1

As soon as her morning shift at the courtyard was over, Izumi went straight back to the bedchamber and slept. But after a nap of only three hours, her body deemed it had reached the bare minimum operational capacity, and she awoke and couldn’t get back to sleep. Still groggy, she thought to get some refreshment from the castle kitchen before her next watch. There was almost an hour to waste, so she took a detour through the library on the way to learn if anything of importance had been uncovered from the hidden archive.

Investigators had scoured the records with nary a moment’s rest since the secret area’s discovery three days earlier, and Margitte had even spent much of her watch going through the documents, but the results were regrettably thin. The calamity had fallen upon the city without any obvious warning, and caught the population by surprise, as it had seemed, and they could leave behind no warning, no explanation, save the incoherent notes scribbled by the perished librarians. Even the nature of the enemy had eluded them. Sinister magic, a curse, an unknown plague, demifiends, they’d had many theories.

As people began to suddenly disappear and disconcerting noises could be heard all over the castle, the four scholars had quickly taken shelter in the hidden hall without attempting to gather supplies, as Izumi had guessed. They'd kept something of a diary of their stay, which revealed there had been altogether six of them in the beginning.

One had gone out on the second day to find food and water, but never returned. Another had followed two days later, but vanished the same way. Dread had crippled the rest and they couldn’t bring themselves to open the door again. Not that it made their lot any better. The archivists were aged men, never particularly sturdy by constitution, and thirst killed quickly. One by one they had succumbed, the last one after a little short of ten days.

“Too bad,” Izumi commented on the summary as the young mage presented it. “Would've been nice if they happened to know some amazing method to get rid of all daemons, were only a little too late to use it, and left it for us with clear instructions.”

“Yes, yes. What a pity...”

“And there weren’t any juicy national secrets down there either? Revelations about global conspiracies, or evil cults?”

“Not especially,” Margitte mumbled, seated behind the front desk, and continued to organize the files she had gathered while meticulously evading the woman’s eyes.

“Hm?” Izumi examined the girl with a steady stare and questioningly tilted her head.

“W-what…?”

“Are you feeling down today, So-chan? You don’t seem as peppery as usual. You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”

“Mind your own business!?” the girl haughtily exclaimed. “I’m completely fine! I’m always fine! And it’s a hundred years too early for an uncouth barbarian like you to worry about me!”

“I see...”

“S-so, what kind of secrets were there?” Waramoti, who was with them, attempted to keep the conversation going. “It’s a royal archive, there has to be at least something! Any teenage poetry by her majesty, perhaps? Or something equally embarras—I mean, fascinating.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Margitte told the bard with her usual scowl. “It was nothing but records of old military operations, internal politics, trade contracts, development plans, weapon plans, private correspondence—the kind of things you don’t want foreign spies to know. Nothing that is of any relevance to us in our situation. Most of the documents are from centuries back too, only valuable to historians.”

“What about the book?” Izumi asked her.

“Book? What book?”

“The one that was on the table. They were reading it in their final moments. Why? Must’ve been one riveting tale.”

“Oh, that,” Margitte muttered and reached under the desk. “About the XVII Dynasty? It’s not fiction but a chronicle.”

She took out the thin hardcover volume and set it on the desk in front of Izumi.

“This isn’t the original manuscript but a restored reprint issued at the beginning of the current century,” the girl explained. “The period it describes took place almost 800 years ago. Of course, something that happened so long ago is of no help in our situation. The contents are a secret to no one either. Everyone knows the story—‘King Machilon the Great and the Battle of the Thornhill pass’. Bah. That was probably the only worthwhile thing to have happened in the human realm at the time, so it became quite famous.”

“Hmm…” Izumi took the book and opened it.

Despite the broad title, most of the chronicle appeared to focus on the life and rule of said King Machilon, who lived in the late second century of the current cycle, and whom his people revered as both a monarch and a hero.

