Stood in an altar room on the cathedral’s second floor was Celeste. Still for eternity, her lifeless marble eyes fixed on something far beyond the black-speckled granite ceiling. Did her skyward gaze seek new horizons? Her surrogate mother-goddess, Zera? Or was the statue’s dignified pose merely a sculptor’s fancy? Whichever the case, humanity’s shepherd misplaced her attention. Celeste needed not look far to find Malten’s best hope for survival.

From her spot at the chamber’s edge, the statue would witness Dimitry revolutionize agriculture with his enchantment-powered greenhouse.

A floor emanating incendia’s faintly red aura maintained spring temperatures despite winter. An illumina ceiling flooded the room with white light. Walls glowed pink with hastia—a spell that encouraged plant growth. Those three were the basic components that allowed for the hybridization of wheat and samul strains capable of feeding an entire kingdom from the confines of a long and narrow room.

But they alone weren’t enough. Both crops needed half a year to mature. Despite hastened growth and optimal conditions, breeding hybridized seeds would require multiple growing cycles. Growing cycles Malten couldn’t afford to waste. Starving homeless already packed the streets, and heathens rendered farmland inarable with corrosive blood. Time ran short. If Dimitry didn’t produce hearty, bountiful seeds before spring, it would have been too late.

That was why he risked all. Why he gambled his life and asserted himself as the apostle in front of every powerful noble in the kingdom. It wasn’t for enhanced voltech rifles. No. They were a sweetener Dimitry used to win support for Church-like enchantments before using accelall elsewhere.

And his plan succeeded.

Wooden stakes with rainbow auras protruded from every plant pot. Crops would grow around each trellis, harnessing accelall’s power to mature faster than anyone conceived possible. Perfect temperatures, hastia, ample light, and time acceleration. They made Dimitry’s ambitions feasible. Like a scene from a surreal dream, the altar room glowed a plethora of vivid colors, each repelling the next wherever differing hues collided.

Crouched in the middle of it all was a farmer whose trembling and calloused hands hid beneath a cotton suit with a golden aura. Jesco’s clothing was peculiar. The magic equivalent to a hazmat suit shielded him from a lethal environment as he forced himself to sow seeds. Accelall would kill anyone who ventured into the re-purposed altar room without reflectia gear.

A wide-eyed enchantress studied Dimitry’s creation from an adjacent hallway. Her red robe’s cuff ran across her forehead. Whether she pondered novel magic, the greenhouse’s purpose, or reevaluated her life was unclear.

And she wasn’t alone. Beside her were her similarly perplexed co-workers. Three debated accelall while four others leaned back against a wall, fatigued after a job involving immense vol usage and magic more exhausting than any they had weaved before.

Tending to the exhausted women was the hospital’s head chef. “M-madam sorceress, would you be interested in some more?”

An enchantress held out a ceramic cup. “Would you?”

Valerie’s silver amethyst earrings jingled when she leaned in to ladle yet another serving of amber ale from a knee-high cask.

Glancing at the greenhouse from further down the hall was Dimitry. Although he stood still, his expression calm, his gut urged him to experiment. What discoveries awaited him? Would a pre-germinated potted plant survive entry? If so, how much faster would it mature? What growth multiplier would the combination of accelall and hastia provide to crops? How often would they need watering? Would carbon dioxide replenish as fast as time-accelerated plants consumed it?

Questions flooded Dimitry’s mind. Unfortunately, his curiosity would have to wait. There was another issue he had to deal with—the sorceress guildmaster who rushed here in Raina’s stead after having a chance to test enhanced voltech rifles.

Although Mira’s arms folded across her chest as if to show self-control, her eyes couldn’t help but gleam. Long and slender fingers fiddled with a red and gold robe’s cuffs. Like a lottery player one number short from winning the jackpot, her breath paused before every question. “How does it work?”

“It accelerates time.”

“So you’ve said at the summit, but what does that mean?”

“Anything around the enchantment experiences more time than normal.”

“More time?” Mira ran a hand through her chestnut hair. After a moment’s contemplation, she regained her composure. “Why is the spell so efficient?”

