The aftermath of our "Spirit-Pact" negotiation was not a comfortable peace, but a tense and fragile ceasefire. We had found a loophole, a path that averted mutual destruction, but the underlying tensions remained, a low-pressure system waiting for the right conditions to erupt into a full-blown hurricane. The air in the West Wing was thick with unspoken rivalries and the quiet, fierce pride of three powerful women all vying for position in our strange new pack.
The catalyst, when it came, was not a political maneuver or a whispered insult. It was a joyous, booming challenge thrown out over breakfast on the first official day of the tournament.
"A glorious day for a contest of strength!" Princess Lyra declared, attacking a massive plate of sausages with a warrior's gusto. Her fluffy tail thumped a happy, rhythmic beat against the leg of her chair. "A fine tradition! A chance to test the mettle of the pack!"
She looked from Elizabeth's cool, composed face to Luna's quiet, nervous one, and then grinned a wide, toothy grin at me. "Back home, when new members join a pack, or when the hierarchy is... adjusted... we have a 'First Hunt.' A friendly competition to see the skills of our packmates, to establish who is the swiftest, who is the strongest, who is the most cunning. It builds respect. It forges bonds."
Elizabeth placed her teacup down with a delicate, deliberate click. "How... rustic," she said, her voice dripping with a sweetness so pure it was acidic. "I assume this 'hunt' involves chasing squirrels and barking at the moon?"
Lyra's grin didn't falter. "Sometimes," she replied cheerfully. "But mostly it involves proving you are not dead weight. This tournament... it is our First Hunt, is it not? A perfect chance to see what my new... sisters... are made of." She winked at me. "And to show our new Alpha that he has chosen his mates well."
The word "mates" hung in the air, a deliberate, provocative grenade. Elizabeth's eye twitched, a barely perceptible crack in her icy facade. Luna, who had been trying to discreetly eat a piece of toast, choked on it, her face turning a brilliant shade of crimson.
"This is not a competition, Princess Lyra," Elizabeth said, her voice dangerously calm. "We are allies with a common enemy. Our goal is to present a united front, not to engage in some primitive dominance display."
"Every hunt is a dominance display," Lyra countered, leaning forward, her golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "And every alliance is a competition. To pretend otherwise is a lie. And I am not a liar." She looked at me, a direct challenge in her gaze. "A pack is only as strong as its weakest link. I am eager to see if this pack has any."
And just like that, the war was declared. It was not a war of swords or spells, not yet. It was a war of pride, of purpose, of value. A contest to prove who was the most indispensable member of my inner circle. The "Wife War," as I had come to dread, had officially begun.
The first battlefield was the Master Archer's Division, and its unlikely champion was Luna.
She stood on the firing line, a small, slender figure in simple leather, looking utterly out of place amongst the brawny, bearded huntsmen and the arrogant, noble-born archers in their fine silks. They looked at her with a mixture of contempt and amusement. A servant girl? An elf, no less? Competing in the Royal Tournament? It was a joke.
I watched from our box, my hands clenched into fists. Elizabeth sat beside me, her expression a cool, analytical mask, but I could feel her tension. This was the first test of our faction's strength. If Luna failed, if she was humiliated, it would reflect on all of us.
"They are all watching, my lord," Luna's thought was a tiny, trembling whisper in my mind. I could feel her stage fright, her pounding heart, the cold sweat on her palms. Through our 'Shared Senses,' I was standing on that firing line with her.
"Breathe, Luna," I sent back, my thought a calm, steadying presence. "You are not a servant. You are not a lost pup. You are a daughter of the Fenrir. You are my Sworn Shield. Show them who you are."
I felt her take a deep, shuddering breath. I felt her close her eyes for a fraction of a second. I felt her remember her sister's fierce pride, Elizabeth's demanding standards, and my own unwavering faith in her. When she opened her eyes, the fear was gone, replaced by a calm, crystalline focus.