On the first blank page, an unsettling note had been written by the last reader.

The great king of eld found our salvation and hid it.

Only royal blood may open the way, all of which is now spilt.

Whatever we do, we are lost!

“That’s some introduction,” Izumi remarked with a cringe, and leafed on. “What were they looking for?”

“They were dying and delirious,” Margitte replied. “Unable to see any real way out of their plight, they took shelter in fairy tales and patriotism. King Machilon’s period is described by many as the ‘golden age’ of Langoria, and people always begin to miss the ‘good old days’ when things don’t go their way! You waste your time thinking any deeper on it.”

“That so?”

“Oh, I’ve heard the story too.” Waramoti remarked, leaning closer. “Quite the thrilling clash, the way I heard it told. Almost too fantastic to be true.”

Izumi skimmed through the first third of the tome, and then her hands slowed. The narrative delved deeper into the iconic battle of the Thornhill pass, the key moments of which singers and poets had shared with the rest of the human lands in the ages since. Related ballads were still the staple of every bard school out there.

Despite being a newcomer, Izumi had heard the story too, once, narrated by the Emperor of Tratovia. Those events of 800 years ago had personal significance to her, through the sword she carried on her back. The sword that had once brought her and Yuliana’s paths together and gave birth to her own legend. She read on with more care, sucked into the lines, and soon forgot everything else.

Here is a description of the grievous conflict that took place in the early 282 in the 33rd cycle, as related by Brother Dhanel, an acolyte of the Church of Light, a faithful servant of the White Lord, and a follower of his majesty, the King. By the grace of Our Lord, Brother Dhanel came to pay witness to these extraordinary events with his own eyes, and swore by oath before the Almighty every word of this account true.

In those days, strange news spread from village to town and town to city, telling of an abominable thing in the sky. The rumor spoke of a flying ship seen glide among the clouds without sails or wings to carry her, with a hull of clear silver instead of pine. No marvel of nature or an act of wizardry could explain the sighting; who else could have ridden such a celestial vessel but visitors from another world, minds and bodies altogether severed from the knowing and understanding of man?

Disconcerted witnesses presented that the sorcerous craft had set down southeast in the county of Baisley, upon the coast of the Southern Sea, and they had seen strange beings come out—giant men clad in outfits of silver and gold and obsidian. Message of the event reached our majesty King Machilon in Walhollem late in the summer, and he ordered at once a force of emissaries to be dispatched to investigate these guests and learn the purpose of their unannounced visit.

A force of fifty dragoons rode out that same day to interview the men from the sky, equipped with a personal message from the King. But this only marked the beginning of the trouble. Of the fifty but two returned, and with tiding that smote all the Royal Court with unparalleled terror and dismay.

The visitors were found not amenable to reason, speaking in a tongue strange to man, and were openly hostile to being questioned. The heralds were slain, sparing none but the two messengers, who had taken their leave at the first hint of trouble and thus narrowly eluded the demise that befell all the others in their company.

No more evidence was required to show that a great threat faced the Kingdom and her subjects, demanding immediate response in appropriate force. The King ordered the army to mobilize without delay and rode out at the helm of this host to chase back the enemy who cared so little for mortal lives.

All available forces from the capital and the nearby cities was summoned, in case there were more than one shipful of foes to contend with; fifty times thousand men, and no such a host had been seen before in this age or before it, and it is in doubt if future shall repeat it either.

After nine days’ hurried ride, the army reached down to Baisley and came to the foot of the tall Thornhill pass between the precarious cliffs there, beyond which lay only the barren coastline of the Great Sea.

They were confident they would find the murderous visitors long gone after committing their gruesome mischief, but were in this assumption gravely mistaken.

The reports had been true.

