The boy held her close and whispered, "I know, Bella. We're not Druids, and even the Oak Sages just live longer. We all die."

  Bella Coren wiped away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "Let's go have lunch," she said, her tone suddenly lighter. "But let me fix my face first, Headmaster."

  "You're always beautiful," the boy said with a smile.

  The Vice Principal drifted out of the office like a breeze, leaving behind the lingering scent of lilac.

  Patrick Fort quietly retrieved the crystal cup from the floor. The pristine glass bore no scratches, as if it had never fallen. In truth, it had never touched the ground.

  A hemispherical barrier materialized from the ceiling, flowing down like liquid silver, gradually enveloping everything in the room before disappearing into the floor.

  (She couldn't see through my defensive array.) The boy poured a small measure of brandy into the glass. (This isn't merely about her eyesight.)

  The fiery liquor scorched its way down his throat.

  (With more practice, I'll be ready.) He set down the glass.

  (I can protect Cynthia.)

  The assembled monarchs sat in heavy silence, attention fixed on their plates. Roast goose, beef stew with potatoes and onions, fennel lamb chops, barley beer, and fine Sunset Red wine circulated among them via attentive servants. Among the royal diners, only Moore Byron Lawrence of Dud and Royce Paul Sain of Brigar seemed to genuinely enjoy their feast. The others appeared weighted by unspoken concerns.

  Porchet Malen Owen, King of Popodovis, cut listlessly at his lamb chop with apparent disinterest. "I see the lamb doesn't suit your palate either, Porchet," Royce remarked playfully.

  "Remarkable that you can jest at such a time, Royce." Porchet threw down his fork. "The Flottant de la mer? Do you comprehend what you're suggesting?"

  "Indeed, Your Majesty Royce. I'm equally perplexed," Queen Shirley Farland added. "What good do you think you'll get from that cursed place?"

  "No creature has ever returned from there alive," Noland Lister Russbinder, King of Arisindra, observed as he discarded the remains of his honey-glazed goose leg. "Surely you don't intend to conceal troops there for an ambush against the Godmans, Royce?"

  Moore Byron Lawrence's mouth twitched momentarily. "I'm still formulating my thoughts," Royce continued eating with deliberate casualness.

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  "I believe an explanation would be welcome, Your Majesty," Princess Angela of Ellytra remarked, her gaze inquisitive.

  "I haven't solidified my plans yet—to be precise, I lack a definitive strategy," Royce finally set aside his cutlery. "I'm merely considering that since our knowledge of that region is limited, the southern Godmans must know even less—perhaps nothing at all. Naturally, this makes it worth evaluating as a strategic position or resource. However..." His earlier confidence seemed to waver. "I haven't devised an effective approach, so I can offer no concrete proposals at present."

  "You should forget about the Flottant de la mer," Porchet's tone softened. "I'm not putting my troops in that death trap, no way. They wouldn't go near that place."

  "It hardly appears so fearsome; your descriptions seem excessive," Noland rested his chin on his left hand while raising a glass of barley beer with his right, admiring its amber hue in the firelight. "The place isn't truly a desert. The sand layer is shallow, mixed with substantial soil, and grassy patches are visible in numerous areas. Based on these facts alone, it scarcely warrants your morbid accolades."

  "You've witnessed merely its periphery, its outer shell, death's facade," Porchet retorted. "Once you've experienced its fury, you'll never again speak of it so dismissively..."

  "You speak as though you've personally explored its depths and faced its wrath," Noland Lister Russbinder countered sharply. "I find that rather doubtful. The sparse vegetation there wouldn't sustain you for even a day..."

  "Enough, please," Queen Shirley Farland gently clasped Porchet's hand beneath the table. "Let's avoid pointless disputes. And Your Majesty Russbinder," she regarded Noland with subtle condescension, "kindly refrain from needless provocations. I believe mutual trust should prevail among us."

  "I wholeheartedly concur," Angela interjected after observing Noland's expression. "Our gathering at this shared table symbolizes trust and respect. Since King Royce harbors his own designs—admittedly undeveloped ones," she offered him a smile, "the monarchs present should extend appropriate trust. I'm confident that when the moment is right, you'll disclose everything to us."

  Royce Paul Sain returned her smile. "Precisely so."

  Richard Grace, King of Duviliel, had remained silent throughout, seemingly forgotten by the gathering. However, his trusted advisor—the goblin Einington Vis Avifesh—had been attentively monitoring the exchange. Now he chose to deliver a calculated strike against Royce. "It involves magic, doesn't it, Your Majesty Royce?"

  The temperature seemed to plummet instantly. "...Oh?" Porchet Malen Owen broke the silence first, sensing an opportunity. "Our delightful little goblin continues to astound, doesn't he?"

  Moore gestured for the woman beside him to step back, resting his chin on his hand with evident amusement. Seated nearby, Angela could sense his body radiating cold satisfaction.

  Royce drew a breath so subtle it was nearly imperceptible. "...You seem to know a lot, Mr. Avifesh," he finally responded after a prolonged pause.

  "You're recruiting the world's most accomplished mages," Shirley Farland stated. "Your intentions remain unclear, Your Majesty Royce. But your activities have created such disruption that even my modest Kingdom of Megonian has been stripped of its court mage—and not just any mage, but our chief magical advisor."

  "Is that so? I seldom concern myself with those wizards' movements," Porchet Malen Owen commented. "Nobody typically monitors those oddities, and frankly, I've no interest in their whereabouts. Have your mages also congregated here?"