Five hundred? That was more than double Estrelti’s population. Judoc’s jaw clenched. “This ain’t natural,” he said through gritted teeth.

Zephyrin agreed with his father. It was too strange to imagine the tolerably pious inhabitants of Armora turning on their lord in such numbers, and in so short a span of time. Explanations, however, would have to wait. The man who announced the dire news now stood staring at the baron, awaiting his orders intently. Though the baron’s mouth worked, no words came out. His hands hung limply at his sides. Seeing this, Judoc stepped forward. “There’re too many to fight,” he said authoritatively, “but that needn’t mean we give them leave to do as they please!” So saying, he strode over to the front of the church. Patting a pew, he called out, “Erwan! Help me with this!”

“Aye, brother!” Erwan hurried over and assisted him in carrying it to the church’s entrance. As they walked sideways, he exclaimed to the blankly staring spectators, “Help us out, you lot!”

This seemed to rouse the rest of the men out of their stupor. There was a flurry of activity as every man hastened to contribute to the make-shift defense—offering in the end more than was necessary to erect a blockade at the church’s entrance.

“Don’t forget the side and rear doors!” Erwan cried, exasperated. This admonishment was immediately heeded.

“Alan, block the one to the left!”

“Aye!”

“Bertrand, help me with this one!”

“Aye, brother.”

Abbé Beauvran sighed as the men—some working with not a little relish—threw down and stacked the pews carelessly.

“Have a care, my good fellows, or it’ll be your coin pouches that suffer once this dreadful business is over and done with!” he called out.

A few grins were cracked at this, but the mood quickly sobered again as the voices outside grew louder. The noises coming from outside made it clear the church was surrounded. There was no more time. Tremendous thudding noises sounded as the mob outside threw itself against the entrance. The men dug in their heels and pushed against the pews, bracing them against the church doors. The women prayed. One raised a silver candleholder she had retrieved from the altar as a make-shift weapon, but her comrades scolded and dissuaded her from desecrating an item dedicated to the Goddess in such a manner. Abbé Beauvran surreptitiously tucked in his robe a bottle of sacramental wine he had taken up for that same purpose.

For the first time in his second life, in this surreal situation, Zephyrin felt a cold sense of dread trickle down his spine. Surely he wouldn’t die here? The thought was ludicrous; the Goddess wouldn’t have ordained his receiving a second life only for him to lose it before his first year… would she? No, there must be something he could do. But what? As the Tyrant’s son, Zephyrin had hardly received any training in his first life; even if his Elysian keepers had been so inclined, his body had been too frail to withstand concerted mana usage. He had learned that the hard way. All he had been able to use with something approaching consistency was a basic ward for self defense—helpful for preventing bruises during the rare sparring exercises he had participated in, but little else. What he needed now was an offensive power—and even then, he thought, what good would that do him here, inside St. Ùwuinaëlle’s? Any attack would simply redound on the church’s occupants.

The dull, heavy thuds resounded for some time more, then stopped. The men and women inside waited with bated breath. After a short delay, a voice was heard.

“Citizens! In the name of all that is holy, we beseech you, be reasonable! You yourselves are guiltless, and undeserving of the sentence that will fall on you if you do not dissociate yourselves from the oppressors and exploiters of the people! Too long have we suffered under the yoke imposed by the enemies of liberty, and who suck its lifeblood like parasites! The wolf’s crimes call for vengeance! Cast him out, he and his wife, and their priest, that justice may be administered! Do this, and you have our word that we will spare your lives!”

Erwan’s bushy eyebrows rose skeptically. “Hear the tongue on this fellow,” he remarked, then glanced behind himself. Lord Levisse was nowhere to be seen. Abbé Beauvran pointed at himself. “They want me?” he mouthed.

“As if we’d let them lay hands on the abbé!” one woman said indignantly.

“Their words might be a mite more convincin’ if they weren’t backed by stout clubs,” a man commented.

Erwan faced forward again, and yelled through the door, “Aye, ye’ll get the lord and priest! Ye’ll get the lord when he passes sentence on ye, an’ the priest when yer waitin’ for the noose an’ he pronounces yer last rites!”