The visitors remained still where they had first made an appearance, as though looking forward to the coming challenge. A great ship of metal, as described by the witnesses, lay upon the level shore where the ancient settlers of Langoria had once come to land. Strange was the vessel and stranger still were the sailors; like men but tall, mighty of frame, and fair to look upon, save for the eerie, cruel light that gleamed in their eyes; and a most mysterious luminescence veiled their bodies too, as though they basked in the unclouded glow of an unseen Moon.

One among them was not like the others, a man with hair long and black as the midwinter night, eyes likewise dark as the unfathomable abysses of outer space, and his visage was comely as it was terrifying, unthinkable for any but the bravest to confront. His mighty body was clothed in scaled armor, thin but hard as dragonhide, and sparkled in the way of dark silver at slightest movement; and in his grip he carried a pale sword like a vast blade of grass from the banks of Death’s river.

No fear or awe did that titan show at the sight of the enormous human army, but came forward alone, and raised his deep voice to yell the hideous words of his inhuman tongue.

“Ahn sui thós santarté!”

So he shouted and his bellow rent the air like thunder. Horses reared and dared not go further and the men’s hearts wavered. But King Machilon was a learned man and he identified what he heard as the antediluvian speech of the Immortals, which his wise arcane mentors had taught him in part.

The visitors were not from among the stars, he discovered, but the people once known as elves, from the mythical land of Amarno beyond the sea where mortals are forbidden to sail.

At this discovery, the King clung to the ray of hope that a civilized understanding might yet be reached. Bringing his most trusted confidants and guards along, he rode forward to negotiate with the invaders, but found their terms utterly irreconcilable and surely better left unexplored.

“I am come as a conqueror!” the elven man repeated. “I, who am called Elenglen, the King Most High, the Slayer of Dragons, the ruler of the United Dominion of Amarno. Give me your land, humans, and I will allow you to live and serve me!”

“The ancient accords deny thy claim, o’ Great King!” his majesty replied, overpowering his terror for the sake of his people. “The elves live in their land, we humans live in ours, as the Old Gods once decreed! At least tell me why thou seeketh that which does not belong to thee!”

“The accords are no more,” the eleven King said to him, his words heavy as lead. “The gods are no more. Our land itself is no more. You will now give me yours, man, so that I may rebuild and take revenge on our enemy. Be grateful that I give you the option to agree.”

“Thy terms are impossible!” King Machilon protested. “I cannot consent! This land is our only home. Here we obey no lord but our own!”

“And that is the answer I wished to hear!”

Barely had the negotiations began when they already ended. With one step, the elf was upon the closest rider and raised his eerie blade. As though that knight’s armor were forged of tin, the monster cut through him and his mount alike, cleaved both asunder with one terrible swing, and they fell dead on the spot, the man and the steed.

His majesty’s guard took the King away with all due haste, and the rest of the army came rushing to his aid. There was no holding back the bloodbath any longer.

There were fifty thousand of men and barely a hundred of the elves. No matter how formidable, they had to be mad to challenge such numbers, or so all believed. Left between the mountain pass and the sea, every disadvantage was on the enemy side.

The fight would soon be over—Alas, the day proved the thought sorely mistaken!

The elven armors shrugged off arrows and spears, while their dreadful weapons reaped cavalry like barley. Their great bodies possessed the might of wild lions and seemed entirely impervious to pain or fatigue. The terrible sorceries of their wizards tore through stone and steel, wiping out entire regiments in a blink of an eye, and nulled any effort to retaliate in kind.

The worst of them all was the dark King himself. None could match his strength to cross swords with him, no sword could endure the hardness of his blade, and no combatant was quick enough to so much as lay a hand on him. He appeared wherever he pleased on the battlefield like a bolt of lightning, and each time his great boot touched the rocks, two dozen men fell dead at once.

With terrible cunning, the location was entirely turned against the army; unable to march the full force onto the narrow coast through the even more narrow pass, they became as lambs to be led to slaughter in bite-sized chunks. In exchange for every one giant knight to fall, two divisions of men perished, and defeat drew close. Ere the day was done, thirty-two thousand lay lifeless on Baisley’s coast, all of the slope covered in corpses to the point that no rock could be seen, while the invaders’ count had barely decreased. The sea foamed crimson and even the sun had withdrawn into hiding, loath to see such an apocalypse.

