Magicity Part 2

"Featherston Sorcery School, third-year, Daniel Pollock. My friends and

I are doing what we can to earn civil rights for the demi-humans. And I've

got words for you."

The moment he said his name, Oliver was 80 percent sure where this

was going. Featherston lay to the southwest of Galatea, and their school

motto was all about reason and friendship. That alone pitched them against

the Kimberly approach, and the two schools' students frequently clashed.

Plus, the current Featherston principal was a hard-line civil rights supporter.

But as Oliver considered his response, Pollock slammed a hand down on

their table.

"Don't get too comfortable!" he roared.

Eyes were turning toward them all around.

"…Kimberly Magic Academy second-year, Oliver Horn," Oliver began

quietly. "Please, settle down, Mr. Pollock. We're not looking for a fight.

We're just here to have dinner."

"You say that, but you'll attack as soon as we let our guards down."

"We're done losing! We know full well none of you have any scruples."

More Featherston voices were coming in from the nearby table, backing

Pollock up.

"Do you have any idea how many demi settlements got crushed last

year, despite our efforts to protect them? And the bulk of them wound up at

Kimberly, to be experimented on."

"Dissecting your way through countless innocent demis…! Their

blood's still on your hands, and you think you have the right to eat here?"

"...Urgh...!"

Katie let out a groan, clutching her head. And that provoked Chela.

"…We've heard your complaints," she said. "But it's a mistake to

consider Kimberly a unified front. This girl, too, is a civil rights supporter

—just like you. At the very least, your complaint does not apply to her."

She took the curly-haired girl's hand, holding it tight.

The Featherston students frowned. "A supporter…? Ridiculous. No one

who cares about civil rights would go to Kimberly."

"You're not one of us. You probably just think demi samples make good

decor."

"Urghhh…!"

"Yo, I've heard just about enough! Can't you see you're hurting her

feelings?"

Guy jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. The whole Featherston

contingent were on their feet now.

"Kicking your chair, you brute? You ready to take this outside?"

"Sure, why not? Let's go! If you wanna lose your teeth before your meal

arrives, I'm happy to help!"

"My, my, how savage. They can't even tell how outclassed they are.

We've got third-years on our side!"

Guy was now midway between the two tables, facing down two

Featherston students at once. Any false moves and everything would erupt.

Oliver tried one last time to prevent it.

"Wait…! Everyone, settle down! We're all enjoying our weekends; no

need to butt heads!" He thought for a second. "I know, let me show you a

trick—a gesture of goodwill!"

Oliver pulled out his white wand. The Featherston students all reached

for their athames, but he waved his free hand, smiling, and pointed his

wand at himself.

"Elemusal!"

As his incantation echoed, countless sprouts grew from his collar. The

tip of each formed a bud, which bloomed, covering his entire head in baby's

breath.

His face peering out from beneath the blossoms, he nervously turned to

the Featherston students.

"…Wh-what do you think?" he asked. Even if they didn't laugh, he'd

hoped he could at least ease the tension. But instead, something cold hit his

face. The boy in front of him was sneering at Oliver, an empty glass in his

hand.

"No need to thank me," he said. "You gotta water flowers!"

Cold water ran down the back of his neck, dampening his shirt and robe.

This got Katie and Chela on their feet, furious, but before either could speak

—a flash of light shot across the room.

"Aughhhhhhh!"

There was a scream. As the light faded, the Featherston student dropped

to the floor, face covered in blood. Nobody knew what had happened.

" Huh?"

"...What?!"

He'd been attacked. As that realization settled in, the Featherston crowd

looked up—and found a boy in glasses scowling at them, arm still extended

from the burst orb he'd thrown.

"Say you're sorry," he hissed. One look in his eyes showed he was well

past angry and borderline homicidal. Even Oliver gulped. He'd never seen

his roommate this worked up.

"P-Pete…?"

"Heads on the floor and beg Oliver for mercy. Now!"

Pete was drawing his athame as he roared. The hostility was so raw that

the Featherston group took a step back.

"Y-you little—!"

"How dare you!"

They all reached for their own athames—but Guy's hand clamped

around one member's wrist.

"Outside," he growled. "I ain't in the mood for sorrys."

The tall boy's voice was so low his opponent gulped. The only thing

keeping Guy from punching him right here was a desire not to brawl in a

place that served good grub. Pete was well past that and already picking out

the first spell he planned to throw.

And as the shop buzzed over the brewing fight—three customers rose up

from the next table.

"This clearly isn't fizzling out. Okay, set the stage."

"Eight against six, and Featherston started it. Those odds work for me."

"Get those tables back. Chef, we're good, right? Damages on our bill."

Three young men and women had stood up in turn, their wands casting

magic on the tables and chairs before shoving the food and diners to the

sides of the room—and clearing enough space for a brawl.

Katie, Chela, and Nanao moved from the table before their chairs were

swept away, then joined their male compatriots. The Featherston students

gathered around their fallen friend; the two groups glared each other down.

"Listen up, second-years!" the man clearing chairs said. "Lemme give

you a word of advice. I'm only gonna say this once, so don't you dare

forget it: This is Kimberly's town! And if someone starts a fight—you end

it."

The three older mages stood around the ring like referees, grinning. All

three were Kimberly upperclassmen—and the chef shrugging in the kitchen

an alumnus. Oliver winced. Galatea could be terrifying.

"Wha—?"

"Huh…?"

"Uh…um…"

The Featherston folk hadn't caught up yet; they stood frozen with their

hands on their hilts. But two boys in the front weren't waiting.

"Fragor!"

"Rahhh!"

Pete's explosion spell hit a third-year girl head-on, and Guy's fist

bounced off a second-year boy's head. Neither Featherston student had time

to react at all, and as the others scrambled to respond, the two boys plunged

directly into the fray.

"This is a joke, huh? You ain't half as scary as the folks at our school!"

"Grab that asshole who dumped water on Oliver and heal his damn face

already! The rest of you aren't getting off that easy!"

Outnumbered but undaunted, their relentless charge clearly unnerved the

Featherstons. The key to victory in a sudden brawl was not technique or

strategy—but starting it yourself. Getting momentum on your side could

sweep you all the way to victory—if nothing went wrong, of course.

Guy and Pete weren't thinking about that, though; they didn't need to.

They'd managed a year at Kimberly, a year in which their lives were in

danger on a regular basis. They'd long since internalized the attitudes

required to survive.