Judoc sighed. Abbé Beauvran pursed his thin lips, equally unconvinced that antagonizing the mob was the best means of defusing the situation, which more and more assumed the characteristics of a lit powder keg. “Let me through. I’ll have a word with these errant sheep—”

“Nay, Father! They’d gut ya as soon as ye laid foot outside, string ye up to a tree, an’ leave yer innards hangin’ for the dogs to gnaw!” an elderly woman argued.

“My. That’s certainly a vivid description…”

“Ev’n if ye get yer head chopped for our sakes, Father, they’ll still ask for the lord an’ his wife,” one man added dourly. “Gettin’ yerself offed wouldn’t help ‘em one whit.”

Abbé Beauvran sighed. “My son, at present I am more consternated by your language and that of your fellows than the conduct of the ruffians milling about outside. However, your point is well taken. Clearly we need some sort of guarantee that the baron and baroness will be permitted to leave unharmed…”

A gleam came into his eye as an idea presented itself. “My brothers!” he called through the door. “If you belong to that same company which introduced yourselves to the lord’s manor, and performed a diligent inspection of your master’s correspondence”—Lord Levisse, who had reappeared, now trembled at the euphemisms, while guilty smiles rose on several faces—“then you must own the orders pertaining to that much-maligned tax were a pious—no, not a pious,” he muttered, then raised his quavering voice again—“a most impious fraud! This so being, you have lost all reason to take up arms against your rightful lord, who has ever had your best interests at heart. Does it not grieve you to direct your ire against so tender a lord and father, and one sequestered in the bowels of a church, to which you no less than he confer the tender appellation of mother?”

There was a silence. Zephyrin wondered at the effectiveness of this loquacious appeal. He fancied he could see the men through the door, shuffling from foot to foot and looking at each other uncertainly. At length one of them evidently succeeded in working up his resolve, for they heard the muffled shout: “Lies an’ more lies! ‘Ee stole th’ records ‘fore escapin’! We won’t be fooled by bluebloods or priests no more!” Roars of approval greeted this outburst.

Abbé Beauvran sighed once more. “And thus the breakdown of negotiations,” he muttered. “Still, as long as they cannot get in, we have good hopes of their wearying of the game and letting us go home before nightfall,” he added hopefully.

Zephyrin did not share the abbé’s optimistic prognostication. It seemed rather more likely that the hostile crowd would cast about for another means of gaining entrance—procuring ladders to climb up and smash through the windows, perhaps. However, contrary to his expectations, no such attempt was made. Instead, after several more ineffectual attempts at breaking through the door, there was the sound of retreating footsteps and voices. The besieged peasants looked at one another.

“Are… Are they givin’ up?” someone ventured to ask.

Bounding up the stairs to the choir-loft, another man peered outside.

“They’re… they’re leavin’!” he cried. Cries of gladness rang out, accompanied by sighs of relief.

“Wait!” Judoc called out commandingly. Heads turned in his direction. “Don’t be fooled! They’re tryin’ to lure us out!”

“Yes, that seems exceedingly likely,” the abbé said.

“So what d’we do, then?” Erwan grunted.

Judoc stroked his beard. “We wait. If it’s a trap, they’ll soon return. They don’t have much time. It won’t be long ‘fore troops come to restore order.”

There were a few grumblings, but the wisdom of Judoc’s words was widely acknowledged. The refuges waited. Five minutes, half an hour, an hour—the church bells marked the crawling passage of time. Still they waited. Some people began shifting restlessly. The day had well advanced into evening now, and many were anxious to return home, to find loved ones and ascertain the state of their farms and homes. “Ain’t it safe now?” asked the elderly man who had spoken earlier, none too quietly.

“We can’t wait here all night!” A man said, seconding him. “While we sit here—”

“Listen!” another interrupted. “I think I ‘ear somethin’!”

“They’re comin’ back with torches!” shouted a third man.

There was a general panic. As the mob advanced with burning brands some of the men began frantically removing the make-shift barricade. The abbé stopped them. “A moment, brothers!” he cried with surprising strength. They stopped in their tracks and looked at him. “We must not be rash! Let me speak with them first.” The peasants reluctantly parted as the abbé pushed himself through.

