The hallway opened to a large chamber.  It was the only structure in the fort with even partial stone masonry. With no doors nor windows, the place was more of a roofed courtyard that connected to a wide, open balcony, than a room.  Upon entering, one would immediately note the faraway mountains, past the exposed columns and archways that held the far side of the ceiling in place.  Such architecture and design, reminiscent of throne rooms, seemed off at first glance, with the utter lack of furniture. After all, this was not a king's palace. It was a military fortification. The floor was smooth and featureless stone, aside from the space between the slabs that composed it. The walls were exactly the same, just brutal, solid rock that rose perhaps two people high before terminating to a light, wooden roof that covered everything.

Most striking, however, was the fact that every surface, apart from the ceiling and a conspicuous pathway leading to the very middle of the room, was etched in runic script and magical lines forming continuous circuits that all, ultimately, led to a ring at the center of it all.

And there stood a hooded man, who soon turned around, facing the visitors.

Among them was a young girl. Her face conveyed no emotion. Just a blank, downward stare adorned with an almost luminescent lime-green hair. Her two tied ponytails reached down as far as her ankle and bobbed elegantly with her every step. As if that weren't enough, her already striking appearance was further complemented by a brilliant, gem-encrusted tiara, which plainly symbolized the title she bore.

The man walked over and, placing one arm behind his back and the other just under his chest, bent down, saying, "Welcome... dear princess."

The girl's ruby-red eyes languished under her dark, unwelcoming expression; unwilling to so much as look at him. Soon after his greeting, she simply turned away, clasping her hands tightly below her waist.

A tall woman, stood at her side, like an escort. She slipped her arm behind their back and, after a few moments, the girl jumped.

And still, she stayed silent, even while her face crumpled in pain. Afterwards, the woman would then tip her head closer to her, whispering whilst maintaining eye contact with the man. Soon, after, her pupils shuddered in fear.

"Please don't mind her," the lady then said, "she's quite shy around strangers."

All this time, his lips had been curled into an unchanging scowl. It was with this expression that he turned his eyes towards her. After a quick scan, however, as though finding her inadequate in some way, he cast his gaze back to the little girl, adding, "The grand atelier is ready for your use-"

The woman's eye twitched from being snubbed as such, but she, too fought to keep her smiling expression from changing.

The man under the crimson cloak then got down on one knee, bringing his eyes nearly level to that of the young lady, and continued, "We of the Ministry of Witchcraft shall serve as your conductors. Each of us is a blue-blood with ample magical capacity, so feel free to cast any spell you desire."

She fiddled with her shoal, embroidered with the icon of the Emperor's Eye, and nodded, her expression growing more and more tense as every second ticked by.

In these few, silent moments, the man observed her. This was a very young girl. Perhaps not even in her teens, or if so, only in the first years of it. Her skin had the complexion one would expect from a sheltered princess, except for the strips of bandage wrapped around her left hand. Moreover, despite her unmistakable rank and the default prestige that came with it, she exuded no air of nobility at all. Not in her mannerisms, nor in her attitude. The image reflected in his eyes was nothing but a solitary child.

In this interval, the woman suddenly brought her hands together, making the little girl jolt, whilst attracting the man's gaze, "Now, then. Shall we begin? I believe there was a battle that needed to be won."

His brows furled. "Shortly." He swept his cloak out of the way as he swung around. "Your Highness, please step into the boundary."

But his footsteps rang hollow cross chamber, solitary in their lack of the princess' following behind them. Curious, he turned around, only to see girl locked in place, her body hunched forward and her head shaking in desperation while her escort pulled her by the arm.

This continued for several moments, with frustration rapidly building on the woman's face.

"I said stand in the circle!" the lady's voice shot up just enough to be heard from where he stood, but quickly fell again into a low whisper.

Whatever she spoke next must have scathed, as the girl soon broke into tears.

All this, the man watched from afar, with cold, dead eyes. It was none of his business. And he knew better than to poke his nose into such affairs. So did his subordinates, spread across the room. Though he could see a couple of uncomfortable faces among them.

In any case, her resistance would eventually collapse as she was thrust right into the heart of the grant atelier.

Amid the utter silence that followed, a single, resonant patter dominated his ears.

She finally took her first step inside the central circle, or 'boundary', as the man called it.

And at that moment, the entire room pulsed to life.

The magical runes sparked and the lines connecting them glimmered in a searing white light, turning the once dark, drab chamber even brighter than the outside.

"Hm." The man's scowl loosened into a slight frown.

