"I said I'm fine," I grumbled, halfway upright, as two highly determined princesses tried to flatten me back onto the mattress like I was a particularly opinionated pancake that had gotten ideas above its station.
"You feel fine," Rachel snapped, planting a knee beside my ribs for leverage, "but that doesn't mean you are fine. You literally broke through to peak Integration while fighting a Vampire Ancestor. Do you even remember what that looked like?"
Seraphina nodded along silently, her silver brows furrowed in agreement. Her expression suggested she was calculating the fastest way to medically sedate me with a spoon if necessary, and furthermore, that she had already identified three different spoons suitable for the task.
"I know, I know," I said, lifting my hands in surrender—a gesture that turned out to be premature for reasons I would discover shortly. "I'll probably hit Ascendant-rank a few months late as a result, but that's fine. I didn't explode, I didn't cough up blood, and my organs appear to be in their factory-standard configuration. I feel good. Better than good. Strong, even."
It was true. The transformation had left me feeling like someone had upgraded my entire operating system without asking permission first. My mana flowed smoother, my reflexes were sharper, and there was a strange new awareness humming beneath my consciousness—as if I could sense the fundamental structure of magic itself.
'You're also talking like someone who's about to do something spectacularly stupid,' Luna observed helpfully in my mind. 'Which, historically, is when people like you end up back in healing chambers.'
Rachel and Seraphina looked at each other. Not one of those casual glances, either. This was the kind of exchange that carried the weight of shared battlefields, long campaigns, and far too many conversations that began with "He's doing what now?" It was a look that said they had anticipated this exact argument and had prepared countermeasures.
And then—before my suspicious brain could register the danger—they grabbed my arms with the coordinated precision of two people who had definitely planned this. There was a faint click, musical and ominous.
My hands were cuffed.
Ancient-grade mana-suppression restraints, to be precise. The kind with actual artistic merit—beautifully crafted bands of nullmetal inlaid with containment runes that sparkled like trapped starlight. They fit perfectly, which suggested a distressing level of premeditation on someone's part.
We all paused to consider this development in stunned silence.
In the background of my mind, Luna was absolutely howling with laughter. It echoed across my thoughts like someone had taken the concept of "dignity" and drop-kicked it into a volcano, then sold tickets to watch it burn.
My shoulders twitched as I processed the betrayal.
"Rachel. Seraphina," I said quietly, in the voice people use when talking to cats that have just knocked a priceless heirloom off the table and are now sitting in the pieces with obvious satisfaction.
"This is for your own good!" they both declared in unison, with that exact kind of cheerful, insufferable righteousness that comes from knowing you've technically done the right thing in the most irritating way possible.
I landed on the bed with the majestic plop of a man thoroughly betrayed by the people he trusted to not resort to magical restraints during what should have been a perfectly reasonable discussion about my recovery timeline.
My mana flared for a moment in protest—only to fizzle into the void like a candle being snuffed out by a particularly efficient bureaucrat.
I blinked at the cuffs, examining the craftsmanship with the sort of professional appreciation one develops after years of having various magical implements used on one's person. "Did you two seriously just cuff me with an Ancient-grade artifact? Do you have any idea how much these things cost?"
Seraphina gave a very small, very smug nod. "Mount Hua's treasury is quite comprehensive."
Rachel folded her arms like a satisfied arms dealer who had just closed a particularly lucrative deal. "You already did your job. You survived a fight with a Vampire Ancestor. You made sure the Princess of Mount Hua didn't die. Which, I might add, no one expected you to manage without at least losing a limb or two. So now you get to rest."
"But it's war," I pointed out, gesturing with my hands—or at least trying to. It was remarkably difficult to emphasize things when your wrists were shackled like a magical shoplifter caught red-handed with stolen spell components.
"Yes," Seraphina agreed with the patience of someone explaining basic mathematics to a particularly slow student. "Which is why we need you healthy, not charging off to single-handedly resolve every crisis that arises."
Rachel's smile sharpened in a way that suggested she was enjoying this far more than was strictly professional. "Don't worry. We have reinforcements arriving soon."
