Chapter 103 Message.

Chapter 103: 103 Message.

"Pretty much." I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms, ready for the show. "Sort by color, add detergent, pick a setting, press start."

"Simplicity itself." She loaded the machine with confidence. She did not sort by color. She added roughly four times the recommended detergent. She washed my good jacket on hot.

Ten minutes later the mudroom floor was covered in suds. Elsa stood ankle-deep in foam and looked absolutely betrayed.

"The machine is openly hostile, possessed by some manner of spirit—one which despises the fair folk, I should think," she declared. "It has rejected my command and I demand it be replaced with one that respects royal garments."

"That’s okay, we’re learning," I said, chuckling.

I helped her mop up and walked her through a second load properly. When the clothes came out normal she held up a t-shirt, turned it over twice, and gave a nod of cautious approval.

"Acceptable. Though a princess should not be expected to labor over garments. I did this only to prove a point."

I took the shirt from her and folded it. "And you proved it."

She tried to hide her smile and failed. The bond confirmed what her face was already telling me: she was proud as hell. So cute.

She carried the laundry basket three steps toward the bedroom before declaring her arms had failed and setting it on the landing. "Someone will need to finish this journey," she said. "My contribution was the washing itself, which is the intellectually demanding portion. The folding and putting away will be someone else’s task. In the name of justice."

While Elsa was battling the washing machine, Ayra and Clementine had claimed the living room. Clementine’s Korean drama was on again, and Ayra was cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, fully locked in. Clementine had the couch with her legs tucked under her.

"Wait, why is she crying?" Ayra’s ears were flat with distress. "He literally just told her he loved her! That should be a tail-wagging moment!"

Clementine grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl between them and threw a piece at the screen. "Because she knows he’s dying, dummy. He’s got the terminal illness. They set it up in episode four."

"He’s dying?!" Ayra’s amber eyes went massive. "That’s so sad! I forget sometimes that humans die so young."

"Well. He’s dying young because he’s sick." Clementine popped another kernel into her mouth. Her eyes never left the screen.

"The Packlands have very serious customs regarding death." Ayra turned away from the TV long enough to deliver this with full conviction. "In my homeland, the honored dead are preserved through ritual mummification and displayed in the Great Hall with their favorite stick in their mouth so their pack never has to say goodbye! It’s very beautiful, actually. You can visit them whenever you like and brush their fur. But stick theft in the tombs is a serious problem."

Clementine stared at her for a solid three seconds. "That’s the most insane thing you or anyone has ever said to me."

That was amazing because yesterday she offered Clementine a bag of oats in exchange for whispering subliminal messages about the merits of spanking in my ear while I took a nap. She apparently took the offer.

I left them to the K-drama and found Juniper in the kitchen. She was waiting for me, from what I could tell. Her tail was coiled tight and deliberate, the tablet closed and set face-down on the counter. She’d changed into a loose top that was losing its war against her chest, as one does, and I made a mental note to buy her some clothes that actually fit one of these days. Not too soon, though. Maybe never.

"You’ve been stewing all day," I said, pouring myself coffee.

"I have been analyzing data all day. Stewing implies emotional compromise." She paused. "But yes. Also some stewing."

I leaned against the counter and waited, taking a slurp from my coffee.

"I’ve been mapping the portal energy readings since we completed the ritual," she said. "I’ve tracked the frequency, the intensity, and the dimensional resonance signatures. The data is unambiguous." She pressed her hands flat against her coils. "The portals are escalating in potency."

I blew on my coffee. "English, please."

"They may end up getting bigger, which means larger creatures can get through. In rare cases, maybe more than one."

I took a slow drink and let that settle. "What kind of threats?"

"Creatures that require coordinated magical resistance we don’t have. Entities that can’t be killed through physical damage alone. Portal events that produce multiple high-level threats simultaneously." She met my eyes. "We got lucky with the Shadow Wolves."

I set the mug down. "So what do we need?"

She ticked them off on her fingers. "We’re alright for a while, but someday? Defensible terrain, because our open field is a tactical nightmare. Allied forces, as we’re fighting alone every night with no backup and no relief. And infrastructure." She gestured at the kitchen around us. "I need a proper workspace to develop magical countermeasures. The living room and a half-finished silo are not sufficient."

She didn’t say we need to move. She didn’t say we need the Countess. Juniper was too smart to push me toward a conclusion I’d resist. She laid out the math and left me to do the arithmetic on my own.

"I hear you," I said. "Let me think on it."

She nodded, picked up her tablet, and slithered toward the living room. Her tail bumped my calf on the way past.

---

The portal that night delivered a troll variant, bigger and meaner than the standard model. Bony plate armor covered its back and shoulders, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle.

Ayra cracked its kneecap so hard the sound echoed across the field, and I could picture her Moon Mother instructors weeping if they’d seen it.

Clementine and I ran a clean Mounted Charge that opened its guard.

Elsa directed from the back and called out weak points. Juniper slowed it with frost breath when it tried to regenerate. We brought it down in four minutes, a clean fight with decent XP and no injuries. Business as usual.

Juniper caught my eye as we walked back to the house, and the look she gave me said this was easy. They won’t all be easy. The clock is running.

I got the message.

The girls went inside. I stayed on the back porch to clean my sword and enjoy the quiet for a few minutes before heading back into the madness of five people and one bathroom.

I’d been out there for maybe ten minutes when I noticed the car.

It was a dark sedan with no lights on, parked on the road where the county route met my property line, maybe two hundred yards out. It wasn’t moving, and it wasn’t a spot where anyone would park without a reason.

I set the sword down and watched for a full minute. The car didn’t move. Then the headlights came on. The sedan pulled forward slowly, turned, and drove away. Whoever was inside wasn’t in any hurry.

I watched until the taillights disappeared, then checked the gate. It was locked, the fence was intact, and nothing looked out of place except for one thing.

Wedged into the gate latch, folded once, was a business card. I pulled it out and read it under the porch light.

SHERIFF DALE MILLER — WAPA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

On the back, in careful handwriting: "We should talk. Privately."

I stared at the card for a long moment, then pocketed it and went inside.