Satisfied, he soon exited to the balcony where one endpoint of the atelier ended in a circle, similar to the 'boundary' inside. He stepped into its threshold and, immediately felt its circuits connecting to his very soul. Magical currents ran through him like a raging river, soliciting a single pained grunt from his otherwise perfectly stoic demeanor.

He glanced behind him, to the girl now standing as still as a statue. She bathed in all-consuming white light, her face completely serene.

"Your Imperial Highness," he said, fighting through the pain, "see this magical pulse. It shall be the beacon at which you may focus your mind."

He then looked out past the wooden railings. There, the entire battlefield was laid out before him. To his left, dense clusters of Raffalian infantry were scrunched right up against the Eastal defensive line at the edge of the village. While to his right, the enemy had broken through, and were in the process of surrounding their forces.

He lifted his arm, focused his mind's eye at the tip of his finger and, at the faintest sign of accumulated magic, flung this ball into the distance, after which it annihilated into a plume of magical smoke.

"Did you feel it?" he then asked, "There is your target."

He then closed his eyes and entered a meditative state. Spreading his feet to a more sturdy stance, he prepared to funnel his power through the atelier.

But moments passed with nothing happening.

Thanks to the construction of the magical circle, there ought to have been a spiritual connection between them, such that even without opening her eyes, she could 'see' the raw magic he just manipulated.

"Did it fail...?" Fearing that the princess hesitated, he turned his head around.

But he did so at the very worst time.

At that precise moment, he felt as though the floor were swallowing him whole. The atelier drew out his magical power with such force that his knees buckled, and only with sheer willpower and physical fortitude did he not fall completely to the floor.

"Hngh-!?" he grunted.

Now stuck at his awkward pose, he pried open his eyes, only to see the violently swirling cloud of magic billowing like an eldritch storm around and around the chamber. At the center of all this stood this young girl, though just barely. Her face warped in sheer agony, she cried out in such pain that her voice could overpower the cyclonic winds.

And yet, the spell continued to build up.

He physically felt his own magic capacity reaching its limit, like a pot boiling over.

Then, after a few more excruciating seconds, every speck of magical dust accumulated into a single, impossibly bright point.

He turned away at that instant, and yet his eyes still seared as though he had spent the afternoon looking straight at the sun.

And when he peeked out once more, he caught a streak of dense magical residue shooting past him. He followed its trajectory, but by this time, it had already arced up, far beyond the clouds.

He panted, mumbling to himself, "As expected of the Emperor's progeny..."

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked over his shoulder, to the sight of a dishevelled young girl, eyes turned upwards, mouth agape and collapsed to her knees.

He looked to a subordinate, standing at one corner of the atelier.

"Get her some water," he said, eyes narrowing, "and prepare for the next spell."

At the foot of the hill, spell bursts violently deflected in all directions as two men fought to the death.

"Raaaaaagh!" The captain of the Eastal garrison swung his sword across. Magic then diffused over the blade and crackled into a roiling blaze.

At the same time, the leader of the Raffalian knights leapt back and created a barrier between them. This caused the fires to spill all around, singing the trodden dirt, "Hahahaha! Weak! Far too weak!"

When then flames subsided, however, they had left a black crust atop his once pristine, jeweled blade.

Hmph. His magecraft is crude, but has a lot of power behind it. He scoffed as he then parried a lunging strike. Heightened emotions... he's harnessing them quite effectively. He hasn't backlashed once. And such magical capacity - how many spells has he cast now? And even before our battle?

The mage in the red shirt drew back, wary of the ring of mounted knights formed around them, almost like a gallery of onlookers, and returned to a still stance while he caught his breath.

But he's wobbling. The first stage of magical exhaustion has surely been passed.

And without missing a beat, the man weaved his hands before him, completing the preliminary stages of casting a strong barrier.

A smirk formed upon his lips.

I can at least respect his skill.

It was St. Georges' turn.  

The armored knight stomped his foot down, gathering all his energy at his legs. Magic then diffused around him, swirling into multiple clusters. Seeing this, the man finalized his magical shield. Thereupon, he blasted forward, cancelling the spells and blasting straight through the anti-magic field.

"Ngh-!" The combat mage tried to deliver a thrust at St. Georges' midsection while meeting his charge, but to his terror, his sword's tip shattered when it hit a seemingly transparent mesh, or cloth, even as it landed on the knight's flank.

Alas, with one devastating tackle, he knocked the Eastal clean off his feet, throwing him onto the ground with so much force that his head snapped from the impact.

The man writhed, arching his back while he clutched his chest, though never once letting go of his sword.

Blade already poised, St. Georges could have delivered the finishing blow at any moment. But that was not characteristic of him. Instead, he stood over his prey, arms crossed and stomped at his hand repeatedly until the man's fingers had been broken enough to loosen their grip of his weapon.

