Gunmage
Chapter 124: When the crown bleeds, crows gather

Chapter 124: Chapter 124: When the crown bleeds, crows gather

Isolde fell to the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath her.

Victor also collapsed, though his fall was from fear, landing hard on his rump.

"Good job,"

He heard his own guards mutter to the traitors, the ones that had stabbed Isolde.

They moved with practiced ease. Professionals, they must be.

Victor’s teeth began to chatter.

’I’m dead. I am so dead’

Whether or not he survived this encounter, he would be killed eventually.

"Should we kill him?"

He heard a voice asked.

"No point,"

Another replied, then added

"Get ready to retreat."

But just then, a cheerful, feminine voice cut in. It was sharp, steady, laced with a twinge of authority.

"Well, that was easy."

Victor looked up, startled.

It was one of his maids. One who had stayed behind. He hadn’t even noticed her.

She approached the enemy mages, her posture relaxed, almost playful.

"Buuuut"

She said as she pointed toward Isolde’s slumped figure

"You still have to finish the job. That woman is still breathing."

The Anchor of the group unsheathed his blade and stepped forward with a steady and deliberate gait.

But then a black crow flew past him.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Soon, a swarm of black feathers engulfed the gazebo.

"What is this?!"

One of the men shouted as he faltered back, raising his arms to shield his face.

The birds kept coming, heedless of strikes and spells, forming a living maelstrom of beaks and claws around Isolde’s body.

Despite their training, every mage in the group instinctively sensed the danger.

The Anchor dropped into a stance, his blade charging with pale blue light, ready to release a devastating attack.

But the moment he moved—

—the swarm vanished.

Just as quickly as it had come, the flurry of feathers dispersed into the air.

In their place, standing beside the fallen Isolde, was a boy.

He remained eerily still, silent, inhuman.

His flaxen hair stirred faintly in the breeze. His strange eyes shimmered, white and red, black and red.

In one hand, he clutched a wrapped bundle.

They felt an inexplicable terror wash over them.

...

Lugh had been watching the entire time.

He’d observed everyone, individually, since the moment they’d arrived.

Shared glances, conflicting body language, direction of gaze, attention shifts.

These weren’t guests.

They were on a mission.

He had broken the mystical restraints placed on him with little effort.

Then, with a simple spell, the thick metal bars of his cell melted.

He’d escaped the dungeon but uncertain of the enemies’ full strength, he went first to retrieve Lyra’s sword.

It was hidden in a secret compartment, stashed away in his stepmother’s room.

He had also piloted the bird to crash into her drink.

He couldn’t tell exactly why their guest—Victor, as they had called him, remained unaffected.

But from what he observed, he was very sure that the wine was poisoned.

After stalling for time with his many avian selves, his true body was finally here.

And his presence was enough to make the enemy take a step back without thinking.

Only one didn’t.

The smiling maid narrowed her eyes.

She was the most dangerous.

Which was why he wouldn’t fight, at least not directly.

He crouched beside Isolde, placing a hand gently on her back.

A soft, green light glowed at the point of contact, coursing through her veins like heat returning to frostbitten skin.

Color slowly returned to her pale cheeks.

In mere moments, she stirred.

Then she stood.

Her fingers flexed, savoring the warm, unfamiliar energy coursing through her body.

She scrutinised Lugh, but said nothing. Not yet.

"Impossible!"

The mages gasped.

Their faces were a mix of confusion, disbelief, rage. But most notable of all ...fear.

Lugh, still wordless, stepped back, leaving it to the rejuvenated Isolde.

All he had to do was watch.

She glanced at him, then nudged her chin toward Victor.

Lugh sighed. In one fluid motion, he crossed the distance and grabbed the stunned man with inhuman strength, pulling him out of the gazebo.

They retreated to a distance just safe enough to observe the coming fight without interfering.

None of the mages moved to stop them.

They were already forming ranks.

Only the maid with the eternal smile kept her eyes on him.

Isolde raised her hands—

—and the he stone table ahead of her exploded. Shattered into dust and countless fragments of jagged stone.

Each shard hovered in mid-air, sharp tips aimed at the enemy formation like a hovering minefield.

A silence heavier than stone settled between them.

Someone gulped.

Then—

"It’s coming!"

A blur of motion.

The fragments launched like bullets.

Glowing swords arced wide, obliterating large swathes of the stone barrage.

Dust swirled, thick and unnatural, obscuring sight.

Before they could recover, Isolde was already among them.

Steel met steel, then steel met flesh.

Her dagger plunged into one man’s shoulder. He barely stifled a scream, dropping his blade and grappling her wrist in desperation.

The others struck in tandem.

But a sudden gust knocked them back.

Before they could react again—pillars cracked, and the entire gazebo came crashing down.

Its collapse was fast and sudden, Isolde’s force control accelerated the fall.

The impact thundered across the gardens.

Clouds of dust and splinters flew. The tremor rolled outward like a ripple, alerting every soul in the mansion.

When the haze cleared, Isolde stood outlined atop the sloped, shattered rooftop.

Her dress fluttered in the breeze. Her elegant shoes long discarded.

Of the six enemy guards, only three had survived, and they were all mages.

Each of them bore varying wounds, one even had a completely crushed arm.

More energy pulsed from her, and shattered red tiles floated once again. These ones sharper and far more numerous.

The survivors grit their teeth, preparing to intercept.

But then—

The Anchor spun in alarm, parrying an unseen strike.

The second closest guard followed suit, barely dodging.

The third wasn’t so lucky.

A blur of movement. Then a hand burst through his chest from behind, piercing heart and lung alike.

The hand belonged to a maid. Black hair, dull eyes, she was utterly expressionless.

She withdrew her arm with surgical grace. The body dropped with a wet thud.

Isolde smirked.

Her shadows had arrived.