If you ever feel like your vacation is going too well, just wait. The universe—or more precisely, the Princess—will find a way to shove you into a life-threatening dungeon crawl with diplomatic consequences. Again.

  So there we were, all pretending to be normal teenagers. I had a new wand that hummed with the promise of "responsibility" and "focus" (Kael’s words, not mine). Gram was high on his shiny new alchemist license—literally, if you count the fumes from his experimental potions. Eli and Rielle were in “serious training mode,” which involved a lot of screaming and sword cshing in my backyard. Truly peaceful. I almost missed the chaos.

  Then the letter arrived.

  Neatly sealed. Embossed with the Wellstion royal crest. Written in the Princess’s calligraphic chicken-scratch that made it clear: Report to the 11th Floor of the Dungeon. Briefing begins at dawn. Also, pack extra socks. (Yes, that was in there. Priorities.)

  Dungeon Briefing: AKA, How to Politely Say “We Might All Die”We were gathered in the echoing stone chamber of the 11th floor, standing in front of a magically projected map that looked suspiciously like a video game yout. The Princess stood at the front, glowing like an overpowered boss NPC.

  “From Floors 12 through 15,” she began, “you will encounter the territory of the Elven Nation.”

  She paused dramatically. I, for one, was trying to figure out if this meant actual polite, tree-hugging elves… or the stabby ones. Spoiler alert: stabby.

  “Each floor is a yer of their society. Vilge outskirts on 12 and 13. A fortified city on the 14th. And finally,” she said, eyes glittering like she enjoyed this way too much, “the capital city of the elves on the 15th floor. Ruled by their King. A spirit magic wielder.”

  I’m pretty sure the collective groan from Squad 7 could’ve registered on a seismograph.

  “And yes,” she added with a disturbingly cheerful smile, “they see any humans as hostile intruders. Kill-on-sight policy. So diplomacy will be… complicated.”

  Rielle leaned toward me and muttered, “Why is everything in this school a war crime waiting to happen?”

  I whispered back, “Because therapy’s not covered under the empire’s education budget.”

  Motivation or Manipution? Potato, PotahtoThe Princess, in her cssic ‘smile while pnning your death’ tone, moved on to morale-boosting. “This will be my final expedition as your Princess. Upon return, I graduate.”

  Okay. That caught our attention.

  “Which means,” she continued, “you will be the senior-most students of the Academy. A new generation will arrive soon—including another Princess. From Sarnhild.”

  She looked directly at us. “You’ll be responsible for guiding her.”

  There was a moment of collective silence. Then Eli whispered, “I refuse to raise a mini-Princess. I’m still trying to survive this one.”

  But the real trap hadn’t even been sprung yet.

  The “Private Chat” (ft. Rielle's Sneaky Ambush)Later, the Princess summoned me. Alone.

  Rielle, being Rielle, “accidentally” tailed me halfway there before hiding behind a stagmite.

  I walked into the royal tent with all the energy of a man approaching his execution date. The Princess gestured me inside with the smile of someone who’s definitely read viliness romance novels.

  “Lucien,” she said, tone soft, “I believe you’ve been holding back.”

  I blinked. “Is this about not writing in cursive on my essays again? Because—”

  “Crystallization,” she said. “Stage 1, Substage C. You’ve been stuck there too long. But if—no, when—you break through to Stage 3, Substage A… I’ll grant you one favor. Anything.”

  I blinked again.

  She leaned forward. “Anything.”

  My brain short-circuited. I am not a man made for temptation, alright? My nose literally started bleeding. I think I mumbled something like “I’m a good boy” or “may I pet your dragon,” I don’t even know.

  And that’s when Rielle jumped out like a fury from a comedy py.

  “HEY! You—you stay the hell away from his dreams, he already has ME!”

  I was still buffering. Like, full loading screen. The Princess? Smirking. Rielle? Red as a tomato and practically dragging me away like I was a misbehaving puppy.

  As we left the tent, she hissed, “What were you going to ask for?!”

  I blinked. “I honestly forgot. Something about… toast?”

  She didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe me.

  But now I had a goal. A reckless, possibly hormone-fueled goal: reach Stage 3, Manifestation. And if it takes surviving homicidal elves and spirit magic to get there… well.

  Welcome to vacation, Squad 7 style.