"Y-yiiikes…!"

"They're insane…!"

The Featherston crowd was not so lucky. Their civil rights–loving

principal kept order, and their campus life was so peaceful it might as well

not be on the same planet as Kimberly. None of them had ever been in real

trouble. Fights at their school followed rules and were minor scraps at best

—but Kimberly fights were one step shy of "to the death." Before you even

compared their abilities as mages, that mindset alone left Featherston kids

permanently one step behind their Kimberly counterparts.

"W-we can't let them—gah!"

Three fellows went down in the blink of an eye. Only then did a

Featherston girl attempt to fight back, but as she swung her athame toward

Guy, a lightning bolt from the back of the room struck her chest, knocking

her to the ground.

"Katie…"

The curly-haired girl had her athame out, a few steps behind the boys.

Chela shot her a look of pure shock.

"…You think you can say whatever you like…?" Katie said, her voice

trembling. "W-well, not—not with me around…!"

Sadness, anger, self-reproach, frustration—and emotions she couldn't

even put a name to—all churned within her gaze. No one from Featherston

could know what she'd gone through last year: getting a harsh dose of

reality, rethinking her ideals, struggling to find a balance between the two—

desperately trying to work out what it was she should do.

"Allow me to join you, Katie."

But Nanao knew. And so she took her place at Katie's side. After a year

of sharing a room, she was the closest friend Katie had—and her greatest

emotional support.

Chela took one look at the two of them and sighed.

"…Fine, you've forced my hand!"

Abandoning all hope of stopping things, she drew her own athame.

Fights like this were clearly beneath her, but she'd heard her friends be

insulted enough for one evening.

Only one person was still attempting to maintain order: the Featherston

leader, Daniel Pollock. Face twisted in anguish, he was trying to rein his

own friends in.

"Wait! Don't—! Dammit, this isn't what—"

"…I agree, Mr. Pollock."

A boy came up to him, brushing the baby's breath off his collar. Pollock

took a step back, but Oliver kept talking.

"This is a quiet restaurant, and I'm sure you expected our exchange

would end with a simple argument. I won't blame you for that error in

judgment—I missed my chance to rein in my friends, too." He paused.

"And I think we both underestimated what proximity to Kimberly means."

He'd voiced his own regrets and expressed sympathy. Pollock chewed

that over, but Oliver's hand was on the hilt of his athame.

"We're past the point of settling this with words. If you agree, then you

may draw at will."

"…Argh!"

Regardless of what each wanted, their path was set. Realizing that, the

Featherston leader drew, and Oliver did in kind. The next moment, they

threw themselves into their reluctant duel.

It was over in less than five minutes.

"Uh, Featherston students, anyone still able to stand?"

"Doesn't look like it. Then victory goes to our Kimberly kids! Hooray!"

A soft round of applause went up from all corners of the restaurant.

"Only five minutes?" a Kimberly upperclassman scoffed, glancing at the

pile of downed Featherstons. "I know you're a bunch of nerds, but try and

tough it out a little longer."

"Nah, our juniors were just that good. All six fought well."

The victors were getting their share of praise. Guy, Pete, and Katie all

had burns and bruises but were still standing. And the remaining three were

completely unharmed.

None of their opponents had been especially skilled fighters, so the

moment the three friends took control of the fray, this outcome had been

inevitable. With their friends rampaging, Oliver, Chela, and Nanao had kept

their involvement to a minimum.

"Good show. Head's up; moving the tables back!"

"And let's heal the losers up. If you were older, we'd be heaving you out

the front door, got that?"

Spells flew, and tables and chairs were yanked back in place. Oliver had

feared the customers would complain, but they just kept on eating,

shrugging off the whole debacle. The kitchen had paid the entire brawl no

heed at all, cooking away—a fracas like this was undoubtedly a regular

occurrence.

"Hey, big guy, over here. Your lip's split. I dig the rough-and-ready

approach myself, but you got a bit reckless in the back half."

"Oh…uh, I'm good, thanks," Guy said, shaking off the upperclassman.

He turned back toward his friends, the rush of battle already faded. He

looked pretty repentant.

"…So, uh…sorry 'bout all that…"

"…I'm not sorry," Pete retorted, pursing his lips.

Oliver had to laugh. There was no point in yelling at anyone now. If

anything, he was disappointed in himself for not putting a stop to things in

the first place.

"I know… This is all my—"

"And I'm not letting you say it, either!" Pete snapped, knowing exactly

where Oliver was going. He slapped a hand over his roommate's mouth,

and now everyone was laughing.

"Fine, nobody's sorry," Katie said, putting her athame away. "…Besides,

it made me feel better, in a way." She had a pretty big bruise on her cheek

and wore a sheepish half smile. "Plus, I did my part this time! That's a good

thing…I think."

This reminded them—shortly after they'd started here, an insult directed

at Katie had prompted a brawl in a classroom. Unable to stand the abuse,

Oliver had gone in swinging, and Guy and Nanao had backed him up; as a

result, all three had been sent to detention. They'd been satisfied with their

actions—but apparently, Katie had always regretted standing by.

"Ha-ha! Yeah, you sure didn't hold back out there," said Guy.

"Yep," Katie replied. "When the chips are down, I throw down."

Guy held up a fist, and Katie bumped it. A sight that reminded Oliver

how much they'd all grown.

As they settled back down at their table, someone came over. They

looked up to find a Featherston student, his head hanging low.

"......…"

"…Mr. Pollock," Oliver said.

Pollock met his eyes for a second, then hung his head again.

"…I swear I didn't mean to start a fight. I didn't, but it was my side that

started one. And honestly, I've clearly got a lot to learn."

He seemed pretty upset. Oliver had a lot of sympathy for that, so he

nodded in kind.

Then Pollock looked up, his eyes landing on each in turn—especially

the bespectacled boy, who was still clearly holding a grudge.

"But I do have a complaint. Everything after the fight started, we're

good. But responding to some water to the face with a blast orb is blatantly

overdoing it."

"...I'm not sorry," Pete said again, meeting Pollock's gaze. He was

clearly not budging on that point.

There was a long silence. Then Pollock swayed slightly, still not

recovered from the damage he'd taken. Chela glanced at a nearby empty

chair.

"You're in no shape to stand," she said. "Feel free to pull up a seat."

"…Thanks, but no. I may have disgraced myself, but I am their leader.

And I'm disinclined to embarrass my school any further."

