I often fight demons, but rarely in the living world. Would it be wrong to admit I enjoyed fighting Kasmodeus? I mean, we’re supposed to seek battle only from necessity. A stallion protects the herd, and to enjoy the fight too much is … hmm … it’s a bit thorra, isn’t it? It’s crass to admit I might have relished leading that beast on a chase, tripping him, tricking him, ripping his head from his shoulders.

Would it be wrong to admit I felt hollow disappointment Kasmodeus had been alone? That I didn’t wish to stop with his slaughter, that I wanted to turn to the next enemy, and the next, and the next after that?

Even though I knew Kasmodeus’s banishment would be temporary, even though I knew no right-thinking person could enjoy such barbarity, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at the end.

Yes, it would be wrong to say such things.

Forget I mentioned it.

At the end, I remember hearing Brother Qown shouting my name. I turned toward him, intending to lash him for breaking cover. My words died as I saw rolling blue smoke spread out from the baron’s box. The smoke moved as fast as a strong man walked. Nothing about it seemed natural.

Inside the box, the death-pale nurse who had attended the warden gathered up her embroidery basket and a puppy. She directed Tamin’s soldiers to follow her, but I didn’t see Tamin himself.

Neither nurse nor soldiers seemed bothered by the smoke. Each had a strange symbol marking their foreheads. Whatever it meant, it hadn’t been there when I had visited earlier.

Then I saw the blue smoke surround a servant, tendrils invading the man’s nostrils, forcing entry into his mouth. He dropped his drink tray and began choking, hands closing around his throat.

I turned back to the crowds.

“Run!” I roared, but the spectators were already galloping to safer fields. I hurried to the two cages containing bandits and rebels.

There would be no running for them.

“Arasgon, help me!”

He screamed back to let me know he’d heard.

Brother Qown stumbled from the smoke. A yellow glyph shone on his forehead, but otherwise he gave no sign of distress. He saw me, pointed, yelled as he ran forward. His fingertip glowed.

Helmet. He was shouting, “Helmet!”

The screams around me changed in tenor and tone, mixed now with coughing, choking, sobs. I decided the time and place for anonymity was over and pulled the helmet from my head. Brother Qown ran to me and traced his fingertip against my forehead. The air quality changed. I no longer smelled ash or smoke, the rotten scent of stale blood, burning flesh, or the warm-grass scent of horse manure. This air smelled pure, so fresh and sharp it was like being back home, after a day riding in the mountains.