The first round was simple accuracy. A series of targets at fifty, seventy, and then a hundred meters. The other archers shot with bravado, their arrows thudding into the target rings with varying degrees of success.
When it was Luna's turn, she moved with a quiet, unhurried grace. She drew an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and drew the bowstring back in a single, fluid motion. She did not seem to aim. She simply... released.
Thwack.
The arrow struck the dead center of the bullseye at fifty meters.
Thwack.
Dead center at seventy.
Thwack.
Dead center at one hundred meters. A perfect score.
A ripple of surprised murmurs went through the crowd. The smirks on the faces of the other archers vanished.
The next round was speed and precision. Three targets would be released from a trap simultaneously, and the archer had to hit all three before they touched the ground.
The brawny huntsman went first. He was fast, loosing three arrows in a blur. He hit two of the flying discs. The crowd applauded politely.
Luna stepped up to the line. She took a deep breath. She held her bow low.
"Release!" the judge shouted.
Three clay discs shot into the air. Luna moved. She was not just fast; she was a force of nature. In a single, impossible motion, she drew, nocked, and loosed three arrows. They were not three separate actions, but one continuous, fluid expression of will. The arrows left her bow so quickly they seemed to be a single, tripartite streak of wood and feather.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
All three discs shattered in mid-air, dissolving into clouds of dust.
The arena fell into a stunned silence, and then erupted into a roar of disbelief and admiration. In our box, Elizabeth allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible smile.
The final round was the true test of a master. The 'Arrow Split.' A single arrow would be fired into the center of the target at one hundred meters. The contestant then had to fire a second arrow and split the first one's shaft. It was a feat of legendary difficulty, a trick most archers only ever spoke of in taverns.
Her final opponent was a grim-faced nobleman from House Marden, the same house whose soldiers we had encountered in the pass. He was a renowned marksman, and he looked at Luna with a cold, murderous disdain. He saw her not just as a competitor, but as a symbol of the upstart house that had humiliated his own.
He went first. His form was perfect, his aim true. His arrow slammed into the dead center of the bullseye. It was a masterful shot. He turned and gave Luna a condescending smirk.
Luna stepped to the line. The entire arena held its breath. This was it. The moment of truth.
"I can do this," her thought was a whisper of pure steel. "For the pack. For my lord."
She raised her bow. She drew the string back to her cheek. Her golden eyes, the eyes of a wolf, narrowed. She was not looking at the target. She was looking at the single, impossibly small sliver of wood a hundred meters away.
The world seemed to slow down. I could feel her heartbeat, slow and steady. I could feel her breath, a controlled, even rhythm. I could feel her will, her absolute loyalty, her fierce desire to prove herself, all converging on a single point.
She released.
The arrow flew.
It did not make a sound. It simply... arrived.
For a moment, nothing seemed to have happened. And then, a gasp went through the crowd. The first arrow, the one fired by the nobleman, trembled. And then, with a faint crack that was audible even in the silent arena, it split perfectly in two, the two halves falling uselessly to the ground on either side of Luna's arrow, which stood quivering, alone, in the dead center of the bullseye.
She had not just won. She had performed a legend.
The roar from the common folk was a physical thing, a wave of pure adoration for the humble servant girl who had just defeated a high and mighty lord with impossible skill. Luna stood there, her bow lowered, her face pale but her eyes shining with a fierce, triumphant light. She had proven herself. She was no longer a lost pup. She was a huntress of the Fenrir.
The second battlefield was the Arcane Arts Division, and its undisputed queen was Elizabeth.
If Luna's victory was a quiet, inspiring legend, Elizabeth's was a brutal, terrifying display of absolute dominance. She walked into the dueling circle like a queen entering her court. Her opponent was Lord Ignis, the 'Master of the Crimson Flame,' the arrogant fire mage who had put on such a flashy display during the opening ceremony. He sneered at her, conjuring balls of fire that danced playfully on his fingertips.
