Chapter 728: The Nursery of Unwritten Kings

Cessy walked down an aisle of glass eggs, each one holding a future king curled like a bean.

Rows of cradles climbed into the dark on hooks of bone, glowing, ten thousand sleepers dreaming. Every egg carried a plate stamped with a name that nobody would ever dare speak aloud.

‘Nine hundred years of heirs, not one of them ever asked if they wanted the job.’

Far above, a waltz drifted down through the ceiling stone, thin as a single held breath. Then the lamps winked out, the waltz played on, the Nursery shivering like a struck bell.

“That’s the signal,” Lucan said, cold and exact, “Hajin has bought us as much time as one man can.”

“Then stop admiring the scenery, darling brother, and start cutting.”

Rumi’s knife flashed across the wall, cutting a doorway that opened onto the guesthouse hearth far away. Nari stood beside her with trembling palms, holding the rift wide, watching it like a biting dog.

“Left door is ready,” Nari whispered, “right door is ready, I promise neither will close.”

“Doors are holding, Right, so don’t you dare blink,” Rumi grinned, flipping her knife.

“I am not blinking, I am praying very quietly.”

Midwife-knights poured out of the alcoves in armor, veils trailing, sickle swords flashing like a hundred crescent moons. Lucan stepped in front of the first rank, winter pouring off his shoulders like smoke from a forge.

“Winter Margin,” he murmured, lifting one gloved hand.

Frost lances drove across the floor like rows of icy teeth, hurling armored knights into the cradle racks. Glass eggs rang on their hooks, swaying wildly, but none of them cracked beneath the thundering of armor.

“Two more ranks behind them,” Lucan warned, flicking frost from his fingers, “leave the next one to me.”

Zarvine slid smoothly past him, rapier flickering, bored as ever, delivering three thrusts for every single lazy yawn. She disarmed one knight, flicked the helm off another, then walked backward through the wreckage, humming a tune.

“Mind the eggs, one cracked yolk and a king goes missing,” Zarvine drawled, “carry on.”

Behind the racks, unborn kings stirred in their glass, curling their fists as the frost chilled the air. Cessy could not look at them for long, so she kept her eyes on the silver glow ahead.

She gathered her skirt and ran, the aisles blurring, a silver glow tugging at her ribs like a hook.

At the center of the Nursery stood a cradle taller than the rest, wrapped in thread of gold. Inside it lay a girl in a crown, curled on her side, gold-edged horns resting on the pillow.

‘Nyra.’

She looked so much younger asleep, her fist curled around a corner of the blanket like a child’s. Cessy’s claws slid out, then away again, then she knelt and lifted the glass lid with shaking hands.

“Hello, sweet thing,” she whispered, sliding both arms beneath the sleeper, “time to go home.”

The crown slipped from Nyra’s head, clinking on the floor, as Cessy lifted her against her chest. She smelled of rain and cinnamon bread, exactly as she did on the long road from Silverwood.

Nyra’s eyelids fluttered, red irises glinting through her lashes, her mouth beginning to move.

“They said you left me,” Nyra mumbled, not yet awake.

“Never, darling, never, I was only fetching a coat,” she lied, smooth as silk poured over a blade.

Nyra’s expression crumpled anyway, small and cracked, the look of a girl who stopped expecting rescue long ago. Cessy could not lie to that child for even a heartbeat, so the silk-voiced mask simply fell away.

“No, I did leave you, darling, but I’m back now, staying right here.”

“You smell like him,” Nyra whispered, nose pressed into her collar.

“Like who?”

“Papa…” Nyra murmured, fingers curling into the silk, “you smell just like Papa.”

Nyra never once spoke that word while awake, so Cessy blinked, staring down at the drowsy face. Now it slid out of her sleeping mouth as simply as breathing, a gift she did not know she gave.

‘That idiot is going to cry for a week when I tell him.’

Then Nyra’s eyes opened fully, clear and sharp, the sleepy girl vanishing like mist off water. Her gaze snapped past Cessy’s shoulder to a midwife-knight charging down the aisle, sickle sword raised.

“Halfmoon!” Nyra cried.

The glaive flashed into her palm in a spray of gold sparks, sliding out of nothing like a drawn breath.

She vaulted from Cessy’s arms, spinning the blade across the knight’s helm with a loud ringing clang. Behind her, Cessy’s whip uncoiled like a living serpent, wrapping the next pair of ankles and yanking.

“That’s my girl, now hit them harder than Hajin ever would,” she breathed, grinning through sudden tears.

“Back to back… sister?” Nyra asked, grinning, then froze, mouth open, startled by her own word.

“Sister,” Cessy repeated in a small voice, tears already stinging, “yes, darling, if you’ll have me.”

“I’ll think about it,” Nyra said, voice cracking, “ask me after the fight.”

They stood spine to spine, blade and whip, as knights closed in from every dark aisle. Heat climbed Cessy’s back, hotter, hotter, then something in the girl struck alight like a match.

“Nyra, your horns are—”

Gold fire raced up her horns, blazing along the gilded edges until they shone like twin candles. Her irises burned red, her hair lifted, the first Ember Crown to ever blaze in the Underworld.

Nyra swept the glaive in a wide crescent, “Cinder Arc!” gold flame tearing through six knights at once.

[BigDoge: NYRA GLOW-UP, LOOK AT THOSE HORNS]

Armor scattered like ash across the whole aisle, the surviving knights wavering, staring at the burning girl.

“Horn-Break Charge!” Nyra roared.

She lowered her head, horns blazing, then hurtled forward like a comet, scattering the survivors like loose pins. The whole line shattered, but Nyra staggered, knees wobbling, flames guttering low across her horns as she gasped.

“You’re burning yourself down, little flame, ease off,” Cessy said, catching her elbow, “I’ll take the rest.”

“I can hold it,” Nyra panted, lips pale, “a little more.”

‘She lies exactly the way I do, the little thief.’

Cessy pulled the burning girl into her chest, heedless of the heat scorching her silk sleeves and ribbons. Nyra went rigid for a breath, then melted, both arms locking around her ribs with fierce, trembling strength.

“I missed you, you big liar,” Nyra mumbled into her dress, “so much it was embarrassing.”

Behind them a fallen knight dragged himself up beside the wall, fingers closing around a hanging cord. He pulled with the last of his strength, setting bells screaming through every vault in the Nursery.

“Out, now, before every knight in Kuroyomi arrives,” Lucan snapped.

The alarm rang through the vaults, shaking glass eggs on their hooks like fruit on a branch. Zarvine swore, Lucan spun on his heel, Rumi and Nari gritted their teeth against the sealing doors.

Sweat ran down Rumi’s temple as she called, “Hurry, the doors are sealing from the far side.”

“Left, I cannot hold it much longer, it is like pushing a mountain.”

Cessy swept Nyra up and sprinted for the rift, then skidded to a halt in the doorway.

A silk-gowned figure stood in the open rift, perfectly still, one slim knife held low.

“Hello, darlings,” Matron Ysolde said softly, lifting the knife to catch the light.