Spring arrived too soon for the rose bulbs that adorned Draconian’s funeral wagon to bloom their full beauty. Beside the frail wizard, Maneesh knelt, his hands clasped in prayer, invoking the gods for one final miracle.

  From behind, a messenger arrived with grave news they had long anticipated “Grand Master Maneesh, they’re here.”

  “How many?” Maneesh asked. His throat full of hoarse and a pale complexion that spoke of their impending doom.

  “A few hundred,” the messenger replied. “Castell’s banner... and the girl.”

  Maneesh’s face tightened, dry tears clinging to his cheeks. Draconian stirred faintly, his lips moving in whispers too faint to decipher. Maneesh leaned in, desperate to hear his mentor’s last words, but all clarity was lost in the shallow breaths. A final, rattling exhale ended the attempt, leaving Pragian’s future resting squarely on Maneesh’s shoulders.

  The mournful wail of war horns shattered the fragile calm. Pagan leaders gathered around Maneesh, their ranks devoid of any wizard who could turn the tide.

  “We can hold them,” growled Howzenberger, his stocky frame bristling in battle armor. “We’ve done more with less.”

  “No,” Maneesh said. “Draconian gave his life so we could live today. I must give mine so you can live tomorrow.”

  His resolve ignited a flurry of protests, voices clashing in desperation. A respected elder silenced them all with a single, piercing question.

  “And when no wizards remain, who will save us then?”

  Maneesh merely shrugged, all but done with the burden of command. He rose to his feet and sighed. “Nothing lasts forever. But this is not the end. Build a funeral pyre outside the grand hall—and... leave the rest to me.”

  “They’ll take his head as a trophy,” Howzenberger growled.

  “They’ll take what they need,” Maneesh said, drifting past his advisor as he mounted his horse. “While you honor his legacy and lead our people to safety.”

  “He deserves better—”

  “I am the law,” Maneesh thundered, evoking the same commanding presence Draconian once instilled in him. “And you will abide.”

  Without a farewell, Maneesh spurred his horse and disappeared into the distance.

  Pragian’s gates stood eerily unmanned, save for a few watchful eyes. Inside, panic reigned. Crowds surged toward the hidden passage beneath the grand hall, families clinging to one another as chaos swallowed the town. Mothers shielded their children from the crush, while the sick and elderly were left behind. Musicians, who had moments go filled the air with resilience, fell silent as the sound of collapsing walls echoed through the streets.

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  Outside the town, Sir Bradfrey’s knights spread wide, waiting. Anneliese, lost in the smoky haze of her wizard state, conjured shimmering orbs of destruction that crackled with latent energy. At her command, the distorted spheres imploded against Pragian’s fortifications, collapsing sections of the wall into the stagnant moat below.

  Amos, restless in his saddle, gripped his reins tightly. “Shall we make another?”

  “Patience,” Bradfrey said. “We’re just letting them know we’re here.”

  Mere minutes later, a pagan rider emerged. With the white flag drawn, Maneesh rode forward at a deliberate pace, biding his time while Pragian’s people fled.

  Bradfrey dispatched his knights, who intercepted Maneesh with rough hands and jabs from spear butts. Bounded by ropes, they dragging him through the mud before throwing him down at Bradfrey’s feet.

  Maneesh spat out the muddy residue from his ordeal, lifting his head to meet the eyes of the stout figure he scarcely recognized as Sir Bradfrey. “Is this how you treat allies?”

  “It’s hard to tell friend from foe these days,” Bradfrey replied, his hands resting firmly on his lower back, exuding the measured authority once embodied by Lord Hendricks.

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  “You have friends, don’t you? A friend named Kulum?”

  “They’re the banished ones—him, Verivix, Bjarke, and many others. But I suppose disavowing them isn’t enough. No, you must swear blind allegiance to the righteous. Bathe in the blood of your enemies without a second thought of why they came to hate you.”

  “I wish to talk terms with Draconian, and Draconian alone.”

  “You’ll find him outside the Grand Hall,” Maneesh replied. “Awaiting your arrival.”

  “Then fetch him.”

  “No,” Maneesh said abruptly. “I am the terms—or a hostage. Nothing more.”

  Bradfrey frowned, his patience thinning. Amos, still mounted, tapped his stirrups, urging his commander to press harder.

  “Go on,” Bradfrey said cautiously.

  Maneesh reached into his saddlebag, retrieving a carry sack. With a magician’s flourish, he unraveled it inside out, revealing its hidden magical capacity. From within, he withdrew a smaller sack, its edges glittering with enchanted sands.

  “This,” Maneesh said, holding it aloft, “is the terms of Draconian’s surrender. An apology to Anneliese on condition of her forgiveness.”

  Amos snatched the sack and shook it violently. “Is this a joke?” he demanded.

  “No,” Bradfrey said softly. He recognized the relic immediately. The residue of enchanted sands stirred memories—of peace, of bonds once unbroken between him and Pragian’s wizards. A flicker of regret crossed his face as he passed the sack to Anneliese.

  She hesitated, her fingers curling into fists. Her body recoiled, a flicker of revulsion betraying an unease far deeper than the relic itself—an overreaction steeped in self-incrimination.

  “I understand,” Bradfrey said gently. “Sometimes we need our pound of flesh. Other times, duty takes precedence.”

  Anneliese stared at the sack, nausea churning in her gut.

  “Send him my forgiveness,” she said at last, the words tasting bitter. “There’s no need for violence if we can work together.”

  Maneesh’s lips curled into a smile—thin, humorless.

  “In time,” he said, knowing the hollowness of her words. “Either way, congratulations, Sir Bradfrey. Draconian is dead. His body awaits you by the Grand Hall. Pragian is yours.”

  “Nonsense,” Amos scoffed. Without waiting for orders, he spurred his horse forward, breaking ranks and charging through the open gate—alone.

  No challenge met him.

  Through the fortified gates, the city lay eerily still. The streets, once alive with defiance, stood abandoned, their silence broken only by the distant shuffle of stray livestock. Ghostly winds stirred the remnants of funeral petals, scattering them in his path like omens.

  They led him to a lone wagon, draped in wilting garlands, its flowers yet to bloom. And beneath them, motionless in death, lay the former Grand Master Wizard.