"Very strong reinforcements," Seraphina added, as if that was supposed to make me feel better and not more concerned about whatever political complications were about to descend on Lumiaren.
I narrowed my eyes. "What kind of reinforcements?"
'The kind that probably involve more people wanting to wrap you in protective padding and keep you in a display case,' Luna suggested with obvious amusement.
"The kind that mean you don't have to solve every problem with your face," Rachel replied, settling onto the bed beside me with the casual ease of someone who had just successfully implemented a long-term strategic plan.
"So spend quality time with us instead," she continued, already halfway to implementing what appeared to be a calculated campaign of affectionate smothering. Which in her case involved hugging my face directly into her chest like it was a diplomatic peace treaty and I was the designated signature space.
She rubbed the back of my head with one hand, the gesture toeing that fine line between tender and mildly possessive. It was, I had to admit, an effective interrogation technique—if the goal was to make me forget why I had been arguing in the first place.
I didn't say anything, mostly because I couldn't. Words had very little chance of making it past where my mouth was currently situated. So I did what any good patient and/or prisoner did—I leaned in and enjoyed it while I could, reasoning that if I was going to be restrained for my own good, I might as well extract what compensation was available.
Eventually, Rachel let go, her face glowing in a way that would've caused a lesser man cardiac confusion. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile small and sly, like she'd just stolen the moon and wasn't sure if anyone had noticed yet, but was quite pleased with herself regardless.
"There," she announced with obvious satisfaction. "Treatment administered."
"I feel very... treated," I agreed, though the effect was somewhat undermined by my continued state of restraint.
Then the door opened.
Rachel's older sister. The heir to the Creighton family legacy and all the diplomatic complications that entailed.
Twenty-two years old, but carrying herself with the poise of someone who had been attending state functions since before she could properly pronounce "international relations." Low Immortal-rank, which put her in the same general power category as the vampire we had recently fought, though presumably with better intentions and significantly less bloodlust.
Her hair was the color of moonlit steel, pulled back in an elaborate arrangement that probably required engineering assistance. Her eyes were like twin ice shards that had learned to disapprove in twelve different languages, and were currently working on a thirteenth.
She wore formal Northern diplomatic attire—a high-collared coat in the distinctive blue-and-silver of House Creighton, with enough subtle magical enhancements woven into the fabric to stop most forms of assassination while still looking appropriately elegant for a state function.
"Rach—" Kathyln began, stepping into the room with the measured grace of someone accustomed to making entrances at important moments, before her brain caught up to her eyes and her eyes caught sight of everything.
Me, flat on the bed like a particularly well-restrained specimen.
Rachel, flushed and smiling with obvious satisfaction.
Seraphina, composed but definitely complicit in whatever had transpired.
Specifically, the glowing, rune-laced cuffs around my wrists, glinting ominously in the soft light like they were here for the plot twist and were quite pleased with their dramatic timing.
With the deliberate care of someone processing a situation that had exceeded her prepared diplomatic scenarios.
Then her hand came up, not dramatically, but in the quiet, dignified horror of a noblewoman realizing she had walked into a scene that would require significant mental filing and possibly therapeutic consultation at a later date.
She covered her mouth.
"I... apologize," she said, each syllable carefully enunciated like every word was being evaluated for future blackmail potential. "I appear to have interrupted an important moment in my sister's personal development."
The diplomatic training was evident in how she managed to make "personal development" sound both completely innocent and utterly damning simultaneously.
With a graceful nod more suited to withdrawing from a diplomatic summit than a magical misunderstanding, she turned on her heel and walked out, the door hissing shut behind her like it, too, needed a moment to process what it had witnessed.
Silence returned. Thick. Heavy. Embarrassed.
Rachel stared at the door with the expression of someone contemplating whether it was possible to retroactively uninvent older sisters.
"I'm going to kill her," she muttered with the tone of someone who had already begun planning the logistics.
I tried to raise my cuffed hands for a sympathetic pat, an gesture of comfort and solidarity in the face of familial embarrassment.
Failed spectacularly.
The cuffs clinked with what sounded suspiciously like amusement.
Luna snorted in my head. Again. Of course.
'Well,' she observed with obvious delight, 'this should make dinner conversation interesting.'