With that dignified refusal, he forced himself to stand upright. Chela

elected to respect that and said nothing further. This boy, too, was a mage.

They'd each said their piece, but before he left—he turned to the curlyhaired girl.

"May I ask one thing? They called you Katie, right? Are you Katie

Aalto?"

Caught off guard, her eyes went wide. She nodded, then frowned

slightly.

"…Um, yes, it is…"

"…I thought so." Pollock put a hand to his brow and sighed. "Ms. Aalto,

when I heard the daughter of pioneering activists had chosen to go to

Kimberly, of all places…well, I had many thoughts on the decision to stay

in an environment diametrically opposed to your ideals. It seems your

choice has led you astray."

"......…"

"Consider a transfer to Featherston before they corrupt you completely.

Our principal will welcome you, I'm sure. Perhaps this is none of my

business—but I mean it as a friendly warning. I pray you give it some

thought."

Groans echoed through the shop, and Pollock turned toward them.

"My friends are waking up. It's time the losers left," he said. "But don't

imagine this matter is settled. Featherston has long suffered at the hands of

Kimberly tyranny. And there will be a price for that."

His pride and competitive spirit palpable, the boy walked away. Oliver

watched him go with a sigh.

"Seems we've soured relations with Featherston even further…"

"Who cares? They started it," said Guy.

"Still…they're not all wrong," Katie added. "That one boy's probably

telling the truth about what Kimberly people have done to them…"

"But that's not our fault," Pete snapped. "He has no right to lump us in

with everyone else."

At this point the waiter brought the appetizer.

"Ah, it seems the first course has arrived," Chela said. "It may not have

been how we intended the evening to begin, but let's try to enjoy the meal.

No mage could fail to love the pot pie here."

Everyone tucked in. The courses to come were so good they banished all

other thoughts, and by the time the fabled pot pie arrived, even Katie was

all smiles.

They'd taken their time eating and talking, so once they left the restaurant,

the last traces of sunset had almost faded. The foot traffic had died down,

and the town was slowly going to sleep.

"Time seems right," Oliver said. "Let's head to the broom launchpad."

No one argued with that.

You took off from a launchpad, stuck to the flight paths, and landed on

the landing pads. To avoid midair collisions, Galatea flight was strictly

regulated, and express permission was required to deviate from said

regulations.

Oliver led the way, his friends trailing behind. But it wasn't long before

Katie caught up, walking by his side.

"…Oliver," she said.

"Yes, Katie?"

He glanced her way and found her looking unusually grim.

"…Do you think…Kimberly's corrupting me?" she asked.

" !"

He felt his mouth go dry. This was clearly prompted by what the

Featherston students—especially Mr. Pollock—had said. And that concern

was very real. No matter how much time she spent bucking Kimberly's

methods, it was impossible to just shake this accusation off.

They walked in silence for a moment as Oliver searched for the right

words. Katie waited patiently.

"…Everyone's had to adapt to Kimberly's environment—it's not just

you."

"......"

"But that doesn't mean Kimberly's swallowing you up. You're still you,

Katie. At your core, you're exactly the same as the day we met."

He could say that with authority. Katie Aalto was still Katie Aalto.

That might not be a concern—but the future still was. If she could stay

kind even after a year in that brutal hellscape, if that much time still failed

to corrupt her—was it really the place for her?

"…But…," he started, "if you ever feel like you want to get out…"

He didn't want to say this, but nonetheless—he felt he had to. A friend

wouldn't keep quiet here.

"......then I can't stop you. None of us have that right. Like Mr.

Pollock said…a transfer to Featherston is an option."

"...!"

Katie flinched like she'd been shot through the heart.

She knew he was trying to be fair. Bottling up his own feelings and

thinking about his friend's future—that was what Oliver Horn always did.

A year with him had made that very clear, and she respected him for it.

But…that wasn't what she wanted to hear. She didn't want him to be fair

or considerate. She wanted him to be selfish and try keeping her at

Kimberly. She'd hoped—prayed—he would throw caution to the wind and

tell her he didn't want her to go.

"..."

She was ashamed of that. It seemed so full of herself. Here she was

blessed with a friend like him, yet she craved something more than that.

That was stupid. She had no right. She hadn't earned that. She'd never laid

a claim on him.

Then as her gaze drifted to her feet, she heard his voice again.

"…But if that happens…"

Her eyes turned toward him…and she saw his fists clenched tight.

Oliver was staring up at the night sky, looking anguished.

"…it would really suck," he said. "I just know…I'd miss you a lot…"

The feelings he'd bottled up were now spilling out—a drop of what he

really felt. And that was all it took to make Katie feel warm inside.

"…Like I'd ever do that!" she said. "Come on, Oliver!"

"Gah—?!"

Her glee drove her to slap him hard on the back. The surprise blow made

him stumble.

"I told you before that I've made up my mind. I'm going to fight here at

Kimberly. Maybe if I was at Featherston, I'd meet a lot of people who think

like me…but that would just make me even weaker."

As she said it, she felt the storm in her heart dying down. Ah, she

thought. I got caught up in all these problems and lost track of where I

started.

"I remember now!" she said. "I never wanted to stick with like-minded

people and feel secure. I wanted the exact opposite! I wanted to meet

people who didn't think anything like me, clash with them, get mad, cry—

and find common ground. And there's nowhere better for that than

Kimberly! That's why I love it!"

Katie's hands were on her hips, her head held high. Oliver grinned,

relieved to see no signs of regret in his friend.

Conscious of his eyes on her, she quickly got embarrassed and looked

away.

"Maybe that's dumb," she admitted. "My parents were vehemently

against it. I had to fight hard to get here. Argh! I've always talked big, but

—!"

It was her turn for a surprise. Her hand was wrapped tight in something

warm, and she slowly turned her eyes toward it.

"Er, um…Oliver…?"

He'd taken her hand as they walked—a smile on his lips and a

tenderness in his gaze, like he'd spied a single flower growing in a

wasteland.

"…You're brilliant, Katie. Like a bright light."

That was all he said. And that was all it took to shoot her down. She

turned beet red. No one behind them was crass enough to say a word.

Five minutes later, they reached the launchpad. Each of them mounted their

brooms. Oliver had been leading the way, but he moved to the rear of the

group, letting Chela guide them through the skies.

"Flying at night is more dangerous than by daylight. Watch out for bird

strikes and other accidents—"

"Oh?"

But as she launched into her spiel, a new voice interrupted. She flinched,

recognizing it instantly.