"Hahahaha," he gloated, "an admirable effort! But unfortunately for you-" He then spread his arm out, holding the edge of his cape - a transparent film that shimmered under the sunlight. "-the Ghost Mantle of Telestine simply cannot be penetrated by physical attacks!"

The man clenched his teeth, his face showing fury reminiscent of someone who'd just realized they'd been cheated.

"But, even then-" He shrugged. "-your measly, dull blade couldn't possibly penetrate my armor. Because make no mistake. This is no coat of black paint. This... is not steel. Our armor; Zerillion's armor, is all forged from Durill."

His revelation, however, coaxed no further reaction from his prey, much to his disappointment.

"Perhaps you haven't heard of it? Hmm... what do foreigners call it again?" He rubbed his chin. "Ah! That's right - Depleted Mythril."

Finally, the man's eyes widened, much to the knight's elation, muttering, "M-myth..."

"Hahahaha! Have you realized now?" he gloated, before going down on one knee, grabbing the man by his collar and pulled him up so he could do so straight into his ear, "How does it feel? That sense of insurmountable inferiority. Are you mad? Are you regretful? Or are you just terrified? By the way, most of my prey say they are terrified, but I would like to hear the opinion of a foreigner for once."

But in spite of his expectations, the man's brows merely knotted as he said, in a loud voice so as to be heard by the knight's subordinates, "I'm disgusted." He then spat at his face.

In reflex, St. Georges turned to the side, though the only good it did was that the spit landed on his cheek and not on his lips. He then flung the man onto the ground and stood back up, wiping his face with his gloved palm.

Mouth pinched, he took a deep breath.

He sheathed his sword and, leering down at his defiant prey, he declared, "It is said that there are two most excruciating ways to die. One is drowning. And the other is being burned alive." Pressing his foot down onto the man's neck to secure it, he then gathered two clumps of magic over his hands. "So I would like you to compare. I shall submerge your head in water, while your body burns to a crisp."

"Urk!" hearing this, the man immediately began a desperate struggle, even going so far as to try and cast a spell.

But with the simple application of a bit more pressure on his neck, his magic quickly dissipated.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Hmph. Poor, unrefined mage. Even if it was out of desperation, you surely did not expect to cast anything under this much duress? You might as well scream for help!" He snickered. "Though no one will come to your aid, either way."

Choking under the knight's steel-toed greaves, and looking right at the two gathering spells that were going to end his life, the man wrung out one last curse, "Ffffuck youuuuuuu...!"

It etched a pitiful smirk on St. Georges' face. "Hmph. Crude barbarian. Perhaps it is a mercy that I end you here, after all. That you may not blight this world with your continued existence. And after you, I shall slaughter all of your comrades." The smile then twisted into a menacing grin. "The same way I did here."

With clenched teeth, the defiant Eastal looked St. Georges straight in the eye.

Finally, the spells completed their casting stage - on his left hand, a raging fireball; and the other, a swirling pool of water.

Meeting eyes with his prey, he saw no fear. Only fury. Unadulterated, raw fury.

Nevertheless, he sneered, "Now, die-"

But then, all of a sudden, everything turned bright orange - the grass; the trees; even the distant thatch huts of Tybolg.

St. Georges' eyes watered from the abrupt spike in contrast. "W-wha-!?"

A sweltering wave of heat followed, as though the sun itself had snuck up behind him and shined right then and there.

The onlooking knights and even their horses, were similarly perturbed. After a short while, one of his subordinates called out, "My Liege!"

To whom he turned his attention.

"The sky!" The knight pointed his finger straight up. "It's-"

At some level, he already knew - that the answer to his own question was no farther than a glance over his shoulder. But something, deep inside, urged him not to look. As though doing so would reveal such frightful terror that would shake his very foundation.

But he had no choice.

He needed to see if it were a threat or a boon.

And indeed, he immediately regretted doing so.

Veins took root all around his eyes, turning them bright red as they crawled almost all the way to his iris.

As though an inferno had sucked the air out of his very lungs, he muttered, "What in the..."

Thunder roared across the landscape as the sky changed its hue. Clouds turned into orange plasma and swirled viciously overhead. Bolts of lightning seared down, felling trees left and right and setting them alight.

That moment hearkened to his education in the classics; to one passage, in particular, that had never struck him quite so much before as it did now. It all resurfaced, like a geyser piercing the soil and shooting into the sky - his consciousness. He felt it; its meaning, almost as though they were etched on his very skin.