"Well, well," he said, his voice oozing with condescension. "The little ice princess comes out to play. Be careful not to melt, my lady."
Elizabeth did not reply. She simply raised her wand, her face a mask of cold, beautiful indifference.
The duel began. Ignis, a true showman, immediately launched a massive, spectacular attack. He unleashed a great, roaring dragon made of pure fire, a spell designed to awe the crowd and incinerate his opponent.
The fiery dragon roared across the arena, a wave of heat washing over the stands.
Elizabeth watched it approach, her expression unchanging. When it was almost upon her, she whispered a single word.
"Absolvere."
It was a simple spell. A 'Lesser Dispel.' A first-year student's exercise.
But in her hands, it was a weapon of profound insult. The massive, roaring fire dragon, a spell that must have taken half of Ignis's mana to cast, simply... fizzled. It dissolved into a pathetic puff of warm air and a few drifting embers.
The crowd, which had been roaring with excitement, fell into a stunned silence. Lord Ignis stared, his jaw slack. He had just used his ultimate move, and she had dismissed it like a pesky fly.
"My turn," Elizabeth said, her voice as cold as the grave.
She did not use flashy, spectacular spells. She used simple, brutally efficient ones. A shard of ice, no bigger than a needle, shot out and pierced Ignis's hand, forcing him to drop his focus. A sheet of black ice formed under his feet, sending him sprawling. A localized blizzard erupted around him, not to harm him, but to chill him to the bone, to make his teeth chatter so hard he couldn't speak the incantations for his spells.
It was a masterclass in magical combat. She wasn't just defeating him; she was dissecting him, taking him apart piece by piece with the cold, detached precision of a surgeon. She was showing the world, and especially the mages in the crowd, the vast, terrifying gap between a flashy showman and a true magical prodigy.
Finally, with Ignis shivering and helpless on the ground, Elizabeth ended it. She raised her wand and conjured a single, perfect, beautiful rose made of pure, solid ice. She levitated it over and gently placed it on his chest.
"You are defeated," she said, her voice echoing in the silent arena. "Yield."
Ignis, humiliated and frozen, could only nod his head in surrender.
Elizabeth turned and walked out of the circle without a backward glance, the victor. She had not been brutal. She had been precise. She had not been cruel. She had been efficient. She had proven, beyond any doubt, that she was in a league of her own. She had reasserted her dominance, not as the Duke's daughter, but as Elizabeth, the Archmage of Winter.
The final contest of the day was Lyra's first match in the Grand Melee. Her opponent was a mountain of a man, a mercenary known as 'Boros the Bull,' a hulking brute who wielded a massive, two-handed axe.
Lyra strode into the arena, her own greatsword resting on her shoulder, a wide, joyous grin on her face. She looked at her massive opponent, then up at our box, and gave me a hearty wink. She was not here for politics or strategy. She was here to have fun.
The duel began. Boros roared and charged, his axe held high, a classic berserker opening.
Lyra laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. She met his charge head-on.
What followed was not a duel. It was a force of nature. Lyra's fighting style was the complete opposite of Elizabeth's. Where Elizabeth was precise and controlled, Lyra was a whirlwind of joyous, chaotic violence. She didn't parry his blows; she met them, her greatsword crashing against his axe with a sound like a thunderclap. Sparks flew. The ground shook.
She was not just strong; she was impossibly strong. She was a Level 44 warrior, and she was toying with her opponent. She ducked under a wide swing and slammed the pommel of her sword into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. She leaped onto his shield, using it as a springboard to launch herself into the air, bringing her sword down in a devastating overhead blow that shattered his helmet.
She was laughing the entire time. It was the pure, unadulterated joy of a warrior in her element. She was a wolf playing with her food.