"My, my, my. If it isn't my beloved daughter and her companions!"

"Father?!"

They looked over their shoulders and found a man with the same

ringleted hair as Chela—Theodore McFarlane. Seeing the shocked look on

his daughter's face, he shrugged.

"You look like you've seen a behemoth, Chela. Even I venture into town

on occasion."

"I'm not surprised you're in town," she said. "I'm surprised you're back

at all. When did you return?"

"A few days ago. I've been running here and there around the Union."

That seemed to be as much explanation as he cared to give. Leaving the

specifics of his journey a mystery, he turned toward the Azian girl.

"But this timing is fortuitous!" he declared. "Nanao, may I have a

moment of your time? I was away during spring break and missed the

chance to discuss your first year."

"Mm? Me, not Chela?"

"I'd love to talk to my darling girl as well, but that will have to wait. If I

put this talk off any longer, I'm sure she'd never let me hear the end of it."

He stuck out his tongue at Chela.

"A laudable goal," she said. "But we're headed home. Can this

discussion not take place at school?"

"It could if we have to, but…as a reward for all her hard work her first

year abroad, I thought I'd buy her something nice. And doing that at the

school shop would be rather shabby."

It was hard to tell if he was joking. Chela glanced at Nanao—who was

looking at someone else.

"Hrm," Nanao began. "My concern is—"

Clearly, the boy in back was foremost in her mind. Chela didn't even

need to ask. Though Nanao had certainly enjoyed the views Galatea had to

offer, her real joy had come from flying by Oliver's side. She'd been in high

spirits the whole way here. And if she stayed behind, she'd have to return

without him.

"…Mm? Hmmmmmm. Mm-hmm!"

Theodore seemed to have picked up on this as well. He glanced from

Nanao to Oliver and then clapped his hands together.

"…Very well! Young man—Mr. Horn, wasn't it? What say you join us?"

"Huh?"

"Naturally, not for nothing. Accompany Nanao, and there's a gift in it

for you as well—and a few Kimberly secrets. I was quite a troublemaker in

my time there. I know things."

That was an odd carrot to dangle. Oliver wasn't sure what to make of it,

but Kimberly secrets certainly sounded tantalizing. Even just knowing the

location of a secret room could be a big advantage over other students.

"…Chela."

"…Have it your way," the ringlet girl said to Oliver with a shrug. "No

telling what madness he has planned, but if you're both inclined to go with

him, you're free to do so."

Chela wouldn't presume to know her father's exact intentions, but she

could clearly sense he had inclinations of his own. Talking him out of it

would be challenging, and if Oliver stayed behind, then Nanao's wish

would be granted.

With that settled, Oliver and Nanao got off their brooms, stepping away

from the group.

"Okay, everyone," Oliver said. "Sorry, but we'll have to take our leave

here. The two of us will be back later tonight."

"That appears to be the case. We must part here."

"S-sure…"

"Okay…"

"…I'll be waiting in our room," Pete replied, seeming rather cross.

Chela looked her father right in the eye. "Take good care of them,

Father. Please."

"But of course! Good night, my darling child."

Theodore stepped up and kissed her on the brow. Then he turned with a

flourish and joined Oliver and Nanao on the sidelines. Chela and the other

four watched them go and, once they'd vanished into the darkness, flew off

into the night sky themselves.

"Well, Nanao? How was your first year?" Theodore asked as they strolled

through the darkened streets.

She folded her arms, considering it. "In a word: chaotic," she answered.

"I would have died many times over were it not for my companions."

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I'm relieved to hear it. My first year was much the

same! Kimberly never changes."

Boisterous laughter might not be the typical reaction here, but he was a

Kimberly instructor. Noting Oliver's silence, Theodore glanced his way.

"Garland tells me you and Nanao are blade bound, Mr. Horn."

"…Can't say I've heard that expression before."

"Just me waxing poetic. No need to be so uptight! I admit, I had not

counted on anyone like you. I assumed my daughter would be the only one

able to keep up with Nanao from the get-go."

He certainly was eyeing Oliver with great curiosity. This forced Oliver

to reevaluate the situation—he hadn't been invited along merely to keep

Nanao company. Theodore was also interested in Oliver. And that meant

Oliver would have to watch his words.

"…I'm not sure I'm still a match for her. She's been improving at

dizzying speeds."

"But you hardly spent the past year resting on your laurels. By all

means, keep polishing those skills. We don't want Nanao losing motivation,

do we?"

Oliver decided not to take the lead in conversation and instead stuck to

noncommittal responses where he could. It would do him no good to come

off as too interesting; best practice was acting solely as Nanao's plus one.

Theodore was not one of Oliver's targets, but he was a faculty member and

had close ties to Headmistress Esmeralda. Proper caution was warranted

here.

Either he noticed Oliver wasn't feeling chatty or was simply not that

curious—regardless, the ringlet man soon turned to Nanao and the broom

on her back.

"I've heard you're doing great things on the broom, Nanao. But to think

you would pick that broom."

"Ah, you mean Amatsukaze? As you can see, a fine partner."

She patted the handle, looking proud.

Theodore's mind seemed to drift into past memories. "I envy you more

than you can know. Have you heard tell of the mage who once rode that

broom?"

"In no great detail. Merely that she was quite skilled."

"That she was. Like you, everyone admired her. She was a dear friend."

His eyes turned to the night sky, as if peering back in time. "Chloe Halford.

You should know her name, at least."

The emotion in his voice was evident, causing the armor encasing

Oliver's heart to develop another steely layer. You're going to talk about

her? Here, of all places?

"An unexpected connection indeed," said Nanao. "Where is she now?"

"Nowhere, I'm afraid. She's…entered the demon registry. Isn't that what

people in your country say?"

Faced with Nanao's ignorance, Theodore deliberately chose a foreign

idiom—looking rather sad while doing so.

"Since her loss, that broom has accepted no other riders. Not me nor any

other teacher. Even Emmy couldn't tame it."

"Emmy?"

"Esmeralda. The headmistress. She was our junior back then. How the

times have changed! You have to laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

He threw back his head, guffawing like he was trying to banish the

gloom. And from that point on, he was his usual dashing self.

"There you have it!" he said, wheeling back to Nanao. "Your broom is

lucky to have found a rider like you. Amatsukaze, was it? A splendid name!

Make sure you take good care of it."

