Meanwhile, out on the blood-spattered training ground, Vespera and the rest of us fought like cornered wolves while keeping the children tucked safely behind a shimmering dome of violet runes. The air reeked of scorched poison, hot iron, and singed grass; every clash of steel rang like a dropped bell, sparks showering in golden rain that hissed against the dew.
Far across the estate, in the eastern wing's most shamelessly luxurious guest suite, the second-ranked prodigy of our generation (twenty-four-year-old Cassian "Stormfury" Valerian, heir to a thousand thunderstorms and zero shame) was sprawled naked across silk sheets the color of midnight sin. Tangled with him was his personal attendant, the eternally amused 500-year-old milf-maid Seraphine, whose silver hair spilled over both their bare backs like molten moonlight and whose curves could make a saint reconsider celibacy.
A distant explosion rattled the crystal decanters on the nightstand. Seraphine's emerald eyes snapped open, ears twitching like a cat's. She poked Cassian's ribs with a manicured nail sharp enough to draw blood.
"Hey, idiot. Get up. The clan is being attacked."
Cassian bolted upright, sheets sliding off a physique carved by gods and laziness in equal measure. "Which motherfu—" His roar shook the rafters, lightning crackling involuntarily along his bare skin, raising every hair on Seraphine's arms. He leapt out of bed, stark naked and gloriously furious, stormclouds already swirling above his head as he stomped toward the door.
Seraphine sighed, flat and long-suffering. "Don't scare the children like that. Or the assassins. Or me, for that matter."
Cassian froze mid-stride, glanced down at his very awake… everything, and finally noticed the hallway mirror reflecting a thunder-god cosplaying birthday suit. "Oh. Right." He scratched his tousled platinum hair, sheepish sparks popping between his fingers, then started yanking on clothes with zero grace: one leg in trousers, hop, other leg, hop, shirt inside-out, buttons surrendering in defeat.
Seraphine watched the circus, lips twitching. "Five centuries alive and I still can't believe I chose this one," she muttered, sliding out of bed herself. The morning light worshipped every inch of her as she sauntered to the wardrobe, hips swaying like a metronome set to "temptation."
Two floors below, in a rose-scented private lounge lit only by floating magelights the shade of blushing dawn, the remaining two members of the top-five prodigies (third-ranked Aurelia and fourth-ranked Lyria, both twenty-four, both breathtaking, and both currently very naked) were tangled on a velvet chaise longue that had definitely not been built for this level of enthusiasm.
Aurelia pulled back from a kiss-swollen lips, cheeks flushed plum-rose, voice husky with wonder. "I never imagined lesbian sex would be this good."
Lyria, golden hair sticking to damp skin, gave a throaty hum of agreement and traced lazy circles on Aurelia's hip. "For me, boys, girls… honestly, as long as it's mind-blowing, I'm not picky."
"Same," Aurelia giggled, nipping Lyria's collarbone. "Looks like we're greedily bisexual disasters."
They dissolved into breathless laughter, foreheads pressed together, the air thick with vanilla, sweat, and the lingering sweetness of shared from earlier strawberries.
A few syrupy minutes later, still mostly naked and glowing like twin suns, Lyria propped her chin on Aurelia's sternum. "So… who's your boy crush?"
Aurelia's eyes turned dreamy. "Elias. Obviously."
Lyria's jaw dropped. "Wait. I have a crush on Elias too!"
Silence. A single magelight flickered like it sensed drama.
Then, simultaneously: "No, he's mine!" "No, no, he's mine!"
What followed was pure comedy gold.
Two half-dressed prodigies (now wearing only delicate lace bras and panties the color of champagne and sin) scrambled for their swords like feral housecats fighting over the last sunbeam. Steel sang free of scabbards with twin metallic shrieks. They lunged, blades flashing in playful-but-deadly arcs, bare feet slapping marble, hair flying in golden and raven banners, shrieking accusations between clashes.
"He smiled at me first during spring festival!"
"He carried my books in the rain, that's practically a proposal!"
"Take it back or I'll dye all your lingerie beige!"
The fight spilled into the corridor in a whirlwind of giggles, grunts, and clanging steel, leaving a trail of scattered rose petals, one abandoned stiletto heel, and a very confused butler clutching a breakfast tray wondering why the top prodigies were trying to murder each other in underwear over the same oblivious cousin
The training ground had become a symphony of violence: steel shrieking against steel, Vespera's violet lightning crackling like a whip of pure wrath, the children huddled behind us sniffling and clutching our legs while we parried poisoned daggers and hurled counter-spells that smelled of ozone and scorched roses. Sweat stung our eyes, blood and grass smeared our boots, and the air tasted like copper and panic.
Then—BOOM.
Another detonation rocked the estate, this one from the eastern wing. The shockwave slapped us sideways, leaves exploding off the hedges in a green blizzard.
Out of the smoke and flying splinters burst Cassian "Stormfury" Valerian, wearing exactly one boot, no shirt, and trousers that had clearly lost a fight with gravity—hanging so low the sharp V of his hips flashed with every stride. Lightning danced along his bare chest like excited kittens. Clinging to his arm was Seraphine, the 500-year-old milf-maid, wrapped only in a bedsheet that kept trying to escape, silver hair wild, lips swollen, eyes sparkling with the glee of someone who'd just been very thoroughly interrupted.
