Fortney's eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. The ceiling overhead came into focus; rough sandstone, lit by the warm, smooth, yellow glow of olive oil lamps.

  She shifted in her bed, and immediately regretted it. Every part of her body hurt, and every joint ached abominably. Even the slightest movement send jagged spikes of pain shooting along her every nerve. She groaned.

  Broken images filtered through her mind. Fragments of the battle with the hashashim, the soldiers finding her lying in the bright sun, the chanting of the sanat-magi, The indescribable pain of their treatments. Her father, in and out of her room repeatedly. Zamiran, chatting idly to himself as he worked around her.

  She shifted again. The pain was indescribable. Fortney gritted her teeth.

  She couldn't stay in bed forever.

  Slowly, by stages, she shifted her body. Her filthy silks stuck to her as she moved. She gave out little pants and cries of pain as she flexed muscles that had not been moved in far too long.

  Her first thought was to lift herself onto her elbows. But something was wrong. She lifted her hands to look at them, but one was missing.

  Memory slammed home. The fight. She had struck off her own left hand in order to kill the hashashim.

  "No," she said. She turned the linen-wrapped stump this way and that, but no matter how she turned or how closely she looked, the left hand remained stubbornly missing.

  She plucked at the bandage, trying to loose it, but it was tightly wrapped. With increasing freneticism, she scratched at it, then pulled, then yanked, ignoring the terrible shocks of pain it sent through her body.

  She had to see.

  Soon enough, the linen came loose and fell away. Tears sprang to her eyes as she saw the awful, ugly scar that ended her arm.

  She ground her teeth and force the tears back. She could not cry. Not now. If she started now, she might never, ever stop.

  In her frustration, she slammed her good right fist into the bed, but there was no power behind it. It was as though her muscles had been drained of all their strength.

  Fortney looked away from her arm. With iron determination, she rolled onto her side, her nerves screaming at her. She slowly pushed and shuffled until she was able to sit upright. Her head spun, and blackness crept over her sight, but she clung to consciousness with a grim fury.

  She sat there for a few minutes, working up the energy to stand, enraged that so simple a task seemed so far beyond her ability. She made a few abortive attempts, unconsciously flailing with her severed arm as her muscle memory tried to use both hands to lift her up. With weakened muscles and only one arm, she could not regain her feet.

  She barked an oath, but even her voice sounded strained, weary, and weak.

  "Shazedah!" Zamiran walked in, a tall pitcher in his hands. He quickly set it on the floor and rushed to her side. "Shazedah, you are awake!"

  "Yes," she growled. She tried to push herself to her feet again.

  "Please, Shazedah, lie back. Rest!" He reached out, as if to help her lie down, but she gave him such a fierce glare that he pulled back. "I will get your father!" he cried, turning.

  "No!" she cried. Zamiran paused and looked back at her. "Not like this," she said. "I... I don't want him to see me like this."

  Zamiran bowed low.

  "Respectfully, Shazedah, he has seen you every day. He comes in and spends hours here with you."

  "I... don't want him to see me like this," she repeated. "Help me stand."

  "Shazedah, no! You must lie still. Your wounds were severe. You must rest and allow your body to heal. As we way, 'sleep is the healer that--'"

  "I will stand!" she barked, her voice still thin, but filled with determination. "I will."

  Poor Zamiran looked so conflicted--he wanted to help her, wanted to heal her, wanted to fetch the Sultan. He kept starting in different directions. Finally Fortney cleared things up for him.

  "I will stand, with or without you," she said. "I will stand with others or on my own. If I fall, I will stand again. And again. Until I can. You can either help or get out of the way."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Zamiran looked at her, aghast.

  "I will help, Shazedah," he said, bowing low. Then he moved to her side. She put her right hand on his shoulder. He held her elbow to steady her, and put an arm around her waist. Working together, They levered her up out of bed. She leaned heavily on Zamiran, her legs wobbling and snapping back and forth. After a few short seconds, she fell heavily back onto the bed, nearly pulling the thin priest over. Pain shot through her body as she landed, and she spent several minutes gasping in shock and recovering.

  "I stood," she said finally.

  "You did, Shazedah," Zamiran said quietly.

  "I will stand again," she said. "Here in a bit. I... feel so weak."

  "You were poisoned, honorable Shazedah," he said. "The blades of the hashashim were coated in a mix of exotic poisons from the east. We have done our best to purge you, but the poisons work quickly to destroy the body. They have attacked your muscles."

  "Then I will have to build new muscles," she said. "Help me stand again."

  "Please, Shazedah, you must please be careful. You will tear open your wounds."

  "Then I will heal again. Come."

  Reluctantly, Zamiran stepped forward. He helped her up. Again, she was only able to stand for a few seconds, but she was able to lower herself more gently the second time.

  Once seated, she was panting and dizzy.

  "Please, Shazedah, why do you push yourself so? You should rest and heal."

  Fortney frowned. "I want to see my father. But I will meet him on my feet."

  "Shazedah, he will be overjoyed to see you awake, standing or not."

  She looked down at her missing limb and her face twisted in grief.

  "Instead of a daughter, now he has a... an aflīj, a cripple. As heavy a burden as I am now to bear, I will not add to it by lolling about in a bed."