The fight ended when she simply got tired of the game. She sidestepped a clumsy swing, grabbed the haft of his axe, and wrenched it from his grasp. She then kicked him squarely in the chest, sending the massive man flying backward to land in an undignified heap at the edge of the arena.
"Do you yield, little bull?" she called out, her voice cheerful.
Boros, dazed and disarmed, could only groan in assent.
Lyra picked up his massive axe, hefted it, and then, with a mighty heave, threw it into the sky. It spun end over end, catching the sun, before planting itself deep into the arena wall, high above the stands. The crowd roared.
She had won with overwhelming, terrifying, and joyful force. She had shown the world the raw power of the Fenrir.
That evening, we gathered in the study. The atmosphere was different. The tension was gone, replaced by a new, profound respect. The 'First Hunt' was over, and they had all returned with their kills.
"Well," Lyra said, draining a massive flagon of ale in one go and slamming it down on the table. "That was fun! The Ice Witch has some sharp little icicles, and Little Sister has the eyes of a hawk! A strong pack!"
Elizabeth, for her part, gave Lyra a nod of grudging respect. "Your methods are... direct, Princess Lyra. But your strength is undeniable."
Luna, glowing with a newfound confidence, simply smiled.
They had tested each other, and they had not been found wanting. They had proven their worth, not just to me, but to each other. The 'Wife War' had ended not with a single victor, but with the forging of a true, battle-tested alliance. They were no longer just my companions. They were a team.
It was a perfect moment. A moment of triumph, of unity, of hope.
And it was in that perfect moment that the world decided to remind us that we were not allowed to have nice things.
A piercing, unnatural shriek echoed through the capital city, a sound that was not made by any living creature. It was a sound of tearing metal and screaming code.
We all rushed to the balcony. The city, which had been celebrating the tournament, was now in a state of growing panic. People were pointing to the sky.
High above the city, a new phenomenon was occurring. The air itself seemed to be... glitching. Geometric patterns, like fragments of a broken user interface, flickered in and out of existence. A massive, floating progress bar, like one you would see during a software installation, appeared in the sky, its text written in the same, spidery, runic language as the Golem's.
[SYSTEM UPDATE IN PROGRESS... DOWNLOADING PATCH 1.3.2...][INSTALLING 'ANTI-GLITCH' SECURITY PROTOCOLS...]
"ARIA!" I yelled in my mind. "What is that? What's happening?"
[The Gods have responded,] her voice was grim, devoid of all sarcasm. [Your actions—the duel, the public display of your impossible powers—have been flagged as a critical system vulnerability. They are not just watching anymore. They are actively patching the simulation. They are upgrading the world's security to deal specifically with you.]
As she spoke, the progress bar in the sky reached 100%.
[INSTALLATION COMPLETE.]
The sky returned to normal. The strange sounds ceased. An eerie, unnatural calm settled over the city.
But we all felt it. A subtle shift in the very fabric of reality. The air felt heavier. The magic felt... tamer. More controlled.
And then, the shrieking began again. This time, it was from the arena.
We looked toward the Grand Arena, and our blood ran cold.
From the sands of the arena, where the bodies of the defeated tournament combatants were being cleared away, something was rising. The corpses were convulsing, their limbs twisting at unnatural angles. A sickly, green light was glowing from their eyes. Their skin was turning a pale, deathly grey.
The dead were getting back up.
But they were not zombies. Their movements were not shambling. They were fast, jerky, and precise. They moved with a cold, digital purpose.
One of them, the body of Boros the Bull, turned its head toward our balcony, its eyes glowing with a green, malevolent light.
A new notification, in a new, terrifying, green font, appeared in my vision.
[SYSTEM ENFORCER - 'PATCHED ZOMBIE' - DETECTED.][DIRECTIVE: IDENTIFY AND NEUTRALIZE UNREGISTERED SYSTEM ANOMALIES.]
The 'Gods' had just turned every casualty of the tournament into an army of anti-glitch hunter-killers.
And their first target was us.