“Evil will never have a future,” said Agatha, thinking of her kind Evergirl friend. “Not when there are those who want to be Good.”

“And no one wanted to be more Good than me, Aggie,” said Sophie. “But no matter how hard you try to make an Evil heart Good, it won’t take. You know that, or you’d never have given me a chance with your precious prince. You knew full well that I’d make a fool of myself.” Sophie’s pupils gleamed. “But to make a Good heart Evil . . . oh that’s child’s play, Aggie. Because Good hearts are like the softest underbelly, ripe for Evil to rip through. Just ask your friend, Kiko, who I heard crying last night, wishing she still had her ‘best friend’ Agatha to talk to. Quite popular, weren’t you, in your time at school, darling? Too bad your ‘best friend’ won’t be able to talk much longer. She’ll end up making a nice wicked goose, when her Evil education resumes and her mogrification is complete.”

“You know what they say,” Rafal said, smirking. “Even the purest Good excels at Evil when it might end up as Christmas dinner.”

The two of them burst into snickers.

Agatha tensed, thrown by the glee in their laughter. With their ghostly skin, ice-blue veins, and sharp cheekbones, they looked so much alike now.

“Well, there’ll be no goose and there’ll be no Christmas dinner,” Tedros blustered. “Because we’re winning this war.”

“Are you?” Rafal said bitingly. “With your formidable League of . . . Nineteen? Seems you lost your wizard, though there’s so many rallying to your cause that it’s hard to keep up. My, my, how will I ever kill the one hero I need to break the shield?” He scanned the meager group huddled against the trees: eight famous old heroes quailing in fear, four young Never turncoats, a languid white rabbit, a potbellied green fairy, an animal-language teacher, and a feeble old gnome . . . before his eyes fell on Lancelot, sword in hand, watching the conversation between this young foursome with a confused look on his face.

Rafal’s smile darkened. “A complication.”

“Who the devil are you?” Lancelot blustered, squinting at the snow-haired boy. “And when does the School Master get here?”

“That is the School Master!” Hort hissed. “I told you he turned young!”

Lancelot’s eyes bulged in shock. “Good God, why didn’t anyone say so?”

In a split second, he launched forward, with a running start, and hurled his sword like a tomahawk at Rafal’s head. Caught off guard, the young School Master raised his hand too late. Sophie let out a cry of surprise—

The sword blade smashed into Rafal’s forehead, cleaving right through his skull.

Villains froze. Heroes held their breath.

The Stymph Forest was as silent as a corpse.

Lancelot scratched his ear, stunned by how easy it all was, before he flashed a boastful smile. “Hooah! See that, boy? One shot and the cad goes down! School Master dead. Storybook closed. Now where’s our bright sunshine—”