Wgt
# The War-God's Chainbound Queens
## Chapter 1: The Summoning's Aftermath
The crater smoldered with residual heat, its edges glowing with cooling bone and crystallized blood. It stretched nearly half a league across, a testament to the ferocity of the battle that had birthed it weeks earlier. The Dominion Chimera that once stood here had been a legend itself—a seven-headed monstrosity born from the fusion of fallen champions, each head wielding a different divine weapon. Now, its remains formed the ritual circle Ares Magnus had spent days carving with painstaking precision.
At the center of this massive sigil, the war-god stood tall, his massive form silhouetted against Khalzara's crimson sky. Standing at seven feet and two inches of divine musculature, Ares was the embodiment of war itself. His long, dark hair was tied in a warrior's knot, and his bronze skin bore glowing war-markings beneath piercing eyes that had witnessed the fall of pantheons. His minimal ceremonial armor gleamed in the dying light of the summoning, the massive fur-lined cape behind him billowing in the sulfurous wind.
In his right hand, he held Dominius Rex—a golden-edged black greatsword said to be forged from the bones of primordial titans. Though the blade was colossal, he wielded it one-handed as if it were weightless, its edge still humming with the energy of the ritual.
The summoning had been unlike any other in Khalzara's blood-soaked history. Ares had not called upon familiar powers or entities of this realm. No, he had reached beyond—into other realities, other mythologies, seeking worthy adversaries to challenge his supremacy. For what was a god of war without worthy battles to fight?
As the blinding light of the ritual faded, revealing six forms scattered across the uneven terrain, Ares's expression darkened. Women. Six of them, each struggling to rise from where they had fallen.
"Is this a jest?" he murmured, his deep voice resonating with barely restrained disappointment. "I summon strength untested, and the cosmos sends me... this?"
The first to stir was a tall, commanding figure with long silver hair cascading down her back. Even disoriented, she moved with the precision of one accustomed to authority, her piercing blue eyes quickly taking in her surroundings before fixing on Ares. She wore ornate white and gold armor adorned with intricate patterns, though parts of it appeared damaged in transit between realms.
Not far from her, a slender woman with deep brown skin and long, straight purple hair struggled to her knees. Her traditional Egyptian garments—flowing robes and a headdress resembling Anubis' ears—were askew, and her violet eyes reflected confusion quickly giving way to understanding... and fury.
"Where am I?" the silver-haired woman demanded, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of one accustomed to command. "What manner of sorcery has brought me to this place?"
Ares regarded her coldly. "You stand in Khalzara, woman. The War-Forged Continuum. My realm."
"I am Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra," she replied, drawing herself up to her full height—impressive for a mortal woman, though still dwarfed by the war-god's towering presence. "I demand to know by what right you have torn me from my kingdom."
Before Ares could respond, a third figure rose—a tall, voluptuous woman with fair skin and long, wavy blonde hair that transitioned into green and blue hues at the ends. Her heterochromatic eyes—one navy blue and yellow, the other green and black—had distinctly slit pupils that widened as she took in her surroundings. Unlike the others, she did not immediately show anger, but rather a curious interest.
"My, my," she purred, stretching languorously despite their dire circumstances. "What an unusual situation. I don't believe we've been properly introduced, handsome."
"Silence," Ares commanded, his patience already wearing thin. "I am Ares Magnus, the Blade of Absolute Dominion, slayer of beast-lords, breaker of pantheons. And you"—his gaze swept over all of them—"are bound to me now."
A fourth woman had risen, her dignified presence unmistakable despite her obvious disorientation. Her long blonde hair was tied in a bun, and her emerald green eyes reflected not fear but calculation. She wore blue and silver armor, complete with a flowing white cape and a crown-like diadem, embodying her role as a ruler.
"Bound?" she questioned, her voice steady. "I am Artoria Pendragon, sovereign of Camelot, the Once and Future King. I bow to no one, least of all a self-proclaimed god."
Ares' expression remained impassive, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Your titles mean nothing here, King of Knights. In Khalzara, respect is earned through strength alone, not words or distant accomplishments."
The fifth to rise was perhaps the most intimidating of the women—standing over six feet tall with long, wild blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Her armor was a fusion of metallic and organic elements, featuring claw-like gauntlets and spiked pauldrons. Two prominent horns protruded from her head, and when she bared her teeth in a snarl, they appeared unnaturally sharp.
"I smell blood," she growled, nostrils flaring. "Old blood. New blood. A realm soaked in it." Her gaze locked on Ares, and unlike the others, she showed no fear—only a predatory interest. "You smell like a king. But bleed like a beast. I like that."
The last to awaken was a muscular woman with short, spiky white hair and intense blue eyes. Her form-fitting white and black armor accentuated her strength, and though she reached instinctively for a weapon that was no longer there, her stance was unmistakably that of a seasoned warrior.
"Where is my spear?" she demanded, glaring at Ares. "Return it, or by Poseidon's curse, I'll—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening as she seemed to realize something was fundamentally different. "My power... what have you done to me?"
Ares regarded them all with open disappointment. "I sought to summon legends worthy of Khalzara. Instead, I am burdened with women." He shook his head, planting Dominius Rex point-down in the ground before him. "Females have no place on the battlefield. Their purpose is hearth and home, not war and conquest."
The reaction was immediate and unified—six expressions of outrage, though each manifested differently. Zenobia's was cold and calculating, Artoria's stoic but intense, while the white-haired warrior's was naked fury.
"I have led armies against Rome itself," Zenobia stated, her voice deadly calm. "I have outwitted emperors and expanded my kingdom through both strategy and strength."
"And I have held Excalibur aloft while the blood of Saxons stained my armor," Artoria added, her dignity undiminished by her circumstances.
The white-haired warrior stepped forward aggressively. "I am Caenis, who slew a thousand men in a single day. Poseidon himself granted me invulnerability in battle."
"I am Nitocris," the Egyptian woman declared, her voice resonating with quiet power. "Priestess-Pharaoh of divine vengeance. I flooded palaces with the blood of those who wronged my family."
The tall, horned woman simply chuckled—a sound like stones grinding together. "I am Barghest, the fanged fae of hunger and despair. I have devoured gods and heroes alike when they dared enter my domain."
The voluptuous blonde smiled, seeming almost amused by the situation. "And I am Quetzalcoatl—though you may call me Lucoa. Serpent goddess of desire and joy." She tilted her head, studying Ares with unconcealed interest. "In my realm, I have been both worshipped and feared. But I must say, few have ever had the audacity to bind me."
Ares looked unimpressed by their declarations. "Women," he repeated, his tone dismissive. "Lower your voices when you speak to men. Get behind me so I can protect you, and you are no longer allowed to draw blood."
He turned away from them, gazing out across the blasted landscape of Khalzara, its distant mountains jagged like broken teeth against the blood-red sky. "I don't care who you were previously. You are women, caregivers. Lower your eyes and be submissive."
The women exchanged glances ranging from outrage to calculation. It was Zenobia who spoke first, her diplomatic training overriding her initial fury.
"Perhaps," she suggested carefully, "you might explain our current situation more fully, War-God. What precisely do you mean by 'bound'?"