...and His angel did descend upon the realm of mortals. 'Twas amidst the toll of three golden bells; and with a shrill voice, he spoke his name:

Armageddon, the end of worlds.

The crossbow slipped between her fingers, landing amongst the grass with a soft thud.

Her eyes could not help but fixate at the glowing-hot ray of condensed magical power, even while they seared in its glare. Her feet quivered with its every ebb as it pulverized the very earth, amidst a chorus of crackling thunder and shattering rocks. Not even Rafale's great magic barrier held up for more than a second against such an onslaught.

What...

Standing where she was, she could hardly believe she was perched amidst the cover of a temperate forest. The sweltering heat reminded her more of the parched dunes of Zahar Al-Din, than the lush highlands of Rafale.

...is going on...?

She watched, in utter bafflement, as the battle lines crumbled. All of them. Raffalian and Eastal alike ran for their lives as the sky itself crashed down, not even setting its victims alight, so much as turning them straight to ash. And yet it seemed as though the spell was centered on the pocket of Raffalian assault infantry engaged in the open field. Either way, she could not fault anyone for fleeing. Seeing such destruction leveled with impunity, 'friend' or 'foe' hardly even came to mind.

I have never once heard of a spell of this magnitude... Is this Easter's doing? It couldn't be Rafale's... Even if the Ateliers at Tybolg had finished their construction - which they hadn't - something like this shouldn't be possible...!

In that short moment of clarity, she caught a glimpse of the crossbow she dropped at her feet - and consequently, the mission still left at her charge.

She crouched down, reaching out to her weapon of choice, only to hesitate at the last second.

Were I to kill the Senator now... would that not finally break the Raffalian army? Though our task is to ultimately ensure Rafale's defeat in this battle, such a one-sided result won't do...

At that time, she remembered the words the Heroine left her with.

Even assuming what she said was true, surely the death of the marshall, on top of this massacre, could inspire a full rout, no matter how rubbish his leadership was. In any case, why would she - a Legendary Hero even permit such an assassination!?

She slapped her palm over her eye and, with her fingers, clutched her forehead.

It makes no sense. It feels as though she had laid a trap for me...

Her eyes turned to the highlands forming the eastern arc of the Flanneries.

No... I should relent. At the moment, it seems the tide of battle has been reversed. So it is not time for me to strike. Whether or not the Raffalians are defeated from this one counterstroke - the next move must hurt Easter first.

Slinging the crossbow under her arm, she soon turned around and walked away.

Right now, my job is to not let my prolonged absence rouse suspicion.

Glancing down at her weapon, she pulled out the bolt from its canal and disengaged the string.

But I should stash this somewhere I could easily find. Just in case.

And so, the woman with the stolen face disappeared once more.

The captain of the Raffalian magic knights screamed, his grimacing face, flushed red with fury, "What is going on!? Geinzes! Lore!"

His subordinate, in turn, with an expression overflowing with anxiety, answered, "My Liege, even I have no knowledge of a spell such as this But whatever it is, must either be made possible by an absurdly large atelier..."

"Or...!?"

Clenching his teeth, the man hesitantly continued, "...the divine power of a Legendary Hero."

His eyes blazed upon hearing these two possibilities.

Meanwhile, bruised and beaten, the captain of Easter's garrison snickered to himself, muttering, "Hmph. You sure took your damn time..."

The arrogant Raffalian caught wind of this and once more stormed at him, sword drawn. "What do you know!?" he yellowed prodding his blade at his jugular, "Answer!"

Unable to even focus his eyes anymore, the Eastal just stared off in the middle distance and while his lips slowly, weakly curled into a smirk, replied, "It's over. You lose."

Once more, thunder roared across the landscape.

As the knights once more looked to the sky, the man's gaze instead landed towards the fort atop the hill. And there, he saw a bolt of condensed magical essence streaming up past the clouds, arcing to the assigned area of effect.

Hah... to think that I would see this again at the end of my life... how ironic.

Gradually, his weak eyes fell, until they closed shut.

How long has it been since the revolt?

Images of the white, peaked towers of Neuschwanstadt formed in his mind like a watercolor painting slowly taking form, not from brush strokes, but droplets of colored paint dribbling from the sky, onto a black canvas.

I was with the governor's guard, then...

Swathes of flame burned around him, engulfing crumbled houses and leaving ash and rubble in its wake. He remembered the stench. That horrid smell. Had he any strength for it, he might have heaved right then and there.

...back when the black caps still stood for something. Back when they were still feared; when they were more than hopeless highwaymen with matching headwear...

"My Liege!" an unfamiliar voice snapped him out of his train of thought.

He was still within the clutches of the arrogant blonde, though the distraction of the magic spell had loosened his grip considerably.

