The magician raises his wand.

Initially, this commission seemed simple. One large country invading a much smaller one, a clear case of aggressor and victim—but nothing is ever so straightforward. Spells of every kind require immense concentration: There are so many moving parts, each of which must align in perfect synchrony with every other, otherwise nothing—or, worse, something completely unexpected—will happen. He personally witnessed the Champs-Élysées disaster, seen the chaos, the bodies, the blood . . .

The wand weighs heavily in his hand.

Precisely once he visited the aggressor nation, in the summer of his youth. There was a young man whose face he still sees with great vividity in his dreams. They shared moments of joy that echo now, even though the details of those moments have long faded to nothing. Where is that young man? Full of regret, like him, for what is lost and cannot be regained? Fearing what else might now be lost?

His dreams contain Champs-Élysées too . . . the screams, the broken limbs, the horror . . . the warning.

Perhaps, he thinks, he’s getting old.

The wand trembles in his hand, and he grips it more tightly, lest anyone see its tremor.

Old? Never!

Deep breath in. Hold the spell in memory and thought. Every complex movement, every subtle cadence, every delicate refrain.

And there—in that moment of perfect clarity, when all other concerns vanished—begin!

The wand comes down.

The orchestra sounds.

And not so far away, across all the battlefield, torrential rain begins to pour.