Memoirs of Your Local Small-time Villainess

Scarlett stepped out of the interstitial space with Rosa and Fynn, returning to the Loci’s quiet garden. The spirit greeted her with a faint, half-formed mental response. Behind them, the gateway Rosa had created dissipated, and with it, the tension in the bard’s shoulders eased. Her aura settled, the darkness in her eyes fading and giving way to their usual violet.

Malachi might not have appreciated the abrupt end to their discussion, but the woman wasn’t stupid. She would have returned to her domain before the space collapsed — and in any case, they had already reached an agreement on the most critical points.

Scarlett reached out to the Loci, attempting to coax a more coherent explanation for its cryptic warning. The effort proved mostly fruitless. The spirit conveyed nothing beyond the same unsettling sensation as before: an urgent, abstract alarm without elaboration. It simply wasn’t capable of expressing more.

Still, she could borrow its senses to find out for herself.

Beside her, Fynn’s expression darkened. His attention shifted as he picked up on something before she did. A moment later, Scarlett felt it too. The disturbance lay beyond the estate, outside the Loci’s domain, but by stretching its influence, she could discern movement among the trees. Something predatory. She wasn’t sure how dangerous.

“Wait, is that…” Rosa’s voice trailed off, unease creeping in as she pointed into the distance.

Scarlett followed her gaze. Most of Freybrook was hidden in the night’s veil, but the horizon toward the city glowed ominously. Flickers of fire lit the sky, casting faint orange hues against the black.

She narrowed her eyes, catching flashes of movement — wings, large and powerful, slicing through the moonlight. Then, suddenly, a thin jet of flame cut across the air, revealing the unmistakable form of a beast wreathed in scales.

A dragon.

And it was attacking the city.

“Another attack?” Rosa gasped.

Scarlett gave a sober nod. “It is.”

The Tribe of Sin was once again unleashing monsters upon the empire, and this time, they weren’t sparing Freybrook.

She turned to Rosa. “Go wake Garside and the others. Tell him to prepare a carriage for the city. Immediately.”

Rosa hesitated, concern plain on her face. “What are you going to do?”

“I will first ensure the estate is not in danger.”

“I’ll help.”

“You will do no such thing,” Scarlett replied firmly. “You are already exhausted from your earlier efforts, Rosa. Remain inside the mansion. Its defences should suffice for now.”

Rosa looked ready to protest, but Scarlett grabbed her wrist and lifted it. The woman’s eyes widened when she realised she couldn’t muster even the slightest bit of strength to resist.

Scarlett said nothing, simply holding her gaze.

Rosa pressed her lips together, then breathed out and gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright.”

“Good. I will see you later.” With a thought, Scarlett willed the Loci to transport Rosa inside. The bard vanished in an instant, leaving only empty air where she’d stood.

Scarlett turned to Fynn. “Are you prepared?”

The young man met her with a determined look. “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

With another silent command, the Loci brought them to the edge of its domain. They emerged among bare trees outside the estate walls. Cold bit at Scarlett’s skin as her boots crunched on the snow, but she resisted the urge to warm herself with pyrokinesis. Reaching into her [Pouch of Holding], she retrieved her enchanted glasses and slid them onto her nose, allowing her vision to pierce the darkness.

Fynn had already started moving. The snow did little to hinder him as the wind seemed to carry him forward, veering towards the disturbance they’d sensed within the woods. Scarlett followed, though she wasn’t nearly as fast. He disappeared among the trees ahead, leaving only footprints in the frost.

She heard the ensuing fight before she saw it.

A guttural growl split the night, trailed by the sharp crack of bone and the wet thud of impact. Rounding a thicket of gnarled roots, Scarlett reached the edge of a wide glade.

Fynn stood at its center, facing three hulking creatures. Their bodies were twisted masses of sinew and bristling fur, eyes gleaming with hunger. Lurking in the shadows of the trees beyond, a pack of smaller beasts prowled — half-hidden, patient, waiting for their chance to strike.

One of the larger beasts lunged, fangs bared, saliva flying from its maw.

Fynn moved like a phantom. He twisted, avoiding the bite, then leapt forward, carried by the wind. His fist struck the creature’s ribs with a bone-shattering crunch, launching it backward. It slammed into another of its kind, toppling them both in a tangle of limbs and snarls.

Confident that he could hold his own, Scarlett shifted her attention to the smaller creatures watching from the tree line. Their eyes had locked on her now. Maybe they thought she looked like easy prey.