Efficient? Dimitry recalled Ignacius mentioning the same during their journey from Estoria. Most spells leaked vol as exhaust while coursing through a mage’s circuits, but accelall and invisall didn’t. It was a concept Dimitry intended to investigate when he had more time. For now, however, he could offer only one response. “I’m not sure.”

“I see… and where did you learn of accelall?”

“From a vision.”

“That story again?” The tall woman stepped closer. “Do you expect me to believe you mastered such a powerful spell to this degree without trial and perseverance?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Dimitry said. “My goal is to preserve Malten. I’d be happy to try and prove my claims after we guarantee the city’s survival.”

“How earnest. Have you heard the rumors that you’re the apostle?”

Of course he did. The lie’s dissemination was Dimitry’s intention all along. Religious authority would allow him to enact miraculous deeds without explaining the much more unbelievable truth behind them. However, openly stating he was Zera’s apostle registered as a claim to power. Rumors accomplished the task better than he ever could. “I’m familiar with them.”

“Strange, no?” Mira took another step forward, a frown on her face. “There are even those, several amongst my sorceresses, who refer to your rifles as ‘Zera’s Thunder’. They are fools, are they not?”

Was she coercing a confession from Dimitry? He wouldn’t oblige. “People are free to think whatever they please. My only concern is that they’re alive to do so.”

“Why did I expect to hear anything else from a surgeon?” She flashed a defeated smile. “While I do not know who you are, I dare not rob you of your achievements. Your rifles enchanted me from the start. I’ve even obtained samples of your ‘bomb’ from Lukas, but my investigations haven’t brought insight into their functioning. Care to enlighten me?”

Dimitry suppressed a sigh. Although the guildmaster claimed sticky bombs were too dangerous for her sorceresses during the weapon demonstration, why was she experimenting with them the following day? “I was under the impression that you couldn’t find a use for bombs.”

“Your impression is correct. I would never allow my darlings near something so… volatile.”

“Then why the interest?”

“Because I didn’t lie when I said you piqued my interest. I wish to know about your chemistry, your biology. My heart shudders and sings at the existence of magic beyond my understanding. It is why I assisted you in your show of force despite those rumors. Shame is preferable to a life of ignorance.”

“Rumors?”

She frowned. “They turned out to be no more than the prattle of idle nobles. Your weapons proved effective despite them.”

Leaned back against a wall, Dimitry didn’t respond immediately. Did someone spread negative rumors about his armaments before the demonstration? Was it Lukas? There was no way to know for sure—the spymaster doubtless covered his tracks by operating through proxies, and there were others interested in defaming Dimitry.

For now, he focused on a separate matter: the authenticity of Mira’s heartfelt sentiment. While one interpretation of her hesitation to purchase bombs was a reluctance to show her support in front of other nobles, that may not have been accurate. Explosive shrapnel could easily pierce the thin leather armor sorceresses wore beneath their robes. A tragedy waiting to happen. Combat mages required decades and fortunes to train, with each casualty imperiling the city further. Having them wield bombs was reckless.

If Mira shared similar concerns, Dimitry could only respect her judgment. Perhaps she was a potential ally. Wise, curious, cautious, and knowledgeable about magic. But as Lukas proved, a noble wouldn’t act predictably unless they had a powerful motivator. Was there a way to ensure countess Mira’s unwavering trust?

Dimitry thought so. He smiled. “If you’re interested in the workings of science, may I suggest a mutually beneficial agreement?”

Wrinkles ravined the corners of Mira’s narrowed eyes. “Oh?”

“I’ll teach you science, the source of my modified spells. In return, I ask you to instruct me in magic.”

“Why do you require my guidance? Haven’t your ‘visions’ taught you all there is to know?”

“That isn’t the case. I have to learn most spells normally.”

“How intriguing.” She straightened her cuffs. “And you claim I’ll learn modified magic in return?”

“I believe there’s a possibility.”

“I’m a busy woman. There isn’t time for me to invest into uncertain pursuits.”

