Ricard Pafaheim withdrew his forces, intending to regroup at Triumphant Fort before mounting another offensive. Their most optimistic hope was that reinforcements from Phyal might arrive before dusk faded completely—and that the gate would somehow still stand when they returned.

  Patrick Fort sensed the world around him settling into an eerie quietude. The cacophony of human sounds had diminished to faint whispers, nearly imperceptible; the roaring inferno that had consumed the wall's summit was gradually descending toward its base. He understood all too well that Hellfire had methodically hunted down the last defenders atop the ramparts and now sought richer souls within the city walls. The duke had retreated with virtually his entire force to Triumphant Fort. All that remained with Patrick were masterless horses, hounds investigating corpses with morbid curiosity, and wounded soldiers abandoned when their injuries prevented swift evacuation.

  "Are you afraid?"

  "Terrified."

  A wounded man pushed aside the corpse sprawled across him and painfully crawled toward Patrick. "That makes two of us." He laboriously positioned himself against the wall, finding some semblance of stability. "I'd assumed you would be fearless, Master."

  "What happened to your leg?" The Headmaster studied the man's left limb, now stripped of its leather greave.

  "What do you think? It's broken. I was on the lift with Lord Pafaheim, coming down, when a tongue of that damned fire licked up the winch. Almost like it was waiting for us."

  "And they simply abandoned you here?"

  "What alternative existed?" He shrugged—with a distinctly feminine grace that immediately reminded Patrick of Monica. "No one could spare a moment to carry me, and I crawled far too slowly. Master, perhaps you've never witnessed how swiftly that fire pursues its prey. By all the gods, I still struggle to believe it. That green bitch is quicker than the slickest cutpurse in the capital."

  "I'm intimately familiar with it, sir. I've encountered that verdant flame before." Several blood-curdling screams erupted nearby; the Headmaster couldn't precisely determine their location.

  "More poor souls feigning death just received their final judgment. Goria preserve us!" The wounded man shook his head despondently. "You've faced it—and survived? Through what miracle?"

  "Nothing but blind fortune."

  "Is that so." Disappointment visibly dulled his expression. "I had hoped a magical master of your caliber might possess some effective countermeasure." He muttered under his breath, "Otherwise I wouldn't have endured this agonizing crawl on a broken leg."

  "Other mages might possess methods to counter Hellfire—but I cannot make such claims. My abilities are insufficient."

  The wounded soldier hadn't anticipated the young man harboring darker thoughts than his own. "Come now, don't surrender to despair, Master. You single-handedly detained Godma's forces at Wafflo for what seemed an eternity. I've heard they command an entire coven of witches. Though I comprehend little about Magic, your demonstrations appear nothing short of miraculous—and I intend that as sincere admiration. Truly, Master."

  "You have my gratitude, sir."

  Silence expanded between them; punctuated periodically by distant screams. "Tell me something—how have we remained here undisturbed while that green abomination hasn't yet discovered us?"

  "Perhaps it pursues more valuable targets—or perhaps, mere fortune smiles upon us again."

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  "Fortune again, you say." He rubbed his nose contemplatively. "Curious how that same fortune abandoned me when my leg shattered."

  "You should consider yourself fortunate even now. Hellfire seethes just beyond this gate. Without the magical barrier protecting it, you wouldn't possess sufficient time to form a single word."

  The wounded man emitted a derisive snort, closed his eyes, and fell silent. Patrick Fort utilized this interval of quietude to journey through his memories: to Saint·Asini, to the faculty and students he had mentored, to Bella Coren, to Monica Dunston. He cherished most profoundly those days they had shared in Bellita Village. That period had revealed Monica at her most unguarded, most precious. From the first moment their eyes met, Patrick Fort had made a space for her in his heart, a place that belonged only to her. He harbored profound feelings for her—whether love, yearning, or tender devotion. Even after discovering that this flame-haired spirited woman bore little resemblance to his two departed sisters, he persistently sought qualities in her that might echo their memory. He loved her—longing to provide the enduring companionship he had failed to give his sisters—yet he remained uncertain about her innermost desires. The future Monica Dunston envisioned might not involve intertwined hands, but rather something vast and boundless, embodying freedom itself.

  His inherent shyness and linguistic inadequacy prevented full expression. Though unable to entirely conceal his sentiments—he refused to allow them overwhelming prominence. Countless times he had envisioned confessing to her—not to elicit her response, but simply to release the words that haunted him. He repeatedly assured himself that one cannot govern another's heart; whatever her answer might be, he would accept it with dignity. Yet unless he spoke the truth, his own heart would never find peace. He dreamed of that perfect moment—perhaps during a radiant morning, or during a crimson dusk like the present. Initially he labeled it "someday," then "tomorrow," until finally he could no longer deceive himself or the timidity that constrained him.

  He never took that first small step. And so Patrick Fort faced the last sunset of his life, bleeding out under a sky that seemed to weep crimson tears just for him.

  "Master." The wounded man swept his disheveled hair back with his fingers. "Why do you remain here? Observe—the majority of the duke's forces have retreated to Triumphant Fort. The local populace has either perished or fled. Nothing remains worth protecting, Master—except unfortunates like myself."

  "If I leave," the boy sighed, "the gate will fail in an instant. The Hellfire will pour through. Not in trickles, like you see now on the walls, but as a great, devouring ocean of green flame."

  "Couldn't you employ Magic to facilitate your escape? You needn't concern yourself with my rescue—or anyone else's. My journey concludes here, Master. Yours shouldn't terminate at this forsaken location. Discover some method and depart immediately."

  Patrick Fort shook his head three times, each motion so deliberately slow it appeared to drag through the very substance of time. "I cannot cast another spell. My Source is depleted." He paused momentarily, then delivered the inescapable conclusion: "Departure is impossible for me."

  "Knowing this inevitable outcome—why didn't you flee when the fire first manifested?" He positioned his elongated arm across his uninjured knee. "You're a magical authority. You've previously encountered this particular fire. You recognize its virtually insurmountable nature. Why didn't you expend whatever magical resources you possessed to secure your escape initially? I presumed you had established an evacuation strategy and merely remained to provide cover for our retreat. But now I understand—you possess no means of escape, and you've known this truth all along. I cannot comprehend why you've condemned yourself to this fate." He moistened his dust-covered lips and tasted profound bitterness. "The Duke of Pafaheim explicitly ordered your withdrawal—not your sacrificial last stand. That command alone would permit honorable departure. Why persist? I know most of us don't have much love for mages. Before I met you, I hated your kind. We always saw you as something... other. Unnatural. Even if we didn't say it to your face, we were thinking it, spitting the word 'mage' in our minds. You must realize—since Magic's resurgence, with the exception of prestigious court mages, unknown practitioners and apprentices have endured contempt, mockery, and physical violence. Some seek vengeance; others endure silently. I comprehend both responses—such is human nature. But what I don't understand is you. Why you're willing to die for people who've only ever scorned you. Because we never really loved you people. Not truly."

  A slow, gentle smile touched Patrick Fort's lips. "But I have always loved yours. I love my country. I love this land. And I love every last person who calls it home."

  The wounded man tilted his head backward and erupted in unexpected laughter. "That response epitomizes everything you are, Master."