They were wrong.

With a thought, the air shimmered — and the glade erupted in the glow of dozens of blazing embers.

The beasts collapsed with shrieks of agony. Scarlett swept the area with her gaze, searching for more threats. Aside from the ones Fynn still fought, there were none.

Satisfied, she raised her hand.

If these creatures had even a shred of instinct, they should have known better than to trespass on her territory.

———————————————

Guifford Knottley fastened the straps of his steel gauntlet as he strode into the keep’s open courtyard. His steps were quick, forceful. Around him, half-armoured men and women rushed between the barracks and armoury, weapons and shields in hand. His captains barked orders above the din, their voices sharp against the chill night air — but Guifford barely glanced their way.

A deep frown creased his brow as he turned to one of his closest captains. “Any word from the gate guards or the patrols on duty?” he barked his question.

The broad-shouldered man snapped to attention, pressing a fist to his chest. “None, My Lord. We’ve dispatched lookouts to assess the situation, but we’re still waiting on reports from our other units.”

“Blazes damn it all,” Guifford muttered under his breath. “What good is preparing for another attack if the preparations make no damn difference?”

Not even fifteen minutes had passed since the assault began, but already, the delay was unacceptable. That none of the patrols or gate forces had sent word likely meant they were either overwhelmed or dead.

“I want the reserves mobilised immediately,” he commanded. “Assign a captain to each group. Reinforce the gates and critical sectors first. I assume the alarm orders are already out?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Good. Then contact the Shields Guild, Brook Tower, and the Followers’ temple. They know their roles, but I want direct communication. No delays.”

“Yes, My Lord!”

Guifford brushed past the man, eyes scanning the courtyard, assessing the hurried movements of his soldiers. His gaze settled on a woman in full plate, approaching him with steady, measured steps.

“Dame Justine,” he said. “Gather the knights and come with me. Leave the rest to Richmond.”

Commander Richmond knew the city’s defences well. He would handle the deployment. Guifford’s place was at the front.

“Yes, Sir.”

Justine turned and signalled to a group of knights emerging from the barracks. They fell in behind Guifford without hesitation — his personal retinue, seasoned warriors who had trained under him directly. Many could match the capital’s Palace Guards, and a few could’ve joined the Solar Knights if they’d cared to.

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As Guifford neared the main gate, a familiar figure stepped from one of the nearby buildings. His son, Garrin, adjusted the straps of his armour as a squire handed him his sword.

“Garrin, come,” Guifford called.

The boy joined them quickly, falling into step. He’d proven himself in the last attack, showing both courage and skill. Guifford was proud of him, though he preferred to keep him close. The boy had a reckless streak, too much like his sister.

A squire handed Guifford his great hammer. Its weight settled in his hand, familiar and solid. Without another word, he led his knights into the streets of Freybrook. Already, firelight stained the night sky. Screams rang out through the streets, blending with the clash of steel and the roars of beasts. His grip tightened as a hot fury bled throughout his body.

The first engagement came soon. Just three streets down, a pack of acidfangs harried a merchant’s doorway. A handful of guards in gambesons struggled to hold them off. Two already lay still. The others barely kept formation.

Guifford gave the signal.

His knights surged forward, He followed, hammer raised. One acidfang lunged — he met it mid-leap, bringing his weapon down in a savage arc. Bone shattered as the beast’s skill caved in against the frost-laced cobblestones.

The battle was over in moments.

Two of his knights knelt beside the fallen guards, administering the most minimal of healing spells—he was fortunate to have those among his people capable of even that—before leaving the rest in the hands of the other guards. Guifford issued a few curt orders before moving on.

More sounds of battle echoed through the city.

Before long, those sounds mingled with the tolling of alarm bells, their magical resonance sending simmering waves of red and blue through the sky. Delayed, far too delayed, but at least the signal was out. Most citizens would know where to seek shelter, assuming they had the chance.

Their next clash came at a butcher’s shop, torn open like a gutted beast. Two spite owls loomed amid the wreckage — massive, hunched things with taloned wings and eyes like molten silver. Splintered wood and shattered glass littered the street. Inside, the butcher and his apprentice lay broken, tossed aside like waste.

Guifford’s rage burned hotter.

The spite owls did not live long enough to feel even a fraction of it.

He and his knights moved through the streets with methodical precision, cutting down any monsters that crossed their path. But Guifford held no illusions that this would be enough. This was merely triage. Already, this attack was proving far more severe than the last. Twice now, they had come across new swarms of beasts spilling from black portals that materialised from thin air.

