At dawn before late summer's end, the ridgeline of the Caldra Mountains began to pale. Two young demon soldiers stood at the watchtower on the Nebel Pass side, their backs against the rock face as they gazed out at the darkening ridge. One had just stifled a yawn. The other still held a water flask drawn from the Schwal Spring. Both their throats split without sound. The first had a blade drawn from behind, collapsing forward before he could cry out. The water flask tumbled across the rocks, its faint sound rippling through the night air. The second felt a blade slip in behind his ear, dying where he stood. One leg trembled in small spasms for several seconds before it stilled. No one inside the fortress noticed. Ashna Vilhelm lay in shallow sleep on the thin bedding of the barracks. The summer nights in the Caldra Mountains were cold, the bedrock drinking in all warmth. The sensation from that night by the fire—the night she'd applied medicinal herbs to Grimhart's wounded hand—drifted occasionally along the edges of her dream. It was a peaceful dream. That peace shattered with a deafening roar as the outer wall exploded inward. Dooooom——!! The bedrock trembled. The entire fortress shook. Her body bounced with the bedding, and Ashna was hurled against the stone floor as she rolled. The southern outer wall of the fortress collapsed inward with a violent burst. A combined spell formation of four chanters—siege magic from the Holy Staff Ministry—sent boulders weighing hundreds of kilograms raining down toward the barracks. Screams and the roar of stone mingled together. Dust painted the air black. In the darkness, rocks shattered, wood splintered, someone was screaming. Ashna crawled toward the wall and covered her head. Part of the ceiling collapsed, and a fist-sized stone fell just beside her. The smell of iron and earth mixed together, catching in her throat. Somewhere inside the fortress, flames were rising. Ashna clawed through the rubble and emerged outside. Her right knee was cut. She could see the blood, but the pain came later. The moment she stood in the fortress courtyard—through the flames and smoke, she saw a man. The man was not hurrying. While demon soldiers ran in confusion around him, this man alone was different. He walked with unhurried grace, as though strolling through his own garden, advancing through the flames. On the metal breastplate of his armor, Ashna recognized the emblem carved there. The Star Staff crest—the seal of the Holy Staff Ministry. Demon soldiers who approached him, one after another, were sent flying. He hadn't even drawn his sword. Light seeping from his body was nullifying every spell the demons cast. The blessing of a hero—the sacred power of the star god Polaris. Short-cropped golden hair. A small scar on his left lip. Eyes like ice water, pale blue, found Ashna. She knew him. She knew that face. Tuurya—the man who had walked south of the hill that morning. When one of his subordinates had said, "There are children as well," and he had answered, "There is no purity in children or adults." The morning her father's voice had cut off mid-sentence, the last human face Ashna had ever seen. Orvan Sturm did not stop. He glanced at Ashna, his eyes narrowing slightly. "[cold]Ah, a survivor from that village. I was careless to leave you alive." His voice was emotionless. The voice one uses when confirming an insect. Something poured out from Ashna's entire body. Flame. There was no control. Anger took form and spilled outward. The rubble in the courtyard took on an orange glow, the sand at her feet hardened from the heat. Ashna extended her right hand to hurl it all at him—but the flames were repelled by light before they could touch Orvan's body. It wouldn't reach. The sacred blessing was deflecting the demon's power. "[serious]Fall back." Zeerie flew in from beyond the flames. Her purple hair swayed in the rising heat, her silver eyes meeting Ashna's for just an instant. That alone was enough—Ashna's feet moved. Even as she retreated, her eyes would not leave Orvan. Orvan saw Zeerie and, for the first time, placed his hand on his sword's hilt. "[serious]I have been waiting for you, Zeerie. I always thought the day would come when I would face the general of the demons." "[cold]There is no compromise. This is your end." The moment his sword was drawn, it crossed with Zeerie's. Sparks scattered, and Ashna's vision flashed white. The meaning was clear. Leave. She ran into the fortress interior. The remaining four members of the hero's party were already moving through the fortress. They did not hesitate. With movements that showed intimate knowledge of demon combat strength, they divided the corridors and cut off escape routes. As Ashna ran through a passage near the training grounds, a shout erupted ahead. Grimhart was shouting, "Run!" Ashna rounded the corner as she ran—and there stood a training companion. A young man who had spoken to her in the dining hall half a month ago, asking, "Two subterranean lizards—there were two of them?" A demon slightly older than Ashna, with dark brown hair tied back, holding a sword as he faced off against a human soldier. In