“And I’m a busy man, but I guarantee you that fiddling with explosives alone and unguided is a poor decision. The same is true for me with magic. However, this agreement goes beyond just us. There are numerous people, including many of your sorceresses, who wish to learn science as you do. I could easily teach everyone at once. How powerful would your guild become if everyone had access to modified spells?”

Mira shot him a prolonged stare, then looked away. As if weighing a decision with innumerable variables, she paced the granite hall, her boot’s light thumps echoing across featureless walls with every thoughtful step.

Dimitry looked on, heel restlessly tapping the floor. Her cooperation was invaluable. Not only would it tighten his relations with the Sorceresses Guild and its members, but Mira’s continued reliance on his knowledge would win him the support of a powerful noble who couldn’t betray him on a whim. A faithful ally.

“What possibilities does modified magic hold?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. My poor grasp on magic prevents me from exploring on my own, but my previous exploits hint at endless possibilities for us to explore.”

“Then we venture into the unknown?”

“Doesn’t it excite you?”

Hands behind her back, Mira stopped walking. “Indeed.”

Dimitry thought he saw her shudder. Was that excitement? He intended to find out. “What do you say we begin after the night of repentance?”

“I’ll have someone send you an invitation to my manor.” Mira smiled. “Next we meet, there’ll be tea and wafers ready as promised during our previous encounter.”

“I look forward to it.”

She took several strides towards her enchantresses before glancing back. “One more thing. Although I’m sure you despise the pernicious waste of time that is politics, allow me to advise caution. Not everyone at the royal summit was open-minded. Be safe, surgeon.”

Saphiria wanted to make amends.

It was difficult.

To her left sat Mother. Shoulders back and chin high, a posture no less powerful than any from Saphiria’s memories, Mother surveyed the throne room with piercing red eyes. Her glare traveled past marble arches full of guests, across a granite floor, and through a scattered crowd of servants until she found her target: Moritz Stein.

“Are the walls ready?” Mother asked.

The stout stonemason guildmaster was kneeling on both knees. “This one has done all he could, Your Royal Majesty. The repairs aren’t complete, but with Mira’s protectia enchantments, I believe they’ll hold.”

“That’s assuming the heathen raids are no more vicious than last month?”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

“And if they are worse?”

“Then…” The burly man gazed at his reflection on the polished floor.

Mother spent a moment in silence. “You have done well, so rest while you can. Dismissed.”

All within the crowd bowed and shuffled out through gargantuan doors. For the dozenth time today, the throne room emptied.

Twelve years have passed since Saphiria had last witnessed normal preparations for a night of repentance. Back then, the Church vowed to eradicate the assaulting heathens while Malten’s army trifled only over the occasional flying devil sneaking over the coastal barrier. Worries were few. Mother’s black hair had not a hint of gray, half a dozen court sorceresses stood alongside two bishops and an archbishop, and Father sat where Saphiria did now.

Although Saphiria often dodged lessons as a child, few prospects excited her as much as presiding over the court. The blue canopy overhead and the raised pomp below filled her with grandiosity as she stood higher than her subjects. Saphiria had felt mature. Wise. Even if she made mistakes, Father was always nearby to share a lighthearted smirk despite Mother’s constant reprimands.

But tonight, the throne Saphiria occupied was far too large. She was older and mature, yet she no longer felt wise. Everything within screamed she didn’t belong here.

Yet that changed nothing. Saphiria had a goal today.

She glanced to her side. The mere sight of Mother—poised upright despite sacrificing Father, her brothers, and Saphiria’s freedom eight years ago—unleashed a rage within Saphiria that burned into her cheeks.

One of two court sorceresses stepped forward. Eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a yellow hood, Leandra knelt. “Are you well, Your Royal Highness?”

Concern from her childhood caretaker made Saphiria freeze, and sense rushed back to her. Retribution against Mother would not remedy this kingdom’s ills, and with the opposition Dimitry faced among the aristocracy after revealing his inventions, Saphiria had to gain influence within the court to ensure his safety. She couldn’t succumb to furious indignation any longer. “Mother, there is a matter we must discuss.”

Leandra stepped back, holding her tongue unlike when they spoke in private.

“We both know my commands have lost their sway over you.” Mother waved her hand. “If you wish to roam the streets like a rat through the gutters, then go.”

