The old man's face is dripping blood, into his white beard and his withered hand and the snow. A trail of it bounces gently on the black ice like oil in a skillet. Risei can barely breathe. He should tell the man he's bleeding, he should offer help, he should ask after the driver or to be freed from the twist of the bike.

And then the garbledness of the translation spell hits him, in the same place in his mind where every magus has tripped it since the Golem's master on the train.

"You're here to fight," Risei says, dazed and terrified. "You're here for the war."