Nanao nodded promptly, and all discussion of the previous rider was

abandoned. Oliver was secretly relieved but grew more anxious as

Theodore led them around corner after corner.

"…Rather a twisted path you're leading us on," Oliver commented.

"You've already seen the main roads at daytime, yes? But here we are!

Galatea at night! What an adventure."

There was a mischievous grin on his face that gave Oliver yet another

reason to keep his hackles raised. The man himself had said he was a

troublemaker, and that was likely an understatement.

"Let's talk about something spooky," Theodore said. "This town's had a

rash of slashings, lately."

The deeper they went, the dimmer the streetlights. They were now

shrouded in darkness, in which anything could lurk. As if trying to match

the mood, the ringlet man lowered his voice to a sinister whisper.

"The culprit has targeted no ordinaries—only mages. The injuries have

not proved fatal, but there have been three victims since the month began.

In each case—their dominant hand was severed at the wrist."

Oliver winced. If this was a tall tale to frighten them, good. But if this

was true, then it was no laughing matter. Assuming the worst, he said, "…

The culprit has some skill in the sword arts, then?"

"Oh, much more than some. One of the three victims was a Galatea

guard. That's a post that demands significant skill. Not someone any old

mad mage could take down."

This was sounding worse by the second.

"And you've chosen to take a stroll at night with this trouble afoot?"

Oliver asked reproachfully.

"Heh-heh-heh. A fair point, Mr. Horn. But must I remind you who it is

you're following?"

He swung around to face them, theatrically placing a hand to his chest.

"Exactly! I am Theodore McFarlane. Interim though I may be, I am

nonetheless Kimberly faculty. No slasher's mad swings will best me. If the

fool attacks, I will strike him down! …Well? Feeling any better?"

Despite his spiel, the man himself seemed less than convincing. Oliver

concluded they could not place too much faith in him—and then Nanao

spoke up.

"Beg pardon, Lord McFarlane—who do you suppose that is?"

Her eyes were focused on a darkened alleyway. When the two males

followed her gaze, they saw a figure wrapped in a dingy cloak, standing

dead center, blocking the path. The figure wore a hat pulled low, obscuring

their face.

Theodore snorted derisively. "…Who knows? A passing villager, no

doubt."

"Yet, they seem disinclined to let us pass…"

Oliver already had his hand on his athame. The figure felt far too out of

place to be a mere passerby.

There was a soft whistle, like a gust of wind through a crack. Poised for

a quick draw, Oliver saw the mystery figure's knees bend—

"Nanao, incoming!"

Even as he cried a warning, their foe lunged forward. Oliver fired a

lightning spell, but they dodged to one side, feet touching the wall. Pacing

never slacking for an instant, they sped past Nanao, perpendicular to her—

and as they passed, a flash of steel came from beneath the cloak.

"Ngh—!"

This was an angle of attack she had never faced before, but her parry

was instantaneous. Sparks flew as their blades collided. The enemy finished

their wall run, landing six yards away, and turned back to face them.

This exchange had turned Oliver's expression even grimmer. Using

gravity control to let yourself run across vertical surfaces was a Lanoff

technique known as Wall Walk. He could use it himself, but to start with

that in a three-on-one battle was a bold move. Their foe was either

unusually confident or did not value their own life.

"My, my," Theodore said. "Speak of the devil…"

He drew his athame with aplomb. Oliver would have preferred he jump

in on the first exchange, but perhaps the man was just that poised.

"Step back, please," Theodore ordered. "I'll handle him. Foul fiend who

disrupts the town's peace! You have the honor of facing me."

He struck a stance—perhaps not surprisingly, the same Rizett style

favored by Chela. Oliver and Nanao retreated behind him, watching

carefully. The slasher was not to be trifled with, but more importantly, this

was a rare chance to observe a Kimberly instructor in action.

Oliver heard that whistling wind again. The foe stepped forward, not

hesitating to enter the one-step, one-spell range. Oliver gulped. Once again,

it seemed this opponent was disinclined to use any spells.

For a moment, they stared each other down.

"Hahhh!"

Then both blades swung. Theodore used a downward strike, aiming for

the arm, his blow as swift and true as befit a Kimberly instructor, easily

besting—

"…Hmm?"

But when the strikes were done, it was Theodore's wrist that sliced

open, red blood seeping forth.

Silence settled over the darkened alley. The ringlet man looked down at

the gouge in his wrist, then grinned.

"Run!"

He spun around and dashed toward the two second-years. Oliver blinked

once, but he and Nanao quickly turned and gave chase.

"Wha—?! Wait! I thought you had this!"

"So did I! But this is a time for survival, not vanity!" There wasn't a

trace of shame in Theodore's tone. A moment later, he sensed danger

closing in and let out a most undignified shriek. "Augh! They're after us!"

Of course they are, Oliver thought. He threw an explosion spell over his

shoulder, hoping to delay their pursuer, but it caught nothing but pavement.

Running the wrong way, his aim was hardly true, and an opponent this

skilled was not exactly a sitting duck. They could up the number of shots,

but Nanao's athame was two-handed and not meant for casting to the rear.

"Why aren't you casting? That cut isn't that deep!" Oliver yelled,

hoping Theodore would be of some use.

The man just shook his head. "I'd love to, but the tendon's severed! I

can't move it, and it hurts like hellfire!"

Oliver had suspected as much, so he didn't take it too hard. Theodore

was clearly going to be of no help whatsoever. Then Nanao spoke up.

"We cannot escort this foe to populated territory! We must turn and

fight, Oliver."

"…That seems to be the only option."

He nodded and stopped, turning to face their pursuer. The slasher

stopped as well, athame at the ready.

"Careful!" Theodore cautioned. "That was no ordinary blow! Else I

would not have been harmed!"

"…I've got my doubts about the latter claim, but at least we can agree

on the former."

Oliver let a bit of sarcasm slip, but he was also sure Theodore's wound

had not been caused entirely by carelessness on his part. Oliver, too, sensed

that something had been off about that blow. The advantage in timing and

speed had been Theodore's, and by all rights—he should have won.

Nanao had seen it, too. And yet, she'd chosen to fight. For the first time,

she addressed their assailant.

"I see you are of some skill," she said. "I am Hibiya Nanao, a warrior

born of Yamatsukuni, Tourikueisen. Might I know your name?"

Recognizing their skill, she honored them as a fellow warrior, and thus,

requested their name with not a trace of ill will—yet no voice responded.

"…They can't answer, Nanao. See the mouth?"

