Chapter 931: Primal Methods In Modern Times
Rachel blinked awake to a ceiling she didn’t recognize for half a second—polished composite, not her dorm canopy—then remembered: Tycho quarters, post-chaos, post-everything. She stretched on instinct and immediately winced as a bright line of ache lit her lower back.
Right. “Primal methods.”
She rolled carefully onto a hip. Arthur was a tangle of limbs and blanket on the far side, dead to the world. The other three were draped over him like smug cats. Rachel scowled—not really at him, more at the memory of Purelight sliding off Lysantra’s residue like rain off oil. When sanctity fails, you improvise. It had worked. It had also… worked.
She cupped a hand over the tender spot and let a faint wash of Purelight bloom under her skin. Keep it dim, keep it quiet.
“Mhmm, me too,” murmured a voice against her stomach.
Rachel jumped. “Cecil—”
“Shh,” Cecilia whispered, hand already over Rachel’s mouth, crimson eyes very, very awake. “Why are you yelling?”
“I wasn’t— you—” Rachel huffed when Cecilia finally moved her hand. She finished the healing burst and leveled a look. “Use your own mana. We are Radiant-rank.”
Cecilia made a show of considering it. “Nope. I want to remember Arthur.”
“You would,” Rachel muttered, slipping out from under the covers. She padded toward the en-suite, pausing only to make sure the glow from her hand died before it could wake anyone.
Cecilia wobbled after her, posture dramatic, which tickled something protective and irrational in Rachel’s chest. “How are you always annoying?” the Saintess said without heat.
“It’s a Gift, Saintess,” Cecilia smirked, detouring toward the jacuzzi.
“I’m using the shower,” Rachel said, already turning the tap. Steam feathered up the glass.
“Fine, I’m taking the jacuzzi,” Cecilia replied, twisting the valve. The sunken tub roared to life and filled fast with perfectly warm water. She sank down to her shoulders, eyes half-lidded, a satisfied hiss leaving her throat. “Ow. Worth it.”
Rachel stepped under the shower; hot water drummed tension out of her spine. Ten minutes later she was in soft cotton, hair braided, dotting a hint of color on her lips when Cecilia emerged in loose sleepwear, steam-damp hair curled behind her ears.
“Lipstick? Really?” Cecilia clicked her tongue. “You’re a Saintess.”
“Modern times,” Rachel said, deadpan. “Before a Saintess, I’m a woman.”
Cecilia squinted at her. “I thought there was a clause in your vows about ‘eschewing material desires’.”
“Luckily we’re not living in parchment,” Rachel said, capping the tube. “And yes, you’re wearing liner, so don’t start.”
“First good thing you’ve said today,” Cecilia conceded, snagging toothpaste.
They eased the suite door closed behind them and slipped into the living room. The Luna Base’s morning cycle had clicked on; pale light spilled across low couches and the long table, the hum of sealed habitat walls steady after last night. Earth hung outside the viewport like a coin on velvet. Rachel set water to boil, opened her Northern blend—tea flecked with gold leaf—and breathed in calm.
Cecilia flopped into a chair, stretched like a cat, and immediately ruined the calm. “How charming does he have to be to pull a literal god?”
Rachel’s mouth flattened over the cup. “Did you have to bring that up?”
“I’m serious.” Cecilia started counting on her fingers. “There’s us—five, all Radiant. Two princesses, one princess who is also the Saintess, one duke’s daughter, one terrifying commoner with murder handwriting. Alyssara Velcroix—technically the strongest human alive—is obsessed with him because of Emma. And now the Demon Lord of Lust.”
Rachel didn’t answer. Her eyes did—deep blue with that little buried ring of gold, storm-thinking before speaking. She poured. “You forgot one.”
Cecilia sat up. “Who?”
“The qilin?” Cecilia frowned, replaying memory: Luna laughing off the idea with a shake of amethyst hair. “She made fun of it.”
“She did,” Rachel agreed, stirring. “But she looks at him with old eyes.”
Cecilia groaned into her hands. “At this rate he’ll attract Akasha herself.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Rachel warned, half serious.
The suite door hissed. Seraphina stepped in, hair damp, uniform neat despite the hour, bringing that clean, winter air she always carried. She took in the tea, the not-speaking, and arched a brow.
“Is this the part where we list every cosmic being our fiancé has accidentally charmed?” she asked, voice like a cold stream.
“Yes,” Cecilia said immediately.
Seraphina poured water, sat with posture exact. “Then add half the ward engineers,” she said. “Statistically.”
Rachel nearly spit tea. “Seraphina.”
“What? They blush.” Seraphina sipped, unblinking. “Also, they filed three separate requests to ‘observe’ his drills. I denied two.”
