It was already well past midnight, and the excitent still hadn’t died down. The aftermath of Selaphiel’s ball was felt all across the city, which hadn’t quietened in the slightest.
Manor halls still bustled with movent. Gas lamps flickered from every corridor. Personal ssengers dashed across courtyards, delivering hand-penned letters that simply couldn’t wait until morning.
Lugh didn’t have much to do anyway. He’d already gotten what he ca for. Now, he needed to change out of the bloodied robes and maybe get soone to clean the officer’s uniform bestowed upon him by Lovainne.
Actually, on second thought, it needed more than just a cleaning.
It needed a miracle.
He wasn’t even sure if it could be saved. Between the countless claw marks and entire patches of fabric that had simply been blown away, yeah... now that he really thought about it, that uniform was gone. Long gone.
He would need a new one.
Still, Lovainne was now awake. He could also show the Prince the Rhywing design. A general in the army would surely see the use of such a machine.
So many things to do. There was never a dull mont.
But first, he needed to clean up.
Lugh pulled on the handle of his secluded room and walked in. As soon as the door locked behind him, his instincts scread. The world slowed.
The future projection was clear and rciless. He moved, arching his back just in ti—
A silver flash whizzed past his eye.
A dagger ant to kill.
The sound of sothing shattering followed imdiately. A cloud of black dust billowed outwards, spilling across the floor and into the air, engulfing the entire room.
Gunpowder.
He recognized the scent instantly.
Then ca the rush of footsteps. Windows shattered as the assailant leapt through them, vanishing into the night.
The figure wreathed in black fled, pursued imdiately by Lugh’s two other bodies who had been stationed nearby.
anwhile, the original Lugh pushed open the door and sprinted away, wind magic wrapping around him, pushing him forward with blinding speed.
He wasn’t fast enough.
A spark.
Then a detonation.
A pulse of searing, blinding light erupted from behind. The very bones of the manor trembled as the shockwave thundered outward like a natural disaster.
Heat and force surged ahead of the flas. Lugh threw up a magic barrier to protect himself.
The barrier cracked. Then shattered.
The shockwave slamd into him, lifting him off his feet like a toy tossed by a hurricane. His flesh seared, blistered in an instant as fire swept over him.
He crashed to the ground like a ragdoll. His skull struck the marble floor with a sickening crack.
Darkness swallowed his thoughts.
The other two Lughs chasing the person responsible collapsed mid stride as the consciousness controlling them was snuffed out.
The manor descended into chaos.
In the back gardens of Von Heim Manor, a conversation was still underway.
Selaphiel’s voice drifted gently over the flowerbeds.
"...gue. When you look at it this way, it’s quite obvious that Ophris isn’t even the target."
The Queen exhaled, the sound soft, but heavy.
Selaphiel heard the emotion beneath it, not sorrow, but simring fury.
Even after all that had happened... they still try t—
BOOM!
The sound of an explosion tore through the night.
Everyone tensed. The royal guards leaped out from their hidden positios, their eyes alert.
"What was that?!"
Selaphiel’s head snapped toward the source.
From the distance she could see smoke. Thick billowing smoke. Rising from the Von Heim Manor.
Her stomach dropped.
"Oh no"
She whispered.
Then her feet left the ground. A cyclone of wind magic roared beneath her as she launched into the sky, slicing through the air like a spear of divine wrath.
She raced through the night, heading straight for the heart of the smoke.
The manor was in shambles.
Guards and servants lay strewn across the corridors. Those who had been near the blast were either dead... or wishing they were.
Cries rang out. People dug. Carried bodies. Called nas.
Lady Isolde had descended the stairs in a panic. She knew exactly who the target was. But it would be fine, right?
It had to be.
He was a prodigy—no, a miracle. A natural-born mage who had done things she couldn’t even dream of.
He’d be fine.
...Right?
She didn’t believe it. Not really. She ran faster.
All across the manor, curious cousins, aunts, in-laws, and guests who had been yanked from their sleep by the tremor tried to investigate.
They were stopped.
Guards ford walls, cold and unmoving.
"None are allowed past this point"
They said.
"Such are the Lady’s orders."
anwhile, the rescue operation pressed forward. Personally overseen by Isolde herself.
The debris was heavy and thick. The deeper they dug, the more nightmarish it beca. Rubble. Blood.
Silence.
Was he not here?
Then—
"I found sothing!"
A voice rang out.
From the ashes, a man pulled a revolver, custom-made, superb craftsmanship. The surface was blackened, but intact. The heat hadn’t warped it.
Of course it hadn’t.
Ophris firearms were made for this.
Isolde’s hands trembled as she took the weapon.
He was here.
"Keep digging!"
More items surfaced:
—Wrecked pieced of furniture
—Burnt parchnt.
—A blackened blade.
—Ashen fragnts of ceramic shells.
—Lugh’s sword, untouched, impossibly clean in the dirt, as though defying reality itself.
There were many more
Then, on the edge of the site, soone spotted fabric that once used to be white
"There! Over there!"
n rushed forward. They heaved heavy slabs aside, stone by stone.
And finally...
Lugh’s face peeked from beneath the rubble. Pale, bloody, and unconscious.
"There he is!"
"Is he still alive?!"
They pulled him from the wreckage—quickly but gently.
His body was limp. His ribs were crushed. Bones broken. Flesh burned and torn.
Even unconscious, his every breath was shallow and painful.
He was losing blood fast. This was bad
He was dying.
"Damn it!"
Isolde cried our in frustration.
"What can we—?"
A roar of wind slamd into the chamber as a person entered through a large hole on the outer wall.
Selaphiel flew in like a thunderbolt, her body crackling with residual magic. She landed hard.
And in her arms, she held two more figures.
Two more Lughs.
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