Pressing himself against the door, he cried, “Good people of Armora! Tender and devoted pastors have you, whom the sight of your conduct would sorely grieve! And if you do not fear to leave behind you the loving remonstrances of your pastors, the maternal and merciful embrace of Mother Church, do not the powerful ties of human affection yet hold sway? Does not the image of a mother’s tear, a father’s head bowed in grief, summon no morsel of salutary compunction in the breast, no stinging wetness to the eye? Clasp not these evil deeds to your breasts; renounce your folly, and you will know instead of remorse over blood-stained hands, the peace unsurpassed of him whose deeds are true and whose conscience is clean.”

Raucous laughter answered this second appeal.

“We’re not like tae fall for yer ploys, Father!” yelled one of the men outside. “Yer in league wi’ the bluebloods, that there’s no denyin’! We’re wise tae yer wiles!”

Some of the peasants inside the church angrily retorted, but their words too were in vain. From that point on all appeals, however desperate or tear-filled, were categorically ignored. Finally abandoning the hope of convincing their countrymen to lay down arms, the villagers turned to the one they deemed their last temporal hope.

“Can’t ye fight them off, milord?” one peasant asked entreatingly.

The nobleman scowled. “My pool of mana… isn’t quite large enough to handle such a large mob,” he admitted. “I could handle three or four dozen, perhaps, but the remainder would overwhelm me.”

Glum silence reigned. Zephyrin sympathized with the lord; he was but a minor noble, the baron of a backwater fief, and had in all likelihood never been properly trained. What little mana he possessed had been exercised in infrequent, largely ceremonial duels with other nobles—in short, artistic displays that lent themselves poorly to practical application. The nobility of this time still clung to the archaic dueling system that his father’s brilliant military innovations would render obsolete.

Discouraged, the villagers turned away from Lord Levisse, who occupied himself thenceforth with his pregnant wife. At length, a man spoke up.

“Mebbe the rain’ll foil ‘em,” he said hopefully.

“Nay,” said the one in the choir loft gloomily, looking out and watching the preparations. “They’re pushin’ barrels o’ oil from Rupert’s shop.”

The pessimism from before was succeeded by mute consternation. Though the drizzle from earlier had intensified a little, it clearly wouldn’t suffice to douse a fire in time. What were they to do? It seemed their best hope was for their neighbors to realize the folly of their actions and what manner of reprisal the planned atrocity would bring down on their heads. No indications there were, however, that a change of heart was imminent. Instead, at that very moment strangely animated sounds filtered in from outside.

“They’re… singin’ a song,” muttered a peasant.

A song? Zephyrin strained his ears. Indistinct at first, the words soon became audible.

O me! O my! O, there’s been some mistake!

Servant, I requested a tender steak!

Fear not, milord, for tho’ it seems the cook

Burnt it, you’ll see, if you more closely look,

Tho’ all pitch-black without, within ‘tis blue.

Oh dear! Oh dear! No, this simply won’t do!

There’s no steak bien-cuit?

Nay, your sovereignty!

No medium rare?

Not a pray’r!

Today there’s only steak burnt black but blue…

For the rich meat on the menu… is you!

O me! O my! O, there’s been some mistake!

Quoth th’ well off blueblood, well done at the stake!

Uproarious laughter wafted into the church along with the ominous smell of smoke. Zephyrin’s father clenched his fists as Lord and Lady Levisse’s faces paled over. The abbé’s face remained impassive. “Lord Levisse, may I suggest you take your wife to the sacristy?” The baron nodded after a moment’s delay. Ashen-faced, he led his trembling wife away by the arm. As they retreated between the remaining pews, a peasant stepped forth and asked urgently, “What about us, Father? What’re we tae do?”

Abbé Beauvran stared with distant eyes at the physiognomy of a scene only he could see. Absentmindedly, in a barely audible voice, he murmured, “… atque haec inrita dudum templa Iouis (quid enim haud licitum?) ferat impius ignis…”

Then his eyes came back into focus, returning to his anxious flock in the midst of its predicament. “First,” he began steadily, “we resign ourselves to the adorable will of the Goddess and Her Consort, thanking Them for this opportunity to profess by deeds the faith we have ever had on our lips.” Heads bowed, some more reluctantly than others. There was a moment of silence.