"Hmm."

Oliver had spotted the cause moments before. The streetlight behind had

reached just far enough beneath the hat.

And what lay beneath—were lips sewn shut. A mouth sealed so that no

voice could emerge.

Realization dawned—this foe hadn't been avoiding spells. They couldn't

chant anything. Oliver also realized that whistling wind sound was coming

from the throat below those sewn lips—the sound of their breath. They'd

opened a breathing hole in their neck to replace the mouth they'd sealed.

While not exactly sane, Oliver could fathom the intent. Sewing the lips

meant sealing their casting, forcing them to hone their blade skills—there

was historical precedent for this method of training. To overcome the

limitations of one's sword art skills, trainees cast aside their reliance on

magic, driving themselves into a corner. The practitioner before them had

taken these extreme measures.

Naturally, this was not an approach anyone had done in modern times.

The effectiveness of it alone was questionable, and to a mage, abandoning

magic was like abandoning breathing. If any capacity for thought remained,

this individual would never have chosen such a deranged approach. And

that meant…

"…They've been consumed by the spell. No longer in their right mind,"

Oliver said. The only reasonable conclusion from the evidence before him.

"…That much is readily apparent," Nanao replied, nodding. "Yet, I felt

no murk upon their blade."

Despite their dire circumstances, that made him laugh. He should have

known. It mattered not to her if their foe was sane or mad—that was but a

triviality.

"Oliver, might I have the honors?"

"…This won't be easy."

"I am aware. But it seems our foe desires a duel."

Nanao's eyes were on the slasher. She did not need words to read their

intent. To know this foe had the clarity of purpose achieved only with

madness.

Consensus achieved, she stepped forward.

"Careful, Nanao," Theodore warned. "When they cut me, I knew that

blow was downright bizarre. I have no clue how I could have blocked it—

no, worse."

He paused, weighing his next words.

"I don't even know how he cut me. It might be…a spellblade."

A terrifying notion. But even with this dire portent, Nanao never

wavered.

"The warning is appreciated. But I highly doubt that."

She seemed awfully certain. Oliver held his breath, watching as the

Azian girl stepped into range, katana raised high.

"We have waited enough. Have at thee!"

The only response was a hiss of breath. There followed several seconds

of stifling silence—then both shadows moved as one.

"Hahhh!"

Blades clashed, and sparks flew. The furious sword dance alone drove

back the darkness of the night. As Oliver stared, unblinking, Theodore

moved to his side.

"It begins," the ringlet man said. "What's your take, Mr. Horn?"

The boy frowned. Theodore's tone and energy were noticeably different

from a moment before. There was a fire in his eyes as he absorbed the

battle. Suspicions rising, Oliver answered carefully.

"…It's heavily modified, but the base is Rizett. They're quite good.

Seems they favor avoiding the offensive, keeping up the pressure, and

aiming for the moment their opponent retreats."

"Good eye. Anything else?"

Was this a test? Oliver watched the slasher closely a moment, mulling

over his next words.

"…They're injured. Likely the chest and leg. Perhaps they fought

someone before us… Either way, they're not in peak condition."

He spoke with conviction. The slasher's techniques were obviously

polished, yet beneath that surface lay oddly sluggish, off-balanced

movements. Reason enough to assume their wounds were not fully healed.

"If you can spot that, I have nothing to add," Theodore said, sounding

impressed. "How would you fight them?"

"Keep calm, don't back down, parry and counter."

"A model Lanoff reply. And you've got the confidence to follow

through."

Then the man's voice lowered a notch further. "And Nanao?"

Given his previous analysis, Oliver didn't even need to think.

"…If her opponent were in peak condition, perhaps things would have

been different," he said.

This was not a foe to be trifled with. Without the handicap, they'd be a

match for most Kimberly upperclassmen. The fact that they'd lasted this

long against Nanao with the injuries proved it. Yet—

"She'll cut straight in. Their blade is no match for her."

He knew her strength better than anyone; there wasn't a shadow of

doubt in his mind.

As they watched, the slasher lost ground, unable to withstand the force

of Nanao's blows. There, her unrelenting offense halted. Just outside the

one-step, one-spell range, the slasher waited—clearly trying a different

tactic.

"They seem to have reached the same conclusion."

"…Then the time for talk is over," Oliver said.

This was the turning point—if anything strange were to happen, it would

be here.

The blow that had cut Theodore's sword hand—this foe had yet to use

that move on Nanao. This was unquestionably the moment for it. They

stood no chance otherwise—which forced their hand.

But Theodore's voice broke the silence.

"Four hundred years since the foundation of sword arts."

"?"

He spoke not to Oliver. This was more of a monologue.

"As style after style rose and declined, techniques deepened, giving birth

to the six secret spellblades. Yet, even now, there is no end to claims on a

seventh."

"...…"

"Your foe here has sewn his mouth, been consumed by the spell, lived

for the sword alone, and given birth to a technique all his own. He demands

only to know if it can be parried or dodged." Theodore then continued: "His

life is devoted to that inquiry, Nanao. Show us your answer."

He wasn't even trying to hide his expectation and excitement. One look

at that, and it struck Oliver like a bolt of lightning—this was Theodore's

goal. Everything the man had done tonight was to bring about this very

moment!

"—Hahh!"

From a high stance, Nanao stepped in, unleashing a bamboo splitter. The

sheer speed and power of it need hardly be explained. The slasher moved in

response, but his motion was clearly fatally slow. Anyone could tell

Nanao's blow would land first.

Exactly as Theodore's was supposed to.

" !"

Before Oliver's eyes, Nanao's strike moved at unnatural speeds—faster

than she intended. Too fast. A blow meant to strike an advancing enemy,

timed to their step into range—struck ahead of schedule, striking naught but

air.

The sewn lips twisted in celebration of victory. Her missed swing left

her wrist exposed, and his blade was closing in—

" ?"

The slasher could not believe his eyes.

The girl had swung downward from a high stance… He'd been sure of it

—the swing faster than she expected, passing harmlessly an inch from his

nose…as he planned.

But…if that had actually happened…

Why was her katana at chest height? Why had it not been swung?

" Hmph."

Now her blade fell. Right at the slasher's wrist, this time for real.

His athame and the hand gripping it fell to the ground, severed. A

moment later, blood gushed forth. Staining the pavement below.

" "

The pain forgotten, he gaped up at her. She stood unmoved, her eyes so

clear it spoke more than any words could have—to his defeat.

