One wrong step—mentally, emotionally, cosmically—and I’m

  falling. Not the kind of fall where you catch yourself on the way

  down.

  No.

  This is full-body, gut-first,

  memory-laced freefall. The kind that cracks you open in places you

  didn’t know were still bleeding.

  Ember.

  Even her name feels like dragging

  broken glass across a nerve. It's not sharp. Not clean. It’s messy.

  Sore. Constant. Like a scream too tired to leave my throat.

  But something shifts.

  Not the pain.

  That’s still here, wrapped around my

  ribs like barbed wire. No, this is different. New. It starts in my

  chest, buzzing like static before a lightning strike—faint but

  rising. A weight that hums under my skin. Too loud to be mine. Too

  familiar not to be.

  They call it a Scion

  inheritance. Sounds

  classy. Regal, even. Like it comes with a family crest and a

  bloodline that doesn’t implode on contact.

  But to me?

  It feels like the universe

  tossed me a grenade with the pin half-pulled and said, “Good

  luck, kid.”

  The air sizzles.

  Literally sizzles. Like someone dumped

  bacon grease on a frozen skillet. Heat rolls in waves, warping the

  space in front of me. The shimmer cuts through reality, bending it

  like a mirage—like the world’s about to hiccup.

  And then, with a sound like

  thunder snapping its fingers, it

  arrives.

  My rifle.

  Aether-tech. Military-grade. But it's different. Midnight

  black with glowing blue lines crawling through it like veins under

  skin. It hums low, alive, pissed off, and ready. Just like me.

  Finally. Took you long

  enough.

  But then things go sideways.

  Again.

  She steps out of the shimmer.

  Nightmare made gorgeous.

  Wildfire in human form. Her hair is autumn in full burn—red-gold

  flames streaked with something like molten copper. Her green

  eyes don’t sparkle. They

  don’t glow. They blaze—ancient, steady, and terrifyingly clear.

  Not just old soul

  vibes. No, we’re talking before-the-Earth-cooled

  kind of old.

  She’s an elf. Has to be.

  And she’s holding my sword.

  My Aether forged blade. Except... I’m not.

  She is.

  Not just holding it—gripping

  it like it’s a lifeline. Like letting go means something breaks.

  And the weird part? I’m not holding the hilt. I’m holding her

  hand.

  Warm skin. No metal. No cold steel

  bite. Just her palm, pressed to mine. Fingers locked. Tight. Too

  tight.

  Her knuckles are white. Her grip’s

  like iron. Mine’s not much better—like I’m clinging to the last

  rung on a cliff’s edge.

  None of this makes sense. Weapon

  summoning doesn’t work like this. Not in the manuals. Not in the

  prompts. Not in any

  of the chaotic system logs that pretend they’re helping me survive

  this fantasy fever dream.

  My thoughts spin. Tires on ice. No

  traction.

  Who the hell is she?

  What the hell is this?

  Is the universe messing with me again?

  Because if so, I’d really appreciate

  a punchline that doesn’t suck.

  But thinking is dangerous these days.

  Feels like stepping into traffic blindfolded. And my body—well,

  it’s done waiting on logic.

  Protect.

  That’s the word that hits me. No

  whisper. Just a shout—raw and primal. Like it’s burned into my

  bones.

  I raise the cannon.

  Still hot from the Scion

  flare-up, the grip bites into my hand. It thrums—not like a weapon,

  but like something alive.

  A warning? A question?

  The muzzle points straight at her

  chest.

  She doesn’t flinch.

  Just looks at me. Calm. Fierce. Like

  she’s done this before. Like she knows how it ends and isn’t

  scared of it. Her stare doesn’t ask for mercy. It demands honesty.

  My breath catches. My pulse stutters,

  then slams into overdrive.

  I don’t know what this is.

  I don’t know what

  the hell comes next.

  But I know one thing—

  If this is another test, another game,

  another cosmic joke?

  I’m not laughing.

  Not in the mood.

  The Broker’s a damn

  idiot.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He sees her—shiny, mysterious,

  glowing like a new loot drop—and charges in like a drunk boar. No

  plan. No caution. Just muscles and ego. Predictable.

  I drop her hand, slide my arm around

  her waist—she’s solid, tense, real—and spin us out of the way.

  My gun comes with me, smooth and ready, barrel swinging up mid-turn.

  I pull the trigger.

  Boom.

  The blast cracks out like thunder,

  violet light bursting from the muzzle. It hits him square in the

  chest. There’s a flash, a pop, and then he’s flying—arms

  flailing like a rag doll—before he crashes into the dirt hard

  enough to bruise his pride worse than his ribs.

  So much for “mastermind.”

  Before I even think about it, I grab

  her hand again. It’s instinct. Dumb, reckless instinct. But it

  feels... right. Like finding your footing after a fall. Like we’re

  suddenly in this together, whether we meant to be or not.

  She laughs—low, smoky, and just a

  little dangerous.

  “The chest, not the head?” she

  says, voice brushing past my ear like wind before a lightning strike.

  I glance at her, brain still

  buffering the fact she’s holding my

  sword while I’m

  holding her hand.

  “Why would I—”

  “Nine out of ten thousand times,”

  she cuts in, eyes lit with that eerie greenish-glow, “you shoot him

  in the chest. Which means, you’re the—”

  The Broker groans. Great. Not dead.

  I turn just in time to see him stumble

  back up, still smoldering, still coming. Unreal.

  He’s ten feet out when she

  moves—just a flick of her wrist—and the air snaps. A shimmering

  wall appears in front of us. It’s wrong, the way it bends the world

  around it. Like looking through oil on water. My gut twists. I’ve

  seen that kind of barrier before.

