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  "You're not particularly adept at deception," Bella Coren remarked, her tone carrying a fleeting warmth. "Such transparent artifice would never deceive a woman."

  "But it suffices to mislead men—and that is all I require." A wisp of fur drifted down, brushing against her cheek. "Fabrications of this nature serve you poorly. Discovery could mean execution—especially within your ruthless Empire. What compels you to such risk?"

  "I... cannot precisely articulate it." The sunset gathered its final golden radiance and descended below the horizon. "Perhaps... guilt."

  "Guilt?" This word seldom reached her ears in Common Speech. "Because you—" she hesitated meaningfully, "took Patrick's life?"

  "Not him alone." Each subsequent syllable emerged with deliberate, ponderous weight. "Gale Lassō as well."

  "Tales of that confrontation at Crividsylvan have traveled far. Your reputation precedes you, Wind of Catoria. Her death came by your lightning."

  She offered no denial, though Ash Davan had served as her accomplice. "Indeed. I extinguished her life—as I did his. Hence my burden of guilt."

  Despite her mental preparation, when Bella Coren heard Patrick Fort's demise confirmed unambiguously from her adversary's lips, her knees nearly buckled beneath her. "Guilt is the least of what you deserve," Bella hissed. "You deserve to die for it."

  Lostya Huggins drew her sable cloak tightly around her shoulders, turning away without further acknowledgment. She led her dapple-gray mare rather than expending energy to mount. The sorceress desired not a moment's additional presence in that courtyard.

  "I implore you—wait, my lady." The voice that halted her belonged to Evelyn—who had remained silent throughout their exchange. "If your authority suffices to command Imperial knights to withdraw from this place, surely you possess means to curtail the atrocities committed by Imperial forces elsewhere. Throughout Pafaheim, countless civilians have perished beneath their blades, with more certain to follow. Your intervention just now—ordering those soldiers to depart—has granted us precious opportunity for escape. That proves there is still some good in you. Some humanity. So I am begging you, as the Chief Court Mage of the Godma Empire... use your power. Use your influence. Please... can you do something to stop the slaughter?" No sooner had her entreaty concluded than remorse pierced her consciousness. Her thoughts had focused exclusively on alleviating her countrymen's suffering; she had failed to consider the impossible burden she thrust upon the foreign sorceress. They shared a common identity as practitioners—servants of magic. And such servants wielded negligible authority on battlefields.

  As anticipated, Lostya's response confirmed Evelyn's fears. "My sphere of influence extends only to magical matters. Regarding other concerns, I possess no legitimate authority—regardless of my title." She maintained her resolute posture, facing away. "For this, I express sincere regret. I cannot... offer assistance in this regard." Her intended meaning—her inability to extract Pafaheim or indeed all of Cynthia from this bloodbath—remained unspoken, the words refusing to materialize. "However, I would pose a question: You harbor profound love for your homeland and its people, do you not?"

  Dean Evelyn of Doranar received this inquiry with slight bewilderment. "I do. My devotion to my country runs deep."

  "Regardless of what she might become—your love remains steadfast?"

  "I cannot fully grasp your meaning regarding 'what she might become,'" she replied after momentary hesitation. "But to answer directly—yes. My love for my country endures. Whatever transformation she undergoes—my devotion remains unconditional."

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  "How admirable," Lostya murmured, a smile forming upon her lips though witnessed by none. "I envy your certainty, my lady. For I cannot claim such unwavering patriotism. Once, I believed the Empire embodied fairness and benevolence, observing how even the humblest farmer could expect his rights protected within our courts. Upon my elevation to court mageship and subsequent life of privilege, I marveled at our material abundance, considering our nation perhaps the continent's finest. Slowly, I began to see. I was born after the wars, into an age when Godma already ruled the South. I never knew how much of our prosperity was built on the ruins of other people's lives. Months past, when I first set foot upon Crivi's soil, I chose emotional numbness—deliberate blindness. Today, as I passed through the Gate of Cynthia and traversed Pafaheim's grounds, the sights that confronted me deepened my understanding of my homeland irrevocably. I can no longer profess love for a country whose bloodthirsty conquests defy comprehension. What purpose serves the slaughter of women? What justification exists for butchering children? Even adult males—if unarmed—deserve preservation of life. These killings serve no strategic necessity; yet our soldiers seemingly believe that without massacre, they cannot demonstrate valor—cannot validate their participation in conflict. I was not riding when I first arrived. But then... I stepped on a severed leg. It was shorter than my forearm. It was a child's leg. So I got back on my horse. And I stopped thinking. I could not think anymore. I fear our nation suffers from profound sickness—perhaps dating back to the internecine conflicts between minor kingdoms." She tapped her temple pensively. "And throughout these generations—no curative has emerged."

  Bella Coren observed her departure until her silhouette nearly vanished from sight. Finally, she spoke: "But in the end, it doesn't matter what we think. When the time comes, we all stand before our country and defend her. That's all we are. We are all born branded with a side to take, a cause to fight for. This represents both curse and destiny. None may escape it."

  Lostya Huggins had disappeared from view. Her words, however, remained—buried within the soil—perhaps taking root, though destined never to emerge. Evelyn released a subtle sigh and directed her gaze toward the demon. "Where precisely did our path diverge?"

  The demon failed to comprehend her meaning.

  "What critical error brought us to this lamentable circumstance?"

  "Everything," the demon shrugged. "Everything that was, made what is now. And everything that is now, will make what is to be."

  She bowed her head, overwhelmed by sorrow.

  "You are released, Reiss Daemon. Your contractual obligations stand fulfilled."

  "I would prefer a different conclusion." The demon gazed longingly at the tomato-and-meatball soup beneath its perch, appetite undiminished. "You mortals harbor reservations regarding bloodshed. I suffer no such compunction. I would gladly dispatch additional Godmans..."

  "Then if you plant the seeds of slaughter today," she countered, "slaughter is the only crop you will harvest tomorrow."

  The gargoyle-like entity bristled at having its own philosophy redirected against it. "Depart, demon. We acknowledge your assistance. Your contractual obligations are satisfied. Return to whatever realm claims you."

  The demon's tail traced contemptuous, calculating patterns through the air. "But I—" Its protest remained forever unfinished. Its physical form disintegrated like scattered sand. A fine gray residue settled upon the crimson broth below. Its companion creature—the monstrous centipede—seized a final opportunity to display its menacing teeth toward the assembled witches.

  "What course remains, Bella?"

  "Liesnite shall be our destination. Any location beyond Pafaheim's borders will suffice."

  "Perhaps we might delay until midnight," Vanessa suggested tentatively. "Allow them one final night's rest in familiar surroundings."

  "No. We depart immediately," Bella Coren declared with unwavering finality. "Who can guarantee their decision remains unchanged by morning? Who can ensure no successor to Sir Lunedale appears? This institution—this Academy—exists now only in memory. The students within, however, remain vibrantly alive. We cannot subject them to unnecessary peril. We possess neither resources nor standing to gamble with their safety."

  Vanessa acquiesced, recognizing the irrefutable logic.

  The three instructors—accompanied by one hundred and six students—the cook, Laryni—and a laundress who elected to join their exodus to Liesnite—abandoned Saint·Asini Academy, their cherished sanctuary and home. They had a destination, but they were utterly lost.