Ares turned back to them, his expression stern. "Look at your wrists."
For the first time, the six women noticed strange markings etched into their skin—chains of arcane script that pulsed with an inner light, matching the rhythm of Ares' own heartbeat. The symbols were unfamiliar, yet somehow each woman understood their meaning instinctively.
"The Chains of Binding," Nitocris whispered, recognition dawning in her violet eyes. "An ancient spell... I have seen similar workings, though never this powerful."
"Your essences are tethered to me now," Ares explained, a hint of satisfaction entering his voice. "Whatever power you possessed in your realms is mine to command in Khalzara. You exist here only through my will."
"Impossible," Artoria stated, though uncertainty crept into her voice as she studied the markings. "No magic could bind the essence of Excalibur's chosen."
"This is not magic as you understand it," Ares replied. "This is the Iron Valor Domain—my divine authority. In Khalzara, my will shapes reality itself."
Barghest sniffed the air, her expression growing troubled. "He speaks truth," she growled. "The chains are real. I can smell the binding... taste it." She bared her teeth in frustration. "My true form... I cannot access it."
Caenis attempted to summon her divine strength, only to find it beyond her reach. Her face contorted with rage. "Coward!" she spat at Ares. "You fear our true power, so you leash us like dogs?"
"I fear nothing," Ares stated simply, the absolute conviction in his voice giving even Caenis pause. "The binding was not my intention. I sought warriors worthy of challenge, not... this." He gestured dismissively at them. "The ritual was meant to summon strength untested. Instead, it brought women from beyond the veil."
Lucoa stepped forward, moving with a fluid grace that drew Ares' attention despite himself. "Perhaps," she suggested, her voice a silken purr, "there was a reason for that. The cosmos rarely makes mistakes in matters of power." She smiled, a knowing gleam in her heterochromatic eyes. "If you summoned me... I'll make sure you never regret it."
Ares stepped back, clearly uncomfortable with her proximity. "Do not mistake my purpose, serpent goddess. I sought power, not pleasure."
"Why not both?" Lucoa asked innocently, though her smile held nothing of innocence.
"Enough," Zenobia interrupted, her tactical mind already working through their options. "War-God, what are your intentions for us now? If we are bound as you claim, what purpose do you see us serving?"
Ares considered this for a moment. "You will accompany me to my fortress. There, you will be given appropriate attire and quarters befitting your... status." His tone made it clear what he thought that status was. "You will learn the ways of Khalzara, and perhaps in time, you may prove yourselves useful in some capacity."
"And if we refuse?" Artoria challenged.
Ares' laugh was sharp and without humor. "Refuse? Look around you, King of Knights. This is the Outer Battlering of Khalzara. At night, the Bloodrifts open, and the beasts emerge—primal forces of hunger and violence that would devour your essence in moments. Without your power, without weapons, without knowledge of this realm... how long do you think you would survive?"
As if on cue, a distant howl echoed across the blasted landscape—a sound so primal and hungry that even Barghest tensed.
"The Crag Howlers stir," Ares noted, glancing at the darkening sky where Khalzara's War Moon was beginning to rise. "We must move quickly. My fortress lies beyond the Ridge of Fallen Kings. If we delay, not even I can guarantee your safety."
Nitocris, who had been silent for some time, studying the chain-marks on her wrist, now looked up with resignation in her violet eyes. "We have little choice for now," she acknowledged, addressing her fellow captives. "In my time as Pharaoh, I learned that patience often succeeds where force would fail. Let us observe and learn before acting rashly."
Zenobia nodded in agreement. "A wise assessment, Priestess-Pharaoh. Strategic retreat is not surrender."
Caenis looked ready to argue, but another howl—closer this time—gave her pause. "Fine," she conceded grudgingly. "But know this, War-God: I may follow for now, but I am no one's servant."
"Your pride matters little to me," Ares replied dismissively. "Come or stay. Live or die. The choice is yours." Without waiting for further discussion, he began walking toward a narrow path that wound between towering rock formations.
After exchanging glances ranging from resigned to calculating, the six women followed. As they walked, the massive crater where they had arrived receded behind them, its ritual markings still pulsing with residual energy.
None of them noticed the shadowy figure watching from atop a distant ridge—a silhouette of horns and claws that observed their departure with ancient, hungry eyes before melting back into the gathering darkness.
The hunt had begun.
## Chapter 2: The Fortress of Iron Will
The journey to Ares' fortress took hours, through landscapes alien to all six women. Khalzara's terrain was a testament to endless warfare—fields of razor-sharp obsidian shards, canyons carved by what appeared to be massive blade strikes, and mountains shaped like broken weapons jutting toward a sky that never lost its blood-red hue.
Three times they were forced to take shelter as flying beasts passed overhead—massive, bat-like creatures with too many eyes and limbs that ended in what looked disconcertingly like swords. Each time, Ares would usher the women into natural shelters, standing at the entrance with Dominius Rex drawn, his posture suggesting he almost welcomed an attack.
"What are those things?" Artoria asked during their third such stop, her military mind automatically assessing potential threats.
"Blade Harpies," Ares replied without turning. "Lesser beasts, barely worth the effort to slay. They hunt in packs, targeting wounded warriors or those separated from their companies."
"You speak as if all creatures here exist solely for combat," Nitocris observed, her scholarly nature evident despite their dire circumstances.
"Because they do," Ares stated matter-of-factly. "In Khalzara, even the earth hungers. The sky bites. The seas bleed. Everything here is born from conflict itself—war-made, trauma-fed, evolving through slaughter."
Barghest had been unusually quiet during the journey, constantly scenting the air and occasionally growling at shadows unseen by the others. Now she fixed her piercing gaze on Ares. "This realm... it responds to strength, doesn't it? The stronger you become, the more it hunts you."
Ares glanced at her with the first hint of respect he'd shown any of them. "Yes. The true predators of Khalzara are drawn to power like moths to flame. The average warrior may live decades facing only lesser beasts. But those who ascend..." He trailed off, his expression suggesting he was recalling specific encounters.
"Those who ascend face greater challenges," Zenobia finished for him, her strategic mind quickly grasping the implications. "A natural equilibrium. Power attracts threat, which either destroys that power or elevates it further when overcome."
"A simpler truth," Ares corrected. "Only the strong deserve to survive here. The weak perish, as they should."
Lucoa, who had been examining the strange vegetation they passed—metallic-looking plants with edges sharp as razors—looked up at this. "A rather harsh philosophy," she commented. "In my realm, both strength and joy were celebrated. One without the other leads to an... unbalanced existence."
Ares ignored her observation, turning his attention back to the sky. "The Harpies have passed. We continue."
As they resumed their journey, Caenis found herself walking alongside Artoria, both warriors naturally falling into a defensive formation without discussing it.
"What do you make of him?" Caenis asked quietly, nodding toward Ares who strode ahead of them.
Artoria considered the question carefully. "Powerful, certainly. Perhaps the most physically imposing being I've encountered. But..."
"Blinded by his own strength," Caenis finished. "Too accustomed to having no equals."
"Yes," Artoria agreed. "Though I suspect there's more to him than simple arrogance. His dismissal of us seems... rehearsed somehow. As if he's playing a role he believes is expected of him."