Jaw clenched, Saphiria jumped to her feet. “My intention isn’t to run away!”

“Then your intention is to throw a tantrum in the throne room? You disgrace our lineage with your antics.”

“How else should one react when their own mother thrusts them into servitude, and instead of offering an apology upon their return, degrades them further?”

“I did not thrust you into servitude. I wagered on you becoming an archbishop and saving these lands. Such are the decisions I’m charged with making. Our lives are in service to our people.”

“Father would weep if he heard you rationalizing your mistakes.”

“So that’s it!” Mother slammed her heel into the foot of her throne. “The first occasion you attend your duties when the surgeon isn’t there, and it’s just to mock me?”

“No,” Saphiria said. “I came here to... I sought your guidance on how to earn my birthright, but now that Father is gone, it’s clear that I have acted in vain.”

“Saphiria, Ferdinand was a great man, the greatest I have ever known, but unlike the carefree strolls he had taken you on, it is I who instructed you on etiquette and manners. I scoured the empire and paid any price to find you the best mentors. I raised you to become the hope of our people. Every effort was in preparation for a crisis like the one Malten faces now, yet you can’t rule your own emotions let alone your subjects. Ferdinand had spoiled you too much—a petulant child that cares only for herself.”

Saphiria’s fist tightened around a clump of her yellow dress. “And you are a soulless witch that has drained the life from everyone I have ever loved! My father and brothers are dead because of you!”

Mother scowled and gritted her teeth, but instead of lashing back like her aggressive posture suggested she would, she hunched over, eyes glancing away to absently wash over her red, gold-threaded boots. All hints of a commanding presence had vanished.

Leandra retreated behind the thrones to rejoin Anelace, who diverted her gaze from the commotion. Neither court sorceress spoke.

Lips quivering, Saphiria paused. Seeing Mother—an impervious bastion of authority—deflated was more horrifying than watching the life fade from a man’s eyes.

What had she done?

Oak double doors burst open, and a count stomped past them. Blue light illuminated his black cloak as Lukas rushed forward with suppressed haste. “Your Royal Majesty.”

Mother’s gaze slowly lifted.

Lukas ran across a narrow carpet, up the pomp, and leaned in. His gaze traveled from Mother to Saphiria. “Am I interrupting a private moment?”

“Just speak.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty. There’s been another arson in Amphurt.”

“How many this time?”

“Eleven dead, and the target was an old church. After questioning the only surviving thug, we learned they were targeting plague-curing blankets. The effort was too organized to be an outburst of anger. I believe they rebel against the Jade Surgeon’s claims to apostlehood.”

Icy dread awoke Saphiria from her stupor. Was a noble attempting to deface Dimitry already? Or was it someone else?

“Did you learn whose whims they heed?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Royal Majesty. The thugs themselves knew little. They may be the pawns of an angered noble, a Church cell, or even that of a neighboring kingdom.”

“Do you believe they’ll attempt an assassination on Dimitry?” Saphiria asked.

Mother glanced in her direction.

“I apologize, Your Royal Highness. I do not know. But if they do, the night of repentance is their best chance. We don’t have the forces to secure the streets, the walls, and the surgeon.”

Looking away, Mother leaned back into her throne and massaged her eyelids with two outstretched fingers. “The surgeon is important. Make sure he gets as much security as we can muster.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” Lukas rubbed his hands as he skittered away.

Saphiria looked down at her trembling fingers. If Dimitry vanished, would Malten ever recover? Would she? Everyone she treasured disappeared the moment she turned her gaze.

Never again.

Even if Saphiria could not command Malten’s nobles with the wisdom of the Pesce lineage yet, she had her own talents, as gruesome as they were. The elevated heels of her mahogany pattens clacked against marble steps as she rushed down the pomp.

“Did I make you run away again?” Mother asked in a low and fatigued voice.

“No.” Saphiria stopped to glance back. “I’m fulfilling my duty to the kingdom.”

“And how’s that?”

“In my own way. But our discussion isn’t through. When the chaos recedes… I hope we can speak like proper humans.”