At the exact same second, the garden doors on the opposite side exploded outward and Aurelia and Lyria shot into view—still in nothing but champagne-lace bras and panties—blades crossed, cheeks flushed, hair a glorious post-sex mess. They were mid-duel, shrieking:
"He held my umbrella longer!"
"He said my eyes looked like sunrise!"
They skidded across the grass, swords clanging, bare feet slipping on dew, leaving twin furrows of destroyed lawn and dignity.
Everything stopped.
Vespera's lightning fizzled mid-air with a pathetic pop. My sword hung forgotten. The assassins lowered their daggers. Even the children stopped crying to stare, mouths perfect little O's.
A long, stunned silence stretched, broken only by the lazy flap of Seraphine's sheet threatening to surrender entirely and Cassian's trousers finally giving up—one more inch and the entire estate would need therapy.
One masked assassin slowly turned to his partner, voice muffled but unmistakably bewildered. "Is… is this really House Valerian?"
His comrade scratched the back of his hooded head, looking around at the half-naked prodigies, the lingerie sword-fight, the grandpa still somewhere off-screen in his undies, and the literal storm cloud hovering over Cassian's bare chest like a loyal puppy.
"I'm… not sure anymore," he muttered, shrugging so hard his cloak flapped. "Maybe we got the wrong address. This feels more like a brothel that accidentally invented magic."
Above my head, an actual glowing cartoon question mark the size of a carriage wheel materialized, spinning slowly, dripping sparkles of pure existential confusion while I stood there, sword limp, thinking:
In the name of every god, why is everyone in this clan allergic to clothes today?
The question mark bobbed in agreement.
The battlefield hung in a stunned, half-naked hush (steel still ringing, ozone crackling, Cassian's trousers one heroic sneeze away from total surrender), when a voice sliced through the chaos like a perfectly chilled knife through butter.
"Alright. Stop, everyone, stop."
The voice belonged to Reginald Blackthorne, the silver-haired, eternally unflappable head butler who had betrayed me to the children earlier. He stepped out from behind a topiary shaped like a rearing dragon, pristine tailcoat not even wrinkled, white gloves spotless despite the blood-spattered lawn. In his hand he held… a silver pocket watch, ticking with the calm inevitability of taxes.
"The drill is over. Assassins, you may retreat."
Every masked assassin snapped to attention, bowed in perfect unison (yes, even the one currently bleeding from Cassian's lightning), and vanished into the hedges like embarrassed stagehands. One of them actually muttered "sorry for the inconvenience" on the way out."
Reginald turned to Vespera, expression as warm as a glacier. "This was a leadership examination for Miss Vespera Valerian. She performed flawlessly under pressure: decisive, protective, and terrifyingly photogenic. I shall report full marks to the clan elders."
Vespera flicked a strand of raven hair from her eyes, violet lightning still dancing along her fingertips. "Thanks," she said (not humble, not arrogant, just the verbal equivalent of a shrug that could level mountains). Reginald gave the tiniest nod of approval and glided away, shoes somehow not making a single sound on the blood-and-dew grass.
Cassian stood there like a statue some sculptor had abandoned mid-chisel, trousers now officially at half-mast, lightning fizzling out in confused sparks. Seraphine looped an arm around his bare waist, bedsheet fluttering like a surrender flag. "Come along, Stormfury. We still have unfinished business involving that bottle of honey oil and the chandelier." She winked at the rest of us. "Take care, children. Try not to overdo the… everything."
Cassian managed a dazed salute with the one boot he was still wearing. We waved back, chorusing, "Take care! Hydrate! Maybe find pants!"
Over by the rose arbor, Aurelia and Lyria were still trying to bisect each other in champagne lingerie, blades flashing, insults flying ("He smiled at ME first!" "He said MY eyes looked like sunrise, you walking disco ball!"). Vespera sighed the sigh of the only adult in the room, marched over, grabbed each by the scruff of their lace bras like misbehaving kittens, and hauled them bodily toward the manor. "This way, idiots. Cold shower. Separate rooms. Possibly separate continents."
Muffled squeaks of protest faded down the corridor.
I looked around at the wreckage, the traumatized topiary, the lingering smell of ozone and jasmine perfume and whatever cologne Cassian thought "storm cloud" was. My stomach gave an audible, mortified growl.
"Breakfast?" I suggested weakly.
Every single person (children included) nodded with the solemn enthusiasm of war survivors who'd just remembered food exists. The kids latched onto our legs again, sticky and tear-streaked but now giggling at the memory of half-naked heroes.
Together, the entire ragtag parade (blood-splattered tunics, inside-out shirts, one boot missing, two prodigies being dragged by their underwear, and one very confused butler pretending none of this happened) shuffled toward the dining hall, leaving a trail of rose petals, discarded weapons, and a single abandoned stiletto heel that will haunt the gardeners for weeks.
Somewhere in the distance, Reginald's voice floated back on the breeze: "Cook, prepare pancakes. Extra syrup. We're going to need the sugar."