The air in the King's private quarters was thin, choked by the scent of expensive incense and the frantic, shallow breathing of the Royal Council.
King Ashveil sat behind a desk of carved obsidian, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrests. The silence that followed the slamming of the telephone receiver was broken only by the frantic whispers of his advisors.
"What!" one advisor stammered, his spectacles sliding down his nose. "The Gem of SFERA? That place is stated to be dangerous even for those who possess the highest levels of Fantasia! What could the Ghost possibly want with a relic from the the legends?"
"They want to cripple us," another advisor hissed, pacing the length of the silk rug. "They take the Princess, they demand an impossible relic, and they leave our strongest asset hanging like meat in a marketplace. It's a psychological siege."
Ashveil ignored them, his eyes fixed on the map of the continent spread across the desk. "Well? Did the other kings answer our calls?"
The room went cold. The advisors exchanged looks of pure dread.
"Well, my lord..." one began, tugging at his collar.
"Well what?" Ashveil roared, the force of his voice rattling the crystal decanters on the side table. "Speak!"
"King Darien... he is unavailable, sire. His palace has been successfully confiscated by one of the Ghost members. The reports say the entire Royal Guard was neutralized before they could even draw their blades."
Ashveil felt a jolt of genuine shock. He sank back into his chair, his mind racing. Darien? Of all people? Darien was a man who slept behind four layers of Arcanum-shielded steel and a private army. For a single Ghost member to take his throne room meant the power scaling of this conflict had shifted beyond their control.
"And what about King Khazul?" another advisor asked, his voice trembling.
Silence reclaimed the room. It was a heavy, suffocating minute where the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock.
"He hasn't answered," the head advisor whispered. "The communication lines to his territory didn't just go down—they were severed."
Ashveil stood up slowly. He was a tall man, and in the dim light of the quarters, he looked like a statue of a god beginning to crack.
"Where are the Black Pursuers?" Ashveil asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"Most have been sent out to track the Ghost's signature across the islands, sire. We are trying to find their base of operations before the trade window closes. But..." The advisor paused. "One stayed back."
Ashveil turned, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood. "And who stayed back?"
"Natasha Greyman."
The name seemed to carry its own weight. At the mention of it, the shadows in the corner of the room seemed to deepen.
"Bring her in," Ashveil commanded. "If the Ghost wants to play with monsters, I will give them the one we've been keeping on a leash."
LOCATION: PRIVATE QUARTERS
She stood in the silence of her private quarters, the morning light catching the dust motes dancing in the air. Her hand was pressed against a small, framed photograph mounted on the wall. In the image, two girls were laughing—a younger Nana, her white dress pristine, and a teenage Natasha, looking considerably less composed. It was a relic of a time before "Princess" and "Captain" were the only labels that mattered.
"Madam Natasha."
The voice of a page boy cracked through the doorway. "You have been called by the King. Immediately."
Natasha didn't turn right away. She traced the edge of the frame one last time, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I am on my way," she said, her voice light, almost melodic.
A minute later, the massive obsidian doors of the King's quarters groaned open.
The advisors, mid-argument and red-faced, turned toward the entrance. They expected a storm. They expected the clank of heavy plate and the scent of iron.
Instead, they got Natasha.
She stepped through the threshold with a cheerful wave, her eyes bright—until her boot caught the edge of the raised marble seal. With a startled "Oh!", she pitched forward, her arms flailing before she hit the floor with a dull thud right in front of the King's desk.
The room went deathly silent. Ashveil stared down at her, his jaw twitching. The advisors blinked, their terror momentarily replaced by utter confusion.
Natasha scrambled to her feet, smoothing out her Black Pursuer uniform and brushing dust off her knees. She looked up at the King, her smile still intact, though she looked a little sheepish.
"The floor is quite polished today, majesty," she remarked, as if she hadn't just tumbled into the most serious council meeting in a decade. "Very impressive."
"Natasha," Ashveil said, his voice a low rumble of warning.
"I know, I know," she said, her tone instantly shifting. The clumsiness remained in her posture, but her eyes—sharp, focused, and suddenly very cold—settled on the map of the continent. "The Ghost has Nana. Vaelcrest is... well, he's a decoration now. And Darien's palace has a new tenant."
She stepped closer to the desk, her movements suddenly fluid and precise, despite her entrance. "You didn't call me here to talk about the floor. You want to know if I'll go look for that Gem."
She looked at the empty chair where Nana usually sat during briefings. The playfulness didn't disappear, but it took on a jagged, dangerous edge.
"I'll bring you your stone, majesty," she said softly. "But mostly, I'm going to bring my sister home. And I'm going to break the hands of whoever dared to touchher."