Dark green light illuminated the field west of Malten. Mutilated tree trunks, scarred earth, and stone corpses. A land so dead that even Hades would get jealous. Under a near-spherical moon, a brave few traversed the foreboding wastes.

Men on armored horses patrolled a makeshift barrier alongside a riverbank. They searched for opponents, who would occasionally rise to meet their challenge from emerald depths.

One long and slender leg would emerge from deep waters. Then another. Finally, six limbs upholding a heathen’s blue-streaked core would charge towards a small city. Most crawling devils perished under a rock hammer’s weight. Those that pierced the primary line of defense fell to the echoing cracks of Zera’s Thunder or a sticky bomb’s explosive blast.

Mira’s sorceresses and Lukas’ men patrolled Malten’s walls. For now, they sufficed to intercept invaders, swiftly dispatching the unnatural beasts ramming the green-glowing fortifications they stood on.

But the heathen raids worsened.

They would continue to worsen until the night of repentance. How many wretched invaders would assault the city two days from now? Could the city guard fend them off?

Dimitry didn’t know. After life on Earth, how could he know? He still hadn’t acknowledged reality as it appeared to be. Even observation from a gatehouse tower with an overarching window view did little to explain the nightmarish scenery. Only icy winds, roaring munitions, and a sorceress’ occasional holler reminded him that this was real. This was life.

However, despite Dimitry’s struggle to reconcile the truth, he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of his wartime environment. The conditions were perfect for training combat medics. Physical stress, impending danger, and rampant gunfire would acclimate them to operating under pressure. If they couldn’t set aside fear now, there was no hope for a passable performance on the night of repentance.

The only problem was the lack of patients for them to practice on. Casualties were few. It was a situation that would change once the night of repentance arrived, and to prepare his men, Dimitry had them run drills in groups.

Two men pretended to be wounded soldiers, while the others tended to falsified injuries. Successful first aid administration followed by extraction to the gatehouse concluded each exercise.

Their performance was poor at first. Aside from Milk, the medics’ attention wavered with every heathen-marking illumina flare and gunshot volley. They panicked and fled and dumped their fearful insecurities onto Angelika, who was busy scanning the skies for flying devils.

But experience taught them to ignore unnecessary stimuli. Every drill resulted in improved focus and quality of simulated treatment. Dimitry no longer had to make corrections as all four medics learned to recognize and fix their own mistakes.

Was it a sorceress’ reassuring presence, simplified instruction, or Dimitry’s decision to hire only those with combat experience that led to swift improvement? Dimitry was unsure. Perhaps all three played a role. For now, the best he could do was take notes.

Among intermittent supersonic crackles and excited shouts, a quill’s gentle scribbling recorded Dimitry’s observations and ideas. Both were invaluable. As his paramedics grew in number and their skills in complexity, management would spike in difficulty. He needed all the data he could get to refine future training sessions and administrative structures. Medical squads, however, wouldn’t be the sole beneficiaries of those advancements.

They would extend to military uses as well. Mira’s warning echoed within Dimitry’s mind, reaffirming the need for an army. There was no guarantee that a focus on enemies outside Malten would keep him safe from those within. Still, many roadblocks remained.

Dimitry dropped his medievalesque pen when a cold gale howled through the window. Did he have the resources to maintain troops? Although refugees made for excellent recruits, housing and arming them would prove problematic. The cathedral didn’t have space for dozens of men. Perhaps the queen could provide him another Zeran structure for use as a barracks.

Even if she did, the issue of armaments remained. A lack of magical expertise prevented most people from wielding voltech rifles, and flintlocks were far from ready. Was there a weapon that could bridge the development gap? Dimitry thought so, but only experimentation would prove the efficacy of its design.

Swift footsteps echoed up the tower’s spiral staircase.

Dimitry’s head shot back.

A cloaked figure emerged, throwing back their hood to reveal waist-length silken black hair. The girl rushed closer. “Are you well? Did anyone try to hurt you? Do you know of anyone who might cause you harm?”

Relieved his unannounced midnight guest was a friend and not an unfriendly assassin, Dimitry released a trapped breath. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. How are you?”

