The Godmans had already battered down the Academy's main gate and commandeered the courtyard. Their force numbered roughly sixty knights, led by a commander distinguished by his imposing antlered helm. The archers maintained hands poised at their waists, ready to draw and nock in a single fluid motion should necessity demand. Knowing full well they confronted a Magic Academy, they scrutinized every window and doorway with hypervigilant attention—only the gods could predict what arcane projectiles these mages might unleash upon them without warning.

  "Imperial soldiers address you," the antlered knight bellowed, his voice straining toward hoarseness. "Surrender yourselves, all within. Spare yourselves futile resistance. We must requisition this stronghold." He surveyed the somewhat dilapidated structure with a critical eye, absently scratching his chin. "Should you yield peacefully, I can personally guarantee your... continued well-being." He selected his terminology with deliberate precision, hoping to circumvent unnecessary complications.

  The Academy maintained the profound silence of a slumbering crone, offering neither movement nor acknowledgment. The antlered knight casually skimmed a smooth pebble across the courtyard pool; crimson sunset fractured across the rippling surface. "Consider this my final offer," he called out again. "Do not await our forceful entry to discover the meaning of regret."

  "Your promises are as fleeting as your victories," a woman's deep voice echoed from all around the courtyard. "They are illusions that vanish the moment you look at them too closely." The archers instinctively raised their bows, frantically searching for the source—some aiming toward the rooflines, others toward the ground, several toward the setting sun itself. "Dispense with your theatrical displays, witch," the antlered knight responded with surprising composure, flicking another pebble into the pool. "You stand without strategic advantage. You remain as mortal as any—an arrow's shaft or a blade's edge will claim you just as readily. Do not test our resolve, woman."

  The massive gate groaned laboriously as it swung inward. Dean Vanessa of Moslander emerged with measured dignity, flanked by Erica beside her and a strikingly handsome boy with golden hair and azure eyes—Pierce. Against the threat of violence, these two were the best she had: Erica, at sixteen, was the oldest student at Saint·Asini; Pierce, though just a boy, possessed a magical talent that, as Patrick had once said, was simply in a different league from his peers.

  Every archer's bow pivoted in perfect unison toward the doorway. Vanessa folded her arms defensively across her chest. "State your purpose here." Her voice continued to resonate omnidirectionally, causing visible discomfort among the archers.

  "Address me as a proper person would, without these deceptions, witch," demanded the knight, chin elevated with aristocratic arrogance, seemingly unperturbed by the sorceress's Resonance Hex. "I harbor no inherent desire to inflict harm." His own voice sounded pathetically diminutive to his ears, barely surpassing the volume of distant amphibian chorus. "However, this clemency depends entirely upon your immediate surrender... and subsequent pledge of loyalty."

  "Loyalty?" The sorceress emitted a contemptuous laugh—though her facial features remained perfectly composed. "Do you truly expect us to swear fealty to Godma? You must have been a fine court jester, sir, before you took up the sword."

  "I am Gil Assimo—Sir Lunedale," he declared, his expression hardening to complement his grotesque helmet. "Mind your insolent tongue and cease these provocations. Imperial knights do not tolerate such disrespect."

  "You will get nothing from us. No surrender, no fealty, Sir Cock." She twisted the pronunciation of his name into a vulgarity. "Now get your men out of my academy, Cock. Before I lose my patience and turn you all into the real thing." Erica's cheeks flushed crimson at the crude wordplay; Pierce erupted into unrestrained laughter. "Depart from this place. Evacuate Cynthia entirely. You may consider that my final courtesy, knights."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Sir Lunedale recognized the futility of persuading these stubborn, delusionally confident mages through mere rhetoric. His mind began calculating the optimal approach—a swift, unexpected strike to eliminate the leather-clad sorceress, followed by the immediate dispatch of her young charges. That Pierce was merely a child troubled his conscience not at all, nor did he concern himself with how many similar youngsters might dwell within these walls. He maintained his gray steed's position carefully, ensuring it remained behind the pool's boundary; having heard tales of sorcerers' mind-reading capabilities, he intended to formulate his strategy from what he presumed was a safe distance.

  "Abandon your transparent scheming, sir." Vanessa's Resonance Hex intensified perceptibly; the antlered knight winced as discomfort bloomed behind his temples. "Cross the threshold of this Academy, and you enter my domain entirely. Do not delude yourself regarding your freedom to act with impunity."

  "Guard your tongue, sorceress!" he snarled through clenched teeth. Vanessa could not determine whether he perceived the desperation underlying her bluff. Despite having approximately one hundred individuals at her disposal, the overwhelming majority were mere children—scarcely half-trained in magical disciplines. Three instructors, supplemented by Pierce and Erica, confronting dozens of fully-armored knights represented hopeless odds by any rational assessment. (He's right, she thought, a cold knot of fear tightening in her stomach. We are only flesh and blood.)

  "I... cannot endure this torment." An archer's teeth chattered uncontrollably. "No... by all gods, make it cease."

  "What afflicts you?" Gil Assimo inclined his head slightly while maintaining unwavering visual contact with Vanessa and her companions.

  "The agony overwhelms me, my lord..." The archer pounded his helmet desperately. "My skull feels ready to shatter!"

  "Compose yourself, you contemptible fool! Have Imperial knights become so easily unmanned by rudimentary enchantments?"

  "Then you'd best believe I'm a demon," a voice boomed, so loud and powerful it startled even Vanessa. It was Pierce's voice, amplified to an unholy degree. He directed an impish expression toward his mentor. The affected archer snapped rigidly upright in his saddle as though struck by celestial lightning.

  "Silence your insolent prattle, you accursed little wizard!" Sir Lunedale unsheathed his longsword with practiced efficiency, directing its gleaming point toward the boy. "Seal your mouth before I do it permanently, damn you."

  The boy released an inadvertent belch—evidently the consequence of overindulgence at supper. A wave of mocking laughter rolled through the knights. "My lips never moved, sir." The laughter died in their throats. In the sudden silence, you could almost hear the hair stand up on their arms as the true horror of the Resonance Hex sank in.

  "My... my head—unbearable torment!" The archer frantically raised his bow, aligning his sights directly upon Pierce.

  "Control yourself—stand down immediately!" Sir Lunedale redirected his blade toward his own subordinate. "Lower that weapon—do not release that arrow! Do not provoke unnecessary conflict!"

  Dean Vanessa of Moslander advanced a protective step forward, one hand extended to shield the boy whose height barely reached her waistline. "Stop it, Pierce," she whispered, her voice sharp with fear. "You're provoking them. We can't win this fight."

  "But we have to do something, don't we, Vanessa?" he whispered back, his voice a disembodied sound full of childish glee. "Otherwise, it's just so terribly boring."

  "Pierce!" she reprimanded sharply.

  "Godless bastard!" the archer exclaimed venomously, contorting within his saddle. "Evacuate my consciousness—extract yourself from my mind—begone!" His incoherent protestations escalated in both volume and desperation.

  "Cal—" Sir Lunedale's command remained unfinished as the knight released his arrow.