But right as King Machilon thought the battle lost—the world of man along with it—and was about to sound retreat, a miracle occurred.

One knight, reportedly called Vincelno, lay among the corpses pretending to be dead, wounded but still in possession of his strength. Stirring to see the elf king close to him, the knight lunged forward and struck his broken sword, cursed with the blood of his fallen comrades, through the shin of the foe. He paid for this deed with his life, but the enemy was thus crippled, unable to exhibit his prior bestial mobility.

Such an opportunity could not go to waste.

“Concentrate all fire upon that man!” the King commanded, and together as one, the surviving force began to rain arrows and spears, and rocks, and spells, and anything they could get their hands on at the villain. Some threw themselves at the other elves, to keep them from going to their lord’s aid with the weight of their bodies.

Horrifying was the elf King’s might. He held fast under the relentless downpour, shielding himself with his indestructible blade from the storm of projectiles that darkened the sky. But he was not god, and his armor and flesh began at last to give in. He sustained a blow in the head, wearing no helmet for his vanity, and his guard was then broken. Yet none dared to ease up on the assault, until the devil’s figure had been obliterated in full.

“Thaná, sanes wu ascel’ó!” were reportedly his last words, heard by a few close to the site, though the King would never disclose their meaning.

So fell the ruler of the timeless elvenkind, of which we have heard so many stories but never met in life, before or after.

Nevertheless, this singular loss should have inconvenienced the enemy little in massacring the remaining human army, each of the foes formidable on their own right. And yet, a most bewildering change took place then and there.

Having lost their lord, the elven warriors ceased their struggle. Speaking not a word, they laid down their arms where they stood, sat down on their knees, and allowed themselves to be put to death without offering further resistance. They lived and died as one with their King and accepted defeat alongside him, as though entirely deprived of a will to call their own.

The battle was thereby ended, but it took twenty days to gather and bury the dead and tend to the wounded. The true numbers could not be disclosed to the public. How barely a hundred invaders could bring about such devastation and slaughter—only those who lived through that hideous day and saw it happen may understand.

By the direct command of our King, for the sake of history, I will record the whole terrible truth without omitting a thing, so that it may be kept in the royal archives and shared with the people once human comprehension has sufficiently evolved; so that the descendants of the fallen may finally now what became of their vanished ancestors; and so that those of us who were forced to commit the mistakes and heavy decisions of that day could find forgiveness before the later generations. For without the sacrifices of the past, none of those after us could come to be.

The bodies of the elven warriors were also buried in Baisley. King Machilon brought back the sword of Elenglen with the intent to destroy it, so that it might never drink of human blood with such ease again. But the best blacksmiths and the hottest furnaces of the land could leave no mark upon the weapon. His majesty took this wonder as a heavenly sign and delivered the weapon down to the ancient shrine of Our Lord and blessed it in tribute to the Divine of Light, to whose loving favor and protection we doubtless owe our survival.

Izumi closed the book, thinking she had learned enough.

“That was rather different from the version I heard...” Waramoti commented, having read the tale past her shoulder.

Based on the songs, it was easy to imagine how the elves had come to Noertia as pitiful immigrants seeking aid, and were tragically misunderstood because of the language barrier. The Langorians had been primitive barbarians, too quick to resort to violence, and an unnecessary tragedy followed. The legend was half about humans’ great victory, half a black comedy about the simple-mindedness of the southern folk.

But this was only the audience imposing their human perspective upon the subject.

If the emiri King hadn’t underestimated mankind so, but reunited with his kindred in Alderia, regained control of all of his forces—then there might not have been people left in Noertia today at all, save only as second-rate slaves.

