Chapter 69: Adaptability, Blair. We’re Women.

Guinevere grabbed the headless body by the ankles. Blair took hold of a torso.

They dragged the one and a half bodies into the closet with the coordination of two women who had committed a crime together in a previous life. They looked at each other. No words were needed.

Blair kicked the severed head inside for Guinevere.

Guinevere went back for the bottom half of the attacker Blair cut in half, noting this arrangement was not equal.

An arm blocked the door. She shoved it in. The head rolled left. Blair kicked it right. The door wouldn’t latch because of course it wouldn’t. Guinevere held it shut.

Two men rounded the corner. Armed. Heavy footsteps. Something inside the closet groaned and an arm shifted on its own. Both women watched it happen. Then looked at each other. No divine intervention came.

"The hostages are secured in the throne room. Four hundred." The men passed without looking left or right.

Guinevere exhaled through her nose, opening the closet door the second their footsteps faded down the corridor.

Hostages. Throne room. People who had been nothing but kind to her.

"Don’t say it." Blair already knew. She had watched Guinevere’s jaw set and her shoulders square and recognized the posture of a woman who was about to do something heroic and idiotic in equal measure.

"We have to go."

"I said don’t say it."

"Blair. There are four hundred people in there."

"Two of us against an army. One can’t shift and the other brings beauty, brilliance, and entertainment. None of that includes combat training."

Guinevere took a deep breath. "I’ve got this. You stay behind."

"Shut the hell up, Gwen. Obviously you’re not going alone. Do you have a plan at least?"

"No."

"Strategy?"

"No."

"Vague idea?"

"Walk in. Don’t die. Kill anyone who tries to kill us."

"THAT IS THE DUMBEST PLAN I’VE EVER HEARD." Blair’s volume control had left the closet approximately two dead bodies ago and was not coming back.

"Adaptability, Blair. We’re women. It’s what we do."

"This is insane."

"Yes." Guinevere stared at the severed head on the floor, then at Blair, then at the head again. "We need that."

Blair’s face went through five stages of grief in two seconds. She landed on bargaining. "Are you sure?"

"If he’s titled, that means he knows the person in charge. We use that."

"Guinevere. That is absolutely disgusting."

"I’ll get it." Guinevere spotted a wooden supply crate against the wall with holy candles. Ceremonial. She dumped the sacred candles onto the floor with zero fucks given.

"Fuck my life," Blair hissed, picking up the head by its hair without being asked.

She dropped it into the box. It landed with a meaty thud, the crown clinking against the wood.

Guinevere closed the lid. "Perfect. Carry this."

Blair took the box with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length like it was an STD in a box with a positive pregnancy test from a man she’d slept with once. "I want you to know that this is the single most disturbing thing I have ever done, and I once watched Sterling eat a raw onion on purpose."

Tonight was worse than the onion. She did not think that was possible.

"You could have kicked it into the box," Guinevere replied. "You’re the one who picked it up."

Blair’s jaw fell down.

"Keep up, Blair."

She turned and started moving.

Blair stormed after her. "’Keep up? KEEP UP? I picked it up because YOU were having a breakdown, Guinevere. I was being SUPPORTIVE."

They moved through the corridor. Blair’s commentary did not stop.

"This is heavy. Heads are heavy, Gwen. Nobody tells you that. In all the stories about warriors collecting trophies, they never mention the neck weight."

"Blair."

"If someone finds us right now, two women carrying a head in a candle box, we are going straight to execution. No trial."

"Blair."

They passed a mirror. Blair caught her reflection. "I am a princess carrying a head in a cum box. Sorry. Candle box. Same energy."

Blair switched hands. Then switched back. Neither hand wanted it. "There is a reason warriors have squires, Gwen. The squire carries the head. I am the squire."

The crown scraped against the wood. Blair whispered ’stop moving’ to the box like it was listening.

"If someone sees us," she said flatly. "I’m throwing the box at them and walking myself right on out of this. Sorry, Gwen, but I’m not dying holding a head."

"Blair. Shut up."

Blair started laughing like she’d lost her mind. "Bet he never thought his last ride would be in a candle box with two bitches."

