Chapter 5
And control? Well, the dukes were obsessed with it. And don’t even get me started on the other kingdoms. I read their stats like I was reading character sheets for a MMORPG:
The West Kingdom
No oceans. No dungeons. But mountains for days.
Good for mining. Metals, stones, smithing.
Think dwarves, forges, big axes, grumpy nobles.
Second most powerful, but not magical. They relied on alliances and trade.
The East Kingdom
Desert. Dry. Hot. Political snakes in silk robes.
No forests, no mana fields, no dungeon entry.
Zero natural magic, so they trade or steal it.
Known for black market mana and sketchy assassins with glowing tattoos.
If the North is rich and glowing, the East is shady and starving.
The South Kingdom
Cold. Ocean-locked. No land, no farms.
Almost eternal winter. Like Elsa got emotional and never recovered.
Their strength lies in sea trade, secret ships, and weird forbidden magic no one talks about out loud.
Creepy, mysterious, and often overlooked—until they flood your docks with ice mages and regret.
And between all these weirdos?
There’s us. The North. The big boss. The shining kingdom of rich land, rich people, rich magic.
And me. The red-haired lightning mess reborn into a family that barely remembered I existed.
But now? Oh no, honey. Now they would remember.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my anime-addict past life and these dusty journals?
You don’t give the weakest chess piece divine lightning powers...Unless you’re ready for her to flip the board.
(...because I still have questions. Like: Who actually poisoned me? Who’s whispering in the halls at night? And does Duke Alaric always smell like cold pine and bad decisions?)
There are few things more satisfying in life than watching the people who used to treat you like dirt realize they may have wildly underestimated you.
And right now?
I was feasting.
Because the doors of the star chamber creaked open again—grand, dramatic, clearly rehearsed—and in slithered my family.
First came my siblings.
Alana and Algebra.
Yes. Algebra. I know.
Even their names were a warning label: Caution—may cause brain fog and personality drought.
They walked in with their usual forgettable grace. Alana with her pinched brows and permanently judgmental lips. Algebra with his slightly hunched posture and that aura of a background character who only exists to hold scrolls and repeat information someone smarter already said.
Both were tall-ish, pale-ish, with hair so beige and expressions so lukewarm it was like someone took the idea of “noble beauty” and blended it with yesterday’s toast.
They looked like the final options left in a character creator when you click “randomize” too many times.
Behind them?
My father.
The Duke of House MacMayer himself.
Lord of land, money, secrets, and bad parenting.
And oh, he did not disappoint.
He swept in wearing a floor-length coat stitched with silver runes, dark velvet layered over obsidian armor like he couldn’t decide if he was going to a war or a musical opera about war. His boots clacked. His cloak fluttered. And his mustache?
Sharp. Twirled. Dangerous.
The kind of mustache that screamed “Yes, I might push you off a balcony if you misbehave.”
A real villain aesthetic. All he needed was a thunderclap and a pipe organ entrance.
They all stopped a few feet from my bed, where I sat like a lightning-charged queen on a throne of confusion and vengeance.
Silence.
Thick. Charged. Awkward.
Good.
I let them stew in it.
Alana was the first to speak. Of course. The “eldest.” The “responsible” one.
“Abby…” she said, voice trembling. “You—you’ve awakened some kind of power. That’s… unexpected.”
“Oh?” I smiled sweetly. “Is it, though? I mean, after years of spiritual neglect and being served poisoned soup, maybe I just powered up out of spite.”
Algebra adjusted his sleeves nervously. “No one in ten generations of our bloodline has ever… manifested lightning magic. It’s not even in the MacMayer lineage. That type of mana was lost—long before the old wars. Even the royal archives only have fragments of what lightning-class magic looked like. It was… erased. Extinct.”
I tapped my fingers against the coverlet, letting sparks flicker harmlessly over my skin like I was born with thunder in my pulse.
“Then I guess I’m extinct too,” I said. “Surprise.”
They flinched. Actual flinched. Delicious.
My father narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to keep control over a situation that was now very much slipping through his mustached fingers.
“Abigail,” he said, deep voice coated in power and irritation, “what happened was… extraordinary. We are all concerned. It is imperative that you tell us everything. Your recovery. The incident. What you felt. What you saw.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why? So you can label me a threat? Lock me up? Send me to one of those priest-run academies for magical disasters?”
He inhaled like he was about to scold me. Bad move.
Because I stood.
Hair loose. Gown fluttering with static. And the very air around me hummed like it couldn’t wait to explode again.
I took one step forward, and I swear—even the ancient stars on the ceiling leaned in to watch.
“You want information?” I said coldly. “Where were you when I was treated like nothing? Where were you when your precious staff abused me? When my siblings mocked me? When I was called powerless?”
No answer. Of course not.
“I almost died,” I said, lightning crawling along my collarbones like a crown. “And now, suddenly, I’m worth your attention? Suddenly, I’m valuable?”
They said nothing.
Cowards.
“Let me guess,” I continued. “You want to understand this power so you can control it. Control me.”
My father’s jaw tightened.
I grinned.
“Ha. Eat dust.”
Alana gasped. Algebra dropped the scroll he wasn’t even holding. My father? He blinked. Slowly.
“I’m not your little pawn anymore,” I said, turning toward the balcony, where the sky outside was still bruised from yesterday’s divine tantrum. “I don’t owe you loyalty. I don’t owe you anything.”
They stood there, stunned. And I? I stood taller.
Because now?
The girl they ignored had become the storm.
He looked scared. Good. Be scared.
Anyway…I felt something. Something like someone was watching me.
I didn’t even have to look behind me to know they were still there—my family. Rooted like badly written statues, reeking of panic perfume and vintage hypocrisy.
It was almost funny.
Ten minutes ago, they probably thought they’d waltz in, drop a dramatic speech, and I’d fall back into my old position: powerless, quiet, disposable.
But me? I had upgraded. I was lightning with boobs.
A divine glitch in their centuries-old script.
“You may leave now,” I said sweetly, turning just enough to see their flustered faces. “Unless you’d like to bow or beg. Or both. I’m flexible.”
“Abigail,” my father growled—growled, like he still had any authority in my zip code of existence—“this attitude is unbecoming of a daughter of House MacMayer.”
I gave him a look.
“Oh darling, I wasn’t ‘becoming’ anything. I was becoming extinct while you were busy polishing your mustache and reading war reports. But guess what? Extinction looks good on me.”
That shut him up.
Finally.
