Somber music filled the broad corridor. Deep drum rhythms echoed off the walls in time to a chorus of pipes and horns, all warning him that this was a bad idea.

Horace wiped his upper lip as he contemplated what they were about to do—interrupt a royal wedding and accuse the groom of colluding with the most powerful priesthood in the empire in a plot to kill off the bride before the ink on the marriage contract was dry. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was parched.

At the end of the hallway loomed double doors of varnished wood reinforced with iron bands. The back of Horace's neck itched as he approached the exit. “Are you sure this is the way?”

Alyra nodded toward the doors. She appeared calm. “That leads to the western terrace.”

He took a deep breath and released it. When they got to within a dozen paces of the doors, a figure appeared from the shadows of the archway. Horace's stomach knotted at the sight of the man's shaved head and blood-red robes. He was quite short, no taller than Alyra, and built like a scarecrow, but an aura of power surrounded him. Horace started to lift his hand when bands of solidified air clamped around his torso, crushing his arms against his sides. He wove a net of fire, working off the idea of the lasso he'd used before, and sent it spinning down the corridor. The sorcerer deflected it with a wave of air that wrapped the net into a ball and shunted it into a wall where the flames burst harmlessly against the stone.

Horace erected another barrier right before a blob of what looked like red-hot lava landed on him. Instead, it spattered against the shield in front of his face. Trying not to think about what would have happened if the stuff had hit him, Horace visualized himself holding two huge boulders and brought his hands together in a sharp slap. The sorcerer's eyes bulged as invisible fists of air crushed him from both sides. His face dripped blood from a series of widening immaculata on both cheeks.

A light touch fell on Horace's shoulder, but he didn't turn. He wanted this over. He thrust both his hands at the sorcerer. A stream of livid orange flame jetted down the corridor and caught the sorcerer, hurling him back into the doors, which smashed open with a thunderous boom. Horace shook his head to clear away an annoying ring that echoed through his skull. The doors were gone. Not just burst open, but completely ripped away from the frame. A cloud of smoke billowed in the entryway. A metallic, almost chemical odor wafted from the ruined doorway. It reminded him of a foundry, but more exotic. There was no sign of the sorcerer either. A tremor of unease rippled through his stomach at the sight of the destruction he had caused.

Horace relaxed his powers and glanced back at Alyra. Her face was ashen, but she took his hand with cool fingers. “Ready?” he asked.

“No. But let's get on with it.”

Trying to project a confidence he didn't feel, he led her through the smoke. A susurrus of voices rose before them. Horace squinted as he stepped across the threshold. The rays of the fading sun shone upon a grand platform. The queen leaned against a stone altar beside her fiancé at the center of the terrace. The prince appeared aghast at the intrusion, while Byleth wore a look of bemused astonishment. Four priests, including Menarch Rimesh, stood behind the altar with pained expressions, perhaps because of the smoking body of the Order sorcerer at their feet.

Horace was about to shout for everyone to stand clear when the two younger priests by the altar stepped forward. Horace only had an instant to process the itching down his spine before twin attacks of jagged stones and freezing cold rushed at him. He braced himself for pain. Yet the sorcerer on the left threw back his head to reveal a thin shard of metal protruding from his neck, and his partner on the right jerked away with a similar dart through the meat of his hand. Both their magics dissipated into the air. Before either man could recover, Horace harnessed his zoana, and a mighty gust of wind poured out of him, hurtling both sorcerers over the side of the terrace.

The two older priests had already retreated behind the altar. As the pall lifted, soldiers with white figurines perched on their silver helmets pushed through the throng, and Horace got a glimpse of how many people were in attendance. More than a hundred, to be sure. Then he looked below and saw an ocean of faces filling the temple courtyard. Taking a deep breath, he raised his right hand, open palm held out.

The soldiers stopped at the front of the crowd, fingering their weapons as they watched him, but none advanced any closer. The zoanii watched him as well with various expressions. Most appeared shocked, but some whispered to each other, their eyes never leaving him. Horace started to beckon to the queen, his plan no more complicated than escorting her out of the temple. He cursed as a sheet of brilliant white spray cascaded from the south end of the terrace where another Red Robe pushed through the crowd. The nobles and soldiers in the path of the sparkling cone fell to the floor covered in hoarfrost.

Horace grabbed Alyra and conjured a barrier just as the whiteness crashed over them. Spiderwebs of rime formed across the surface of the bulwark. Horace visualized a ray of fire shooting from his palm. Instead, three blazing spheres the size of apples zipped across the space. Two impacted on a frosty buckler shield conjured by the Red Robe with dull thumps, but the third sphere curved around the shield to strike the sorcerer in the forehead, dropping him to the floor. Horace prepared to fashion some kind of magical cage to hold the man down, but before he could act, a massive stone spike erupted from the terrace floor, impaling the fallen sorcerer through the back as it lifted him off the ground.

Horace looked for the person responsible for the killing. At the altar, the venerable priest slumped on the floor with his eyes closed. There was no sign of Rimesh. The queen and her betrothed glared at each other but otherwise hadn't moved. Standing beside Byleth, Xantu glared at the bridegroom like he wanted to roast the prince over a slow fire. Then the bodyguard winked at Horace out of the corner of his eye, and Horace swallowed his annoyance.

It was over. The rest of the attendees and their soldiers didn't seem inclined to get involved. The queen was safe, and now they could get out of here.