"Or perhaps he's simply an ass," Caenis muttered, earning a rare, slight smile from the stoic king.
Further ahead, Zenobia had maneuvered herself to walk directly behind Ares, studying his movements and behavior with the practiced eye of a tactician.
"Your fortress," she called to him. "What is its purpose in this realm of endless warfare? A sanctuary? A staging ground?"
"A fortress needs no purpose beyond defense and domination," Ares replied without slowing. "It stands as a declaration of control over territory."
"All structures reflect the values of those who build them," Zenobia pressed. "What does yours say about you, War-God?"
This question actually caused Ares to pause briefly before continuing forward. "It says that I have conquered enough to deserve peace when I choose it," he answered finally. "Though few in Khalzara would dare challenge that claim directly."
Before Zenobia could respond, they crested a ridge, and the fortress came into view.
The structure was magnificent and terrible in equal measure—a monument to war carved from black iron and the bones of what must have been enormous beings. Its walls, jagged and imposing, stretched toward the crimson sky as if challenging the heavens themselves. Multiple layers of defenses were visible—three concentric rings of walls with what Zenobia's experienced eye recognized as killing fields between them.
Banners bearing Ares' insignia—a shattered crown impaled upon a blade—fluttered from its highest towers. The entire structure seemed to pulsate with latent energy, as if the fortress itself were alive and breathing.
"Behold," Ares stated, a note of pride in his usually flat tone. "The Fortress of Iron Will."
"It's... impressive," Nitocris acknowledged, her voice soft with genuine admiration despite their circumstances. "The architectural principles blend styles I've never encountered. Those arches—they defy conventional stress distribution."
"Because they are forged from the ribcages of Void Basilisks," Ares explained, seeming pleased by her observation. "Their bones retain memory of the void, making them lighter than they appear while sacrificing none of their strength."
"You've slain such creatures?" Barghest asked, her tone suggesting newfound respect.
"Three," Ares confirmed. "Though the last nearly took my arm before I severed its heads." He rolled his right shoulder unconsciously, suggesting the wound had left its mark even on his divine physique.
As they approached the massive gates—each easily twenty feet tall and carved with scenes of battle so detailed that the figures seemed almost to move in the dying light—a contingent of warriors emerged to greet them. To the women's surprise, the group included both men and women, all clad in armor similar to Ares' own, though less elaborate.
"Lord Magnus returns!" announced the foremost warrior, a tall woman with close-cropped hair and a network of scars across her face that somehow enhanced rather than diminished her commanding presence. "Open the gates!"
The massive doors swung inward with surprising silence, revealing a bustling courtyard beyond. As Ares led them inside, the six women observed their surroundings with various reactions—Zenobia noting defensive positions and troop distributions, Artoria assessing the quality of the warriors they passed, Nitocris examining the strange architecture, Lucoa smiling at everyone they passed, Barghest sniffing the air constantly, and Caenis glaring at anyone who dared look at her directly.
"Captain Valeria," Ares addressed the scarred woman. "Prepare quarters for these six. They are bound to me through the summoning ritual."
The captain's eyes widened momentarily in surprise before she schooled her expression. "The ritual succeeded then, my lord? These are the champions you sought?"
A muscle twitched in Ares' jaw. "Not... exactly. The ritual brought these women instead. They claim to be legends from beyond the veil, though they appear to have been stripped of whatever power made them so."
Captain Valeria studied the six women with new interest. "I see. And what accommodations would be appropriate, my lord?"
"The servant quarters," Ares stated firmly. "And find them proper attire. Something befitting their station."
Caenis bristled visibly. "And what station would that be, exactly? Prisoners? Slaves?"
"Guests," Captain Valeria interjected smoothly before Ares could respond, earning a sharp glance from her lord. "Bound or not, they are clearly not common servants. The western wing has suitable chambers that are currently unoccupied."
For a moment, it seemed Ares might object, but he merely shrugged. "As you wish, Captain. See to it. I have matters requiring my attention." He turned to the six women. "You will remain within the fortress walls. Any attempt to leave will be... unwise."
With that, he strode away, warriors and servants alike parting before him with obvious deference and perhaps a touch of fear.
"Well," Lucoa broke the silence that followed his departure. "He certainly knows how to make an exit."
"Follow me," Captain Valeria instructed, her tone professional but not unkind. "You must be weary after your journey."
As they followed the captain into the fortress proper, Zenobia moved to walk alongside her. "You countermanded your lord's orders regarding our accommodations," she observed quietly. "That suggests either great courage or significant authority in your own right."
Valeria's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Lord Magnus respects strength and competence above all else. He values my judgment, even when it occasionally contradicts his immediate impulses." She cast a sidelong glance at Zenobia. "He is... complex. More so than he first appears."
"All rulers are," Zenobia replied. "I was queen of Palmyra. I recognize the burdens of leadership."
"Palmyra?" Valeria repeated, her brow furrowing. "I'm unfamiliar with this realm."
"Not a realm. A kingdom on Earth—my Earth, at least. I led armies against the might of Rome, expanded my territory from Egypt to Asia Minor." Zenobia's voice carried both pride and a touch of sorrow. "For a time, at least."
"You were a warrior-queen then," Valeria noted with approval. "That explains much about your bearing."
Their conversation was interrupted as they entered a spacious corridor lit by strange, blue-flamed torches that gave off no smoke. The architecture here was less martial, with actual decorative elements softening the otherwise utilitarian design.
"These will be your quarters," Valeria announced, gesturing to a series of doors along the hallway. "Each chamber is private but connects to shared bathing and dining areas. I'll have appropriate clothing brought for you all."
"Our thanks, Captain," Artoria responded formally. "Your courtesy is noted and appreciated."
Valeria nodded acknowledgment. "Food will be delivered shortly. Rest. Tomorrow comes quickly in Khalzara, and Lord Magnus rarely allows idleness in his fortress." With that, she departed, leaving the six women alone for the first time since their arrival.
They gathered in the central area that connected their individual chambers—a circular room with comfortable seating arranged around a central fire pit where blue flames danced without fuel.
"So," Lucoa began, stretching languidly as she claimed one of the larger seats. "This is certainly not how I expected my day to go. Bound to a war-god in a realm of eternal conflict." She smiled. "Though I must admit, our host is rather impressive, in a brutish sort of way."
"He's a tyrant," Caenis spat. "Arrogant, dismissive—"
"Powerful," Barghest interrupted. "More powerful than any being I've encountered, and I've hunted gods in the wild spaces between worlds." She paced restlessly, her movements reminiscent of a caged predator. "His scent... it's not merely divine. It's... primal. As if he's become one with this realm itself."
"An astute observation," Nitocris said softly. "I sensed it too, though differently. The magical currents here flow through him as much as around him. He is both master and manifestation of this place."
Zenobia had been silent, her keen mind processing everything they had seen and heard. Now she looked up, her blue eyes sharp with purpose. "We need information. About this realm, about Ares Magnus himself, about these bindings." She held up her wrist, where the chain-mark pulsed steadily. "Knowledge is the first step toward freedom."
