Pierce and Erica waited together in the refectory for word from Dean Evelyn of Doranar. Periodically, the agonized screams of Imperial soldiers penetrated from the garden. Despite their limited worldly experience, the students readily discerned these were not cries of physical suffering, but rather the lingering echoes of profound terror. Pierce and Erica had already deduced the grim reality: the Godman knights would never have opportunity to scream in pain. Such mercy would be denied them.

  The knights appeared bewitched, muttering incoherently to themselves. Some compulsively repeated the ill-omened word "demon," others desperately invoked their mothers' names, while several involuntarily blurted sacred prayers to the Triad. "Loose your arrow, immediately!" Sir Lunedale—Gil Assimo—frantically windmilled his arm. "Make haste—cease this intolerable delay!" The archers' mounts tossed their heads violently and released high-pitched squeals of distress. "Shoot the abomination, you thick-skulled imbecile!" In his uncontrolled fury, the knight inadvertently bit through his own tongue.

  The gargoyle from Riss squatted obscenely over the circular pool, its stone feet planted wide on the rim like a common slattern emptying her bladder in the street. Where delicate lily pads had once serenely floated, the water now ran crimson—not from the sunset's reflection, but from the copious blood of the slaughtered. The severed heads bobbed like grotesque marionettes in the bloody water, some bumping blindly back to back, others forced face-to-face into a lover's kiss. Goth, the monstrous centipede, coiled menacingly beside the gargoyle; numerous severed heads impaled upon its jointed plates, with several sliding free to plunge into the crimson pool below. The corresponding bodies had been meticulously arranged around the basin's perimeter, propped upright against the coping with unnerving precision. Several corpses continued to expel arterial spray, transforming the once-peaceful pool into a grotesque fountain of human blood. Demons, it seemed, appreciated methodical organization.

  "Loose your arrow, or I shall execute you myself!" Sir Lunedale thrust his sword threateningly toward a trembling archer. Under this overwhelming pressure, the man finally released his grip, sending a black-feathered shaft whistling through the air.

  The arrow struck the demon's knee with a dull thud—then tumbled ineffectually into the bloodied waters below.

  "Oh! And shall you be next?" the demon inquired with its signature unnerving smile. "I suspect you have little desire to join their macabre banquet, child." It gestured contemptuously beneath itself. "Though your commanding officer appears remarkably eager to volunteer his subordinates for our festivities."

  "No!" the archer screamed, his voice shattering with terror. "No—I refuse—absolutely not!" His terrified mount reared violently, throwing him unceremoniously to the ground. "Please—do not transform me into... that!" Without attempting to regain his footing, he scrambled toward the courtyard gate like some ungainly amphibian incapable of proper leaping. "Mercy, O sacred Triad! Gods—any gods who hear..."

  "Perhaps you should personally test your martial prowess against me, Sir Knight?" the demon purred with malevolent invitation. "Experience firsthand the consequences of challenging infernal powers."

  In that singular moment of clarity, Gil Assimo realized that even if survival required crawling away on his belly like the lowest creature, he would willingly endure such humiliation without uttering a single complaint.

  Bella Coren stood rigidly behind the demon, arms tightly folded across her chest, bearing reluctant witness to the ghastly spectacle. From the instant the first unfortunate knight lost his head, her intestines had been executing slow, nauseating revolutions. Never before had she witnessed such unfettered carnage; even the Godmans' methodical butchery she had observed through her conjured crows paled in comparison. A part of her screamed to run, to find her own bed, pull the covers over her head, and wait for the end of the world. But she could not. She had to stand here, project an authority she did not feel, and pretend this butchery did not churn her stomach. She had no alternative but to appear invulnerable.

  "You actually succeeded in manifesting the entity, Bella," observed Dean Vanessa of Moslander, approaching from behind. "The undertaking appears considerably more complex than anticipated... doesn't it?" The overwhelming metallic stench of spilled blood compelled her to press her hand protectively over her nostrils.

  "Indeed. Far from simple. The endeavor nearly cost me my life," Bella replied curtly, visibly disinclined to elaborate further. "How fare the children?"

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "They remain in the refectory. Pierce and Erica included. They've displayed remarkable courage throughout."

  "Any injuries sustained?"

  "By Goria's grace, none whatsoever. Pierce effectively terrified the southrons with an expertly crafted portal. The boy represents genuine prodigy—inspiring both admiration and envy simultaneously."