He was about to release the protective shield when Alyra pointed upward, and Horace noticed for the first time the balcony above the terrace. Men stared down from the gallery; at least twenty of them, their crimson robes glowing darkly in the sun's dying light.

Horace dragged Alyra down to the floor and poured all his strength into the barrier. His knees had barely touched the floor stones when a powerful force smashed against the shield. A sharp pain ripped down the center of his head as screams reverberated through the terrace. Horace didn't want to look, but he forced himself to as Alyra stiffened against him. Wedding guests lay all about him, their limbs and torsos contorted in sickening positions. With an ache in his stomach, he realized they had been crushed. He held Alyra close as his barrier was pummeled as if by a thousand invisible sledgehammers. The din of the pounding blocked out any other sounds. They were trapped. Eventually his mystic barrier would fail, and then they would both die.

A stream of blood ran from under the pile of crushed bodies. Horace squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness brought no reprieve from the images cascading through his mind. He stood once again on the deck of the Sea Spray. His family was safe from the plague consuming Tines. As Sari chased Josef through the crowd of sailors, Horace shaded his eyes and viewed his dying town.

The crackle of splitting wood made him whirl around. The burning schooner in the next berth lurched as its foremast broke loose from its moorings. The tall pole fell like an axed tree. Sari screamed, Josef still squirming in her arms.

An anguished yell erupted from Horace as his family disappeared under a mountain of flaming wood and rigging. He leapt toward the inferno, digging at the fiery debris with his bare hands until strong grips dragged him away. He struggled against the sailors holding him back, his gaze on the spot where Sari and Josef had been standing only moments before. A trickle of blood ran along the deck.

“Sari,” Horace croaked, hunched on the terrace floor. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. “Josef!”

“Horace!” Alyra gasped.

He shuddered against the painful memories. If he hadn't taken his family aboard that ship, they might still be alive today. It was his fault they had died. If he was any kind of man, he would have thrown himself into the flames after them. Better to die that day that live with this shame.

Warm wetness touched his fingers. He looked down to see the rivulet of blood had touched his hand. He watched it pool around his fingers, running against his old burn scars. He could still remember being on his hands and knees on the deck of the Sea Spray, digging through the burning sailcloth and rigging while his wife and son screamed. Those wails echoed inside his head now just like they had on that cursed day. If he closed his eyes again, he would see their faces, melting before his eyes, calling out for him…

A ragged scream erupted from his mouth as he hauled himself to his knees, the agonies of his past and the icy fire of the zoana fusing together in the blazing furnace behind his breastbone. A tracery of tiny cracks ran through the barrier as he delved into the gray space inside him, gathering up every bit of magic he could summon. Tears ran down his face like beads of molten lead. His bones ached with the intensity of the power running through him. With a deep gasp, he lashed out.

Crackling forks of green lightning flashed from his hands. The Shinar dominion pulsed within him while the energy poured out, seemingly without end.

Skin blistered and blackened as the emerald bolts raked across the gallery. Crimson robes burst into flames. The enemy sorcerers fell in droves, their shrieks echoing off the temple's inner walls.

Horace kept a tight rein on his thoughts, knowing that if he dwelt for even a moment on the fact that he was killing people—human beings with families and dreams of the future—his control over the zoana would evaporate. He focused on the task at hand. Ignore the cries of agony. Incinerate each enemy in turn and move on.

The soldiers on the terrace rushed toward him, but a gust of frosty wind sent them tumbling back in a clatter of metal. The queen and Xantu pushed them back with alternating blasts of wind and multicolored flames.

As the last sorcerer fell from the balcony, Horace released the power and gasped as a stinging jolt, like ripping off a fresh scab, passed through him. His insides trembled and he felt like he might be sick, but the feeling passed after a couple deep breaths. In the hazy smoke rolling across the terrace he saw the faces of his wife and son, and the pain of losing them ran through him like a spear. He held onto that agony, cherished it, knowing it was the only thing keeping him together. Without it, he would shatter into a thousand pieces. And yet, holding onto the memories was killing him. Slowly, day by day, eating him from the inside, denying him the chance to truly live again.

Sari, Josef, forgive me. I can't do it anymore.

Then Alyra stood beside him. Spots of soot smudged her face, but she had never looked more beautiful. In that moment, he realized he could let go of his past. The pain remained, but it was now a dull ache that was fading with each breath he took. He was free, though an empty hole remained inside him. He was about to reach out to Alyra when a cool voice spoke behind him.

“You astound me yet again, Lord Horace.”

Byleth strode toward them. She sounded pleased for the most part, but there was something else in her tone. Wariness, perhaps. Despite some smeared makeup and a little perspiration beading on her forehead, the queen's magnificence shone like a bonfire.

Yet Horace wasn't as swayed by her looks as he had been before, and he found his gaze wandering back to Alyra. “I was merely repaying a debt owed, Your Excellence.”

“Just remember.” Byleth stepped closer to him and placed a hand over his heart. “You are my champion.”

Horace started to stammer a reply when he caught a glimpse of movement from over his shoulder. He turned in time to see a man in a yellow robe dart out the ruined doorway.

Rimesh.

Horace reached out with his power, intending to seize the priest in a grasp of solid air, but the power slid off without slowing him.

Horace grasped Alyra's hand. “Accompany the queen back to the palace.”

He couldn't tell which of the two women was more taken aback by his command, Alyra or Byleth. Both stared at him with odd expressions. “Please,” he added. Then he took off after the menarch.

The women called after him in a bizarre chorus, “Where are you going?”

Horace kept running.