Final Week & Attack

By the final week of the Summit, tension clung to every surface like a second skin.

The grand hall outside the Summit chambers thrummed with restrained energy, heavy with anticipation. Conversations ran in hushed undercurrents, nobles gathered in small, glittering clusters—smiles brittle, laughter too precise. Every glance toward the sealed chamber doors felt weighted with expectation and unspoken dread.

Delphia sat near the far wall, poised on the edge of a carved marble bench. Her posture was composed, elegant—but her fingers betrayed her, curling slightly against the fabric of her gown. A fine tremor ran through her shoulder blades, barely visible beneath the fall of her hair.

Above her, the chandelier's golden light spilled in slow, wavering shadows across the marble floor—elongated shapes that flickered like specters. The faint scent of lavender oil, polished brass, and too many perfumes crowded the air.

The doors to the chamber room loomed ahead—tall, stately, and far too still. Too quiet.

Delphia's gaze lingered on them, sharp and searching. Any moment now.

The plan would unfold here—within these very walls. The conspirators had chosen their stage well. Controlled chaos, orchestrated distraction. An attack designed to fracture the room before anyone realized they'd been cut.

Her chest tightened, the phantom echo of Zypher's warnings threading through her thoughts. She'd replayed their late-night conversations countless times, studying every contingency. The strike wouldn't target the Tournament crowds—it would be more intimate. Political. Surgical. One of the Dukes was the mark.

She inhaled through her nose, slow and steady, trying to force the air deeper into her lungs. Stay sharp. Don't flinch.

Her hand drifted to the pendant resting against her sternum—a delicate piece laced with protective enchantments, subtle enough to pass scrutiny but potent enough to matter. Zypher had pressed it into her hand days ago, his voice low and uncharacteristically serious: "If anything happens—this will give you time."

She could still feel the weight of his touch lingering on the chain.

Delphia exhaled, low and controlled, letting her fingers trace the curve of the charm.

Focus.

She scanned the hall again—faces half-familiar, eyes darting behind fans, whispers coiling behind smiles. Every movement felt like a potential trigger. Every gesture, a prelude.

The hairs at the back of her neck rose.

"When it starts," she whispered beneath her breath, "you have to act."

And then it came.

A piercing scream shattered the air, slicing through the hum of voices like a blade.

Delphia's heart lurched, and without hesitation, she surged to her feet. The sound had come from the left. The door to the room housing Duke Vosswell and Duke Witchade. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she sprinted toward the door, her shoes echoing sharply against the marble floor. She shoved it open with a force that sent it slamming against the wall, her eyes immediately scanning the chaos within, the sound blending in the ongoing noise in the room.

The once-orderly chamber was now a scene of mayhem. Papers and chairs lay strewn across the room, the air thick with the acrid smell of burned parchment and magical discharge. In the center of the chaos, Duke Vosswell and Duke Witchade stood with their backs pressed against the far wall, their faces grim as they fended off an assault by a group of masked attackers clad in identical dark cloaks. The symbols etched into their uniforms marked them unmistakably as agents of the Rogue Magic Faction.

Delphia took in the scene in a heartbeat. There were five of them—two dangerously close to the Dukes, one preparing a spell, and two others lingering near the door, their backs to her. A moment's hesitation, and the Dukes would be overwhelmed.

She moved.

Mana surged through her veins, crackling like static along her skin. With a flick of her wrist, she whispered a spell, the air around her humming in response. A concentrated gust of wind coiled around her arm before launching forward. The first attacker never saw it coming. The force of the blast sent him hurtling across the room, his body slamming against the bookshelf with a sickening thud. His weapon clattered to the ground.

The second man, the one closest to the Dukes, whirled toward her, momentarily stunned by her arrival. Delphia didn't give him a chance to react. She raised her hand and twisted her fingers in a precise motion, drawing the air toward her in a sharp spiral. In the span of a breath, the air condensed into an invisible lance, sharp as a dagger. She released it. The spell struck him squarely in the chest, knocking him backward with the force of a battering ram. He crashed into the table, his body convulsing from the impact.

The remaining three finally registered her as a threat. One of them, a spellcaster, began chanting under his breath, weaving his fingers in a complex arcane pattern. Delphia cursed under her breath. If he completed that incantation, she would have a much bigger problem on her hands.