“And now…” The priest smiled whimsically. “And now, we pray to Saint Ùwuinaëlle. We’re in her church, after all; what else would one do?” And so saying, he waveringly began intoning a spirited hymn written in the saint’s honor, his voice hardly rising above the clamor and agitation outside. The villagers looked at one another. As one of them opened his mouth to protest, Judoc resolutely joined his deep, unrefined tones to the priest’s, drowning out all opposition. Erwan sighed, and lent his voice to the impromptu chorus. Old Roderick’s off-key croaking could be heard soon after. Before long, with only few exceptions all of the church’s occupants, the women included, were lustily singing away in the face of certain death.

Satisfied that the hymn was now well under way, Abbé Beauvran ceased singing and made his way to the right side of the church, where a white garment lay folded on a stool. Calmly picking up and throwing the white alb over his head and slipping his arms through its sleeves, he murmured a brief invocation, then entered the confessional. Already a woman had decided to avail herself of his services and knelt down on the time-worn wood which had supported the knees of thousands of penitents over centuries, in the hopes of cleansing her soul of those stains the fire raging around the church might fail to purify.

Zephyrin regarded all this with some measure of incredulity. That’s it? They’re giving up, just like that? He wanted to cry out, “Can’t the lord lead a mana-based charge? Can’t we try to force our way out and escape?”; but was conscious himself of the futility of these thoughts. He started squirming. Something had to be done! He couldn’t just wait here for certain death—

Zephyrin’s mother pressed him to her heart tightly. Her eyes were shut, her lips moving silently. He noted her lack of trembling, and became still in turn. A sudden surge of anger coursed through him against himself. How could he panic like this, as if he were an actual child, when this peasant woman was peacefully resigned to her death and the loss of all she held near and dear? Was he not the Emperor’s son? Had he not already died once? Death should hold no fear for him. If he were to die today, he would come face to face with the Goddess once more, this time without shame.

A blue, tangible light centered around Zephyrin began emanating from him, rapidly expanding until it filled the church from floor to vault. Lord Levisse stared slack-jawed and the peasants gasped and cried aloud as it streamed through the windows and the cracks below the front and side church doors. Forming a bubble of sorts, it enveloped the church while the blaze’s flames licked at it ineffectually. Outside, yells of alarm and consternation rang out.

In truth, Zephyrin was just as if not more surprised than they. The personal ward he had painstakingly practiced over and over, and at last only managed to master after years of training, now manifested with impossible ease and grew to an impossible breadth and height. Zephyrin didn’t understand the reason for the drastic disparity between his mana control now compared to his first life.

For now, he didn’t care. He also didn’t let up. His tiny heart beating madly, beads of sweat rolled down his round face as he poured out all the mana in his body.

A baseblood peasant could light a candle with his mana, if properly taught. A blueblood noble, conjure up a fireball, or channel his power into the form of a blade.

But Zephyrin? He descended from royalty through his father’s union with an Elysian princess. His blood… was silvern. And now, his body was whole.

The light turned blinding now, dyeing the church’s frescoed nave in a brilliant, otherworldly azure. The church’s interior turned white. Its paintings and statues were swallowed up in an all-consuming light. Men and women shielded their eyes; some threw themselves to the ground. Cries of consternation and awe were universal.

Zephyrin wouldn’t let them die here. After all, these were the future subjects of the Emperor, whose son he was. Heir to a non-existent throne though he might be, that throne existed in the immaterial realms of memory and intellect, and that was enough. He made a final effort. The dome grew and finally burst outward with a terrible boom like a thunderclap, expelling a mighty wind as it swept away from the church, blowing away everything in its path. The flames were extinguished; the assailants, scattered. As he released the last of his mana, Zephyrin felt his consciousness go with it…

“W-Wha...” Erwan shakily rose to his feet. He looked around wildly. He, the church, and everyone inside… was untouched.

“The… The Goddess saved us!” a peasant shouted.

“Praised be Her Name!” sobbed a woman.

Lord Levisse fell to his knees, his hand still covering his eyes. His shoulders shook as he wept. His wife gently took his other hand into hers, and he clutched it tightly.

Judoc stumbled over to his wife, his eyes wide. Cries of jubilation rang out.

As the priest lead a canticle of praise, Zephyrin’s mother gazed down at the sleeping bundle in her arms.