“Steady yourself, my friend,” he murmurs, the sound of running footsteps and Tonbokiri’s own observation informing him that these are in fact their quarry. He walks up to his companion then, a leisurely gait quite unfitting for the situation as he glides his fingers across his harp.

The notes reverberate in the air, and a second later a neat hole appears in each of the knights’ helms, as if punctured by some invisible force, whereupon they crumble into piles of snow.