On some unknown, sleepless midnight in Eltarnern, a remarkable kind of magic was born.
The two stood locked in a tense standoff. No need to imagine it—they both understood the value of what had just emerged, and the danger. Whoever claimed it could, with absurd ease, tilt the course of both their fates.
“If you stop being an idiot right now, we still have a chance to get out of here,” one of them hissed. “With that thing in your hands, you still want to spend your entire life doing research for our elder friends?”
The other remained calmer. “An idiot? By the name of the Sacred Tree, Shuriye—how many years have you been at the Academy now? I should be calling you my senior. And you of all people should know why those old men can make an entire empire follow them without question.”
“Yeah. The Sacred Tree.” The elf called Shuriye snapped, irritated. “The Sacred Tree, Godo, the Sacred Tree. Let me tell you a fun little fact: the damned Sacred Tree is worth less than dust in the face of our magic.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Godo couldn’t help but smile. “Then prove it to me. Defeat the Academy’s proudest spell with it.” As he spoke, he raised his wand toward Shuriye.
“You—?” Shuriye paused, as if settling something in his mind. “Fine. Not even Pasurns is stopping me from leaving this place today.”
A burst of intense light briefly tore open the night over Golhertarna.
It wasn’t memory magic.
That was the last thing Shuriye realized.
“May the Sacred Tree receive your soul, old friend.” Godo stared at the body for a moment, hesitated—then turned and walked back into the bottomless darkness.
—
“‘Staring at his body, Godo hesitated, then bent down…’” At that line, the girl froze. She lifted her gaze to something in front of her—something like an enormous eyeball—and said, “Mr. Azathoth? The puppet snapped its strings.”
The eyeball melted in a way that made the stomach turn, then gathered itself again into a vague humanoid outline.
“Alice,” it said, “I really don’t like that name.”
Alice watched him with interest. “Alright then, Majesty—take a look at this.”
Majesty glanced at the page. “I thought you’d seen it plenty of times. Didn’t he do this before?”
Alice shook her head. “Nope. I’ve never heard that line either.”
“You know,” Majesty’s outline gradually sharpened, “the fact that you can remember every stupid thing I’ve ever done makes my skin crawl. How exactly did Godo die? I can’t see it.”
“No comment,” Alice said lightly. “Why don’t you go see him yourself?”
“No comment?” Majesty laughed. “Where did you learn that phrase?” Then, as if something clicked, his smile vanished. “Ah. That’s… really stupid.”
—
Moving through the silent ranks, Glorate realized this was going to be a terrible day.
Anyone with even the faintest sense for magic would never dream of challenging the mage blocking their path. But Glorate knew nothing about such things. All he had was raw, reckless courage.
“Let the sword speak,” Glorate said.
Godo looked down at him with contempt and dropped from midair in a smooth descent. With a graceful twist of his wand, he reshaped it into a longsword and gave Glorate a textbook duelist’s salute.
“After you.”
Glorate didn’t hesitate. He drove in at full force—three exchanges, and he knocked the “sword” (the transformed wand) clean out of Godo’s hand. He leveled his blade at the fallen mage and said coldly, “Move.”
Godo flicked a glance at the wand-sword lying to the side, then counterattacked with terrifying speed. Glorate’s surprise lasted only a heartbeat; he raised his guard just as fast.
But the instant their blades met, Glorate’s sword shattered into powder.
A curse—laid into the contact itself.
Godo thrust his blade toward the now-unarmed Glorate.
Glorate caught it with his bare hand.
For a single, short moment, Godo was stunned. For a warrior who lives and dies by such moments, that was enough to break any enemy. Glorate snapped the blade with his hand, then hurled the broken length with all his strength.
It punched through Godo’s chest.
Godo stared in disbelief at the hollow in his body. He lifted his head, fury blazing at Glorate—and used a sword-sentencing art to tear him into pieces.
That, too, was the last thing he ever remembered.