He had scarcely imagined that the Gate of Cynthia could overwhelm him so profoundly. Patrick Fort stood beneath the towering doors, craning upward at the immense lintel, his knees suddenly betraying him with weakness. Perhaps because these gates remained perpetually open in peacetime, even the citizens of Pafaheim had never paused during their daily passages to truly appreciate their majestic grandeur. The Headmaster placed his hands against the jamb; the bitter chill of rough iron had caused him to recoil involuntarily at first contact. It had been his own proposition to personally defend the gate—yet doubt gnawed at his confidence, not merely about his own resolve, but whether he could successfully bind the Asiro Magic Barrier to the massive structure at all. From present observations, however, his efforts appeared successful. The soldiers positioned along the gate watched as this slight, frail boy braced his delicate frame against each thunderous impact of the Godman battering-ram, absorbing blow after devastating blow—and their regard for him transformed into solemn reverence.

  The Gate of Cynthia had fallen quiet for an interval; Patrick allowed himself to hope that perhaps the enemy had abandoned their seemingly futile assault. Above, archers stationed along the wall loosed occasional arrows while attempting to discern the situation unfolding before the gates. The Godman forces had withdrawn en masse, including the hundred men who had operated the immense dragon-head battering ram. The defenders atop the wall neither understood this retreat nor particularly cared to investigate its cause. Their sole intention was to exhaust their dwindling arrow supply when the enemy inevitably advanced again—nothing more was required.

  A solitary knight wrapped in a gray cloak remained with a blazing torch beyond the ram, refusing to retreat with his compatriots. Later—having miraculously survived to recount the tale—he would recall how his emotions metamorphosed throughout the battle. The deployment of magic for the third time in this war, and the second within this campaign, had provoked disgust among many Godman soldiers, and he had been selected as the sacrificial vessel for their collective revulsion. He remembered it all with a terrible clarity: the frantic hammering of his heart as he lowered the torch to the kindling; the icy dread that the red flame would turn a sickly green and, just as the stories warned, feast upon his soul. But when he successfully ignited the straw and wood shavings, secured the hatch at the ram's rear, and frantically spurred his mount to escape, profound relief washed over him—swiftly followed by exhilaration. He could already hear the hellish crackling erupting from the dragon's carved maw, and the agonized wailing from the Cynthian defenders above. Astride his galloping horse, he laughed with unbridled abandon—for those doomed souls upon the wall, for his comrades ahead raising weapons and battle cries—and ultimately, for himself.

  Patrick Fort initially failed to register the screams. His concentration remained singularly focused on maintaining the barrier, preserving its integrity against the assault. Only minutes after the battering ram had ceased its rhythmic pounding did he sense some other malevolent force threatening the Asiro Barrier. (The attack feels dense, vicious, and omnipresent,) he analyzed silently. (Perhaps magical in nature?)

  When the first defenders plummeted from the battlements, their bodies enveloped in brilliant emerald flames, he recognized the horrific truth—this was indeed magic, and of the most forbidden variety. Hellfire split into countless searing jets that surged upward along the wall's surface. Men shrieked, a primal sound of pure terror, as they staggered along the battlements like drunken fools, trying to outrun the hungry tongues of fire that licked at their heels before they inevitably tripped and fell, screaming, into the darkness below. With frenzied velocity, Hellfire consumed the entire walkway atop the Wall of Cynthia; its path marked by nothing but agonized howls. Archers, supply personnel, stone-throwers—every living soul stationed upon the wall now descended like a grotesque rain of fire. The broken corpses accumulating behind Patrick would have constituted a macabre barricade of their own.

  Horn signals and desperate shouts rose and fell in chaotic succession; Sir Harvey frantically commanded his men to retreat—though the only available escape route meant hurling themselves from the parapet. Hellfire extended its ravenous embrace around the entire crown of the wall, spanning east to west for two thousand four hundred feet of merciless destruction. Later counts of the dead would show that more men died from the fall than from the fire itself. Or perhaps it is truer to say this: after hearing the unholy shrieks of their comrades as the fire burned away their very souls, many simply chose the stones below over a fate far worse.

  Beyond the gates, Hellfire's insatiable hunger and implacable will manifested with equal ferocity. Soldiers positioned directly before the gate hastily retreated to a distance of nine hundred seventy-two feet—a position marginally safer, from which they could observe the unholy slaughter with horrified fascination—but troops stationed along the gate's flanks, having withdrawn insufficiently due to carelessness, suffered grievous consequences, primarily from falling Cynthian defenders. When a Cynthian body shattered against the stones, the supernatural flames enveloping them, temporarily satiated by the fresh kill, would briefly abandon the corpse where it lay—instantly consuming the remains—before hunting its next victim. Cavalry required no urging from their riders; their mounts fled in instinctive terror. Infantry discarded their weapons without hesitation, desperately clutching at horses' tails in their frantic attempt to escape. Ultimately, many soldiers survived with their souls intact—only because the grievously wounded lying helplessly on stretchers, propped against the wall, already at death's threshold and awaiting evacuation, inadvertently perished as substitutes. One quartermaster's assistant, tasked with transporting the wounded, would later recall hearing five men's final agonized cries beside him—and from that night onward, never again experienced uninterrupted sleep like ordinary men, his eyes refusing to close throughout the darkness.