“…Let’s not tell Lia about this, okay?” Izumi told the other two and put the book away.

Saying she would go look for something warm to drink before her shift, Izumi left the library and went downstairs on to the dining hall, lost in thought the whole way.

Carmelia had to have been aware of her father’s character—could she also guess the true cause of his downfall? Or did she want to believe he had been a tragic figure before a tyrant?

If it was the former, had she also shared the High King’s opinion on mankind in the past? Had she also thought them as no different from cattle, a nuisance, to begrudgingly seek their support later for the sheer lack of alternatives?

What did she think now? Was she only carefully masking her true feelings? Was every act and word of care only to maintain the favorable illusion, to further her own ends?

Then again, had people done anything to deserve her genuine sympathy either?

“Damn. Why does it bother me so much...?”

Frustrated, Izumi got tea from the kitchen to warm up, spiked with some rum. The consumption of alcohol was strictly rationed to protect discipline, but it wasn’t fully prohibited. One shot per day to get blood flowing did wonders to a soldier’s fighting spirit. Tea was not a replacement for coffee, which had run out already on the way, but it was still far better than plain water.

Izumi took a seat at one of the long tables near the middle of the hall and warmed her numb hands on the cup. The castle had no central heating system and there was a shortage of wood, so the interior was barely any warmer than outside.

Lunch time had passed and dinner was still hours away, and the hall was all but empty. Only a small group of knights enjoyed their refreshments at the table behind Izumi, likewise getting ready for their watch. She sat quietly and sipped her tea, but couldn't help but overhear parts of the soldiers’ conversation.

“Really? Did you see it?”

“I did! The whole thing. I was so sure she was dead! Can’t believe that guy went all out on a girl like that! Those Guild guys are monsters...”

“No way, what did the officers have to say about that…?”

Izumi turned around on the bench and patted the talkative knight on the shoulder.

“Hey. Mind sharing?”

2

Arnwahl never spoke much while on the job, but the sight of his knightly outfit alone boosted the defenders’ confidence quite a bit. His ever solemn demeanor supplemented the effect. There was the traditional type of hero the population knew and expected, nothing too quirky or weird. His presentation inspired the instinctive wish in every troop to try and be a bit more like him.

With no apparent regard for the dire circumstances, Arnwahl returned to duty with an aloof look after his brief rest. A day at work like any other. However, on the way to the northern wall across the yard, the champion encountered an unexpected obstacle.

Izumi awaited him in the middle of the yard, and the air about her made him stop.

He didn’t think he had ever seen his whimsical colleague so quiet and serious before. The woman’s face gave no hint of her thoughts, not a hair about her swayed, but the mood about her was uncannily heavy, speaking of quiet determination and oneness of purpose.

“Draw,” she said to him.

“Pardon me?”

“Draw your sword,” Izumi elaborated. “You wanted a lesson? I’ll give you one you’ll never forget. It’s called, ‘pick on somebody of your own size’.”

“I see,” Arnwahl remarked and drew his sword. “So this is what the minstrel meant? Yet, I fail to see why. We were merely training. No practice is without risks, as I am sure you know.”

“Whatever. I know there’s only one cure for people like you, and it’s a letter different from ‘words’.”

“You are making very little sense.”

Izumi was done talking. She came dashing across the yard, drew her sword over her shoulder and cut down at the man. Arnwahl evaded the far-projected swing with a step to the side and cut back at her face. His reaction was predicted. She lifted her elbows to pick up the incoming sword on her guard, flicked it out of the way and cut back, aiming at his exposed flank.

Arnwahl retreated outside the range with a leap, circled around the woman, and continued to back up towards the wall whilst holding her at a distance with quick stabs. The ringing of steel sounded clear across the yard, as though the armory had resumed business, and the knights patrolling the area came to see what was going on. The duelists’ casual motions made them ponder if this wasn’t a mere demonstration at first, but a more seasoned observer could see well enough that both were aiming to connect their attacks.