"And the second?" Artoria asked, though her expression suggested she already knew the answer.
"Alliance," Zenobia stated firmly. "The six of us, despite our different origins and natures, now share a common predicament. United, we stand a better chance than divided."
"Agreed," Nitocris nodded. "In my time as Pharaoh, I learned that even enemies can become allies when facing a greater threat."
"I'm not sure I see Ares as a threat, exactly," Lucoa mused, twirling a strand of her multi-colored hair. "More like... an interesting challenge. One with considerable... assets." She smiled suggestively.
Caenis rolled her eyes. "Is everything a potential conquest to you, serpent goddess?"
"Not everything," Lucoa replied cheerfully. "But I've found that honey often accomplishes what vinegar cannot. If our goal is to understand our situation and potentially free ourselves, different approaches may be necessary."
"She's not wrong," Barghest conceded grudgingly. "In the hunt, one must adapt to the prey. Sometimes stealth succeeds where direct assault would fail."
"So we are agreed then?" Zenobia looked at each of them in turn. "We work together, share what we learn, and present a unified front while pursuing our individual strengths?"
One by one, they nodded—even Caenis, though reluctantly.
"Good," Zenobia concluded. "Then let us rest and prepare. Tomorrow, we begin to understand this Khalzara and its War-God."
As they dispersed to their individual chambers, none noticed the small, metallic creature clinging to the ceiling—something like a spider but with too many eyes, all of which focused intently on the women below before scuttling away through a tiny crevice in the wall.
In his private chambers, surrounded by maps and battle plans, Ares Magnus received the creature's report through means both magical and mechanical. His expression remained impassive as he listened to the women's conversation, though a slight crease appeared between his brows at their talk of alliance and freedom.
"Interesting," he murmured to himself. "Perhaps they are not entirely without merit after all."
Outside, the War Moon climbed higher, casting long shadows across Khalzara's blasted landscape. And far beyond the fortress walls, in the deep Bloodrifts where light feared to tread, ancient things stirred—drawn by the scent of foreign divinity, hungering for the essence now bound to six women and the war-god who claimed them.
The hunt continued.
## Chapter 3: The First Test
Dawn in Khalzara came not as gentle illumination but as a violent surge of crimson that spilled across the horizon like fresh blood on dark steel. The abrupt transition jolted most of the women from their sleep—all except Barghest, who had barely rested, instead spending the night prowling her chamber like a caged beast.
They gathered in the central area where servants had delivered a breakfast that reflected Khalzara's martial culture—heavy bread dense with seeds and nuts, meat so rare it was nearly raw, and a steaming beverage that smelled of herbs and metal.
"Is this... coffee?" Lucoa asked, sniffing the dark liquid cautiously.
"Blood-herb tea," answered a voice from the doorway. Captain Valeria entered, now dressed in full battle armor that accentuated her tall, muscular frame. "It strengthens the heart and sharpens the senses. Warriors drink it before training."
"Are we to train then?" Artoria inquired, her posture straightening at the prospect of physical activity. The forced inaction of the previous evening had clearly chafed at her warrior's spirit.
"Lord Magnus has commanded your presence in the great hall once you've finished your meal," Valeria informed them. "He wishes to... assess your potential worth."
"Our worth?" Caenis bristled, her hand clenching around her cup. "Does he think us horses at auction?"
Valeria's scarred face remained impassive. "In Khalzara, worth is measured in blood and victory. Gender matters little on the battlefield to those with skill enough to survive it." She cast an evaluating eye over the six women. "He will test you. Not as women, but as warriors—or whatever you claim to be."
"And if we fail this test?" Nitocris asked quietly.
"That depends on how you fail," Valeria replied cryptically. "I've brought training attire. The great hall can be... unforgiving to those improperly equipped." She indicated a pile of clothing and light armor pieces near the doorway before taking her leave.
As they changed into the provided gear—leather bracers, lightweight armor pieces, boots designed for stability—each woman prepared in her own way. Zenobia braided her silver hair tightly against her scalp with practiced movements. Artoria performed a series of precise stretches, her muscle memory clearly recalling the preparations for countless battles. Nitocris closed her eyes in brief meditation, her lips moving in silent prayer to deities who might not exist in this realm. Barghest simply rolled her shoulders and neck, her movements reminding the others of a predator preparing to hunt. Caenis paced impatiently, while Lucoa took perhaps the most time adjusting her attire to accommodate her generous figure.
"No weapons," Caenis noted with a scowl. "Does he expect us to fight bare-handed?"
"Perhaps that is the test," Artoria suggested. "To see if we can acquire what we need rather than having it provided."
Zenobia, ever practical, nodded in agreement. "Whatever comes, we face it with dignity. Remember who you were—are—beneath these chains."
Nitocris stood, her expression resolute. "In my time, I commanded the Nile itself to rise up and drown my enemies," she murmured. "Now I cannot even feel its currents within my blood." She turned to the others, determination hardening her delicate features. "But I was Pharaoh before I was goddess. I ruled through will as much as divine right."
"Well said," Artoria acknowledged with respect. "Power is in the spirit as much as in the sword."
Led by a silent guard, they made their way through the fortress, noting details they had missed in their exhaustion the previous day. The structure was even more impressive by morning light—corridors lined with weapons and armor of fallen enemies, halls decorated with massive tapestries depicting battles so realistic they seemed almost to move, and everywhere, warriors training, planning, or maintaining their equipment with disciplined focus.
The great hall, when they reached it, was not the dining chamber they had expected, but an enormous arena-like space with a high ceiling supported by columns carved to resemble ancient trees. The floor was covered in sand over stone, and various obstacles—low walls, pillars, trenches—created a complex battlefield rather than a simple open space.
Ares Magnus stood at the center, now dressed in full battle regalia. His armor, black with gold accents, was more elaborate than what he had worn during their journey, with intricate engravings depicting past victories along the pauldrons and breastplate. Dominius Rex was planted before him, its golden-edged blade catching the light that streamed through high windows.
Around the perimeter of the hall stood dozens of warriors—men and women alike—watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to open skepticism.
"The bound six approach," Ares announced as they entered, his deep voice carrying effortlessly to all corners of the hall. "They believe themselves worthy of proving their mettle by Khalzara's standards."
A murmur rippled through the watching warriors.
"Khalzara knows only one true measure of worth," Ares continued, his eyes sweeping over the women with cool assessment. "Blood freely given in honorable combat." He raised a hand, and a line of warriors stepped forward, each carrying a weapon—swords, spears, axes, even a massive war hammer. "Choose your arms. Face your trials. Show us what legends from beyond the veil are made of."
The six women approached the weapon bearers cautiously, each selecting what best suited their fighting style.
Artoria took a longsword, her hands moving with the certainty of one who had wielded similar weapons for decades. Though it was not Excalibur, she tested its weight and balance with practiced ease, her body naturally falling into ## Chapter 3: The First Test (Continued)
Artoria's stance as she gripped the longsword. Its balance was different from Excalibur, heavier toward the tip, but the familiar weight of steel in her palm sent a surge of confidence through her body.