"The loss is yours, slasher," a man's voice said.

The slasher had neither the means nor the will to resist the blow that

followed. He promptly lost consciousness.

"You never fail to astonish, Nanao," Theodore said, athame in hand. The

electric bolt he'd cast had left the slasher prone at her feet.

"…I thought your tendon was severed," Oliver said, glaring at him.

"I must have imagined it. Once I tried, it moved just fine!"

The instructor merely replied with an offhanded comment. Oliver lost all

desire to argue the point. Moreover, Theodore wasn't even looking at him—

he had eyes only for the Azian girl.

"First, if I might ask—you knew the trick going in?"

"The details were lost on me," Nanao replied, sheathing her katana. "But

I knew the gist. 'Twas a move designed to throw off one's timing."

Theodore put his hand to his lips but failed to hide the smile behind it.

"The gist, hmm?" he said. "Fascinating. Simply fascinating. Mr. Horn,

what do you make of it?"

He lobbed the question Oliver's way when least expected. The boy made

no attempt to hide his look of suspicion but turned his focus back to the

defeated foe.

"…Read an opponent's stance, predict the path their blade will follow,

and if within the range of spatial magic, control the gravity and quality of

the air in said path. Momentarily accelerate the opponent's strike, allowing

it to pass harmlessly, creating an opportunity for a counter. Something along

those lines?"

Seeing it twice was enough to draw that conclusion. Spatial magic

affected an area close at hand, creating limited magical effects without the

need for a chant. The slasher had employed a high-level variation thereof.

Mages could only use spatial magic within range—effectively a magical

variant on the concept of personal space. Just as Nanao used it to control the

power within her body, a skilled mage could meddle with a variety of forces

within their spatial territory.

Gravity and momentum were powerful examples but were rarely used in

actual combat—for the simple reason that controlling them required great

skill, and in most cases, the results achieved were not worth the effort.

For instance, imagine you strengthened the gravity in the space before

your eyes, momentarily slowing the enemy's movements. Even if that aim

succeeded, would you be able to attack much faster?

Of course not. The mana diverted to gravity control was simply that

much less magic coursing through your body. And since physical

enhancement was more cost effective than gravity control, even with the

gravity-based deceleration, your opponent would still be moving faster.

Lowering gravity to speed yourself up would fare no better. Controlling

either was a waste of magic—that was the common perception all sword

arts practitioners shared.

But by shifting the concept, the slasher's move had upended that notion.

Oliver found himself genuinely impressed at the artistry of it.

"Neither speeding yourself up nor slowing your foe down. Speeding up

your enemy's attack, forcing them to miss. The idea hits a blind spot.

Versatile and flexible, it's definitely a viable technique," Oliver continued.

"Though the skills involved may be too high level to be easily reproduced."

"My, excellent theorizing. I see why you make such a good pair."

Theodore had his arms folded, nodding repeatedly.

"His ignorance of Nanao's swordcraft proved his undoing," Oliver

explained. "Sight unseen, how would he know that Yamatsu's two-handed

blades can cut a man with the wrists alone—no need to swing the arms."

The slasher had bet everything on the move they'd developed, and to

fight against it, Nanao had started with arms held high, and swung them

down—without swinging her sword. Her arms moved to chest height, but

the tip of her blade remained pointed skyward. In other words—she'd

simply shifted from a high stance to a middle one.

The slasher had expected her to swing and miss, there—but instead, she

unleashed her actual swing a beat delayed. Yamatsu katana grips were long,

allowing space between the hands clenched round it. And that space had

proved key. Push the right hand forward, and pull the left hand back, and

the principle of leverage meant that small motion could produce dramatic

movement at the sword's tip. She'd cut the man's hand off with her wrists

alone.

Adding nothing to Oliver's explanation, Nanao kept her eyes on the

downed man. Despite her triumph, there was no smile on her face—regret

was clearly winning out.

"His skill was worthy. A shame he was injured," she said.

A flicker of repentance crossed Theodore's visage. "Yes, right you are…

There was no need for all that."

Oliver didn't let that mutter go unmissed. He swung round, his eyes like

daggers stabbing the man—who ignored him completely.

"Well, I'd better haul this slasher to the authorities. I'm sure they'll have

endless questions, and there's no need to rope the two of you into that mess.

We'd better part here," said Theodore. "Oh, don't worry, I won't steal your

credit. I'll make sure the guards hear all about your exploits. In return,

promise me you won't tell my daughter I stood idly by."

He held a finger to his lips. Oliver deepened the furrow on his brow in

protest.

"......"

"Ha-ha-ha, don't be so vexed. I'll make it up to you in due time, I

swear."

Theodore patted the boy on the shoulder. Oliver clenched his fists but

then turned away.

"…Fine. We'll take our leave," he replied. "C'mon, Nanao."

"Oh?"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her away. It was rare for him to be that

forceful, and she gave him a look of some surprise.

"What's wrong, Oliver? You seem downright irate."

"Of course I am. You know why, too. He tricked you into that fight."

But even as he spoke, Oliver was well aware that she knew this and just

didn't mind. Theodore, meanwhile, had known she wouldn't mind and

taken advantage of the fact. That was what infuriated Oliver.

"Don't trust that man," he cautioned. "He's one of the many sorcerers

dwelling in Kimberly's depths."

Theodore McFarlane's clown act disguised the nature of his madness.

And that certainty was what prompted Oliver's warning.

Left alone with the unconscious slasher, the Kimberly instructor stared into

the darkness after his students, scratching his head.

"…Perhaps I was a bit too obvious. He'll be holding a grudge against

me now. But be that as it may…"

He turned on his heel, drawing his athame before moving to the

slasher's side. Athame in hand, he cast a spell on the severed wrist, leading

it over to the arm—and then fused it back in place with a healing spell.

The treatment was over in minutes, and he followed with a low-grade

lightning spell, jolting the slasher awake.

"Arise, slasher. I assume you're not yet satisfied?"

The slasher bounded to his feet, then moved the once-severed hand

about, ensuring it was in full working order. Then he looked to the man

before him.

"My apologies. The price of your participation in that little farce was a

glimpse of the real thing, wasn't it?" Theodore said. "Nanao's progress

defied my expectations. It seems you were unable to even corner her."

The slasher didn't budge. Theodore shrugged, chuckling.

"But fear not. Our bargain stands," he continued, his smile fading. "I am

a man of my word."