“Did you secure your cathedral? Your chemistry laboratory? How about the main street you wish to erect your field hospital upon?”

Breaths heaving for air made it clear Saphiria ran here. Although concern great enough for her to sneak out of the castle at night didn’t bode well, Dimitry worried more over the girl’s flickering emotions. One day she was on the verge of tears, the next she wanted to save his life and fix the kingdom.

“Let’s take some deep breaths,” Dimitry said. “Everything is fine.”

Saphiria dashed across the room, thrust her head from the window, and shot glances at the city walls on both sides. “If I were here to kill you, the two royal guards downstairs wouldn’t have stopped me. You’re not safe.”

“Don’t worry so much about me.”

“Then who will?”

“Look, you have your own problems to—”

“This is my kingdom. I should be the one risking my life to fix my family’s mistakes. Not you.”

“Stop.” Dimitry grabbed her shoulders. “I know how you feel. Self-blame is part of the grieving process. It’s only been a month since you learned of your father’s passing, so stop pushing yourself. These things take time.”

She broke free from his grasp. “Someone is targeting you.”

“What?”

“They attacked a church in Amphurt full of plague-curing blankets, but if what Lukas said was true, their actual target is the Jade Surgeon. Someone wishes to remove all traces of you, and they’re not holding back.”

Icy dread spiked through Dimitry’s spine. It was the culmination of the fear he struggled to contain since Mira’s warning, only for it to resurface with a ferocious vengeance. Someone did want to kill him. Was it a noble or a zealot similar to those that set fire to the castle stables days prior?

Saphiria stepped close enough that the leather of her tunic brushed against his hand. “Mother doesn’t have the forces to guarantee your safety, and I won’t stand to watch you get hurt.”

He reeled in his shock. The last thing he wanted was to involve Saphiria. “I’ll have Angelika protecting me.”

“One rankless combat sorceress isn’t enough.”

“So you expect me to enlist the crown princess to guard me? Do you know how mad that sounds?”

“What would happen if you perished? How many will starve, how many more will succumb to the plague, how long can these walls last against the heathens without you? You’re too important to this city.”

"And what if you got hurt because someone wanted to get rid of the apostle? The queen would murder me and for a good reason. You're the future of this kingdom.”

"There is no future without you. Not for my people, and not for myself."

A wretched mass weighed heavily in Dimitry’s gut. Although Saphiria would fret over his safety the entire night of repentance, her concern did little to change his stance on the matter. But argumentation wasn’t getting through. He opted for a slyer tactic.

Dimitry unveiled a confident grin. “Don’t you know me? I always have everything under control.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I… everything will be fine?”

“I know.” She grabbed his wrist and met his gaze with determined eyes. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Saphiria just didn’t know when to give up!

“Don’t give me that look. A royal’s duty is to defend her territory, and right now, you’re my most promising gambit. I’m acting in my own interests. Obey me as a loyal subject should.”

“As if your self-serving princess bluff could convince me.”

“I’m not asking for your permission.”

Dimitry sighed. “Nothing I say will deter you?”

She shook her head.

Despite Dimitry’s self-assumed role as an emotional pillar, the rabid fluttering within his abdomen washed away the longer he gazed into those dependable indigo irises. Saphiria never failed him. Not once. Whether he asked her for a logistical favor or they bumbled through Ravenfall, Estoria, and Coldust, she came through whenever he fell into trouble. This night of repentance would be no different.

"Fine."

Saphiria released his arm. "So you are a sensible man. Where shall we meet? In front of your field hospital, before the moon reaches its crest in the night?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You’re not accompanying me anywhere."

“But we have agreed!”

“We only agreed on you protecting me and your subjects, but there’s a better way than having you physically guard me. Especially with your skills.” Dimitry strolled towards the window, a cool wind brushing his chin. “You’ll save lives, we won’t have to risk nobles seeing the princess defend the court surgeon, and no one will think I’ve gone mad with power.”

There was no response.

A glance back at Saphiria’s betrayed expression broke Dimitry’s heart. “I’m sorry.”

“No… you speak sense. I was without a clear mind.” She stepped closer. “Let us deliberate and get this right.”