the moment she recognized this much, the human soldier's blade came from behind. It pierced through his head. He collapsed forward. Blood spray struck Ashna's left cheek. It was warm. It smelled of iron. "[angry]Ashna!" His voice came. But her feet would not move. Ashna knew the way of falling. She had seen it before. Before the flames consumed him, Wenzel had collapsed forward. Her father had collapsed. The same sight from that morning was happening now, in this corridor. Her feet were glued to the stone floor. A presence came from the blind spot. A sword was falling toward her. Straight down from above her head. The one bringing it down was a young woman. Early twenties, golden hair, armor bearing the Holy Staff Ministry's crest. Her eyes showed no hesitation as she brought the blade down, meeting Ashna's gaze. "[scared]Ashna——!!" Her body moved. She had not thought. Flame poured from her right hand. A fist-sized mass melted through the woman's breastplate. It pierced between her ribs. Clang——the sword fell to the stone floor. The woman dropped to her knees. Eyes wide open, she fell forward. Blood spilled from her mouth. She stopped moving. Ashna looked at her right hand. Her fingertips were charred. Her palm was red from the residual heat of the flames. She had killed a person. "[serious]If you're going to cry, do it later." Grimhart stood before Ashna, sword raised. The next soldier came running. His silver hair was covered in dust, the vertical scar on his forehead had opened and blood was flowing. Ashna saw this and realized for the first time that she was crying. She was crying. She didn't know when she had started. The battle continued until noon. The moment Zeerie released all her magical power while bearing a deep gash on her left arm, the stone pavement in the courtyard outside shattered, and Orvan retreated for the first time. The human soldiers began to withdraw. Ashna watched their backs as they left the ruins of the fortress. Orvan turned back once as he retreated. He looked at Ashna. He said nothing. He turned on his heel. Ashna understood the meaning of his silence. He would come again. That was all. The fortress was half-collapsed. By evening, the count of survivors was complete. Of two hundred, sixty-three were dead, and nearly forty were wounded. The stone wall that had served as the dining hall had collapsed, with three bodies buried beneath it. Zeerie, pressing her right hand against the deep gash on her left arm, moved from face to face, confirming each one. Zeerie came before Ashna as twilight was fading. Her face was covered in blood. Half her armor was shattered. Yet she stood. "[gentle]You may cry." Zeerie continued quietly. "[gentle]But do not forget. The reason you can cry is because you still have the capacity to cherish people." The moment Ashna received those words, a sob escaped her. Zeerie did not pull Ashna close. She simply stood beside her. Standing on the same ground, facing the same direction. It was not the stance of support. Its meaning was only in being there. Grimhart was working near a wall some distance away, draping cloth over the bodies. One by one, carefully arranging the fabric. His gaze turned toward Ashna once. Then it returned to his hands. Night fell. As the work of clearing rubble continued, Ashna sat alone in a corner of the fortress's remaining wall. She could not sleep. When she closed her eyes, that face appeared. Golden hair. Eyes wide open as she fell. Early twenties. That woman must have had a name. She must have had a place to return to. Someone must have been waiting for her. Ashna had read human texts because she wanted to know that humans too were beings who loved and were loved. Even as her village burned, even as she hated Orvan, she had not wanted to lump all the humans on the other side together. That knowledge was piercing her now. She looked at her right hand. The hand that had released the flame. The telling of demon memories is for the sake of one's people. A ritual of passing down the names of the dead through oral tradition. The name of that woman would be forever unknown to Ashna. The name of the one she had killed would be forever unknown. Unknown, but—whether this hand had been right, that too was unknown. Footsteps came. Grimhart approached with a bowl of water and, without a word, sat down beside her. He placed the bowl on her knee. That was all. He said nothing. He did not leave. Ashna accepted the bowl. She held it without drinking. The two of them gazed into the same darkness for a while. The night the fortress was half-destroyed, the night sixty-three people died, the night Ashna killed a person for the first time. Grimhart said nothing. That was the only thing Ashna could accept tonight. The next morning, as the work of clearing rubble began, whispers started spreading among the fortress's veteran soldiers. The coordinates had been too precise. It could not be explained by scout tracking alone. Someone had told them the fortress's location—this voice began spreading like a stain seeping into stone. And the direction of all gazes converged on one point. That newcomer who brought in human texts, they said.