Mason walked arm in arm with Lucy toward the fortress gates. His pulse refused to settle, and he couldn't tell whether the nerves ca from the mission itself, or from the stunning woman clinging to his side.
This woman is really Luke?
Even after being warned, he still had to ask, just to hear it confird.
"Lu-Lucy?" Mason ventured.
"Yes, darling, I'm Lucy. Did you forget my na?" she replied with a radiant smile.
His heart lurched. Mason swallowed hard and jerked his gaze away. It's a man. Calm down. She's a man.
The fortress gates lood. Two guards raised their hands, signaling them to stop. Mason's stomach tightened. These weren't ordinary sentries, they were barrier mages. Elite. They worked in pairs, one fueling the shield while the other recovered mana, swapping seamlessly every few hours. A flawless cycle. There was only one true way inside. Scale the walls, and the watchtowers would spot you instantly. Which ant this barrier was the true test.
"Good evening, Mason, and…" One of the guards turned to her.
"Lucy," she answered smoothly.
The man's gaze slid down her figure, pausing at the slit of her dress, where pale skin glead under torchlight. The gown was designed to provoke.
"She's my girlfriend," Mason said quickly, his voice sharp. "The one I invited."
One guard pulled a stack of parchnt from his satchel, flipping through sketches of criminals, fugitives, Renegade faces. Their eyes darted between Lucy and the wanted portraits.
"My sweet Mason has told so much about this place," Lucy said, fluttering her fan with delicate grace.
Sweet Mason?
She waved herself again. "It's a little warm out here… or is it just ?" Her fingers toyed with the neckline of her dress.
One guard glanced down, caught himself under Mason's glare, and looked away with a cough.
"It is pretty warm," he muttered, earning an elbow from his partner.
"You know the rules, Mason, but I'll repeat them anyway. First: only one person can enter at a ti."
"It's because of the barrier, darling," Mason explained quickly. "It detects the exact number of people crossing. Stops anyone from sneaking in with a stealth skill."
"Oh, how fascinating," Lucy cooed. "But honestly, who would be crazy enough to invade this place? Especially with two n as strong and muscular as you standing guard."
One of the mages straightened unconsciously at the complint, squaring his shoulders.
"As this is a special event, you must follow the carpeted path only. Do not stray. If you lose your way, there are guards posted throughout the fortress. Ask for assistance."
At last, the barrier parted. The guards stepped aside.
"Ladies first," Mason offered stiffly.
"Thank you, darling. You're such a gentleman," Lucy replied sweetly, gliding past him as though she had been born to play this role.
Mason watched as Lucy stepped lightly through the shimring barrier. The mages' gazes followed her, tracking every movent like hawks.
"One person only," one guard murmured.
"Confird," the other replied.
Mason's jaw tightened. That was the truth of it—if Evangeline had tried her shadow tricks here, she would have been exposed instantly. No slipping past this ward, no clever escape. No entry into Bastion. Without this path, the mission would have died at the gates.
When Lucy cleared the barrier, the guards finally gestured for Mason to proceed. He stepped forward, pulse hamring in his ears. On the other side, she waited. The gown clung to her fra, revealing the elegant line of her shoulders and the pale curve of her back. Mason's eyes betrayed him for a second—flicking down, then jerking away as his head shook violently.
It's a man. It's a man. It's a man!
Lucy turned gracefully to face him, her fan poised, her smile perfectly sweet.
"Darling, this place is incredible," she said softly, her tone carrying just enough warmth to sting.
"Y-yeah…" Mason stamred, at a loss for what to say, his voice cracking under the weight of absurdity.
She drifted closer, stopping just at his side. "Shall we?"
His hand twitched. Should he take her arm again? Hold her hand? What was he supposed to do? The simple act felt like defusing a trap. Awkwardly, he started to slide his arm around her back.
Lucy's eyes snapped cold, her voice dropping to a blade-thin whisper. "If you put your hand on my waist or back, I'll cut your fingers off."
"R-right. Got it," Mason muttered, recoiling instantly, his face stiff with horror.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The fan snapped open again, hiding the faintest curve of her smirk.
***
Luke had crossed the outer walls and now stepped into the main hall of Bastion's fortress. More guards lined the doorway, eyes following him with clinical precision. His whole body was tense.
Damn it, I'm burning up.
He fanned himself with the ornate accessory Evangeline had pressed into his hand, tugging at the dress in irritation.
"D-don't adjust the neckline like that, darling… it's, uh, a little distracting," Mason whispered urgently.
"This damn dress is crushing my chest," Lucy muttered back, sharp and low.
For so reason, Mason swallowed hard.
Luke still couldn't fathom how won moved so naturally with breasts. To him, the body felt like it was perpetually tipping forward, an imbalance that grated at every step.
He forced his thoughts back to the plan, replaying each step. Getting here had already been an ordeal. He and Allison had ducked into an inn Jack rented in advance, changing clothes in secrecy. Luke had brewed a crude perfu and shampoo to mask his scent, while Jack, traitor that he was, had procured makeup. Lipstick. Luke had sworn vengeance for that particular humiliation. And then ca the walk. Heels, every step from the inn to Bastion.
