The war was broadcast, because it had to be. The magic of the battlechoirs was fueled by emotion, after all, and every viewer at home was a potential power source. When the battlechoirs hurled grand fireballs at the enemy ramparts, it was our passion they drew on to feed the flames; when they called down great sunbeams to blind and burn soldiers, it was our joy they converted into sunshine.

And when the battlechoirs summoned walls of repulsive force to crush entire villages and shove the broken corpses aside, it was our nationalism they stole to fuel their war machine.

I felt vaguely sick at how my fellow classmates whooped and cheered on the battle being broadcast in the matrix of light spells in the center of the auditorium. As if the battle was a sports match, and the dark red mud was an aesthetic choice. Even poor Freio in the corner was confusedly smiling, simply from the sheer inertia of the crowd.

At first, the Order of Valhalla had fielded foot soldiers and witches against the forces of the Silent Peaks, but after the first battle resulted in a resounding victory for "us"—or, at least, the side that got to broadcast their version of the war to me and my classmates—the Order of Valhalla switched tactics. They had numbers and logistics, but the Silent Peaks had a vast edge in spellcraft, and the Order of Valhalla hadn't expected the seven-meter-wide fireballs fueled by the rage of an entire city.

So the Order of Valhalla began summoning demons. On screen, the Demon of Fear manifested as a vast, many-tendriled darkness, spearing soldiers with rays of absolute void that made whatever they touched just... fall apart. The view quickly panned away from the carnage, but it was too late. The image of a bard's insides being sprayed into the wind like a farmer sowing seeds had already been burned into my head.

Mr. Ganrey looked at the private, smaller broadcast he was receiving straight from the battlechoir's conductor, and said, "Alright, class, our brave battlechoirs on the front lines need us to supply them with joy. Remember that we will win this battle. That the Order of Valhalla will be crushed beneath our boot. Their children will be re-educated into a more civilized culture, and their war-leaders will be executed for their crimes against the Silent Peaks."

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The majority of my classmates whooped in joy, but to my left, Lucet grimaced. "He wants us to be happy about that?" she whispered.

"There's no evidence to support the idea that the culture of the Silent Peaks is any more or less 'civilized' than that of the Redlands," Meloai added from my right. The three of us were a minority, though, and not a very vocal one at that. I grimaced as, through my soulsight, I saw the little dewdrops of joy on my classmates' souls condense and flow together, being siphoned into great magical channels all the way to the battlefront.

Mere minutes later, the battlechoir sang a triumphant chord, and a column of light so bright it left the grasses as nothing more than smoking ash struck the Demon of Fear. My classmates cheered as the feed zoomed in on the ruined, dissolving body of the Demon of Fear—

And revealed something much, much worse standing in its remnants.

The entity didn't have the same looming, formless menace as the Demon of Fear. They were large for a person, but still roughly human-sized, even with the faintly glowing runic armor they wore. They bore no weapon, and had no army to back them up, but a shiver went down my spine regardless.

For there stood a Demon of Empathy, and it was the first time since the war begun that they had taken to the field.

Odin wasted no time, looking straight at the projection as if they could see right into our souls. "Peoples of the Silent Peaks," they began. "Your government is lying to you. They are manipulating your emotions in order to continue the war crimes they commit on the active front. Exit your city's boundaries and sleep. I will inform you of more in your dreams. The Silent Peaks is—"

I heard someone on the other end snap, "Cut the feed."

Moments later, the image dissolved into smoke and light.

Silence reigned in the classroom.

Then Mr. Ganrey cleared his throat. "Now, class. Let's... forget that last part happened, shall we?"

And here came the part I hated the most.

My classmates' eyes glazed over as a spell struck them all at once, and I felt Mr. Ganrey's magic assaulting my mind. But I had come prepared, and with a calm, misty breath, I shrouded my soul in antimagic, dulling the weak forgetfulness spell. If Mr. Ganrey noticed, he didn't say anything. Around me, Lucet and Meloai came back to life, and my classmates began eagerly discussing how we'd totally annihilated the enemy and how we were guaranteed victory within months.

"Cienne?" Lucet asked from my side. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I managed to choke out. "Just... give me a minute."

I sprinted out of the classroom. Down the hall, to the left, through the door, and fumble at the lock.

I barely made it to the outhouse before I threw up with fear.