In the end, she miscalculated. Beth pivoted on her right foot, stepping back with her left in one fluid motion, effortlessly sending her opponent crashing into the wall. "The Triad would never sanction such abhorrent malice."

  "That remains uncertain," Kristina Petrova panted, adjusting her stance with stubborn resolve. "Even the Goddess Goria herself was once a Titan."

  She lowered her center of gravity, beginning a deliberate circular prowl. Beth Keton's blade remained steadily aimed at her head, hovering no more than a foot away. (This accursed woman, this fiend.) she seethed inwardly. (Her sword perpetually constrains my attack radius.) Her eyes darted toward the doorway behind her. (If only I still had the princess with me, I might seize this moment to flee.)

  "Was it the Godma Emperor who dispatched you? Or perhaps some other faction?" Beth's tone carried the dispassionate efficiency of a practiced interrogator. "What is your objective? What advantage does Princess Rebecca's abduction offer your masters?"

  "With so many questions in succession—how am I to respond?" Kristina Petrova's lips curled into a malevolent smirk. "Naturally, I harbor no intention of answering any of them."

  She advanced with her left foot, executing a sharp lateral shift to evade Beth's sword point. The short-haired maid lunged toward Beth's right flank, clearly targeting her lung. Beth, with equal nimbleness, sidestepped, sending Kristina sprawling across the wooden table. Glass vessels, teapots, and fruit cascaded to the floor with a cacophonous crash. Mistress Hubbard's snoring faltered momentarily.

  Both women froze, their attention fixed upon the nursemaid.

  As the familiar snores resumed, Kristina extricated herself from the table's surface. (I cannot even graze this woman.) She glowered at Beth, who maintained her infuriating composure. (Her sword...) she calculated. (I could secure one from the wall—two remain available. Yet that strategy lacks merit; my swordsmanship pales in comparison to hers. I require terrain where her advantage transmutes to liability... The staircase. That constricted space would impede her longsword's reach. But how to maneuver her there?) Her fingers brushed against something, prompting a calculated smile. (An orange. You shall be my accomplice.)

  Kristina Petrova hurled the orange at Beth Keton with precise force. Her aim proved impeccable; the citrus projectile arced gracefully toward Beth's face. Instinctively, Beth raised her sword in defense. The ripened fruit exploded against the blade, splattering its contents everywhere. The short-haired maid capitalized on this distraction, charging forward with lethal intent. Ideally, this strike would both wound Beth Keton and propel her beyond the doorway, positioning her near the staircase. Even should the blade fail to deliver a mortal wound, the narrow stairwell would subsequently favor the Godma operative.

  Yet again, her calculations proved flawed. Though Beth Keton's visage was obscured by citrus residue, her senses remained acute. Hearing Kristina's approach, she delivered a powerful forward kick that connected squarely with the advancing maid's skull, sending her reeling backward. The counterforce toppled Beth herself, causing her to fall backward onto the floor.

  "Filthy mongrel!" Kristina shrieked with unbridled fury. As Beth Keton wiped orange pulp from her face with her sleeve and began to rise, Kristina Petrova scrambled forward, launching herself with reckless abandon. The two women tumbled through the chamber's side entrance, rolling multiple times before coming to rest at the staircase's edge.

  The short-haired maid felt a searing pain—her own dagger had sliced her palm during their struggle. Beth Keton's first act upon regaining her footing was to reclaim the longsword from the ground. Her expression darkened with rage. She pivoted and slashed at Kristina, the blade tearing a lengthy gash through her adversary's garments. Enduring her mounting pain, Kristina raised her dagger in defensive posture and retreated steadily. (Approach the stairs, you wretched woman.)

  Beth's subsequent swing collided with a decorative flowerpot at the staircase's perimeter. Kristina methodically guided her opponent into the prepared trap. The metallic echoes of blade striking stone seemed to temper Beth Keton's wrath, restoring her tactical awareness. Yet rather than withdrawing from the potential snare, she advanced deeper into it. Transitioning from broad slashes to precise thrusts, she repeatedly came within a hair's breadth of skewering Kristina's cranium. (Growing more perceptive, aren't you?) Kristina observed silently. (Nevertheless, in this confined space, the advantage remains mine. I need only await her inevitable error...)