Wasn’t this bad?

Arnwahl came to the stairs along the side of the wall, where a confused patrol was on their way down. He slipped past the pair of knights with a quick hop, and took cover behind them.

“I have the high ground,” he notified Izumi, holding his blade ready if she would seek to break through.

Izumi didn’t respond. She stepped on the boot of the befuddled soldier to her right, tackled him off the stairs, and pulled the kite shield from his hands. She raised the shield to cover her head and rushed forward at Arnwahl, with the apparent intent to ram straight into him.

“Tch.” Arnwahl held out his sword in front of him, blade down, the clear face of it aimed at her. On the bright surface of the blade ran shallow, barely perceivable engravings. The weapon emitted a bright flash and a surge of unnatural heat followed. Boom. In a blink, a round hole was seared straight through the shield and it was flung rattling down the stairs. But Izumi was no longer behind it. She had discarded the cover at the last moment and dived to the side. She kicked off the wall to take height and bashed down at the knight again. Arnwahl switched to a backhanded grip on the fly and used his whole arm to divert the cut. Continuing the same motion, he rotated around to counter. The two proceeded to run up the stairs while trading blows without a second’s rest, and arrived like this to the top of the battlement.

Most of the guards were not too sure if they could interfere in a battle between champions, but an officer in charge of the watch came forward to talk sense to the performers,

“What do you think you’re doing!? Cease this at once!”

Paying his words little heed, Arnwahl maneuvered behind the soldier, grabbed the back of his vest and held the soldier as a shield between himself and the woman. Izumi came forward, as if not even seeing the hostage, and the Sergeant began to regret getting involved.

“P-please don’t—!” He held out his spear in a desperate effort to save his life.

Izumi stepped up close, nudged left to make him react in the wrong direction, and dove in through right instead. She switched the Amygla to one hand and pinned the blade behind the soldier’s knee, and used it to lever him out of balance. His poise broken, she caught the troop’s elbow, and unscrupulously threw the man over her sword and out of the way. He went rolling to the corner of the allure with a great clatter.

Deprived of his human shield, Arnwahl came forward with a quick stab, but Izumi had read his intent again. She continued her turning motion while pulling her blade along and parried the stab. As soon as she felt the contact in her hand, she stopped revolving, bounced back and lashed at him. But Arnwahl interrupted his missed attack early and pulled back, exhibiting surprising agility for a knight in so heavy armor.

A few feet away stood a brazier on tall legs, the fire in it faded to coals. Arnwahl retreated behind the stand and kicked the blackened pot over. A torrent of ash, fumes, and red hot coals blocked Izumi’s path, briefly lit up with a purple surge of flame. She jumped to the side to dodge the flurry of embers, and climbed on top of the parapet to get around.

“—Enough!”

Whistles were blown. A squad of reinforcements came running along the wall from the corner tower’s direction, resolved to put an end to the unwanted theater. Arnwahl watched them come behind him in numbers and was reluctant to be disarmed in front of a dangerous foe. He likewise climbed on the wide blocks of stone that crowned the wall. The renegade champions continued their dance along the rampart, leaping over the deep embrasures, and flew past the astounded guardsmen. The soldiers weren’t nimble enough to follow suit—nor mad enough, seeing as one bad step would send the acrobat plummeting to the cobbled yard almost thirty feet below.

Mortal concerns didn’t appear to enter the combatants’ minds.

Their daredevil chase went on towards the corner of the wall. Next to the guardhouse under the turret stood a tall scaffold of multiple levels. Piles of bricks and bags of cement powder were stacked on the topmost floors, where repairs on the wall were left in indefinite hiatus. His escape route into the corner tower was blocked by more knights, so Arnwahl leapt off the wall and dropped onto the scaffold, where he began to descend the crude stick ladders.