  For the briefest heartbeat, a genuine smile illuminated Bella Coren's troubled countenance. "And Evelyn's status?"

  "Not yet returned." Vanessa leaned wearily against a nearby pillar. "Her continued absence concerns me greatly."

  "She possesses considerable self-preservation abilities," Bella murmured softly. "Though she projects delicacy—when circumstances demand, her resolve never wavers, does it?"

  "Never." Vanessa confirmed with a solemn nod. "But what course remains available to us?" She shifted position, moving two careful steps until standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Bella. "How long can this demon maintain its protective function? Will Godma inevitably dispatch additional forces?" Together they observed the demon impale a knight's neck with its trident while the centipede simultaneously clamped its mandibles around the man's lower extremities—both creatures exerting opposing force—causing the knight's body to separate violently like brittle pastry, head and torso instantly divorced from hips and legs. "Should the underground passage prove inaccessible, what alternatives remain?"

  "...I confess complete uncertainty." Bella's hands hung limply at her sides, resembling willow branches in a windless day. "I genuinely cannot formulate an answer, Vanessa. I..." The admission extracted considerable psychological toll. "My analytical faculties have deteriorated—I cannot distinguish prudent from catastrophic courses. Within mere hours, everything familiar has dissolved into ephemeral illusion; every vestige of happiness utterly vanished. Throughout countless years, my existence revolved exclusively around magical scholarship and practice—I genuinely believed arcane arts represented the solitary worthwhile pursuit. Now—I recognize its inherent limitations. And more devastatingly, my own. Take away my magic, and what am I? I am nothing."

  "Do I differ significantly in this respect?" Vanessa had never anticipated witnessing Bella experiencing greater helplessness than herself. "We who serve as magic's devoted disciples—from that initial contact with the Primal Source, our destinies become irrevocably dedicated to its pursuit. We fix our eyes on the light at the end of the path, and in doing so, we forget to see the world on either side of it."

  "Nevertheless—in whatever future awaits—assuming such exists—how shall we sustain ourselves? Kitchen staff, laundresses, custodial workers—every essential support position—when financial resources evaporate, so too will their services. Who then assumes responsibility for these children? Inevitably ourselves—exclusively ourselves." She turned wearily, leaning her weight against the stone pillar. "But what do we know besides magic? How to cook for a hundred children? How to manage a budget? How to find money when there is none? The multitude of simultaneous crises overwhelms me... I question my capacity to address them."

  "We shall distribute these burdens collectively, Bella. Evelyn, myself, and you," Vanessa offered consolingly. "Additionally, some students might potentially reunite with surviving relations."

  "Reality presents a harsher truth—precious few of our students aren't orphans already. Those fortunate enough to possess living family should fervently pray such relations remain among the living."

  "We shall persevere through this adversity," Vanessa insisted with forced optimism. "The universe rarely closes every conceivable avenue of escape."

  Bella Coren's expression remained weighted with overwhelming concern.

  The Reiss Daemon's patience visibly waned. Despite its persistent provocation, Sir Lunedale stubbornly refused to approach the pool's perimeter. "Your strategy merely ensures your entire company's eventual obliteration," the gargoyle observed, casually retrieving a severed head from the crimson waters and tossing it dismissively at the knight's feet. "Are you determined to die a coward's death? A hero's end is so much more... memorable, don't you think, Sir Knight?"

  "Your manipulations prove ineffective, demon." He had reiterated this declaration precisely eight times.

  "My forbearance has considerably narrower limits than yours." The gargoyle rose to its full, imposing height. The centipede simultaneously gaped its horrific maw in explicit threat. "I shall harvest your head first, Sir Knight. Subsequently, I shall systematically process your subordinate rabble. Mmm. Most satisfactory."

  Gil Assimo's visual field began deteriorating at its periphery, whiteness encroaching ominously. His respiratory function became increasingly labored. Evidently, he realized, terror itself possessed lethal potential.

  The thunderous clamor of approaching hoofbeats resonated beyond the courtyard—a chaotic percussion that shattered his paralyzing dread. "Reinforcements!" he proclaimed with every remaining ounce of vocal strength, attempting to reinvigorate both himself and his depleted company. "Reinforcements arrive at last!" The surviving knights—numbering fewer than ten—released collective exhalations of profound relief; several produced fragmented, hysterical laughter, while others fervently thanked the Triad for their divine intervention.

  The Reiss Daemon furrowed its stony brow. It did not understand. Why did more of them keep coming, so eager to have their souls torn apart?