"BLAIR."

Footsteps echoed ahead. They pressed against the wall until they passed.

"Be honest," Blair whispered. "Does it smell like copper and ball sweat to you too? Because that’s what I’m getting."

"Give it to me." Guinevere took the box.

Blair handed the box over with holy-fuck-thank-God energy.

"I’d rather give Aldric a hand job than carry that ever again."

"Shut up," Guinevere hissed. "We are in a corridor full of hostiles and you have been narrating our war crimes for the last two minutes."

"I process trauma verbally."

Guinevere thought about the last hour. Her self-narration and motivational speeches. "Never mind. Carry on."

Blair wasn’t expecting that answer, fully prepared to argue. It took eleven seconds for the reverse psychology to wear off.

"Is his crown sliding around in there? I can hear it sliding."

It was sliding. The head was too small for the box, and the metallic scraping against wood was going to be the sound that finally broke Guinevere’s composure.

"BLAIR."

They rounded the next corner and froze.

Twenty feet ahead, two men were dragging a body through a set of double doors. The body was limp, armored, Drakencrest military. The doors were massive, carved obsidian, and behind them, Guinevere could see the edge of a vaulted chamber lit by iron braziers. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

The throne room she didn’t know existed.

The doors closed behind the men.

Blair grabbed her arm and pulled her behind a column. They pressed flat against the stone.

"Dragon iron," she whispered. "It blocks shifts and flame. If they have that, I’d imagine they have wards to block mage magic too. It’s the only explanation unless Maddox and Ryker are dead."

Guinevere’s stomach dropped. No. "What is used as a counter?"

"Don’t go near it," Blair answered.

Guinevere gave her a flat look.

Her flames still worked. She added it to the growing list of things to research in the library if she survived tonight. A map of the keep. Flame management 101. Ward types. A self help book on what to do when your husband’s ex is writing him.

Then a voice came. It hit the air on a frequency that was neither mindlink nor spoken word. It bypassed the ears and arrived in the skull fully formed, a vibration that lived in the bone and the blood and the marrow, audible to every living creature within the Keep’s walls regardless of species, rank, or ward.

Blair flinched. Guinevere’s hands flew to her temples.

"You have fifteen minutes. Every minute past that threshold, a hostage loses their head. Starting with the children."

The voice was male. Calm in the way that only true believers and true monsters managed, the calm of a man who had made a decision and was announcing it the way others announce dinner.

"You know who you are. White wolf."

Guinevere’s jaw dropped and all color drained from her face. Out of all the things, she hadn’t been expecting that.

Blair was staring at her, eyes wide.

"Gwen. Why do they want you?"

"I don’t know." Her voice cracked. "I hid my wolf for five years. My mother made me promise. I wonder if..."

Her voice trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"I have to go in there," Guinevere said.

"Gwen, they just asked for you by description. Walking in is giving them exactly what they want."

Guinevere looked at Blair, and the expression on her face was of pure heartbreak. "Children are in there. This is m-my fault."

Blair’s argument died on her tongue. There was no counter to children.

She stared at Guinevere. Then at the throne room doors. Then at the box with their cargo inside. Then at the blood on both of their hands.

"I’m coming. But I want it on the record that this is insane."

"Noted." Guinevere handed the box to Blair, who took it on instinct before remembering what was inside.

Her face went through a journey. Acceptance, realization, horror, resignation. She did not put it down. Growth.

"And I want a bath after this. A long one. With wine."

"If we survive, I will personally pour it."

’Personally pour it’ was the closest thing to a blood oath Guinevere had ever made, and Blair accepted it as binding.

Guinevere took a steadying breath. Channeled her inner Renwick Lunaris. Then pushed the double doors open like she owned the place and her husband had shown her this her first day here.

Just as she did, Nicholas rounded the corner at a dead sprint. He arrived in time to watch Guinevere walk in unarmed, fully prepared to trade herself.

"Shit."

The word ’shit’ didn’t cover it. He had fought through eleven corridors, killed an undisclosed number of hostiles, and ran the length of the Keep trying to find her.