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  Patrick Fort's resolve faced renewed challenge. He dared not remove his hands from the gate—though acutely aware that the supernatural fire beyond actively sought any opportunity, and that a momentary lapse in concentration would permit it to penetrate even the smallest crevice and engulf him completely. The mounting corpses around his feet had become almost commonplace; he had grown disturbingly accustomed to the soft, sickening sounds of broken flesh meeting unyielding stone. (Unmistakably Hellfire,) he concluded, stealing a cautious glance at the emerald specks hovering menacingly nearby. (The Godmans truly possess not even the faintest vestige of moral conscience.)

  Another body crashed to the ground behind him—seemingly indistinguishable from countless others that had preceded it. Yet some inexplicable impulse compelled him to turn—an unexpected desire to glimpse this particular victim's face. The man had been heavy-set, and his luck had run out. He had landed face-first, leaving little more than splintered bone and a wet, grey ruin where his head had been. But Patrick knew the bow. It was the recurve he had mended with his own hands.

  Patrick forced himself to return his attention to the gate's golden luminescence. Tragically, his body betrayed him; his meager breakfast violently expelled itself, leaving him retching uncontrollably. His stomach heaved again and again, trying to void what was already gone. He felt as if he were vomiting up not just bile, but the very beliefs that had held him together. And he could not even lift a hand to wipe the filth from his own lips.

  "Master!" a voice called urgently from nearby. "Master, are you well?"

  "Flee!" the Headmaster commanded sharply at the bearded giant. "Flee! It's Hellfire! Save yourself!" Further warning proved unnecessary—within moments, several tendrils of supernatural flame sent the man tumbling away in desperate panic.

  "Patrick!" A familiar voice penetrated the chaos. A contingent of soldiers forcefully carved a path through the pandemonium, clearing passage for Duke Ricard Pafaheim. "Abandon your position immediately, boy!" The aging duke showed no sign of fatigue—one hand rested confidently on his hip, the other beckoning imperatively. "This position has become indefensible!"

  "Depart first, my lord! Exercise extreme caution lest Hellfire makes even glancing contact!"

  "What ungodly abomination is this?! Sir Harvey merely singed his eyebrows and subsequently lost all capacity for speech—he merely continues clapping incessantly!" The duke spat contemptuously at his boots. "Does this unholy fire render men senseless?!"

  "Far worse than mad!" For a delirious second, the image of Sir Harvey, his wits burned away, clapping his hands with a foolish grin, nearly made Patrick laugh. "Therefore, my lord, withdraw immediately—distance yourself from these flames!"

  "Abandon the gate entirely!" The old duke violently shook off his guards' restraining hands. "I've conceded this position! We shall regroup at the castle and establish fresh defensive lines! Come, boy! Do not squander your life needlessly!"

  Patrick struggled to formulate an adequate explanation. "Cease this hesitation—remove your hands from that door immediately!" The duke seized a bow and arrow from a nearby guardsman and nocked the shaft with practiced efficiency. "Momentarily, those flames will cascade down the wall—this supernatural fire actively pursues human prey! Remain, and you'll suffer worse derangement than Sir Harvey!" He drew the bowstring taut. "This constitutes a direct order, boy! Release your grip—withdraw alongside me!"

  The Headmaster maintained resolute silence. "My patience approaches its limit—and I solemnly swear, should you defy my command, I shall dispatch an arrow through your skull without the courtesy of formal court-martial proceedings!"

  "Please understand, it isn't that I refuse to withdraw..." Ricard Pafaheim gradually relaxed the bowstring and returned the weapon to his attendant. He stared at the young mage—visibly startled by the conflicting tones of resignation and determination permeating the boy's voice. "Not that I wouldn't gladly depart—I simply cannot. Do you comprehend my predicament, my lord?" His words emerged laboriously, soft and halting like a lamb's plaintive bleating. "My hands cannot leave this gate. If the barrier fails, the Hellfire will turn these doors to ash in a heartbeat. And when it does, everyone inside—Sir Harvey, you, the Duke of Halfhill on his litter—all of you will burn in that green sea of death. I—" He paused significantly, requiring several seconds before his breathing stabilized sufficiently to continue. "I desperately wish to leave. I yearn to accompany you to safety. But for the sake of every soul in proximity to this wall—I must remain."

  The duke ceased his resistance, reluctantly permitting his guards to guide him backward from the massive doors. "There must exist some alternative solution!" he shouted desperately.

  "I share that fervent wish," Patrick responded, his eyes swollen and crimson with unshed tears. "But this represents our sole remaining option."

  The duke straightened his posture with sudden dignity. "I will be waiting for you in the keep," the old Duke said, his voice now clear and firm.

  Patrick Fort managed to summon a fragile smile. "I shall endure for as long as humanly possible."