Caenis claimed a spear, twirling it experimentally with the fluid grace of one born to the weapon. Her eyes narrowed as she assessed its reach and balance. "Crude," she muttered, "but it will serve."
Zenobia selected a pair of short swords, testing their weight with precise movements. Though her greatest victories had been strategic rather than personal combat, she had trained extensively with royal guards and knew how to defend herself.
Nitocris chose a simple staff, reminiscent of her ceremonial tools as Pharaoh. She spun it once, her movements elegant and practiced, though without the magical enhancements she was accustomed to.
Barghest opted for no weapon at all, flexing her fingers as if her natural claws were sufficient. "Steel dulls," she rumbled when questioned. "Fangs do not."
Lucoa, after some consideration, took a light whip-like weapon with metal barbs along its length. She tested it with a flick of her wrist, the weapon extending with a musical hiss. "Interesting," she purred, eyeing the intrigued reactions of nearby warriors.
Once armed, they turned back to Ares, awaiting further instruction.
The war-god gestured, and the arena began to transform. Sections of the ground slid away, revealing mechanisms beneath that raised additional obstacles—pillars, low walls, trenches filled with sharp stakes. The assembled warriors backed away, widening the perimeter of the training ground.
"Three trials," Ares announced. "Endurance. Skill. Will." He pointed to a large hourglass being set up at the edge of the arena. "When the last grain falls, those still standing may claim their place among Khalzara's warriors."
"And what exactly will we be facing?" Zenobia inquired, her tactical mind already assessing the transformed battlefield.
Ares' smile was cold as winter steel. "Me."
A ripple of surprise went through the six women. Even the watching warriors seemed taken aback.
"All of us against you alone?" Artoria clarified, brow furrowed.
"Oh no, King of Knights," Ares replied, amusement flickering in his eyes. "That would hardly be fair to you." He snapped his fingers, and six warriors stepped forward from the crowd—each massive and heavily armored, carrying weapons that matched those chosen by the women. "Each of you will face an opponent of my choosing. Succeed, and you move to the next trial. Fail..." He left the implication hanging.
"And if we refuse to participate in this spectacle?" Nitocris asked, her voice quiet but firm.
"Then you declare yourselves unworthy of respect in Khalzara," Ares answered simply. "You will be treated as the servants you appear to be, rather than the legends you claim to be."
The women exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. Then, without verbal agreement, they spread out across the arena, each taking a position before one of the waiting opponents.
"The first trial begins!" Ares declared, stepping back to observe from a raised platform.
The warriors attacked immediately, giving the women no time to prepare further. The hall echoed with the clash of steel on steel and the grunts of exertion.
Artoria faced a broad-shouldered man wielding a greatsword nearly as tall as himself. His first swing came with staggering force, but she sidestepped with practiced grace, her borrowed sword flashing in a counterstrike that was deflected by her opponent's armor.
"You move well for a woman," the warrior grunted, pressing his attack with a series of powerful downward strikes.
"And you talk too much for a soldier," Artoria replied calmly, parrying another blow before darting inside his guard to land a precise hit at the joint of his armor. Not a killing blow, but one that drew first blood.
Nearby, Caenis was fully engaged with a female warrior whose spear technique matched her own in speed if not refinement. They circled each other, trading thrusts and parries in a deadly dance.
"I know your type," the warrior taunted. "All fury, no discipline."
Caenis snarled, her next attack coming as a flurry of strikes too fast to follow individually. "And I know yours," she shot back. "All talk, no bite!"
Zenobia faced perhaps the most tactical of the opponents—a slender fighter who used the arena's obstacles to full advantage, never staying still long enough for her to press an attack. She studied his movements carefully, conserving her energy.
"Patience against patience," she murmured, more to herself than her circling opponent. "Let's see who breaks first."
Nitocris found herself against a staff-wielder who fought with fluid, almost dance-like movements. The warrior's technique was unfamiliar, using the staff more as an extension of the body than as a striking implement.
"Your form is strange," Nitocris observed, blocking a spinning attack that would have caught her temple.
"As is yours, priestess," the warrior replied. "But strange does not mean ineffective." To demonstrate, he suddenly dropped and swept his staff at her ankles.
Nitocris jumped, barely avoiding the sweep, and countered with a strike of her own. "Indeed not."
Barghest's fight was the most primal—she faced a massive warrior who, like her, fought with gauntleted fists rather than weapons. Their exchange was brutal, each impact resonating through the hall like thunder.
"You hit hard for a woman," the warrior growled after a particularly solid exchange.
Barghest's answering grin was all teeth. "I hit hard for a god," she corrected, before launching herself at him with renewed ferocity.
Lucoa's match contrasted sharply with the others. Her opponent, a lithe woman with intricate scars decorating her exposed arms, wielded a similar whip-like weapon. Their combat was almost hypnotic—both fighters moving with fluid grace, their weapons creating patterns in the air between them.
"You've used this weapon before," the warrior observed, sounding impressed despite herself.
Lucoa smiled. "Something similar, though with different... applications." She flicked her wrist, and the barbed end of her whip caught her opponent's weapon, momentarily entangling them. "Some skills translate across realms."
From his platform, Ares watched with increasing interest. He had expected failure—perhaps even hoped for it to justify his dismissal of these women. Instead, he saw skill. Not equal to Khalzara's finest perhaps, but considerable nonetheless.
"Impressive, aren't they?" Captain Valeria commented, having positioned herself near her lord to observe.
"They surprise," Ares conceded grudgingly. "But the first trial tests only basic combat capability. The true measure comes next."
The duels continued for what seemed like hours, though the hourglass showed only a fraction of its sand had fallen. Sweat glistened on the combatants, and minor injuries accumulated on both sides. Through it all, the women fought with a determination that gradually earned murmurs of approval from the watching warriors.
Finally, Ares raised his hand. "Enough! The first trial concludes."
The combatants separated, many breathing heavily. To the surprise of the audience, all six women remained standing, though not unscathed. Artoria had a cut along her cheek, Caenis favored her left leg slightly, Zenobia's right arm bore a shallow gash, Nitocris had a bruise darkening on her jaw, Barghest's knuckles were bloody, and Lucoa had a tear in her armor near her shoulder.
"You have demonstrated basic combat competence," Ares acknowledged. "Now we test skill."
He gestured, and the arena transformed again. This time, the obstacles receded, and instead, the floor separated into six distinct circles, each perhaps ten feet in diameter.
"The second trial is one of precision," Ares explained. "Remain within your circle. Defeat any who enter it." He snapped his fingers again, and from hidden doors around the perimeter of the hall emerged new opponents—smaller, faster warriors armed with throwing weapons and short blades.
"Begin!"
This trial proved more challenging than the first. The women quickly realized they could not leave their designated circles, even as multiple opponents harassed them from the edges, darting in for quick strikes before retreating.
Zenobia, ever the strategist, quickly assessed the pattern. "They're testing our defensive capabilities," she called to the others. "Conserve movement. Let them come to you."
Artoria nodded her understanding, settling into an economical guard position that protected her circle's center. When attackers came, her counters were precise—not seeking to wound severely, but to force retreat.
Caenis struggled more with this constraint. Her fighting style had always favored aggression and pursuit. Forced to remain stationary, she grew increasingly frustrated as attackers peppered her with small, irritating strikes.
