Words failed him; he could only nod. As the headmaster took his first step forward, the girl's voice halted him again. "This is for you, Headmaster."

  It resembled a wreath at first glance, though Patrick noted the absence of any flowers upon its circular form. "It is woven from elderwood," Erica said, her voice timid and soft. She must have been hiding it behind her back all this time, he thought.（ They meant it as a surprise, a gift… and I repaid their kindness with a callous roar. ）His gaze fell to her hands—conspicuously absent was the ring that adorned every Academy student's finger, their mandatory magical focus. "Did you say elderwood?"

  She nodded solemnly. "You used your rings?!" A unanimous wave of nods rippled through the assembly. "When news of your departure reached us, we knew we must create something of genuine value—something that might truly serve you," one student explained.

  "And to give you a token to remember us by," a boy with hair of spun gold and startlingly blue eyes added. "So that you would know, Headmaster, that we are always with you in spirit."

  "And so they have unmade their own rings to forge this one for you, Patrick," Vanessa explained, her voice soft. "Though it is, I concede, a ring better suited for a giant's neck than a man's finger."

  The principal inhaled deeply, steadying himself as he reached for their offering. After surrendering the necklace, Erica's hands hung awkwardly at her sides, uncertain of their purpose. "We've infused it with considerable Source—our collective magical essence," the blond boy continued. "Begin by establishing an Asiro Magical Barrier, weaving offensive enchantments into its matrix. Should its integrity falter, contract the barrier's perimeter gradually, methodically. Remember, Patrick, magic knows no inherent constraints beyond those imposed by imagination itself."

  "Thank you, Pierce." His voice faltered with emotion. "Thank you all."

  The students performed the Silent Rite—an ancient ceremonial gesture from Alaxian tradition, reserved for warriors embarking toward uncertain battle. In that distant era, conflict had been commonplace; neither exuberant farewells for the departing nor demonstrative mourning for the fallen were customary. The Argonian people communicated through deliberate silence and responded through purposeful action. Several female students shed quiet tears—a detail Patrick Fort observed keenly, for his own eyes glistened with similar emotion. "Bella, the portal."

  Bella Coren maintained her pose, chin resting upon her right hand, her back resolutely turned toward him. She extended her left hand toward a shallow puddle nestled within the floor's intricate magical array, intoning: "???????, Δεν ?χει την π?λη του φ?λλου πορτ?ν." Instantly, the water began to tremble, as the array emanated a luminous cyan radiance. Water droplets ascended against natural law, drawn upward by unseen forces. Within moments, a translucent aqueous membrane stood vertically before Patrick Fort—a perfect mirror-like surface, a doorway without physical gates.

  The headmaster verified his travel preparations one final time. Bella Coren persisted in her refusal to face him, as though she had permanently severed visual connection. "Bella," he addressed her softly, "Vanessa, Evelyn." The Dean of Doranar secured the final luggage container and turned to meet his gaze. "I entrust the students to your guardianship."

  Dean Vanessa of Moslander maintained her characteristically enigmatic expression, radiating confident serenity. She acknowledged him with a subtle gesture; Evelyn offered a gentle smile and affirmative nod. Bella Coren provided no discernible response whatsoever.

  The headmaster expressed gratitude to the cook, who continued ladling some viscous culinary creation—whether soup or stew remained indeterminate—into wooden receptacles. Perhaps this represented their final meal within Saint Asini's protective walls; certainty eluded them all.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Patrick Fort propelled himself through the mystical threshold of his destiny.

  "In conclusion, should we pursue this secondary approach, we require the assistance of skilled mages..." Ricard Pafaheim suffered his second interruption while discussing arcane matters. He fixed the intruding soldier with a penetrating stare, maintaining deliberate silence. The man instantly regretted his failure to announce himself properly. "Speak," the duke commanded tersely. "Two Royal Messengers request audience, my lord."

  "Two?" The duke's surprise was evident. "Show them—" Before he could complete his instruction, a pair of goblins squeezed through the doorway. The startled soldier attempted intervention. "Your Grace," the taller goblin began formally, "We convey both greetings and urgent communications from Sir Loyes." Like all his kind, he possessed disproportionately large feet, prominent eyes, and a slender physique. His notably elongated, hook-shaped nose identified him as a Lutin Goblin. Both visitors wore modest attire complemented by small gray felt caps. Duke Pafaheim gestured for the soldier's withdrawal. As the door sealed the chamber, the nobleman rose from his seat. "I appreciate your diligence in this matter. How might I properly address you gentlemen?"

  The goblins exchanged bewildered glances. Throughout their extensive experience, humans invariably desired their swift departure following message delivery—none had ever inquired after their names or demonstrated personal interest. "You may address me as Idaho, my lord," the taller one offered. "I am Halleck," supplied his companion. "The resemblance between you is remarkable," observed Pip Berlid, studying them intently. "Your physical structure, facial features, mannerisms—even your identical headwear."

  "We share brotherhood," Halleck explained, glancing toward Idaho. "And I claim seniority." Ricard Pafaheim acknowledged this with a thoughtful nod. "Messenger brothers. How fascinating."

  "Perhaps I should proceed with my report, my lord." Idaho sensed prolonged conversation might veer toward excessive personal details—birthplace, weaning age, initial tunnel-digging experiences. "Please proceed, young one," the duke encouraged, resuming his seated position. "What assistance does Sir Loyes propose?"

  "Actually, we approach our centennial birthdays," Halleck interjected unexpectedly. Idaho inhaled sharply before delivering a resounding smack to his brother's posterior. "Maintain professional focus, Halleck!" he admonished through clenched teeth. Unfortunately, the impact produced a conspicuous echo, extending the uncomfortable silence.

  Fortunately, Ricard Pafaheim's awkward laughter dissipated the tension. "I beg your forgiveness, venerable gentlemen. Excessive interaction with youthful companions has evidently compromised my temporal perception." He continued smoothly, "Now, pray tell, what message does Sir Loyes convey?"

  "His communication contains... considerable complexity. I shall present it systematically." Halleck extracted a modest collection of parchment sheets and an ink-laden quill from his personal satchel. "Initially, he seeks intelligence regarding military developments outside the city walls."

  "The situation remains precarious," Grand Pip interjected before the duke could respond. "We barely maintain resistance against Godman forces, but at current progression rates, our capacity for continued defense appears severely limited." Ricard Pafaheim concurred with deliberate head movement. Halleck attempted to remove debris from his writing implement; Idaho immediately reprimanded him: "We stand within a castle's hallowed chambers!"

  "Your concern is unnecessary, Idaho," Ricard assured him with an affable smile. "This particular area lacks carpeting."

  "Please accept my apologies, my lord. My brother consistently demonstrates impulsive behavior."

  "Such characteristics occasionally possess merit."

  "Approximately how long do you anticipate external defensive positions can endure?"

  "Precise estimation proves impossible." The duke reluctantly shook his head. "Enemy reinforcements arrive continuously; Godma demonstrates absolute willingness to sacrifice substantial forces before our gates. Given current trajectories, Wafflo's complete occupation appears inevitable... What activity are you presently engaged in?"

  Halleck had positioned himself horizontally upon the floor, vigorously transcribing onto parchment. "Ah," he responded after momentary hesitation, "Merely documenting crucial information..."

  "The table remains available for your use, sir," Ricard Pafaheim suggested, indicating with a gesture and accompanying wink. "Is this your standard documentation methodology?"

  "Absolutely not, my lord," Halleck muttered defensively. "It's simply that no previous individual has extended the courtesy of table access for our scribal activities."