'Luke, believe , you look gorgeous.' Artemis teased in his mind.
I can't believe I'm risking my life in a damned dress.
'So what?'
Everything! If I die like this, I'll revert to my real body, a man in a dress. I refuse to die that way. If it has to happen, I'd rather fall in so epic battle. Not like this.
'Relax. You're not so Viking who needs to die with a blade to reach Valhalla. Though if it were real… imagine striding into their hall in that gown.' Artemis's tone dripped smug satisfaction.
Luke clenched his jaw, rage simring hotter than nerves. Part of him wanted to gouge out the eyes of every man who had dared to stare at his body on the way here.
He and Mason stood waiting in the corridor, a long red carpet stretching deeper into the fortress. At every branching hall stood a guard, statuesque, unblinking. They waited for Allison.
She was still at the entrance, speaking with Oswald, Bartholow's chief administrator, who lingered to confirm her identity. Her sudden arrival had stirred quiet chaos. She had been invited countless tis before, even promised a permanent place within Bastion. Yet she had always refused. Until tonight.
"My apologies for the delay, Lady Rhiannon," Oswald said at last, leaning in as a subordinate whispered in his ear. "You may enter."
And then she was with them. Luke's throat tightened. She was dazzling. While his own gown was cut to provoke, designed to make heads turn, hers was understated, elegant, subtle. And sohow, that restraint only heightened her beauty.
He looked away quickly. Seeing Allison like this was unsettling. He was used to her armor, her plain practicality, her bluntness. But seeing her deliberately feminine, poised, radiant, it stirred sothing he refused to na.
What the hell kind of situation is this? She's glowing like a goddess, and I'm standing beside her in a damned dress.
There was no universe where he could even think of complinting her. The three of them moved forward along the carpeted path. Unlike their battered stronghold, scarred by collapsed walls, dried blood, webs, mold, and rubble, Bastion's fortress glead.
The corridors were immaculate. Paintings lined the walls, busts stood proudly on polished pedestals, candelabras spilled warm light, and potted plants perfud the air with subtle sweetness. Every inch was wealth, order, power. At last, they reached the grand hall. Once a refectory, it now shone as a banquet chamber, transford for spectacle. Two guards stood at either side of the open doors.
"Please, go in. Enjoy your evening," one said with a bow.
The three of them entered in silence. Music drifted through the air, soft strings, a gentle flute, the hum of voices, the clink of silverware. But the mont they crossed the threshold of the banquet hall, all of it froze. The music died. Conversations cut off. A hundred heads turned at once. Luke's stomach twisted, his nerves spiking sharp and suffocating. Then a figure slipped past them, stepping forward with theatrical grace.
"Ladies and gentlen, may I present Lady Rhiannon, who has honored us with her presence tonight," Oswald announced.
Applause shattered the stillness. Music swelled again, louder this ti, as if to mask the rising chatter. Guests surged forward, drawn like moths to a fla.
"Lady Rhiannon, I've long admired your family," one man said, bowing.
"I've worshiped your goddess since childhood," another declared.
"It's an honor to finally et you," added soone else.
More and more pressed close, eager for a mont of her gaze, a word, a smile. Allison glided forward through them, every step asured, every nod and smile perfectly noble. And then, as if the crowd itself parted by design, he appeared. Bartholow.
Allison's smile stilled into composure. "Bartholow."
"Lady Rhiannon," he said warmly, inclining his head with courtly charm. "It is an honor to welco you to my fortress, especially tonight."
Luke froze. There he was. The man he wanted dead more than anyone else. The one who had deceived them all, who had chained this world's people, who had orchestrated Angelica's death.
The man stood close enough to kill with a single strike. Luke's fingers twitched with phantom weight. Just one clean slash across the throat, a single decisive blow with his kukri, and it would all be over. Too easy. He forced himself to breathe, Evangeline's warnings crashing back into his mind. Bartholow wore his crown. Even before a blade could fall, its power would flare.
The crown's defense wasn't subtle. It was rciless. It projected an electrical field that sharpened every nerve, every reflex, feeding him awareness in all directions. It reacted instantly to intent, to hostility itself. Not even an arrow from behind could land. Marshall had tried more than once. The crown had saved him every ti.
Distance? Worthless. A slit throat? Futile. Bartholow was a healer, his flesh would seal faster than death could claim him. Poison? A joke. He had studied toxins, mastered them, carried antidotes in his storage. His body was hardened, perhaps immune outright. Every path of assassination was blocked. Every weakness accounted for.
The only way to kill him was in direct combat. But Mason had said it himself: Bartholow had once faced Marshall and the Renegades' best, alone, and lived. He carried a hidden card, a weapon so devastating only a handful knew of it.
Every weakness a man could have, Bartholow had already stripped away. And still, Luke wanted to try. The urge was savage, primal. He saw it in his mind, kukris flashing into existence, piercing skull or heart, crushing brain, ending it before thought or magic could intervene. For a heartbeat, his body almost moved. Luke locked eyes with the man who had stolen everything from him. His stare was cold, sharp, unyielding.
"And you, miss?" Bartholow asked, turning his attention at last. "What is your na?"
"Lucy," Luke answered.
And in that instant, sothing shifted.
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