"Cowards!" she snarled after a particularly annoying exchange where three warriors had coordinated their assault, striking from different angles simultaneously.
"No," Barghest called from her own circle, where she faced similar tactics. "Smart. They know they can't match us individually, so they use numbers and mobility." Despite her words, the fanged fae was managing better than expected, her heightened senses allowing her to track multiple attackers even when they tried to blindside her.
Nitocris had adapted her staff technique to create a defensive perimeter, spinning it rapidly to discourage close approach. "There is wisdom in this exercise," she observed. "A true warrior must defend territory, not merely attack."
Lucoa's approach differed entirely. Rather than actively defending, she stood almost casually in her circle's center, her whip loose at her side. When attackers approached, her response was surgically precise—a flick of the wrist, a barbed tip finding vulnerable points with uncanny accuracy.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Zenobia commented during a brief lull when their circles were positioned adjacent to each other.
Lucoa's smile was radiant. "Combat has its own beauty, doesn't it? The dance of life and death, the exchange of will through steel rather than words." Her heterochromatic eyes gleamed. "Besides, I'm learning so much about our hosts."
"Such as?" Zenobia pressed, deflecting a thrown knife without taking her attention from Lucoa.
"Such as the fact that our dear War-God hasn't taken his eyes off us since the trials began," Lucoa replied with a knowing smirk. "For someone who claims to dismiss women as warriors, he seems remarkably interested in our performance."
Zenobia risked a glance toward Ares' platform and confirmed Lucoa's observation. The war-god's expression remained stern, but his attention was indeed fixed on their trials with an intensity that belied his stated disinterest.
The second trial continued until the hourglass showed half its sand depleted. By then, all six women showed signs of fatigue, though none had yielded their circles. Cuts, bruises, and tears in their training attire evidenced the persistent attacks they had weathered.
Again, Ares raised his hand. "The second trial concludes. You have shown skill in defense. Now we test will."
The floor transformed a third time, now rising to create a single elevated platform in the center of the hall. The six women were directed to stand upon it, forming a circle facing outward.
"The final trial is one of endurance and unity," Ares announced. "Hold this position until the last grain falls." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled warriors. "Against them."
At his signal, seemingly every warrior in the hall moved forward—dozens of armed fighters converging on the platform from all sides.
"Well," Caenis muttered, adjusting her grip on her spear. "This should be interesting."
"Back to back," Artoria commanded, taking charge instinctively. "Form a perimeter. Defend each other as well as yourselves."
"Agreed," Zenobia nodded. "Nitocris, your staff has the longest reach after Caenis's spear. You two take opposite sides. Barghest, you and I will cover the flanks. Artoria, you and Lucoa handle anyone who breaks through."
The women arranged themselves according to this strategy just as the first wave of attackers reached the platform. What followed was a chaotic blur of combat—steel ringing against steel, bodies pressing from all sides, the platform itself becoming slick with sweat and blood.
Despite their fatigue from the previous trials, the six fought with renewed determination, each finding strength in the coordinated defense they had established. When Zenobia faltered after a blow to her shoulder, Barghest seamlessly filled the gap. When Nitocris's staff was nearly wrenched from her hands, Lucoa's whip lashed out to distract her attacker.
Through it all, they became increasingly aware of each other's rhythms and techniques, adjusting their own to complement rather than hinder. It was as if they had fought together for years rather than minutes.
From his vantage point, Ares watched with growing fascination. This was not simply six individuals fighting together—this was a unit forming before his eyes, adapting and strengthening with each exchange.
"They're learning from each other," Valeria observed quietly. "The Queen's strategic mind, the King's disciplined swordplay, the Fae's raw power, the Pharaoh's ceremonial precision, the Spearwoman's aggression, the Serpent's fluid grace—all blending into something new."
"Yes," Ares agreed, his voice thoughtful. "Perhaps the ritual was not entirely... misguided."
As the final grains of sand trickled through the hourglass, the women still held the platform, though barely. Their borrowed weapons were notched, their armor in tatters, their bodies marked with countless minor wounds. Yet they stood, unbroken, their circle intact.
"Halt!" Ares commanded, and immediately, the attacking warriors withdrew, many showing their own injuries from the prolonged engagement.
The hall fell silent except for the heavy breathing of the combatants. The six women remained in their defensive formation, wary of another surprise attack.
Ares descended from his platform, approaching with measured steps. He circled them once, assessing their condition with an expert's eye.
"You have survived the three trials," he finally stated. "Endurance. Skill. Will. All demonstrated adequately, if not exceptionally."
"High praise indeed," Caenis muttered sarcastically, though she was careful to keep her voice low.
Ares either didn't hear or chose to ignore the comment. "The question remains: what am I to do with you now?"
Zenobia, despite her exhaustion, straightened her posture. "Recognize our worth, perhaps? Or at least acknowledge that gender does not determine martial capability."
"Worth is earned through blood in Khalzara," Ares replied, his tone suggesting this was fundamental truth rather than opinion. "You have spilled yours today, and that of others. It is... a beginning."
"A beginning of what, exactly?" Artoria questioned.
Ares considered this for a moment. "Integration," he decided. "You are bound to me, and now you have proven yourselves not entirely useless. Tomorrow, you will begin true training in the ways of Khalzara's warriors."
"And our accommodations?" Nitocris inquired. "Will we remain in the western wing?"
"For now," Ares conceded. "Though you will earn your keep through service to the fortress. Captain Valeria will assign duties suitable to your... demonstrated abilities."
With that, he turned to address the assembled warriors. "Let it be known that these six, though women and outsiders, have shown sufficient valor to merit basic training. They are not to be harassed without cause, nor are they to be granted unearned privileges. They will prove themselves daily, as all in my fortress must."
The declaration met with nods of acceptance, and perhaps a touch of newfound respect from those who had witnessed the trials firsthand.
"Dismissed," Ares commanded, and the hall began to empty, warriors returning to their regular duties.
As the six women prepared to return to their quarters for much-needed rest and recovery, Ares spoke to them once more, his voice pitched low enough that only they could hear.
"Tonight, you dine at my table," he informed them. "It is... customary for those who pass the trials to be formally recognized."
Before any could respond, he strode away, Dominius Rex once again slung across his broad back, his cape billowing behind him like a banner of war.
"Did he just... invite us to dinner?" Caenis asked incredulously.
"I believe he did," Lucoa confirmed, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "How interesting."
"Don't read too much into it," Zenobia cautioned. "It's likely political—establishing our new status publicly."
"Still," Nitocris mused, "it represents a shift in his approach. From dismissal to... conditional acceptance."
"Progress," Artoria concluded with a firm nod. "Small, but meaningful."
Barghest simply sniffed the air, her eyes narrowing slightly. "He smelled different when he approached us. Less contempt. More... curiosity." Her sharp teeth flashed in a predatory smile. "The hunt changes."
## Chapter 4: A Feast of Warriors
The western wing's bathing chamber proved to be a revelation—a large, tiered pool fed by underground hot springs, the water tinged slightly blue and smelling faintly of minerals. Steam rose in lazy whorls, creating an almost mystical atmosphere enhanced by the blue-flame torches that provided the only illumination.
