The horses' agonized screams severed their conversation. A robust brown gelding with an injured leg stood tethered to a thick wooden post behind them; scattered embers of Hellfire began gathering around the beast. The horse descended into madness, violently straining against the post, desperate to snap its restraints. It frantically changed direction multiple times to no avail, while the flames shifted position with malevolent intelligence—now clustering, now dispersing—performing a cruel dance, playing a sadistic game. The terrified animal exerted such force it nearly tore its own neck apart. Finally, as they watched helplessly, it reared violently and hurled itself against the post. Two brutal impacts were all it took to break its own neck.

  "The green bitches are coming," the wounded man observed, his face twisting into a bleak smile. "Our turn has finally arrived. It seems fortune has abandoned us at last."

  "Come closer to me, sir."

  "What possible difference would it make?" he challenged. "Death awaits us regardless."

  "The difference lies in the sequence."

  "Do you think anyone will remember us?" he asked. "I'd like to think they'll carve our names on the monument to heroes. What's your name, Master?"

  "Patrick. Patrick Fort."

  "Right. Patrick will be the first name on the stone, then. And under it, they'll write..." He trailed off.

  The boy feared the flames had already claimed him. "What troubles you?"

  "Nothing," the wounded man replied, his voice suddenly diminished. "My name has no place there. It's undeserving."

  "But people must remember you, sir."

  "What aspects of a nobody's existence merit remembrance?"

  "They must commemorate how you saved their lives. You remained here to purchase their survival with your own."

  "That's a generous interpretation." He smiled resignedly. "Call me Nameless."

  "Nameless," the Headmaster echoed solemnly.

  The brown horse had already been reduced to a smoldering heap of charred remains. Even with its neck broken, the Hellfire refused to spare its departed soul. "Come closer, sir. We can still converse a while longer."

  "You mean cling to existence a bit longer, you incorrigible optimist." He pushed himself away from the wall and began crawling outward.

  "Sir! Why are you crawling away?"

  "There's a sequence to death. You said it yourself." He spoke in ragged bursts, timed to his crawling. "So I'll take the death that comes first, and leave the one that comes later for you. Do you take my meaning? I'm going to see how far I can lead these wretched green whores away before my time is up. Have no concern, Master. I'll crawl until my strength fails completely. You cherish these precious fragments of time, don't you, optimist? I'll procure some for you—even if measured only in heartbeats." His final words emerged accompanied by harsh, ragged breathing.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Sir..."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake. Suppress those tears, Master." He paused, rolling onto his back and supporting himself on his elbows. "Shed no tears for me. Feel no admiration. I am no virtuous man, Patrick." The ambiguous smile playing across his features rendered the veracity of his statement difficult to determine. "Do you understand why I enlisted? Because I took a life..." He lowered his gaze, carefully selecting his words. "Yes. I killed someone. I had been drinking that night—yet remained lucid, not intoxicated. I refuse to attribute my actions to alcohol." He ran his tongue across his lips, seemingly savoring a phantom taste. "I saw her by the lake. In the water. The moonlight was on her. She was bathing... she was beautiful, and I wanted her. So I took her. Right after she had washed herself clean."

  Patrick maintained his silence, absorbing the confession.

  "Afterward, I swore to provide whatever life she desired. I would labor diligently. I hoped she might become my wife... I promised to shoulder all consequences." He hesitated momentarily. "She struck me across the face—then plunged into the lake. Can you imagine?" He raised his head; boundless remorse spread across the scattered tears in his eyes. "I dove in after her—but could not locate her. She had vanished—disappeared in an instant. I never realized a lake could possess such depth."

  "So—I became a murderer. Justice demanded my trial. But when war erupted, I considered military service a suitable opportunity—perhaps a path toward redemption. Thus I encountered you, Master."

  "...And this current sacrifice—is it also part of your atonement?"

  "You might interpret it as such. But I genuinely wish to sacrifice myself for you, Patrick Fort. We are fundamentally different men—one noble, one contemptible—separated by more than the height of the Parting Tower. By dying for you, a good man, maybe my soul won't suffer so much in Oris's Hell. That's what I'd like to believe, anyway."

  "I disagree." The Headmaster's voice hardened with unusual severity. "You'll find there's no such thing as a purely noble man, or a purely vile one. Most of us are a mix of both. But in the end, you are the only one who can answer for what you have done. Your sins are yours alone to carry."

  "Your reasoning has merit." He offered a broken smile. "But I know what I am at my core, and it is not good or noble. So tell me this: if I pay for my sins in Oris's Hell for a thousand years, can a man change what he is? Can his very nature be remade? Tell me, Master."

  Patrick Fort shook his head, exhaling profoundly. "I cannot answer that, sir. Truly cannot. Such profound questions defy brief responses."

  "I comprehend," Nameless repeated softly. "I comprehend."

  "Farewell, sir."

  "Farewell, Master."

  Subsequently, Patrick heard only a muffled groan. In his final confrontation with Hellfire, Nameless preserved his dignity.

  There was a sharp crack, and the Elderbone Collar fell from his neck, clattering on the stones. Patrick Ford had used the very last of his Source. The Asiro Magic Barrier dissolved before him—as quietly and suddenly as it had manifested. The boy placed his hands upon his chest and began offering prayers to the Goddess Goria.

  The ethereal green luminescence from his dreams wavered gently beside him.

  He did not pray that he would be remembered. He prayed only that they would live.

  On that day, Hellfire consumed a soul of singular innocence and purity.

  And on that very day, the Gate of Cynthia fell.