood Raiders first invaded.
My mother—the previous Merlin—she took care of them. She…” Elara swallows hard,
her voice dropping to something raw. “She killed them. Every. Single. One.
There shouldn’t be any left. They be here.”
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “Thought you said
killing ‘us’ was a major no-no. Like, super taboo?”
Elara’s eyes snap to mine, brows furrowing—then
something clicks. The shift is almost comical, like someone just flipped a
switch in her head.
“Of course,” she breathes, the phrase ancient and
out of place coming from her. “Of course. She got rid of the .
But not the … or the .”
Mr. Spuds straightens, ever the eager scholar.
“The… what, precisely?”
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Elara exhales and drags a hand through her hair,
slow and deliberate. She looks… . Too tired for someone so young.
“You, my good knight,” she says, tone laced with
patient exasperation, “are a . When you die, you return
here—waiting in your master’s inner sanctum until summoned.” She gestures
vaguely at me. “Meanwhile, Ember, our resident demon princess, is .
Because of her… paternal situation, she ends up here too. Only difference? She
has to wait for the counter to trickle down before—poof—respawn.”
I blink.
I blink again.
“…Trickle down what now?” The phrase feels absurd
given our current situation. “Like, an actual timer?
Does it go when I’m good to go? And what’s the deal with this
Touched business?”
Because, honestly? This is a lot of lore to dump
on a girl who just got wrecked.
Elara bursts into laughter—a bright, musical
sound that ripples through the clearing. But beneath the amusement, there’s
something else. Something sharper. Curiosity wrapped in mischief.
“First of all,” she teases, eyes glinting, “what,
, is your father’s name?”
I roll my eyes and sigh dramatically. “Grant
Grayson of Calloway,” I announce, rattling it off like a grocery
list. “About thirty, six-foot-six, one-seventy. Claims he’s a Libra—whatever
the hells that means. Enjoys slow walks on beaches and, apparently, Sex on
the Beach.”
Mr. Spuds lets out a heavy, judgmental rumble,
tilting forward just enough to look like a disapproving tutor. “Mi’lady… such
vulgar language… it is, shall we say, .”
Elara’s laughter rings out again, rich and
unrestrained. It fills the space around us, but there’s something calculating
in her gaze now. “That’s quite the detailed account,” she muses, locking onto
me. “Almost like you’ve spent your life with him.”
The words send a jolt through me. My grin
falters. My breath hitches.
I spent my entire life with Grant.
I only just became his daughter. So how—how do I all this?
A shiver curls down my spine, cold and unwelcome.
Elara watches me carefully, her expression
shifting from playful to knowing. “Tell me, Princess of Calloway, have you seen
anything… unusual recently? Maybe… floating text? Boxes of information?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah,” I admit. “How did
you—”
She lifts a hand, cutting me off with a smirk.
“Focus. Think the words .”
I narrow my eyes but obey, honing in on the
phrase.
A flicker of light. A whisper of motion. And
then—
A silvery hourglass materializes in my mind,
grains of sand slipping downward in a slow, steady stream.
“” I yelp, the number blazing
in my mind.
Elara’s ears twitch—a small, precise movement,
but somehow, it says . “Five… not one?” She exhales, shaking
her head. “I see. Then you’ve engaged in PvP.”
Her tone darkens, heavy as a storm rolling in.
“That, I’m afraid… is .”
“” I groan, throwing up my hands.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Mr. Spuds, ever the picture of disapproving
refinement—despite being, you know, —lets out a slow,
gravelly rumble. “Mi’lady… language.”
I roll my eyes, sighing dramatically. “Oh,
please. It’s not like I to get dragged into some PvP nonsense! We
were attacked! What were we supposed to do? Stand there and get turned into
demon jerky?”
Elara chuckles again—that same lilting, melodic
laugh that’s starting to itch under my skin. It’s too amused, too knowing, like
she’s two steps ahead and enjoying watching me stumble to catch up.
“I fear you misunderstand, mi’lady,” she says,
tilting her head just so. “PvP is for the Dragon-Touched.”
I blink. “Okay? And that’s relevant …?”
She exhales, slow and measured, like she’s
deciding how much truth to drop on me all at once. “Because you are
of dragon descent. The world believes your father to be Arthur, yet you have
set my doubts at ease.” Her gaze sharpens, pinning me in place. “Your father is
The true lord of Castle Camelot. The rightful monarch of this
island.”
My breath catches.
My skin prickles, like the air pressure just
shifted.
Wait.
My dad is
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Brain? Fried.
Thoughts? Gone. Just static and the distant sound of my worldview shattering
into tiny, irreparable pieces.
Mr. Spuds, to his credit, steps into the silence.
“Do you mean…” he starts, voice slow with dawning realization.
Elara nods, turning to the potato—who, let’s be
real, is handling this better than I am. “Yes. You, my good sir, are
no mere knight. You are tethered to the Paladin Order of Grantdale—its
founders, the Sages of Chronos and Alchemy, the masters of the Enchanted
Guardians.”
Mr. Spuds’s… face? His ?—contorts
into pure, unfiltered shock. “” he exclaims, because apparently,
we’re doing now. “I… I had no idea!”
Meanwhile, I’m still standing here. Brain
buffering.
My dad is a
Spuds is some kind of ancient knight.
And me?
Shit.
I’m not just some demon kid.
I’m a
This is some next-level, wild-ass
action.