The door hissed again. Rose drifted in with a tablet under her arm, blue roses stitched subtle into her cuff. She set the tablet face-down and exhaled. “Residual glamour in the hall is under nine percent,” she reported, sliding into the arm of Rachel’s chair. “Luna and I anchored a counter-pattern. It will fade.”
“We’re not talking about the hall,” Cecilia said.
“I know,” Rose said dryly. “We’re talking about him. And the wake.”
Reika arrived last—loose knot, t-shirt, sweats, the quiet of a sheathed blade. She leaned in the doorway, listened for five heartbeats, and cut in.
“Ground rules,” she said.
Cecilia perked up. “Ooh, house rules. Go on.”
Reika ticked them off on neat fingers. “One: if a projection pings the room, no one engages alone.” Her gaze flicked to Rachel. “Two: interrupter is Rachel or Luna; if Purelight fails, we use blunt solutions without shame.”
“Primal methods,” Cecilia said, almost solemn.
“Three,” Reika went on, completely unbothered, “remove Arthur from windows. Put him in a room with us. Locks if necessary.”
Rose’s mouth quirked. “Four: I file a standing writ—Arthur does not accept ‘gifts’ or ‘audiences’ from anyone with antlers, star crowns, inexplicable silk, or a voice described as ‘honeyed’—without five signatures.”
“That’s not how law works,” Rachel said.
“It will by lunch,” Rose replied, already unlocking her tablet.
Seraphina tapped a quiet rhythm on her knee. “Five: training. Sword today. No Grey. He owes the moon careful work.”
Cecilia slouched farther into the chair, satisfied. “Also, I move we forbid him from smiling at gods. It’s clearly lethal.” ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ NovᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt
“Seconded,” Seraphina said, perfectly straight.
They settled there, the good quiet—alive and making plans because planning stops the shake. Rachel poured another cup. Cecilia accepted hers with a sigh and propped her feet on the low table; Rachel nudged them off; Cecilia put them back; Rachel nudged them off again without looking. Outside, a maintenance crawler trundled along the yard’s edge. Inside, five women who could move armies discussed pantry inventory and ward tolerances because breakfast and baselines are how you keep empires standing.
“So.” Cecilia glanced at the corridor. “Do we talk about how Saintess Purelight didn’t fix him? Because we had to—”
“Primal methods,” Rachel said, cheeks pinking. “Yes. It worked. We’re not pretending it didn’t happen.”
“It worked because it was us,” Seraphina said. “Anchors he chose, not invasive force.”
Rose nodded. “Identity overrides glamour when the identity is reinforced by… emphasis.”
“Say ‘sex’, Rose,” Cecilia said, wicked.
Rose didn’t blink. “Emphasis.”
Reika rubbed her thumb over the scar on her wrist where script loved to sit. “Bottom line: next time a divine projection threads the room, we drag him away, lock the door, and distract until Rachel says ‘clear’.”
“Add a physical layer,” Seraphina said. “I’ll put an ice array in the corridor—slows approach without shattering equipment.”
“I’ll add a paradox veer.” Rose flicked through screens. “Any glamour vector gets a three-degree bend into a dead loop.”
“I’ll carve two quick scripts on the interior frame,” Reika said. “Minimal ink. Temporary lock under the ward mesh; Captain Vyr won’t complain.”
Cecilia blew her bangs up. “Chaos lace woven into the suite’s threshold. If anything tries to push emotion over baseline in here, it misfires into static. You’ll feel it like hairs rising.”
“Good,” Rachel said, musical timbre settling the room. “And we do not go looking for attention. The Seven will do diplomacy. We cover him.”
Seraphina added, softer, “Tiamat called herself ‘weak’ for barely holding a projection.”
Rose’s eyes dipped. “That is not a sentence I enjoy hearing.”
Cecilia slanted a smile to crack the weight. “Look on the bright side: if gods keep tossing themselves at him, we get priority tea rations.”
“Cecilia,” Rachel warned.
The kitchenette chime popped. Rachel stood, poured, returned, passed cups down the line like communion. When she reached the last, the bedroom door hissed.
Arthur stepped into the living room, hair a stubborn mess, t-shirt crooked, Valeria an honest weight at his hip. He paused at the five of them clustered in morning light and visibly considered retreat.
Five sets of eyes leveled at him—Saintess steady, witch amused and dangerous, swordswoman cool as winter, paradoxist unreadable, scripter unimpressed.
Arthur froze halfway to a guilty smile.
“Good morning?” he tried.
He lifted his hands. “Tea?”
Valeria hummed against his palm—a small, feminine warning he felt more than heard. Behave.
Arthur stood there, caught like a kid at the cookie jar, while all five kept right on glaring at him.