Instead of following directly after, Izumi took a shortcut. She dived down from the parapet, aiming straight to the lower level. She struck her blade into the edge of the boarding and swung in through the open side, hot on the heels of the fleeing knight.

Seeing she would catch him, Arnwahl turned around with a diving roll and pointed his blade back at the woman. Another flare of magical power erupted from the enchanted sword, and the topmost corner of the scaffolding was blown clean off, reduced to ashes in an instant with only a faint smell of burned wood lingering.

Izumi avoided it by a hair. Reaching the end of her swing, her weight tore the greatsword off the boards above and she dropped flat on her back onto the flooring, right as the heatwave flashed over her. She lost grip of her weapon at the harsh landing and it fell past the loose boards to below.

Unarmed and wide open, she was a target much too easy to ignore.

Arnwahl stood up and invoked the magic of his sword once more. Izumi rolled to the side towards the wall, over the edge, and fell to the lower level. The boards vanished from where she had lain, ripped to charred splinters by the explosive wave of heat and pressure. The scaffolding all around flashed to flames and began to burn. She fell down on a pile of cement sacks, while broken scraps of wood, bricks, wheelbarrows, shovels, and burning planks rained about her with terrible noise.

“Why does the good stuff always go to others?” she groaned.

From there, things began to develop even quicker.

A sizable chunk of the east side scaffold was gone, the rest violently shaken. The load on the makeshift construct had become much too one-sided. What was left of the upper floors began to collapse. Moreover, the platform wasn’t tied to anything, resting entirely on its four main legs. Top-heavy and unbalanced, the whole thing began to tilt towards the courtyard. Arnwahl lost his balance and went sliding along the slanted surface, his armor pulling him down.

In a frantic rush to not get buried under the pile of burning wood and junk, the two champions forgot about their bout for a moment, and climbed and crawled and clawed their way towards the topside the best they could. With an infernal clamor, the platform fell and broke to its base elements upon the frozen yard, scattering boards, loose poles, rope, bricks, tools, tarps, and burning splinter everywhere.

The landing was unexpectedly gentle for the riders. They were thrown off shortly ere the collision, and went rolling and skidding across the ground—Arnwahl’s performance being rather less graceful, thanks to his cumbersome gear.

Izumi regained her bearings shortly and found she had escaped with only some bruises and scrapes. She quickly located her blade among the wreck. Disregarding all pain, she pushed up, retrieved the weapon, and then dashed at her opponent while he still struggled to get up. Despite the harsh landing, Arnwahl’s armor had done its job well and he was in a better shape than he seemed. Seeing Izumi come, he lifted himself up with one arm, and raised his cursed blade with the other.

Which would be faster?

Izumi sword, thrust at the knight’s jugular?

Or the mysterious sorcery in Arnwahl’s weapon?

No one would ever find out.

Before either attack could reach the target, the duelists were flattened against the cold ground by an intense wave of pressure from above. As if the sky had dropped on the two, they could barely even breathe under the burden, let alone move, although nothing material was actually on them. Fissures of red light crackled about their suspended figures, making it clear they were dealing with arcane forces.

The cause soon showed itself.

Down the castle stairs came the Grand Marshal of Tratovia, escorted by Carmelia, the sorceress’s hand raised at the combatants and might pouring through her figure. The two came to stand at the edge of the wreckage, and rage burned like fire in Miragrave’s eyes. Yet, she remained remarkably composed on the outside and restrained her doubtless great desire to kick the pair in their helpless state.

Following a moment’s irate deliberation, she quietly spoke to them,

“The fact that you two are considered indispensable assets to the Imperial Army is the only reason why you won’t hang from that wall by morning.” She paused, giving them each a most murderous look, before resuming. “I will tell you what happens next. I am going to call the company together, after which you will apologize to every man and woman there for your absolutely disgraceful behavior. Then, you will inform them that the two of you will take the watch at the main gate for the whole of the coming night alone, so that the others may rest. And pray they will forgive you with just that!”