His hammer crashed into the ribcage of a bane deer, the force of the strike rupturing its insides. The bipedal monstrosity crumpled in a heap, antlers snapping against the stone.

Then a sound stopped him cold.

A deep, distant roar, loud enough to rattle the rooftops.

He stilled, eyes lifting toward Brook Tower. A shape moved across the moon—broad wings cutting through the air, body cloaked in shadow. Then came the burst of flame. The darkness peeled away, revealing the unmistakable form of a dragon.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest.

An adult dragon. Attacking his city.

The Tribe of Sin had overstepped. How they’d commanded such a proud, deadly creature into obedience was a question for later. It didn’t matter now. He would have their heads for this. That, he swore.

He turned sharply to Dame Justine. “Take half the men. Head to Brook Tower. Give them what aid you can.”

He’d read the reports. In other cities, dragons always went for the mage towers first. Guifford wasn’t built to fight something in the sky — but with support, Brook Tower’s wizards might manage. Deacon Barney wasn’t called a grand wizard for nothing.

Justine gave a firm nod and moved out with her detachment. Guifford exhaled and wiped his gauntlet across his brow, leaving a smear of blood along his temple. The city stretched out before him, burning, screaming, and bleeding.

Fires licked at rooftops. He’d seen only a few of the guard’s fire suppression units. The rest were likely already overwhelmed.

Dark shadows darted between the alleys, monstrous shapes that avoided the larger streets. Beyond his line of sight, the panicked screams of civilians continued to carry through the air. His knights fought at his side, but there was only so much ground they could cover.

Despite their preparations, the city’s defences were stretched too thin. The creatures weren’t just slipping through the cracks. They were pouring in faster than they were being cut down. And worse, many seemed driven, emboldened by the dragon’s roar echoing from the tower.

“We need to get to the Kilnstone,” Garrin grunted as they met the next group of monsters, swinging his blade through the pale, four-eyed creature reeking of wet day. The sword sheared through its shoulder and down its chest, sending the corpse-kin sprawling. “Half the city’s in chaos, Father. If we can’t stabilise things, the Kilnstone will be the only place we can regroup.”

“The Kilnstone isn’t our priority, son,” Guifford said tightly. “The people are.”

The district surrounding the Kilnstone was among the most heavily fortified in Freybrook. It housed one of the primary sanctuaries of the Followers of Ittar, and Guifford had stationed capable soldiers there. Garrin wasn’t wrong about its importance, but it would hold. Others wouldn’t.

He shifted the grip on the great hammer, adjusting it across his shoulder, readying to push towards the nearest cry for help. Then movement caught his eyes.

A captain sprinted toward him down the street, helmet askew, breath ragged, face pale beneath the steel.

“My Lord, thank Ittar I’ve found you. Commander Richmond sent me. Reports from the southern districts—” the man swallowed, breathless, “—the harbour’s under siege!”

Guifford’s jaw tightened.

The whole city was under attack —but the harbour wasn’t just another district. It was Freybrook’s artery. If it fell, it wasn’t just the city that would bleed. The empire would feel the wound. The majority of goods from Voneia and the western nations came through that harbour, along with critical food reserves and relief supplies.

“What’s the situation?” he asked.

“The attacks are worse there than anywhere else.” The captain handed over a faintly glowing stone, still warm with residual magic. A temporary communication enchantment, cast by Brook Tower’s mages.

Permanent versions of such items were rare and Guifford had already entrusted his to Richmond, but in times of crisis, these short-lived ones were vital, no matter how costly their reagents.

He activated the stone. Richmond’s voice came through at once, calm but urgent.

“My Lord, we have reports of the southern districts being overwhelmed. Swarms of monsters are flooding the docks, tearing through ships and warehouses. The guards stationed there are barely holding, and the mages are stretched thin managing the dragon. I am rerouting forces as we speak, but I fear you’ll be needed there.”

Guifford clenched his fists around the hammer. He’d already known this attack wasn’t like the last, but this confirmed it. The Tribe of Sin wasn’t simply loosing monsters upon the city in reckless destruction. It was calculated.

He turned to Garrin and the remaining knights. “We make for the harbour. Now.”

The closer they drew to the harbour, the worse the devastation became. Entire streets lay in ruin, wooden stalls and buildings crushed beneath the weight of monstrous bodies. Guifford did not recognise all the species, but the ones he did made his blood run cold.

