Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1485 Change of Plans

Chapter 1485  Change of Plans

The maid continued, explaining the risks. After all, Quinlan just claimed he was leaving three hours ago, and that he did not know when he’d return. “He could flee. He could turn against us. He could vanish and leave Elvardia holding a bill paid to the Covenant for nothing.”

The queen’s eyes went wide. Her lips parted. Her head tilted. The expression on her face was that of a woman who had genuinely, truly, not once considered this possibility.

Verenthia’s gaze flattened. She had known this queen for far too many years to eat the act up. This woman was messing with her.

“My queen.”

Myrasyn held the expression for three more seconds, then let it dissolve into a grin.

“Old friend. You should consult the royal elven library and look up the definition of the word ‘bet,’ which was exactly what I have called this decision of mine on four separate occasions.”

Verenthia stared at her.

The stare lasted a long time.

“You are insufferable,” the maid said.

“I am your queen.”

“And you told me as a little girl to always be truthful to you in private.”

Myrasyn laughed, clear and bright. She was mid-sip when the balcony doors burst open.

A young attendant stumbled through, chest heaving, one hand braced against the doorframe. Her face was flushed.

“My queen!” She bowed so fast she nearly toppled. “You were right! Quinlan Elysiar is back!”

The cup froze at Myrasyn’s lips.

“Already…?” Verenthia breathed.

Myrasyn set the tea down.

She looked at her maid. That smile returned. Wide and knowing and utterly beautiful.

“Already,” she winked.

Then… Myrasyn stood.

The motion was sudden. No warning. No gradual unfolding of limbs. One moment she was seated with tea in hand, the next she was on her feet, and the cup was on the cushion behind her as if it had always been there.

Verenthia blinked. That alone said everything.

“My queen?”

Myrasyn stretched her arms above her head, holding them for a long second, then exhaled and rolled her shoulders loose.

“Elvardia is suddenly very boring, wouldn’t you agree?” Verenthia didn’t even know what to say. “We are in the middle of an invasion.”

“Exactly. And I am leading it from a balcony with tea in hand.” She turned. “I’ll take over command.”

The maid studied her queen for a long moment.

“Does this abrupt decision have anything to do with Quinlan Elysiar?”

Myrasyn smiled over her shoulder. “First, I don’t make abrupt decisions. Second… Who knows~”

Verenthia’s sigh could have felled a small tree.

“Prepare my regalia,” Myrasyn said. The playfulness did not leave her voice, but something firmer settled beneath it. “The Archon’s Vestments.”

Verenthia paused.

The Archon’s Vestments were what the queen wore when she intended to lead from the front.

“…As you wish, my queen.”

…

The younger maids had gathered by the time Verenthia returned with the Vestments.

Six of them, standing along the wall of the dressing chamber with their hands clasped and their eyes wide. Word traveled fast in the palace. The queen was leaving. The queen was going to lead the war herself.

The excitement and the dread sat on their faces in equal measure.

Myrasyn paid them no attention. She stood at the center of the room and let her robe fall.

Verenthia worked in silence. The underlayer first. White silk, fitted from throat to hip, clasps clicking along the spine one by one. Then the leggings, pale silver, form-fitting, the spellthread bonding to the silk with a faint shimmer as it sealed. Then the Vestments themselves.

Panels of white and pale gold, layered and reinforced with woven light magic. The robe fell to her ankles, split at both sides from mid-thigh. The shoulders rose sharp and angular above her frame. Verenthia fastened the belt, adjusted the collar, and stepped back.

The whole process took less than two minutes. And five thousand years of practice.

Myrasyn turned to the display on the far wall.

The staff waited there. Heartwood so ancient the grain had fossilized. A crystal sphere sat caged in roots of white gold at its crown, dark and dormant.

She lifted it.

The sigil on her back blazed to life.

White-gold light erupted through the sheer panel between her shoulder blades, ancient elven script branching outward from her spine like roots. The crystal sphere ignited in the same breath, flooding the chamber with warmth that made the younger maids gasp and shield their eyes.

When the light faded, the sigil remained. Glowing softly against her skin, visible through the fabric, pulsing with each heartbeat.

The maids stared at their queen with trembling lips and shining eyes. Some of them had served in this palace their entire lives without ever seeing the Archon’s Vestments worn. Without ever seeing that sigil burn.

Their nation was at war. It had been true for a very long time. But it hadn’t felt true.

It felt true now.

Myrasyn planted the staff against the stone floor. It clicked once, sharp and final.

She looked at Verenthia.

“How do I look?”

The old maid studied her queen from head to toe. Her expression, as always, did not change.

“Passable,” she said.

Myrasyn smiled.

…

The wind hit different at this altitude.

Quinlan flew above the cloud line with his arms crossed and his coat snapping behind him, cutting through the cold air like it owed him money. Below, the Ravenshade countryside unrolled in a patchwork of scorched fields, collapsed walls, and the occasional plume of smoke still crawling skyward from settlements that had stopped resisting days ago.

His girls flew behind him, carried by the same current of mana he’d shaped into a platform wide enough for the whole group.

Quinlan’s eyes swept the landscape.

Thornwall. Taken. The eastern gate was rubble, and Elvardian banners hung from what was left of the watchtowers. Past Thornwall, the next two settlements showed the same story. Walls breached. Garrisons scattered. Elvardian supply lines already running through what used to be defended territory, turning conquered cities into logistics hubs with an efficiency that bordered on insulting.

He counted the banners. Counted the camps. Counted the new siege positions being assembled further inland, already targeting the next line of cities.

“Great. They haven’t lost an inch while I was gone.”

A giggle floated up from behind him.

“Did you really think it’d be that easy to take ground back from the Elvardian alliance?” Seraphiel’s voice was light and warm. She blinked meaningfully at him, full of unsaid statements. Quinlan understood. He pulled her closer, watching her sensually long, blonde hair dancing in the wind. Now that she was next to him, the girl’s smile returned, even brighter than before. “When elves and dwarves work together, rooting them out of a stronghold is a nightmare.”

Quinlan chuckled. “I prefer to prepare for disappointment and be pleasantly surprised.”

“Pessimist.”

“Realist.”

“That’s what pessimists call themselves.” She poked his arm while giggling joyously.

This woman was simply happy.

“…” Quinlan did not answer as his gaze turned forward.

The horizon shifted. Past the fallen cities, past the supply lines and the marching columns, a settlement sat nestled against a ridge of dark stone. Its walls were still intact. Its gates were still shut. Smoke rose from chimneys, not ruins. Ballista emplacements lined the battlements, and the glint of armor moved along the parapets in organized patterns.

The conquered targets were behind them. Ashenmoor was up next.

Dwarven siege engines were already being assembled in the tree line to the south. Elvardian rangers held the perimeter, cutting off retreat routes.

The siege was forming.

Quinlan studied the barriers, the walls, the gates. He’d helped bring settlements down before, but that was the old Quinlan. Now, it was time to see what had changed.