Myrren blinked, still groggy from her interrupted nap. “Lumi-Duel? Is that like… a really intense pillow fight?”
Rethian stared at her, then back at the frantic cityscape. “A duel of light-craft, Myrren. It’s a broadcasted contest of raw projection. Fatal, if mishandled.” His gaze sharpened on the terrace display. “They mean to ruin you before the entire city.”
Before Myrren could fully ponder weaponized bedding, footsteps clicked rapidly on the parquet. Kesia, already dressed in a charcoal jumpsuit, her hair pulled back in a severe, functional braid, seized Myrren’s other arm. “Deadly is an understatement, Vor! They’re using archaic civic codes to execute her on prime-time airwaves! This is an assassination stunt!”
“An execution?” Myrren’s yawn stretched wide. “Ugh. That sounds like so much paperwork. Can’t we just send a strongly worded letter?”
Kesia ignored her, already dragging Myrren towards the door. “No time! We need to move! Vor, prep the private transport. Myrren, you’re coming with me. We have exactly twenty-seven minutes to make you look like a formidable opponent, even if you’re just going to stand there and look pretty!”
Myrren stumbled, her silk sleep-robe rustling around her. “But I just got comfortable! And I don’t ‘look pretty’ when I’m being threatened with death, I just look sleepy.”
“Perfect!” Kesia declared, yanking open a closet door and rummaging through its contents with frantic speed. “Sleepy and unbothered. It’s an aesthetic! A statement! It means you’re so powerful, you don’t even need to try!”
Before Myrren could offer further protest, Kesia shoved a pair of silver slippers onto her feet. “No time for a costume change. Your sleepwear will have to do. It’s unconventional, it’s defiant, it’s… high fashion!”
Rethian, shadows already gathering at his cuffs, watched them go. “I will follow. If they scorch a single thread of that silk, the Kest line ends tonight.”
The sound-dampened aero-pod cut through the amber glare of the upper tier. Kesia rattled off defensive stances and warding formulas throughout the transit, though Myrren merely rested her cheek against the padded sill, the cabin's hum coaxing her eyelids shut. The thought of a city-wide blackout, however, was enough to keep one eye half-open.
They landed with a barely perceptible thud directly behind a concealed entrance at the Apex Central Plaza. The roar of the crowd, muted by the pod’s shielding, vibrated through the floor. Kesia practically dragged Myrren out, steering her toward a translucent portal humming with raw current.
“Remember, Myrren,” Kesia hissed, adjusting the collar of Myrren’s silk robe. “Just… exist. Make them regret this.”
Myrren just yawned, pulling her robe tighter around herself. The chill of the night air, even in the magically warmed plaza, was unwelcome.
Stepping through the portal felt like wading through warm honey, then suddenly, the world exploded into light and sound. The Apex Central Plaza was a massive amphitheater, its tiered galleries packed with thousands of spectators. Holographic screens projected the raised platform in crisp detail. In the arena's center stood Syla and her parents. Myrren's mother and Jory Kest waved toward the upper boxes, soaking in the roar of the crowd.
Syla, arrayed in a theatrical, dark-scaled combat tunic, smirked, a cruel glint in her eyes. “Look, Mother, Father! The imposter arrives! Still wearing her sleepwear, like the lazy, talentless wretch she truly is!”
The Kest parents cheered, their voices amplified by the arena’s magical acoustics. “Disown her, Syla! Show them what true talent looks like!” Jory Kest bellowed, pumping his fist in the air.
Myrren squinted at the stage lights, thinking they were far too bright for a duel. She just wanted to find a nice, dark corner for a quick power nap before all the fighting started. She heard Syla’s voice, sharp and cutting, begin the duel’s opening incantation.
“By the sacred Lumen-Rune, I invoke the Great Scales of Justice! Let this usurper be judged!” Syla braided both hands across the glare, spooling ribbons of cobalt and jet. The crowd gasped as the projection monitors mirrored the rising shape. A winged reptile with black scales roared into existence, eyes flaring violet. Its claws gouged deep furrows across the stage floor, throwing white sparks.
“A prismatic wyrm!” the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “A Class-B offensive construct! The Kest scion aims to end this decisively!”
Syla’s grin widened, a feral, triumphant baring of teeth. “Let the darkness consume you, Myrren Kest! Let your stolen power return to the Void!” She thrust her hands forward, and the dragon lunged, a terrifying shriek tearing through the plaza. It dove towards Myrren, jaws agape, a vortex of raw radiance swirling within its maw.
Myrren watched it approach, a slow blink across her face. Too much noise. Too much drama. All she wanted was a quiet place to rest her head. With a sigh that somehow carried a hint of exasperated indulgence, Myrren raised her hands. There was no complex incantation, no drawn-out threadwork, just a simple, almost dismissive gesture. A soft, pearlescent glow emanated from her palms, spreading outwards with effortless grace.
Before the beast could strike, an enormous white cushion blossomed into physical form, dwarfing the scaled construct. It rested between them like an inflated featherbed, exuding a gentle glow. The wyrm plunged teeth-first into the quilted mass with a muffled *THWOOMP* that rippled through the flagstones.
The violet fire, the jagged claws, the dark scales—every drop of force sank straight into the batting. The cushion absorbed the impact without a tremor. Slowly, its linen-bright surface shifted to an azure glow, tranquil as a dim nursery lantern. The violent flare subsided into utter stillness, leaving the stadium air mild and quiet.
Myrren, still in her silk robe, leaned her shoulder against the puffed, glowing bolster. She let out a small, contented sigh, looking like she’d just found the perfect nap spot. “Much better,” she mumbled, her voice surprisingly clear through the stadium’s mics. “Can someone dim the lights now? It’s still a bit bright for a proper snooze.”
The crowd erupted. Thunderous applause and shrill whistles rolled down the stone tiers. Cheers, whistles, and applause rained down, shaking the very foundations of the plaza. The projection screens zoomed in on Myrren, serene and unbothered, framed by her gigantic, glowing bolster. Syla stood frozen, her face contorted in a mask of utter disbelief and humiliation. Her parents, moments ago smug and triumphant, watched with dawning horror as the crowd chanted Myrren’s name, their preferred child utterly outshone by the sister they had disowned.
“Impossible!” Syla screamed, her voice cracking, completely unhinged by the public defeat. She spun, her eyes wild, her carefully constructed future shattering around her. “You… you witch! This isn’t over! I’ll show you! I’ll show *all* of you! I’ll cast the forbidden Apex Symphony!” Dark, unstable static began to arc from her fingertips, wild and discordant. The very air crackled, the lights of the plaza flickering erratically. “I’ll bring down the entire grid! I’ll trigger a city-wide blackout!”