She darted forward, twisting her hand through the air. Wind coalesced around her fingers, forming thin, shimmering threads.

With a quick flick of her wrist, the threads shot forward, wrapping around the spellcaster's hands and yanking them apart violently. The incantation faltered, the energy dispersing in a harmless burst of light. Before he could recover, she clenched her fist, and the air around his throat tightened like an invisible vice. His eyes bulged, hands clawing at his own neck. She didn't strangle him—just cut off his focus long enough to render him useless.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she didn't falter. Her movements were fluid and precise—a tad bit jerky—the product of weeks of relentless training. She darted across the room, weaving through the chaos as she focused on her next target. But beneath her calculated exterior, a nagging thought clawed at the edges of her mind. Where is Zypher? Is he safe?

Her hands trembled slightly as she threw out an elite-level artifact, a high-level barrier that encased both Dukes in a shimmering dome of protective Light magic. The barrier hummed with power, the air around it crackling faintly.

Duke Vosswell's eyes widened as he turned to her, his usual stern expression briefly giving way to surprise. "Delphia," he breathed, his voice laced with disbelief. "You've advanced—"

"There's no time," she cut him off, her gaze locked on the remaining attackers. "Stay behind the barrier. You can't die." Her voice was firm, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

She turned her focus back to the fight just as another commotion was heard by the open doors. Two men in Tower uniforms—Zypher's people—stormed into the room, their weapons drawn. Without hesitation, they joined the fray, their movements precise and efficient as they engaged the three remaining attackers.

One of the masked assailants lunged at the first Tower agent, his blade flashing in the dim light, but the soldier sidestepped with practiced ease. In a single, fluid motion, he twisted the attacker's wrist, forcing the weapon from his grasp before driving an armored fist into his ribs. The attacker staggered back, gasping, but the Tower agent was relentless, pressing forward with a flurry of strikes before delivering a decisive kick that sent the man sprawling to the floor.

The second Tower soldier faced two opponents at once, their dark-cloaked forms moving in tandem as they tried to overwhelm him. One swung a jagged dagger toward his side, but the soldier parried the blow with the flat of his blade, then pivoted sharply, dodging an incoming slash from the other. He retaliated with brutal efficiency, ramming his sword hilt into the first attacker's jaw, the crack of bone audible even over the chaos. The man crumpled with a choked groan.

The final attacker, seeing their numbers dwindling, attempted to retreat toward the door, but the sudden arrival of the Royal Guards sealed his fate. Clad in polished armor, the guards stormed inside, their weapons gleaming. One of them intercepted the retreating assailant, cutting off his escape with a well-placed strike that sent him crashing against the table. The masked man barely had time to raise his weapon before a second guard disarmed him with a swift blow, kicking him to his knees.

Within moments, the battle was over. The last of the attackers collapsed under the weight of overwhelming force, their moans of pain the only sound in the now-silent chamber.

Delphia stepped back, her breathing heavy as she assessed the situation. The scent of scorched fabric and sweat hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. The barrier she had placed over the Dukes still shimmered faintly in the dim light, its edges pulsing with residual magic.

She exhaled, steadying herself, before stepping forward. With a practiced movement, she reached for the artifact, the glow of the barrier fading as she dispelled the protective shield. Her hands dropped to her sides, fingers still tingling from the exertion of magic.

Turning to her father, she studied him carefully. "Are you hurt?" She asked, her voice even despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

Duke Vosswell shook his head, his expression unreadable as he studied her. "No... I'm fine, thanks to you."

Delphia gave a curt nod, her gaze already shifting to the door. She could hear screams and the clash of magic echoing from the hall, and further. The attack wasn't over. She turned to the Tower men and the Royal Guards, her tone brisk. "The attackers may have split their forces. We should check outside, now!" She urged, a hint of desperation lacing her tone.

The guards nodded, their expressions grim as they moved first to follow her suggestion, then the men from the Tower quickly chasing. Delphia glanced back at Duke Vosswell one last time before rushing into the hall.

The chaos outside was even more intense, the once-grand corridor now a battlefield. Her heart clenched as she thought of Zypher, but she forced herself to focus. He said it would be different this time!

After a moment of hesitation, Duke Vosswell as well as Duke Witchade followed after where she went, slowly making their way outside.