He struck a mid-stance—the Rizett style, like his daughter.

"Do your worst. You will not regret it."

The ferocity in his glare was a mere courtesy. But it was enough to still

his opponent's trepidations. For a third time, the sewn-mouth slasher staked

his life upon the technique he'd crafted.

Among the stories shared by nonmagical folk is the legend of the

doppelgänger.

Originating in Daitsch, the story is a simple one:

A man arrives home one day, and his wife asks him the strangest thing:

"Why did you come in twice?" The man is most perplexed.

From that day on, similar events occur. He meets an old friend for the

first time in ages only to be told they met yesterday. He encounters a total

stranger and is accused of having insulted them. He goes to a new location

and is told they've seen him there before.

As these oddities pile up, the man's state of mind declines. All he can

think about is this other version of himself. His wife leaves him when he is

unable to work.

Just as things can't seem to get any worse, he wanders in a daze through

the market—and at last sees it with his own two eyes. A man coming

toward him, the spitting image of himself—height, face, even the clothes.

No use running. His mind made up, the man heads straight for his

double. As they near, the double grins.

The two of them collide head-on. A burst of light erupts, blinding all

witnesses.

Then when the light fades and their vision returns—they find the man's

body in pieces. Two of each limb, one torso and head—all the pieces

together make only one corpse.

Far more gruesome true stories abound in the world of magic, although

we can safely assume the bulk of this legend is fiction.

But magically speaking, the phenomenon described is possible. It could

be the prank of a ghost or a fairy, or an illusion used by an ill-tempered

mage to trick the ordinaries. However—there is reason to think the roots lie

deeper.

There is a real event that could be the basis of the legend—the result of a

magical experiment recorded in ancient documents.

Once there was a mage living in northern Daitsch. Busy with the pursuit

of sorcery, he lamented the lack of research assistance until one day a

thought struck him. Why was there only one of him? Why not two?

Perhaps a ludicrous thought born from lack of sleep, but he was quite

serious about it. Mages and ordinary folk have very different concepts of

self. Surpassing the boundaries of your flesh is an instinct all mages share.

At the heart of his attempt lay the notion that it was a trivial concern how

many of him there were—at least, that's what he assumed.

Not one to waste time, the mage set about the task. After much trial and

error, he made an attempt. Specifically, he projected half of his proportional

existence two feet in front of him, within the range of spatial magic—itself

essentially an extension of his body's interior. The mental image was rather

like shifting his left foot's center of gravity to a right foot placed in front of

him—except done at the plane of his very being.

The results were a failure—and a spectacular one.

In other words: a massive explosion. One that took out his manor and the

surrounding land.

It is said that the doppelgänger myth is the result of nonmagical people

hearing the tale of this astounding experiment and embellishing it over

time. Its popularity among ordinary folk—and no one else—lends credence

to this notion, resolving the mystery of the tale's origin.

But to mages, a much bigger mystery remained. Why had the man

failed?

Naturally, mages are hardly dissuaded by the explosive death of a

predecessor. The experiment was replicated a number of times. Movement

of the proportional existence was itself exceedingly difficult, so few of the

early mages even managed to reproduce the failure—but as those

reproductions stacked up, analysis of the phenomenon progressed.

Some sixty years after the initial explosion, a consensus was achieved.

Namely: The experiment's failure was inevitable. The world simply did not

allow two of the same thing to exist.

What happened at the moment of the explosion? Convergence. Divvying

the proportional existence into two selves resulted in the lesser self being

drawn into the greater one. They simply joined up. But the force of this was

too great for the body to bear. The mage making the attempt exploded, and

the energy unleashed sent shock waves into the vicinity.

This was an example of a frenetic principle—a term for clearly

excessive corrections that occurred when mages violated the rules of the

world. As if some higher power was offended and ruthlessly punished the

mage for their sin. A strong argument for staying the hell away.

But even with that much established, mages never learn.

Far from the start of all this and a considerable time later…

To the Union's west, in southern Yelgland, a mage from an old bloodline

read the conclusions of the Daitschian mage's sixty-year study and thought,

Hmm. As long as that principle exists, it may be difficult to maintain two of

myself.

But then he looked at it from a different angle. The two selves converge,

generating tremendous force. Could that force have other uses?

If the explosion was the result of an inability to contain the force—then

all you had to do was be strong enough to control it.

First, face forward. Move slightly more than 50 percent of his proportional

existence to the far limit of his spatial magic.

Thus creating a second Theodore—a forbidden double. Convergence

began instantly. An inescapable correction, merging the two back into one,

hitting the original Theodore like a tremendous tailwind.

He didn't have to move a muscle. A step ahead was another Theodore

with a greater proportional existence—and the rules of the world agreed

that that was where he belonged.

" !"

He need merely focus on surviving it. In keeping the incredible force

from destroying him.

Unfathomable energy coursed through him, all of it supplementing his

mana circulation. He knew this was a feat like coursing supersonic mercury

through his veins. One slip of control and he would wind up like the failed

experiments of centuries past.

But if he did not fail?

The result was a blow none could withstand, delivered without so much

as a flick of his blade.

The second spellblade—Creumbra, the self-racing shadow.

As the two shadows merged, everything above the slasher's waist was

rendered a bloody mist.

"That's a real one," Theodore McFarlane growled.

The duel was over, and no one was left to hear those words. His hand

held his athame aloft as if he had just thrust it forward…but no stab could

result in this.

When Theodore's spellblade hit the slasher, the man's upper body was

reduced to particles too small for the eye to see. The blow did not pierce—it

evaporated. The forced convergence of two identical beings, the world

correcting an error—when controlled and focused into an attack, this was

the result.

Theodore brushed the charred smoke from his suit. The slasher's legs

toppled over, as if just realizing they were dead.

"My apologies," Theodore murmured. "Perhaps I got a bit too worked

up."

He looked down at his blade hand. It had been trembling since before

their battle began, since he'd witnessed the Azian girl's fight. A dark joy

roiled up within, a high he could not control.

"Ah, I cannot wait. I cannot wait, Nanao, my little sunshine," he

moaned. "Please, don't stop. Run ever forward—until you're where I am."

A giddy monologue. He bit his lip, drawing blood. He bared his canines,

his ringlets shaking—like the mane of a raging lion.

"I swore an oath to Chloe…and you must deliver on it!"

His cry echoed through the night. The warlock's frenzied lamentations

shook the canopy over Galatea.