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  Beth's blade snagged Kristina's dress, compelling her to leap backward, leaving her attire in tattered ruins. Beth thrust again toward her left flank, forcing Kristina to evade rightward. The fragmented remnants of her dress continuously impeded her evasive maneuvers.

  "Do you recall Mistress Hubbard's warning?" Beth Keton suddenly inquired.

  Kristina indeed remembered. She remembered the nursemaid's distinctive voice, her weathered countenance, her sonorous snoring, and most pertinently, her previous misfortune on these very stairs. "The staircase suffers from neglect—beware the substantial gap," echoed the nursemaid's cautionary words in her memory.

  In the subsequent instant, her foot encountered emptiness. Kristina Petrova's equilibrium vanished completely as she toppled backward onto the unyielding stone steps. The agony of impact against the stairs eclipsed the laceration on her palm by magnitudes. Her final visual impressions registered as a surreal tableau—cumulus formations, stellar points, lunar glow, the nocturnal canvas, culminating in a blinding alabaster flash. These fragmentary images coalesced like some stream-of-consciousness masterpiece conceived by a delirious artist in the throes of inspiration.

  Beth Keton drove her longsword through Kristina's throat with decisive finality.

  "This proposition borders on the impossible," Giselle Hardy of Arisindra pressed two elegant fingers against her temple. "I reiterate: what is being proposed defies feasibility, esteemed colleagues."

  King Royce Paul Sain of Brigar had already departed the council chamber, leaving the assembled practitioners to deliberate among themselves. None could banish from memory the king's fervent demeanor as he elucidated his grand design. According to Dorothy's assessment, his manner had verged on the manic. "Can any of you conceptualize the magical expenditure required to manifest such atmospheric violence? I venture that even the Moon Goddess Celas herself would find such a feat beyond her capabilities."

  "The answer eludes us all, Giselle," Joanna Kenster of Popodovis remarked, attempting to tame her unruly curls. "Such an undertaking lacks precedent—both in execution and conception."

  "His Majesty evidently overestimates our arcane potential," Dorothy Andella Jones observed, turning her profile to display her proud crimson lips curved in disdain. "We might just as productively combine our powers to enchant the collective Southern consciousness, compelling them to abandon their aggression and retreat to their resplendent imperial domain."

  "That endeavor would indeed present fewer obstacles than meteorological manipulation," Chloe Dinara acknowledged with pragmatic candor.

  "Might I be permitted to withdraw?" Monica Dunston's question descended upon the assembly like a frost, instantly chilling the atmosphere.

  "What preposterous nonsense are you spouting?!" Deborah Borealis fixed the red-haired sorceress with an incredulous glare, her mind frantically cataloging both persuasive arguments to secure Monica's cooperation and the catastrophic ramifications of her absence. "Evidently, you've failed to comprehend this council's monumental significance."

  "Quite the contrary, Deborah. I've achieved perfect clarity regarding King Royce's intentions," Monica asserted, straightening her posture and meeting Deborah's intimidating gaze unflinchingly. "He seeks our collective power to generate tempests, lightning, and diluvian rainfall near the Flottant de la mer to annihilate the Godman northern incursion. While I withhold judgment on this strategy's merit, it fundamentally presupposes," she paused significantly, "that the Godmans have already traversed the Throat Road and breached Cynthian sovereignty."

  "I comprehend your concern, Monica," Augler Prescott offered soothingly. "However, they could potentially circumvent Cynthia entirely before accessing the Throat Road."

  "That scenario approaches impossibility, Augler," Chloe remarked, her hair now transmuted to a delicate lavender hue. "We all possess intimate knowledge of the Godma military's composition and doctrine. They will not relent until Cynthia falls beneath their dominion. Bypassing it contravenes their fundamental strategy."

  "Precisely why I must return, Deborah," Monica Dunston declared with unwavering resolve. "My homeland -- Kingdom of Cynthia -- requires my service with greater urgency than does this council."

  "Your participation is indispensable." Deborah descended the dais steps, clasping the younger woman's hands with desperate intensity. "Without your contribution, our collective working becomes an impossibility."

  "I implore you."

  "...Absolutely not." The Brigarian sorceress released Monica's hands abruptly, her demeanor undergoing a stark metamorphosis. "Your departure is categorically forbidden."

  "Deborah!" she beseeched.

  "No!" came the implacable response.