Among the worst were shardscarabs — dog-sized, chitin-plated horrors with segmented bodies and jagged limbs. Upon death, their exoskeletons exploded into razor-sharp fragments, turning even their corpses into weapons. Guifford had only ever seen them in the Unresting Steppes. He had hoped he never would again.

A single shardscarab was slow and posed little threat to a trained guardsman so long as they kept distance during the kill. But in numbers, they were lethal. Hive creatures, utterly obedient to their queen, they attacked relentlessly, launching themselves like living projectiles once a target was marked.

He had seen the carcasses of beasts the size of dragons brought down by swarms of them. Judging by the wreckage scattered through the streets, the scarabs weren’t just attacking civilians. Even other monsters had fallen to them.

The docks—normally alive with labourers even this late, especially since the first empire-wide attacks—had descended into chaos. The air was thick with salt, blood, and the stench of burning timber.

Soon, Guifford and his men spotted the creatures — and by Ittar, there were many.

A tide of insectoid monstrosities scuttled across the harbour, their shell-covered legs clattering against stone and plank. It was a seething, unrelenting wave. Crates lay shattered, sails torn, and the docks were littered with broken wood and collapsed warehouses. Fires smouldered through the wreckage, casting flickering orange light across the dark waters.

Nearly a fifth of the harbour was already lost. Storehouses had been reduced to rubble, sections of dock torn clean away, jagged edges jutting where planks once stood. Offshore, the broken husks of two ships listed in the surf, slowly devoured by the sea.

To his relief, Guifford didn’t see as many civilian corpses as he’d feared. Guards had managed to erect makeshift palisades, desperate attempts to slow the creatures’ advance — but they wouldn’t last. The line was already starting to buckle.

There was no time to waste.

His hammer swung with brutal finality, catching a skittering horror mid-lunge. Its head burst with a sickening crack, then exploded. Fragments of shell ricocheted off his armour, the burst dampened by the protective aura layered over him.

His knights followed close, carving through the tide with grim efficiency. Blades slick with black ichor, they stepped through twitching limbs and broken shells.

At first, the swarm barely noticed them, too consumed by its destructive momentum. But slowly, inevitably, more of the shardscarabs began to shift. Heads turned. Legs twitched. They were adjusting. Redirecting.

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Good.

Guifford bellowed and brought his hammer down in a sweeping arc, aura flaring. The impact cracked the stone beneath him, releasing a concussive shockwave that hurled half a dozen creatures backward. They burst midair, their detonation ripping through their kin in a chain of rupturing shells.

But it was far from enough. For every one that fell, two more crawled over the corpses.

Nearby, Garrin ducked under a spray of chitinous shrapnel, breath ragged. “We’re not going to clear them out fast enough!”

Guifford knew he was right. They could keep killing—he could keep swinging until the sun rose—but they wouldn’t make a dent before the harbour was lost.

Perhaps if the mages at Brook Tower could handle the dragon and send their best combatants, they—

Something shifted.

Guifford’s instincts flared. That deep, unspoken sense honed through decades of battle. The shrieking and chittering of the horde didn’t stop, but the air itself seemed to go still for just a moment.

Then, the ocean surged.

From the depths of the harbour, a colossal wave of water rose — dozens of meters high, swelling with terrifying force. It twisted and churned as though shaped by unseen hands. The monsters barely had time to react before it came crashing down.

The torrent tore through the overrun sections of the docks, swallowing the shardscarabs and other creatures whole. Their screeches filled the night.

Then, before the water could settle, it began to boil.

Flames burst from the depths like the sea itself had ignited. The boiling surge turned the half-submerged scarabs into searing cinders, their armoured shells glowing white-hot before cracking. The host screamed as one, their exoskeletal forms warping and curling inward before crumbling under the flames. Yet somehow, their deaths came clean — no explosions, no shrapnel. Just silence and steam.

Guifford stepped back, raising an arm to shield himself from the heat rolling off the scorched remains. Around him, his knights stood in stunned silence — some in awe, others in sheer disbelief.

Through the flickering haze of dying embers, a lone figure moved.

Dark-red hair streamed behind her, catching the firelight as she walked toward the mass of burning corpses. In one hand, a flaming dagger, and atop her head, a burning circlet.

“Is that…Scarlett?” Garrin murmured, eyes wide.

Another figure followed close behind. A youth with wild white hair, walking in step with her with shoulders coiled, gaze sweeping the battlefield like a wolf stalking the remains of a hunt.

And for the first time in a long while, Guifford found himself without words.