"Divine," Lucoa sighed as she sank into the deepest tier, her voluptuous form barely concealed by the swirling waters. "Almost worth being bound to a war-god just for this."
"Speak for yourself," Caenis grumbled, though she too had succumbed to the soothing properties of the bath, her numerous bruises and cuts already looking less angry against her pale skin.
Zenobia, ever practical, was methodically cleaning each wound before allowing herself to relax. "We performed better than expected today," she observed. "Both individually and as a unit."
"We adapted," Artoria agreed from where she sat on the bath's edge, only her legs submerged as she carefully tended to a deeper cut on her forearm. "Though I suspect the trials were designed to test basic competence rather than true combat capability."
"Auditions," Nitocris suggested, her purple hair floating around her like a royal mantle as she reclined in the water. "To determine if we were worth investing further effort into."
"Or worth keeping alive," Barghest added bluntly. She had initially been reluctant to enter the bath, prowling the perimeter with predatory wariness before finally submitting to the lure of hot water on aching muscles.
"I don't think death was ever the intended outcome," Zenobia countered. "Consider: Ares invested considerable power in the summoning ritual. We are bound to him through those marks." She raised her wrist, where the chain-mark pulsed steadily. "We represent a resource, regardless of his personal views on female warriors."
"A resource for what, though?" Artoria questioned, finally sliding fully into the bath with a barely suppressed sigh of relief. "That remains unclear."
"Perhaps tonight's dinner will provide some insight," Lucoa suggested, stretching languorously before retrieving a small vial of scented oil that had been provided alongside towels and fresh clothing. "Speaking of which, we should prepare ourselves properly. First impressions have been made, but second impressions often leave deeper marks."
As if summoned by her words, servants arrived—four young women carrying stacks of garments and various grooming implements. They set these items down silently before withdrawing with respectful bows.
Investigating the offerings, the women discovered clothing far different from the simple training attire they had been provided initially. These garments were finely crafted, clearly designed with both function and aesthetics in mind.
"Are these... dresses?" Caenis asked suspiciously, holding up a flowing garment in deep crimson.
"Not exactly," Zenobia replied, examining her own ensemble—a silver-blue outfit that resembled her royal attire from Palmyra, though adapted to Khalzara's more martial aesthetic. "More like formal armor. Note the reinforced panels and the accommodation for weapons."
Indeed, each outfit appeared tailored to its recipient's fighting style and personal aesthetics. Artoria's incorporated elements of her royal blue and silver. Nitocris's echoed her pharaonic regalia without the more elaborate headdress. Barghest's featured the organic-metallic fusion she favored, with accommodations for her more bestial features. Caenis's emphasized mobility without sacrificing protection. And Lucoa's, while perhaps the most revealing of the set, still maintained the fundamental elements of battle-readiness.
"He's studied us," Artoria noted, running her fingers over the fabric of her garment. "These weren't created after today's trials—they're too detailed, too personalized. He had them commissioned before he knew if we would survive the testing."
"Confidence or premonition?" Nitocris wondered.
"Pragmatism," Zenobia suggested. "Prepare for success while expecting failure—a sound military principle."
Clean, treated for their injuries, and dressed in their new attire, the six women made a striking sight as they were escorted to Ares' great hall by Captain Valeria. The fortress inhabitants they passed stopped to watch their progress, expressions ranging from curiosity to grudging respect after word of their trial performance had spread.
The great hall had been transformed from its earlier combat configuration. Now a massive feast table dominated the space, crafted from the same black stone as the rest of the fortress but polished to a mirror shine. Warriors filled most of the seats—men and women in their finest battle regalia, adorned with trophies of past victories.
At the head of the table sat Ares Magnus himself, now dressed in ceremonial armor that managed to be both more elaborate and somehow more practical than what he had worn during the trials. The glowing war-markings beneath his eyes seemed brighter in the hall's blue-flame illumination, and Dominius Rex rested against his chair, always within reach.
A subtle hush fell as the six women entered, all eyes turning to assess them in their new attire. Valeria led them directly to vacant seats positioned near Ares himself—a clear statement of their newfound status that was not lost on the assembled warriors.
"The trial-proven approach," Ares announced, rising to his feet. His deep voice carried effortlessly through the hall without apparent effort. "Let them be recognized as worthy of Khalzara's basic instruction."
A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the gathering, followed by a traditional response that the women would later learn was customary: "Blood earned, respect granted."
With that brief ceremony complete, the feast began in earnest. Servants brought massive platters laden with foods both familiar and utterly alien to the women—meats they couldn't identify, fruits that seemed to pulse with inner light, breads darker than shadow and wines that sparked like liquid fire.
"Is it safe to eat?" Caenis muttered to Zenobia, eyeing a particularly strange dish with suspicion.
"Watch what others consume first," Zenobia advised quietly. "And note that our generous host has yet to actually acknowledge us directly since the announcement."
Indeed, Ares seemed to be deliberately focusing his attention on the warriors seated further down the table, engaged in discussion of recent border skirmishes and beast migrations. The positioning that had initially seemed like an honor now felt more like strategic placement—keeping them close enough to observe but not directly engage with.
"Politics," Artoria murmured, recognizing the tactic from countless court feasts in Camelot. "We are being displayed rather than integrated."
"For now," Nitocris agreed, delicately sampling a dark bread that turned out to taste surprisingly sweet. "The dynamics will evolve as we prove our continued value."
Barghest, less concerned with social subtleties, was contentedly devouring a barely-cooked haunch of some large animal, occasionally growling softly in approval at the flavor. Several nearby warriors watched her with a mixture of disgust and fascination.
Lucoa, meanwhile, had adopted a different approach entirely. Selecting a goblet of the sparking wine, she raised it in direct salute to Ares before taking a deliberate sip, her heterochromatic eyes never leaving his face. The gesture was just bold enough to draw attention without being explicitly challenging.
For a moment, Ares seemed prepared to ignore the gesture. Then, perhaps recognizing the politics of the situation, he returned the salute with the barest inclination of his head before resuming his conversation.
Small victory though it was, Lucoa's smile suggested satisfaction. "See?" she whispered to Zenobia. "Acknowledgment. The first crack in the wall."
"Or simply political expedience," Zenobia countered, though she nodded appreciatively at the technique. "Still, well played."
As the feast progressed, the women found themselves gradually drawn into conversations with nearby warriors, many of whom had witnessed their performance in the trials. The initial reticence gave way to professional curiosity—questions about fighting techniques from their home realms, comparisons of weapon designs, discussions of tactical principles that transcended world barriers.
Zenobia found herself engaged with a grizzled commander responsible for the fortress's eastern defenses, discussing the merits of various perimeter security approaches. Artoria was deep in conversation with a swordmaster interested in her unique style, which differed from Khalzara's more power-focused techniques. Nitocris had attracted the attention of several warriors interested in her staff work, which incorporated ceremonial movements unfamiliar to them. Barghest was being cautiously questioned by beast-hunters curious about her fae nature. Even Caenis had found common ground with spear-wielders impressed by her speed.
