They were wearing mad dresses— not uniforms. Not armor. Dresses. Battle dresses. Leather and steel and cloth, the garments of women who fight in clothes that were not designed for fighting. Each one held a sword. The blades were different— long, short, curved, straight. Each blade was sharp. Each blade was ready.
They blinked.
The adjustment of eyes that have just passed through a rift. The disorientation of a body that has been teleported. The brief, momentary confusion. Then— clarity. They looked around. At the room. At the blood. At the bodies. At the dragon woman. At Vess. At the Crown Prince.
Their faces were calm. Determined. The faces of women who have been trained. Who have been prepared. Who know what they are here to do.
The Crown Prince stared.
His body was shaking. His hands were white— gripping the cracked wall, the fingers digging into the plaster. His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. He could not speak. He could not move. He could only watch.
The knights holding Goliath— the two who had been pinning him— released him. Not by choice. By necessity. Their hands went to their swords. The blades rang. They trembled. Not from cold. From pressure.
The pressure.
It was coming from the women. From the six women and the dragon woman and Vess. The sheer, physical, tangible pressure of eight armed bodies in a room. The pressure of trained fighters. Of women who had killed. Of women who would kill again.
The knights’ swords shook.
The tips vibrated. The blades trembled. The hands that held them were white. The arms were rigid. The bodies were tense. The pressure was— it was not magic. It was not mana. It was presence. The presence of warriors. Of women who had been forged in combat and who radiated the kind of aura that made lesser fighters freeze.
One of the women spoke.
Her voice was clear. Bright. The voice of a young woman. A girl, almost. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were bright. Her dress was red— leather, steel studs, the skirt short, the thighs bare. Her sword was curved. A sabre. She held it loosely. Comfortably. The way one holds a pen.
"To prove to our master," she said. Her voice was steady. Unafraid. The voice of a woman who is announcing a mission. "And our lord—"
She paused. She looked at the dragon woman. At the scaled face. At the yellow eyes. At the claws.
"But how well we have been trained," she continued, "by this old hag."
The dragon woman’s mouth twitched.
The scaled lips. The corner. The twitch of a woman who has just been called "old hag" and who is not pleased. Her yellow eyes went to the red-dressed girl. The slitted pupils narrowed.
"Kill them," the dragon woman said. Her voice was deep. The voice of a dragon wearing a human shape. "Instantly."
They rushed.
The six women. Toward the Crown Prince. Toward the knights. Toward Goliath. The swords were raised. The blades were ready. The feet were moving— fast, coordinated, the formation tight, the pattern clear.
"We are reeling for our first mission!" one of them shouted. Her voice was high. Excited. The voice of a woman who has been training for this and who is finally doing it. "FIRST MISSION!!"
The knights raised their swords.
The steel met the steel. The sound rang— CLANG CLANG CLANG— the sound of blades on blades. The knights fought. Desperately. With the trained, instinctive combat of men who are fighting for their lives.
But the women were faster.
The woman in red— the sabre— ducked under a knight’s guard. Her blade went up. Between the plates. Into the armpit. Into the flesh. The knight screamed. His sword fell. His body fell.
Another woman— blonde, tall, her sword long and straight— parried a thrust. She redirected. She countered. Her blade went through the knight’s visor. Through the face. Through the skull. The knight’s body stood for a moment— the sword through his head— then fell.
The Crown Prince watched.
His knights— his guards— his soldiers— dying. One by one. In his own chamber. In his own palace. At the hands of women who had come through a rift in the air.
He scrambled.
On his hands and knees. Against the wall. His hand found his sword— the jeweled hilt, the blade that he had checked this morning. He grabbed it. He pulled it close. His hand shook.
He looked up.
Vess was there.
In front of him. Her red hair falling around her face. Her green eyes on his. Her sword— the blade that had taken his cock head— at her side. The point on the floor. The edge gleaming.
She smiled.
The smile was not warm. Not kind. The smile of a woman who has waited ten years for this moment. Who has trained. Who has bled. Who has been broken and rebuilt and broken again and who has come back.
"Hello," she said. Her voice was quiet. Steady. The voice of a woman who has nothing left to fear. "Remember me?"
----
"WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!"
The shout tore through the eastern corridor of the Crown Palace like a blade through silk. The voice belonged to Sir Aldric— a royal knight, seventeen years in service, a man who had fought border skirmishes and suppressed rebellions and who had never, not once, raised his voice in panic.
He was panicking now.
His boots hammered the marble. His armor clanked— the rhythmic, desperate sound of a man running for his life. His sword was drawn. His shield was up. His eyes were wide. His face was white.
"UNDER ATTACK! THE CROWN PRINCE’S CHAMBER! TO THE CROWN PRINCE!"
Behind him— the sound. Not the sound of boots. Not the sound of armor. The sound of screaming. The sound of steel on steel. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. The sound of— dying.
Sir Aldric did not look back.
He ran. Through the corridor. Past the tapestries— the golden thread, the royal sigil, the embroidered history of a kingdom that was a thousand years old. Past the sconces— the candles guttering, the flames dancing, the light flickering with each impact that shook the walls. Past the statues— the marble kings, the stone queens, the cold, blind eyes of dead royalty watching a living kingdom die.
Guards ran toward him.
From the side corridors. From the barracks. From the watchtowers. Men in armor. Men with swords. Men with shields. They came— ten, twenty, thirty— converging on the Crown Prince’s chamber like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
They were being killed.
One after another. Not all at once. Not in a pile. One by one. As they rounded the corner. As they entered the corridor. As they charged. One by one, they fell.
The first— Sir Aldric saw him. Sir Brennen. A good knight. A father of three. He rounded the corner, sword raised, shield up, the battle cry on his lips—
The curved blade took his throat.
The red line appeared. Across the neck. Across the artery. The blood came— not a trickle. A spray. A fountain. Red, bright, arterial. It hit the ceiling. It hit the walls. It hit the marble floor. Sir Brennen’s body continued forward— two steps, three— the momentum carrying him past the woman who had killed him. His sword was still raised.
His shield was still up. His mouth was still open. But his eyes were empty. His body hit the floor. The sword clattered. The shield bounced. The blood pooled.
The woman stepped over him.