  "Honorable Shazedah, he does not think that w--"

  "Don't tell me what my father thinks!" she screamed. "Only help me to stand!"

  Over the next half hour, she repeatedly stood, working her muscles, beginning to understand her new balance. It shocked her to learn how much of her balance depended on having both hands; she was so unstable on her feet that even with her fierce resolve, she dared not try walking a single step yet.

  After the exercise, she collapsed onto the bed, exhausted.

  "Come, Shazedah, will you rest?"

  "I will rest," she said, panting. "Once I am recovered, you may fetch the Sultan, if he will come."

  "He will come," Zamiran promised.

  "Tell me what has occurred. How long did I slumber?"

  Zamiran looked uneasy.

  "You have slept a full half-moon, Shazedah," he said quietly. "We did not know if you would live." He took a deep breath. "The soldiers found you in an alley off of the bazaar. You were already near death. They brought you here. In a temple mill nearby, they found three dead hashashim. Everybody assumes you killed them."

  "I did," Fortney said. Her brow furrowed. "I think. My memories are... incomplete." She lifted her stump. "But I remember this. I did this so I could kill the last one."

  Zamiran swallowed.

  "As you say, Shazedah. But you were gravely wounded. Kadir emptied out every soldier from the fortifications at the Sun Gate to look for you."

  "Kadir!" she said. "Where is he?"

  Zamiran bowed.

  "He is also here in the temple. He was also attacked by hashashim, but... he is not recovering as well as you."

  "What? Why?"

  "He was poisoned, as you are, but his was far deeper, and his organs were damaged. It took longer before he was brought to the temple, and his treatment was... complicated." He bowed. "I am sorry, Shazedah. We still do not know if he will live."

  "I want to see him," she said. "I have stood. Next I will walk, then I will see him."

  Zamiran's eyes cut away.

  "He may not recognize you, Shazedah," Zamiran said slowly. "His wounds, the poison... his mind is damaged, somehow. He lives in the far past, in his memories. He does not recognize many people. He did not recognize the Sultan."

  Fortney's face crumpled.

  "Still, I will see him."

  "As you say, Shazedah."

  She took a deep breath.

  "Fetch my father. But first..." She pulled her severed arm in. "Fetch me a robe, or a long tunic. I do not want him to see this."

  Zamiran opened his mouth to protest, but the unexpected look of vulnerability on her face forestalled him.

  "I will," he said.

  Conrad Weatherby, the ambassador from Arden, sat at his desk in the office provided to him in the Sultan's palace.

  "Dispatch to the Foreign Office, Solinor of Arden," he wrote.

  "My Lords,

  "It is my displeasure to report that our negotiations with Namar?n have stalled. The mood of the palace has shifted significantly, starting these two weeks gone. People are somber and skittish. Some event has occurred that has the entirety of the royal court here in Baradon on edge, but no man will tell me what has happened. Even the princess' handmaid, who had been a reliable and eager source of information on the daily events of palace life, seems to have gone missing.

  "Negotiations with the Sultan have been spotty and inconclusive. He is clearly distracted by something. Though no one will share what has occurred, there has been no effort to prevent me from entering the city and drawing my own conclusions. I have seen preparations for some kind of battle being performed in earnest. The Sultan is gathering his elite army of 'immortal warriors', though for what purpose I cannot guess.

  "It is an unusual move for the usually sunny Sultan. He does not strike me as an expansionist, and any foreign venture or invasion would require the use of the main armies, not just this smaller elite force. I confess I am mystified by this latest muster.

  "Negotiations themselves have slowed. The Sultan has been harsher and less willing to concede terms. He is sharp, and shrewd, and a hard negotiator. Though it is the thinnest bit of good news, he has dropped his 'jolly old king' act and shown his true colors. Furthermore, the princess has attended no further negotiations, which has made matters somewhat easier. Furthermore, the Sultan has made a very curious proposal which may help our negotiations greatly. Please forward the enclosed missive to the headmaster of the Solinor Experimental Co-Educational Polytechnic with all haste.

  "My hope is that once this issue in the palace has settled down, we will be able to continue negotiations in earnest. In the meantime, I have been making myself scarce. Something has the sultan's ire up, and I feel that any progress made at this time will not be to our benefit.

  "I will continue to keep you apprised of events as I am able to ascertain them.

  "As always, faithfully yours,

  "Conrad Weatherby

  "Envoy to Namar?n"

  ? Overpowers: Magical Girl Crossover ?

  by Moawar

  He, Life, had a simple job.

  His responsibility as an Overpower was to make sure that fiction stories and the characters in them follow their dictated path. He always did his job well enough, not more or less than was needed.

  His latest assignment, however, would, in retrospect, prove to be his most challenging one of all.

  He would find himself in a unfamiliar world. There he'll have to quickly adapt to guide Nozomi.

  The strongest magical girl with the potential to accidentally destroy those she seeks to protect in her fight against evil.

  What to Expect: A love letter to fiction, where each relevant character represents a different genre in fiction with a few twists to make them fresh. Ex: Isekai, Shonen, Magical Girl, Tragedy, Cultivation, Regression, Tokusatsu, Horror, and many others. All are united under one theme: life and how each character will choose to live theirs.

  If you like the psychological aspects of Madoka Magica and the mixing of different genres a crossover story brings then this story is for you