Only Lucoa seemed more interested in observing than participating, her gaze frequently returning to Ares with speculative interest. When she caught Nitocris watching her, the serpent goddess simply smiled.
"Know your prey," she explained quietly. "Our war-god is fascinating, isn't he? So much power, so much certainty, yet so..." She searched for the right word. "Isolated."
Nitocris considered this. "The burden of supreme command," she suggested. "I felt it as Pharaoh. To stand above all others is to stand apart from them as well."
"Perhaps," Lucoa agreed. "But there's more to it, I think. Look at how they defer to him—not merely from respect or fear, but from genuine reverence. Yet he maintains distance even from his closest captains."
Before Nitocris could respond, a commotion at the hall's entrance drew everyone's attention. A warrior staggered in, bloodied and clearly exhausted, supported by two companions. His armor was shredded across the chest, revealing deep wounds that resembled claw marks but seemed to shimmer with an unnatural light.
"Lord Magnus!" one of the supporters called. "Bloodrift breach at the northern perimeter! Void Basilisks—at least three, maybe more!"
The hall erupted into controlled chaos—warriors immediately rising, weapons being retrieved, commands issued in rapid succession. Ares stood, his earlier political maneuvering forgotten as he reverted instantly to war-leader.
"Valeria, secure the inner fortress. Thorn Company to the north wall. Ash Blades to the eastern approach in case it's a diversion." His orders came rapid-fire, each received with immediate acknowledgment and action.
The six women found themselves suddenly ignored as the hall emptied, warriors rushing to their defensive positions. They exchanged glances, uncertainty clear in their expressions.
"What do we do?" Caenis asked, hand instinctively reaching for her spear, which had been stored along with the other weapons upon their entrance to the feast.
"We were not given orders," Artoria noted, though her posture suggested she was as ready for action as Caenis.
Zenobia's eyes narrowed in thought. "Which itself is an order of sorts. We're expected to remain here, out of the way."
"Like helpless females," Caenis spat. "While actual fighting occurs elsewhere."
"Strategic decision," Zenobia corrected. "We're unknown quantities in an emergency situation. Including us could create confusion in their established protocols."
Before the debate could continue, Ares himself approached them, Dominius Rex now in hand and gleaming with deadly purpose.
"You will remain in the inner fortress," he commanded, his tone broking no argument. "Bloodrift breaches are no place for—"
"For women?" Caenis challenged, rising to her feet. "We just proved ourselves in combat!"
"For untrained fighters," Ares corrected sharply. "Void Basilisks are Tier IV predators. Looking into their eyes erases you from memory itself. Their venom turns blood to stone. Their scales deflect ordinary steel." He towered over Caenis, his war-markings pulsing brighter with his intensity. "This is not about your gender. This is about survival. You are not prepared for this threat."
Before any could further object, he turned to a nearby guard. "Escort them to the central chamber. None are to leave until the all-clear is sounded." With that, he strode from the hall, his cape billowing behind him like a war banner.
The guard, clearly intimidated by both his assignment and the increasingly frustrated women he was tasked with containing, gestured nervously toward a side door. "Please, honored guests. The central chamber is secure against any breach."
"Are we prisoners or guests now?" Caenis demanded, though she followed reluctantly as Zenobia led the way, recognizing the futility of resistance at this juncture.
The central chamber proved to be a fortified room at the heart of the fortress—circular, windowless, with walls of the same black stone but reinforced with bands of some silvery metal that hummed faintly with power. Multiple doors led in different directions, all currently sealed.
"Shelter during attacks," the guard explained, somewhat more comfortable now that they were contained. "These walls would withstand even a Titan-class beast." He hesitated, then added, "I must secure the entrance. Please remain calm. The fortress has never fallen to a Bloodrift breach."
With that less-than-reassuring statement, he departed, the heavy door sealing behind him with an ominous thud.
"Well," Lucoa broke the silence, examining their new confinement with mild interest. "This is certainly not how I expected our feast to end."
"We're being sheltered like children," Caenis fumed, pacing the perimeter of the room. "While actual warriors fight and die."
"We're being protected like valuable assets," Zenobia corrected. "Remember our chain-marks. Whatever essence we possess is bound to Ares. Our deaths might weaken him in some way."
"Or strengthen his enemies," Nitocris suggested thoughtfully. "If these Void Basilisks devour essence as Captain Valeria mentioned during our tour, consuming us might grant them power from beyond Khalzara."
"A logical precaution then," Artoria conceded, though she too seemed frustrated by their forced inaction. "Though I dislike being sidelined during battle."
Barghest, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly lifted her head, nostrils flaring. "Blood," she announced grimly. "Fresh. And something else... something not of this realm."
Before anyone could question her further, a distant impact shook the fortress, causing dust to drift from the ceiling. It was followed by another, stronger tremor, and then a sound none of them had heard before—a screech so high-pitched it bordered on inaudible, yet somehow conveyed ancient malice.
"That," Nitocris whispered, "does not sound like a battle going well."
Another impact, closer this time, sent small cracks spiderwebbing across one wall of their shelter. The silvery bands hummed louder in response, the cracks sealing themselves almost as quickly as they formed.
"Self-repairing defenses," Zenobia noted with professional approval. "Impressive engineering."
"Let's hope they're impressive enough," Caenis muttered as yet another impact rattled the chamber.
For nearly an hour, they remained trapped in the central chamber as the sounds of battle ebbed and flowed around them. Occasionally, they could hear the clash of weapons or shouted orders, but mostly it was the inhuman screeching of the Basilisks and the ominous impacts as the massive creatures hurled themselves against the fortress defenses.
Then, abruptly, silence fell.
"Is it over?" Lucoa wondered, moving closer to the sealed door.
"Or has the fortress fallen?" Nitocris countered grimly.
"No," Barghest stated with certainty, her heightened senses providing information the others lacked. "I smell victory. And..." She inhaled deeply. "Blood. Much blood."
When the door finally unsealed, it was Captain Valeria who entered, her armor splattered with a substance that shimmered like liquid mercury. Her left arm was bound in a hasty field dressing, and a new scar was forming across her cheek, but her expression was one of grim satisfaction.
"The breach is contained," she announced. "Lord Magnus requests your presence on the north wall."
"Requests?" Zenobia repeated, catching the unusual phrasing. "Not commands?"
"His exact words," Valeria confirmed.
The women followed her through corridors showing clear signs of battle—scorched walls, fallen debris, occasional smears of both regular blood and the mercury-like substance Valeria herself was splattered with. Warriors passed them heading in both directions—some wounded being helped to healing chambers, others carrying repair materials or replacement weapons.
"Casualties?" Artoria inquired, her experience as a military leader making such concerns automatic.
"Twelve confirmed," Valeria answered tersely. "Eight more severely wounded. The final count may be higher."
"And the enemy?" Zenobia asked.
"Three Void Basilisks, as reported. Two slain, one driven back into the Bloodrift." Pride entered Valeria's voice as she added, "Lord Magnus himself took down the largest—a twenty-meter bull with nine eyes."
When they finally emerged onto the northern wall, the devastation became fully apparent. Entire sections had been reduced to rubble. Defense mechanisms lay