"Did you see the look on Sir Harvey's face just then?" Ricard Pafaheim mimicked, puffing out his chest and widening his eyes in a caricature of alarm. "He looked for all the world like a great brown bear startled on its hind legs!"

  "He's concerned for your welfare, Ricard," Grand Pip remarked, settling into a window-adjacent chair. "You saw those arrows yourself—some genuinely reached the wall's upper ramparts. Sir Harvey has no desire to explain how his liege lord was struck down through momentary carelessness."

  "My eyes are sharp enough yet, thank you kindly. I'm not quite that decrepit," the Duke of Pafaheim retorted, a fine flush still warming his cheeks from the ale. "But my impression was quite convincing, wasn't it?" He rose again, mimicking a bear's vigilant posture upon detecting an unfamiliar sound. "You've slain a brown bear barehanded—your expertise should validate my performance."

  Pip Berlid shook his head, a look of fond exasperation on his face. "It was a black bear, old friend, not a brown one. And it stood no taller than I do. As for 'barehanded'… well, only if you don't count the half-dozen boulders I smashed over its skull."

  Ricard Pafaheim resumed his seat, his entire demeanor transforming instantaneously. "As expected—in circumstances like these, everyone's wound so tightly that humor vanishes entirely."

  Grand Pip studied his companion, concern evident in his gaze. "They're formidable, aren't they?" the duke inquired softly. "Not to exalt our adversaries while diminishing ourselves, but they truly are exceptional, wouldn't you agree?"

  The earl nodded solemnly. "They are magnificent, Ricard. Magnificently deadly, far beyond what we anticipated. But we are holding the line, for now. We are bleeding them for every step."

  "Temporarily at best." The duke seized a nearby vessel and drained its contents without ceremony. "Their commander, Raveirmom Dear, continues deploying fresh forces to the frontline. He disregards significant casualties, fixated exclusively on territorial expansion. He recognizes that prudence is presently disadvantageous—merely maintaining position proves insufficient. His objective is maximizing territorial acquisition before his siege engines are neutralized. It's the strategically sound decision. Both sides suffer grievously, but they possess greater capacity to absorb such losses. Should they breach our gate's proximity, however, we face unacceptable vulnerability." Finding his beverage unpalatable, he unceremoniously discarded the remaining contents through the window. "Their advance velocity has invalidated virtually all our pre-conflict assessments."

  "What course of action would you propose?"

  "Two paths lie before us, and only two," he said, his voice hard with certainty. "First, we commit to a decisive, pitched battle. I know we have argued against this, but it may now be the only way to halt the Godman tide. We make our stand at the final defensive line, win back the ground we've lost, and drive them back beyond the ten-li mark."

  "Excessively optimistic," Pip Berlid assessed tersely. "Their deployed forces outnumber ours considerably. Achieving victory in pitched battle while compelling a seven-li retreat stretches credibility."

  "Absent direct confrontation, we require some element to impede Godman progress." The Duke of Pafaheim illustrated with animated gestures. "Something akin to treacherous marshland that diminishes their offensive efficiency while prolonging their assault. This would facilitate our gradual counter-advancement. Such methodology would proceed substantially slower than the former option."

  "Forgive my obtuseness, Ricard." Grand Pip scrutinized his companion's age-clouded eyes intently. "Your specific recommendation eludes me. Your gestural illustrations remain similarly incomprehensible."

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  Ricard Pafaheim exhaled deeply, allowing his expressive hands to fall idle. "I struggle to articulate the precise methodology. However, in essence, it involves the element you previously suggested—magic."

  Patrick Fort descended the staircase without deliberate stealth, yet produced virtually no audible disturbance. He gripped a staff—a druidic bequest, or more accurately, a relic. Interwoven oak branches culminated in an unassuming yellow diamond. He moved with the stiff, mechanical gait of a man walking in a dream, taking care that the staff's tip never touched the stone floor, his mind a whirlwind of doubt, questioning if he was truly ready. "Bringing your staff and all," a rich, magnetic female voice remarked from somewhere within the great hall. "It seems Bella was right after all. You truly mean to attempt a grand warding."

  The young headmaster raised his gaze, momentarily suspending his breath. His surprise originated not from Vanessa, Dean of Moslander, attired in practical shirt, leather trousers and boots suited for vigorous activity; nor from Evelyn, Dean of Doranar, methodically cataloging apparel and necessities among countless luggage containers; nor even from Bella Coren, slouched indifferently upon a bench, chin resting upon her fist, radiating utter disinterest. Rather, his astonishment stemmed from the presence of precisely one hundred and six Saint Asini Magic Academy students, positioned behind them, maintaining impeccable posture and extraordinary silence. Cook Laryni agitated a substantial cauldron of potato and chicken bone stew, her considerable bosom swaying rhythmically. The headmaster surveyed this unexpected assembly, releasing a subtle sigh.

  "Does your students' presence not inspire satisfaction?" Bella Coren inquired with characteristic abruptness.

  "Your intention is mockery, Bella," the young man asserted.

  "I apologize, but such motivation never entered my consideration," Bella responded with glacial detachment. "This location provides adequate security and sufficient accommodation for all students. Nothing beyond these practical considerations applies. No one harbors interest in witnessing your potential humiliation."

  "You orchestrated their presence specifically to obstruct my intentions," he declared heatedly.

  "Headmaster." Vanessa's melodious voice resonated once more. "Perhaps moderate your emotional response." Her distinctively structured features—prominent nose, expansive forehead—remained composed as she regarded the young man with an enigmatic half-smile.

  Evelyn maintained unwavering focus on her organizational activities. "Is that genuinely your belief?" Bella Coren challenged. "You perceive my student assembly as calculated mockery, deliberately designed to impede your efforts?" Her expression transformed into derisive amusement. "Verify this hypothesis with them directly, if you require confirmation."

  "Such verification proves unnecessary," Patrick Fort adjusted his travel pack with deliberate hauteur. "Activate the portal."

  "Headmaster!" a feminine voice called out unexpectedly. "What is it?!" he thundered, displaying unprecedented aggression that startled every witness present. The young woman sprang instantly from her seated position, suddenly recognizable to Patrick. Evelyn suspended her activities, pivoting with evident concern illuminating her gentle countenance. It was difficult to reconcile the petite, gentle woman in the sky-blue dress with her reputation as one of the most formidable offensive mages in the academy. One looked at her and found it easier to believe she could not harm a fly.

  "...Is something troubling you, Erica?" He attempted modulating his tone toward gentleness. The tall student appeared momentarily immobilized, her unwavering gaze fixed upon him. Her eyebrows remained noticeably underdeveloped. He struggled maintaining emotional equilibrium, avoiding any appearance of discomfort or uncertainty. (Those sparse eyebrows...) "Do you truly intend departure, Headmaster?" Eventually, she fractured the oppressive silence.

  "Affirmative." The headmaster's response emerged with deliberate conviction and measured pace, already formulating extensive justifications to persuade her and the remaining one hundred five students. "You must comprehend, Erica, the unavoidable nature of this circumstance. The Godman forces have presently..."

  "Proceed with your intention." Her unexpected interjection momentarily eluded his comprehension as he continued his prepared explanation. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Proceed with your intention," Erica reiterated. Patrick Fort now found himself similarly immobilized. (Move forward!) he internally commanded, (Activate your legs immediately!)