"By all the gods, you've thrown my plans into disarray." Ricard Pafaheim abandoned the table and strode to the window. A raven perched on the sill, regarding him with eyes as inscrutable as fate itself. "In crafting our strategy, I never once contemplated this possibility. Throughout the annals of human conflict, magical intervention has been scarcely documented. The large-scale deployment of arcane forces—assuming the accounts from Crivi aren't embellished—represents an innovation attributable solely to the Godmans..." He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, acutely aware of the chill beads of sweat that had suddenly broken out upon his temples. "In this domain, I stand woefully unprepared... Curse the infernal realms, should the Godmans augment their siege machinery with sorcery, we possess no conceivable countermeasure..." The raven tilted its head inquisitively, experimentally pecking at Ricard's outstretched fingers.

  "And all the more perilous now that our own Chief Court Mage has vanished without a trace," Grand Pip Berlid added, his voice grim, shaking his head slowly. "Yet perhaps there is still a remedy to be found, Ricard, if we move with the speed of desperation itself."

  "A dubious proposition at best. Cynthia's arcane development lags demonstrably behind Godma's advancements... Where precisely am I to locate cowled practitioners capable of cleaving royal residences asunder with mere gestural flourishes? Pip? I eagerly await your sagacious counsel on this matter."

  "Moderate your impetuosity," Grand Pip advised, studying him intently. "Occasionally, the remedy you seek resides in immediate proximity."

  The men's gazes locked in momentary assessment. "When did this development occur?" Ricard's lips curved slightly. "What precisely are you implying?" Earl Berlid countered. "I remained ignorant that Kulen Mountain's inhabitants had cultivated mystical disciplines."

  "Oh, consign yourself to damnation. I wasn't referencing my own capabilities."

  Ricard resettled himself in his chair. "Saint Asini," Ricard mused, tapping a thoughtful finger against his lips. "If memory serves me true, that is the name of a certain academy of… less conventional scholarship."

  "The very same." A slow smile spread across Grand Pip's broad face. "Within its walls, Ricard, you will find mages and sorcerers aplenty, a veritable trove of the uniquely skilled individuals you so desperately need."

  "Then expediency becomes paramount." The Duke of Pafaheim shifted his weight forward before his seat had properly warmed. "We must immediately dispatch emissaries to summon several of their most accomplished mages..." His pronouncement was interrupted by Helmos Pafaheim's abrupt entrance. "Ah, my son. Propriety suggests preliminary knocking. Nevertheless, your timing proves fortuitous—I have a critical assignment requiring your—"

  Lord Pafaheim interrupted his father's directive for the second time. "Father. Such matters must temporarily abate."

  "What circumstances warrant such urgency?"

  "They have arrived."

  "They are here," Ricard Pafaheim repeated, a sudden, cold premonition dousing the urgency in his voice. And then, as if summoned by his very words, the air was split by the brazen call of war horns -- one, then another, and another still, their defiant challenge echoing across the vast, untroubled expanse of Pafaheim's azure sky.

  "They have arrived." Bella Coren stood with arms folded across her chest, slender fingers idly manipulating the delicate lace adorning her wrists. "They're here, Patrick."

  Patrick Fort, Headmaster of Saint Asini Magic Academy, hunched intently over his desk, meticulously transcribing passages from an ancient magical treatise entitled "Ancient Defensive Circles: A Disquisition on the Lodina and Moscovian Forms." At her words, his quill halted mid-stroke. "When precisely did this intelligence reach you?"

  "Mere moments ago. My familiar detected it." Vice-Principal Bella navigated toward his position; the accumulated tomes surrounding Patrick had effectively constructed a seventh bibliographic fortification between them. "The declaration emanated from Duke Pafaheim's personal chambers, vocalized by the Duke himself. Furthermore, the defensive perimeter has been compromised—at Kadenford."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Patrick Fort contemplated this information briefly before closing the venerable tome. "So the nocturnal vision manifested genuine prophecy."