  He hits it at full speed.

  Wet smack.

  Down again. Wheezing. Dirt in his

  teeth.

  “Ten thousand?” I mutter,

  tightening my grip on her fingers. “Pretty bold for someone who

  just fell out of the sky. You hit your head during the summoning?”

  “My head’s fine,” she says, cool

  as calm water. “You’re holding my hand. That’s how I see

  it—what you’ve done. What you can do. What you won’t.”

  Her words land cold. I tense.

  Something in me locks up like a rusted gear.

  “…Is that so?” I shift my

  aim—slow, deliberate—tilting the muzzle toward her temple. Bare

  inches away.

  She doesn’t flinch.

  “Yes,” she says softly. A

  smile tugs at her lips—strange, calm, almost ancient. Not in a

  tired way. In a seen-this-before

  kind of way. “Still aggressive. But you never pull the trigger.”

  “Don’t test me, la—”

  Her laugh cuts me off. Not sharp. Not

  mocking. Almost… warm.

  Then she starts counting.

  “Five… four… three… two…”

  My pulse jumps.

  “…one.”

  Right on cue, the Broker staggers

  upright again—like some glitchy NPC too stubborn to stay down. I

  fire. Another blast tears through the air.

  She moves too. Same flick of her

  wrist. The barrier slams into place just as he charges. Crack.

  He bounces off and stays down this time.

  She turns to me, still smiling.

  “See?” she says, eyes locked on

  mine.

  And it’s not pride I see there. Not

  exactly. It’s deeper. Like she knows me. Like she’s remembering

  me from somewhere I haven’t been yet.

  And I hate

  how much that shakes me.

  The

  Broker drags himself upright, wheezing like a broken bellows. One

  hand’s clamped over his chest—scorched fabric, smoke curling up

  from where I hit him. He spits blood. Dark. Wrong.

  “Who

  the hell are you?” he growls, flicking a glance between me and the

  redhead.

  His

  swagger’s gone. What’s left is fear—creeping in at the corners,

  sour and sharp like meat turned too long in the sun.

  “Yeah…

  good question,” I mutter, still gripping her hand like that’s

  normal. It’s not. None of this is. Elf. Magic. The whole…

  whatever-this-is between us.

  She

  doesn’t blink. Just gives him a smile—not friendly, not fake.

  Just... certain. Like she knows something we don’t.

  “My

  name is Elara,” she says, her voice smooth, polished, almost

  metallic. “And I am a Merlin in—”

  The

  air shifts.

  Stillness

  hits like a slap.

  The

  Broker jerks back, pupils shrinking. His whole body stiffens like

  someone pulled a string tight.

  “Merlin?”

  he croaks. “No. That’s… that’s impossible. She

  vanished at the turn of the era.”

  And

  just like that, she changes. Her stare sharpens. Something ancient

  cracks through her calm, riding on the edge of memory and pain.

  “So,”

  she says, slow and cold. “It’s true. Blood Raiders. Still alive.”

  The

  words land heavy. Like static under the skin. Never heard them

  before, but they feel wrong. Like they’re supposed to stay buried.

  Like saying them out loud might wake something best left sleeping.

  “Blood

  Raiders?” I echo. My voice feels too small. Too human.

  Elara

  nods. Her voice is quieter now, but no softer. “When I was a child,

  they came. Took whole villages. Burned them. Turned people into

  shadows.” A pause. “I lived.”

  Her

  hand is still in mine. And suddenly, it feels like I’m not holding

  a hand—I’m holding a scar.

  “I…

  I’m sorry,” I manage. The words feel useless.

  She

  squeezes my hand. Once. Quick. Steady. “I know.”

  The

  Broker rallies, voice cracking on the shout. “MERLIN!” Like

  saying it louder will make her vanish.

  She

  doesn’t. She steps closer.

  I

  catch the scent of rain and old pages—like a library after a storm.

  Her breath brushes my ear. “He thinks I’m my mother.”

  “Oh,”

  I say, because my brain’s still spinning and that’s all I’ve

  got.

  She

  smirks. “Play along.”

  Before

  I can argue, she lets go. Cold rushes in to fill the space where her

  touch was. Then she presses the sword into my hand. The hilt hums,

  low and steady, like it’s remembering me. Or warning me.

  She

  steps away and lifts her hand. A staff unfurls from the air like

  smoke solidifying—dark wood with silver veins pulsing through it,

  like it’s breathing. Familiar. Ancient. Something from an old story

  I forgot I knew.

  “I

  will finish what I started,” she says, loud enough for the whole

  damn world to hear. “Even after all these years.”

  The

  ground trembles.

  “Wait—finish

  what?” I ask, raising a hand. “What does that mean?”

  She

  turns, grinning like I just asked where babies come from. Then

  whack—she

  jabs me in the ribs with the end of her staff.

  “OW—what

  the hell?” I bark, stumbling back.

  She

  laughs. Not mean. Just pleased with herself. “Doesn’t feel so

  good, does it, soldier boy?”

  I’m

  about to fire back something witty when the Broker lunges. Fast. Too

  fast.

  I

  don’t think—just move.

  Gun

  up. Finger tight.

  The

  shot cracks through the air, close enough to Elara’s head that I

  feel her hair stir. The blast hits the Broker full-on. Chest shot.

  Again. He flies back, slams into the stone, and doesn’t get up.

  I

  lower the gun, heart pounding.

  Elara

  doesn’t even blink. Just tilts her head, watching me like I’m

  some math problem she already solved.

  “See?”

  she says. Light voice. Heavy meaning. “You never shoot me. Always

  the chest. Never the head.”

  And

  damn it… she’s right.

  Again.