"The Godma Army is marshaling its forces outside Cynthia's walls. That is why King Royce requires the strength of other monarchs, the power of us sorcerers, and your particular talents. He needs us to mount the magical resistance against the Southerners that you've long advocated for. I know your devotion to your homeland runs deep, Monica. Which is why, at this crucial juncture, you must summon your resolve."

  "Do you truly believe we can prevail?" the red-haired girl asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, will our efforts to repel the Godmans bear fruit?"

  Augler Prescott chuckled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You're inquiring about matters far beyond our current horizon," he said, smiling. "You don't yet know what tasks we sorcerers must undertake. Soon enough, King Royce will unveil his strategy—what he requires of us. To your question, I can only offer this: it shall be fraught with peril, unprecedented in its scope. Yet, should we prevail, it could irrevocably alter the tide of this conflict."

  "Even against a power like the Godmans?"

  "Yes, even then. But it demands absolute unity, Monica. Individual efforts will not suffice."

  Monica Dunston nodded solemnly. "If there's a chance to save Cynthia, I'll lend whatever aid I can—even at the cost of everything I hold dear."

  The harpsichord was no longer under Delores Zimmerman's command but had been claimed by a male elf. Though Monica had encountered elves before, this one exuded a palpable nobility. Rather than merely playing, he seemed to be conversing with the instrument through his fingertips. Each phrase the harpsichord offered was answered by his subtle humming, creating a perfect dialogue where neither voice overshadowed the other. His performance conveyed a singular sentiment—profound reverence for the instrument, for music itself, and for beauty in its purest form. It was evident he played not to impress an audience, but to satisfy his own artistic soul. The rest of the ensemble, comprised entirely of elves, positioned their gut lyres and joined in harmonious accompaniment.

  The red-haired girl smiled, her hands rising unconsciously to trace phantom melodies in the air. "'Drizzling Rain,'" she murmured, enchanted.

  "A masterpiece by Montelos Lilaro Bariti," Augler remarked, absently twirling a strand of his dark hair. "An exceedingly emotive elven composer."

  Monica turned to him, her surprise evident. "You are familiar with it!"

  "Though I lack academy credentials, I maintain some appreciation for the finer arts," he replied, straightening his posture slightly.

  "His phrasing has such distinctive character."

  "This court musician summoned from Illuviλofer is, himself, a virtuoso of considerable merit," Augler observed, watching her graceful hand movements. "You could remove your gloves, you know."

  Monica Dunston's smile vanished instantly. "No. I couldn't possibly." She hastily withdrew her hands to her chest, as though shielding them from view.

  "There's no cause for shame," he said, his voice gentle. "All fire sorcerers bear similar marks. None escape unscathed."

  "Please don't patronize me, Augler. Only the most reckless fire practitioners end up with hands like mine," she said, averting her gaze. "And it isn't shame I feel; it's... revulsion at their ugliness. Mine are particularly disfigured."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Which only testifies to the extraordinary rigor of your training." The male sorcerer placed a light hand on her shoulder—a gesture more paternal than romantic. Monica did not recoil. "Enjoy the feast, Monica. The conclave will commence shortly. When the performance concludes, Prince Robert will address the gathering. Then we, the sorcerer delegates, will retire to a separate chamber where Deborah will preside. King Royce himself will grace us with his presence."

  The red-haired girl seemed lost in the musical tapestry, offering no response. "Perhaps I should take my leave," Augler sighed softly.

  "I'd rather you didn't," Monica replied without looking up. "Would you stay? Please?"

  "Assuredly, my fair lady," he acquiesced with a subtle shrug he took care to conceal.

  "Let's engage in a little diversion," Monica Dunston suggested, her voice reclaiming some of its earlier vitality. "I'll identify which attendees are sorcerer representatives. If my deductions prove correct, you'll reveal their names and whatever else you know about them. Agreed?"

  "Any information I possess is at your disposal," he confirmed.

  "Excellent." The sorceress narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the banquet hall with fierce concentration. Augler followed her gaze with amused interest, mentally calculating how many guests stood between her and her true quarry. Locating five individuals among more than a hundred was no small challenge. Monica crossed her arms decisively and fixed upon her first target.

  "The gentleman by the dining table."

  "What leads you to believe he's a sorcerer?" Augler appeared genuinely perplexed for the first time. Her chosen subject had close-cropped hair and a powerful build. The man selected a dragon fruit from a platter without apparent deliberation. "He strikes me as more martial than magical—a knight, perhaps."

  "I stand by my assessment. Reveal the truth, Augler." Her confidence was unwavering.

  "Your instinct serves you well, Monica. He is Gregory Monroe Longinus, representative of Dud. Though I'm curious about your method. He carries no staff, displays no obvious magical artifacts, and has performed no spells in this gathering."

  "The clue was elementary," Monica replied with quiet triumph. "He consumed dragon fruit from that platter without hesitation or selection."

  The dragon fruits appeared decidedly past their prime—verging on rot. "Ah! Illusion magic, of course."

  "Precisely. Some sorcerer cast a glamour on those fruits to make them appear spoiled and unappetizing."

  "Most impressive, my lady," the male sorcerer conceded. "Please, continue your hunt."

  The red-haired girl moved with decisive swiftness this time. "The woman in the corner, shrouded in that hood."

  Augler Prescott momentarily faltered. "Correct again, my lady. Your reasoning?"

  "Her face is adorned with intricate tattoos!" Monica replied, sticking out her tongue playfully. "She resembles... well, what common folk might call a wicked enchantress."

  "She remains an enigma. Even our intelligence services have gathered precious little about her. She calls herself Sarah, hailing from Wyrmδenborn, the Land of Dragons."

  "She seems disinclined toward social engagement and her attire hardly conforms to the evening's... sartorial expectations."

  "I had presumed Deborah wouldn't—perhaps couldn't—secure the attendance of a Wyrmδenborn sorceress. I doubted she would even attempt it. After all, no emissary from Wyrmδenborn graced the Council of Seven Kings."

  "Yet she accepted the invitation nonetheless."

  "Therein lies the mystery. The folk of Wyrmδenborn rarely condescend to mingle with humans of other realms, save for elvenkind."

  As the final crystalline note dissipated into the hall's vaulted ceiling, the three movements of "Drizzling Rain" reached their conclusion. The elven virtuoso bowed with fluid grace to the appreciative audience before departing with his ensemble.

  "The time has come." Guests began congregating toward the hall's focal point as Prince Robert ascended the dais amid polite applause to deliver his address. Several women followed in Deborah Borealis's wake, moving discreetly in the opposite direction. "Let us join our colleagues," Augler said, turning to Monica. "Come—we mustn't keep King Royce waiting."