One of the man's subordinates came forward and, pointing out to the side, exclaimed, "Enemy reinforcements, coming down the hill!"

What!? His head snapped sideways as a terrible realization struck him. No! Did the fort's remaining garrison sally out!? Fools, why!?

But as he eyed the column of soldiers marching towards them, his forehead knotted in puzzlement. At a single glance, he could tell - these were not Griffonlanders.

It was a combined formation of infantry and cavalry. Each man was caged in silver armor that covered most of their body. An accompanying cape wrapped across their collar and fluttered gently behind them amidst their descent. The foot soldiers wielded incredibly tall halberds, each one unique with its own ornate axehead. Meanwhile, the horsemen, mounted atop their barded steeds, all carried lances with a peculiar spiral-stripe pattern.

And, standing at the very front of this column, were two familiar figures - one under a hood and the other wearing a plain red shirt, similar to his own.

Th-those are...!?

"Kuh-!" At once, the arrogant Raffalian threw him again to the ground, and then sprinted back to his horse. "Knights! Form up!"

Hitting the rear of his head against the dirt a second time in a row, he curled up, but fought to keep even just one eye open. And so, he bore witness to the men in black armor as they rode out to meet the incoming soldiers, who were still arranged in a marching column.

This is bad...!

He tried to shift his position, so that he may at least crawl, but even from the faintest movement, a stabbing pain would spread out from his abdomen, freezing him in place.

Urgh...! Hans! Run!

Alas, all he could do was watch. Indeed, were he able to stand up, what could he have done, anyway? Such thoughts muddled his mind, so much so that when the knights loosed their spells, just as he had witnessed before with the ill-fated lancers, he did not immediately notice the sparks of lightning deflecting every which way before disappearing into oblivion.

Ah-!

When the heat haze produced by the thunderbolts had dissipated, it became clear that between the charging knights and the formation of soldiers, dozens upon dozens of barriers had formed in interlocking layers.

At that moment, his doubts were finally cleared.

No way...! But there's no doubt about it! They are... the Alfheimr Legion!

A magic knight in his own right, each footsoldier and cavalryman leveled their weapon, ready to receive the Raffalian charge with a wall of deadly spikes. And this time, they could not be suppressed by sorcery.

I see... Of course, the Grand Sorceress would not come here without her bodyguards...!

Instead, that quickly shrinking space between the two formations became a microcosm of the spell duel that had gone on for so long over the open fields. Elemental spells of all kinds shot back and forth, only to be deflected, shattered or otherwise annihilated by the unbreaking barriers held up by both sides.

But this time, it was Rafale with the fatigue disadvantage.

And then, he heard it. Though now distant, he could still make out the bellowing scream of the Raffalian captain, with all the resentment in his voice, "Knights, swerve!"

One by one, the Raffalians peeled off from the charge, making a sharp turn down the hill and towards the village of Tybolg.

HUH!?

The legionnaires harassed them with spells on their way down, but to no effect. Neither did the attached lancers give chase.

They... ran off...

Unsure whether it was from relief, or exhaustion, for the first time in a long while, his muscles finally relaxed.

Shit... he had some nerve to talk all that smack...

Heaving a deep sigh, he then grumbled to himself, "...the hell am I still alive...?"

Bringing his arm over his eyes, he let out a bitter chuckle.

Somehow, perhaps even from the intervention of the gods and the saints, the Raffalian blowhard had neglected to finish him. Though unsatisfied with such a resolution, all he could do now was grit his teeth and resolve himself to continue the fight.

And yet, no matter what he tried, he could do nothing but wilt back into the ground.

At last, complete magical exhaustion had caught up with him. His eyes had been hazy for a while, but now, he also felt a trail of blood oozing down his nostril.

Moreover, whenever he did try to move, his entire body would cry out in anguish. Only then did he realize the extent of the damage he had taken. From the pain alone, he knew that his ribcage must have been shattered, his right hand had been crippled, and, given his difficulty breathing, his throat was probably halfway to being crushed.

But in spite of all this, he was alive.

He opened his eyes and stared, once more, at the tumultuous sky, shimmering with residual magic that gently fell to earth, like snow on a cloudy winter day.

That girl...

Despite the pain, he still found some leeway lift his arm and reach out to it.

...to think she would be my salvation twice in my lifetime...

Slowly, his eyelids fell.

The distant sounds of a still-raging battle all but melted away into white noise as his consciousness grew duller and duller.

And as his vision faded to black, he saw the silhouette of a young girl, washed over completely in silvery white, her dress fluttering like soft, delicate wings as she turned to face him.

Angel of Death, huh...