  "Temper your youthful fire, boy," she cautioned, and the look she gave him through her round spectacles was sharp enough to chip stone, less a reminder than a stark command. "You recognize our inability to maintain passive observation while awaiting inevitable destruction, Bella."

  "Indeed I do. However, timing remains critical. The Godmans have merely initiated their offensive campaign—the moment requiring our intervention has not yet materialized."

  "When, then, would you deem appropriate for our assistance?" The headmaster pivoted to confront her directly. "When formal supplications arrive? When desperate necessity drives them to our doorstep?"

  "You comprehend as thoroughly as I—by that juncture, Cynthia will teeter precipitously at the threshold of complete dissolution," Patrick Fort responded, his customary benevolence abruptly vanishing, replaced by rigid determination. "Cynthia permitted Doranar to establish this academy not from any genuine appreciation for magical disciplines—but from absolute indifference regarding magical practitioners' activities, provided such endeavors posed no threat to monarchical authority. Our superficially impressive magical advancement scarcely transcends fundamental backwardness. Quantify Cynthia's Court Mages for me? The answer remains painfully familiar to you, Bella. Beyond Monica, only you and Evelyn remain—confined to academic instruction here, having never crossed the palace threshold. Monica secured her appointment as Chief primarily due to her youth—the prevailing assumption being that a seventeen-year-old girl could pose no credible threat to royal security. By Goria's sacred name! I question whether any palace inhabitant truly comprehends magic's fundamental significance."

  "How remarkably ironic." Bella Coren's lips curved in subtle amusement. "He articulated identical sentiments."

  "To whom do you refer?"

  "The Duke of Pafaheim," the vice-principal clarified. "He similarly observed Cynthia's magical capabilities lag substantially behind Godma's... The supreme irony being his apparent obliviousness to our academy's existence within Pafaheim's very boundaries."

  "Such oversight warrants no condemnation," Patrick's expression darkened perceptibly. "Excepting those rare individuals manifesting innate magical aptitude, our student population consists predominantly of abandoned children. Humanity seldom acknowledges ant colonies—until suffering their sting."

  "Nevertheless, I maintain that Duke Pafaheim demonstrates genuine concern for his constituency—his efforts represent the maximum extent of his capabilities."

  Patrick rose decisively, organizing the scattered materials adorning his workspace. "Suppress any imprudent inspirations currently formulating in your consciousness." Bella issued another pointed admonition.

  "I must initiate preparatory procedures."

  "Preparations for what specific purpose?"

  "Magic," the boy stated succinctly. "A defensive enchantment of unprecedented magnitude."

  "Where do you intend to implement this working?" Bella's interrogative tone resembled a mother confronting her adolescent son's questionable decisions.

  "The city gate."

  "I half-expected you to declare your intent to race off to Kadenford. Had you done so, I would have known you for a fool beyond all hope of redemption."

  "Distant water cannot extinguish proximate conflagrations. My potential contribution, given current circumstances, extends exclusively to Pafaheim."

  "Indeed." Bella Coren's expression conveyed unmistakable skepticism. "You propose generating a protective enchantment sufficiently expansive to encompass the entire Gate of Cynthia?"

  "Precisely my intention."

  "Without intending undue discouragement, Patrick—do you genuinely believe I remain ignorant of your capabilities?" The sorceress deliberately approached the headmaster, removing her circular spectacles with theatrical deliberation. "Did you honestly presume that during my previous visit to your office, when reporting Monica's situation, I failed to detect your defensive barrier? No, Patrick. I perceived it distinctly—even without optical assistance, I could discern your incomplete Asiro Barrier—though 'Asiro Barrier' constitutes an overstatement, considering your failure to incorporate appropriate medium components. It merely approximated the authentic form. That rudimentary single-layered construct scarcely qualifies as functional protection; dismantling it wouldn't require even the most elementary incantation, my dear."

  "That represented merely preliminary experimentation," the boy admitted, visibly embarrassed at having his amateur efforts exposed. "Furthermore, concealment wasn't my primary objective." He attempted justification. "Were I to implement a genuine protective barrier, its manifestation would differ substantially."