"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.