Jass lay despondent in the entryway to her tiny studio apartment.

The lithe, green-haired man who called her Master and could disappear and reappear at will sat crosslegged by her head. He fiddled idly with what looked like a small harp. Occasionally a string of notes improved her mood, but she hated herself for allowing her spirits to lift at all. She had run out of tears long before stumbling home and now she just felt dried out, a husk.

Bobsom was dead.

What the fuck? An hour earlier they'd been making out in the stairwell outside Jerry's office. Young, and in love. What the fuck.

"I would like to help you, Master." His voice was rich and sweet. "I know all the songs of Bethlehem, if any might ease your heart."

Jass didn't respond.

"I can bring you food and water."

Go away.

"Do not forget that you are my Master."

Would this asshole not stop offering to help? Jass steeled herself, managed to utter: "Leave me alone."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," replied the man, voice suddenly stern. Jass blinked. "You are my Master, which means I need you to win the Grail. I can't leave you like this. We must discuss our respective skills and strategy. We must fortify your atelier. The others may come for you as things stand now. I sense no protective enchantments at this time."

"Protective enchantments?" she managed.

"Yes. As a magus, you must defend yourself better. I can protect you from enemies of whom we are aware, but even I can't stop a long range magical assault, nor could I reliably stop Assassin from entering these premises as things stand."

Jass propped herself up on her elbows and looked into the man's piercing green eyes.

"Do you not understand that you are in danger, Master?"

Sure she did. The world was an overwhelmingly dangerous place. Her abuela had made that abundantly clear following her dad's disappearance in the sixth grade. Now Anatoli's words rang in her head, a grim carillon. "We mess with some higher power, maybe there's a reward, maybe there's a price." Yet she had been the one who convinced Onson to play along. If she had slowed her roll just a smidgeon—

"Master, it is not proper, but I am now considering methods of forcing you to listen to me. There is a time for patience and consideration, but this is a time for action."

Jass flopped back onto her side, arms extended in front of her. Three red sheep seemed to have been magically tattooed onto the back of her right hand. If only that hand hadn't held the summoning script.

"Can we go back?"

"How do you mean?"

"Can we undo the ritual."

"Master, do you not seek the Grail?"

"I wanted to make my professor happy. He wanted the Grail." Jass shivered as she tried to process her guilt.

"Is this professor one of the Masters?"

"No," she said, intuiting that the other Masters were her friends. Jerry's other prize students. "If what I am is a Master, and there's seven of us—"

"Six."

"Don't fucking remind me," she cried, and to her surprise she managed to burst into tears. "What—" she caught her breath— "what, what happened to him?" Blubbering she rolled over and looked back to her Servant. "What happened to Bobsom?"

"It is exceedingly likely that Assassin killed him. We did not stay long, as you know, but poison is probable. Few Servants employ such methods."

"Assassin?"

"The woman with green skin. Her Master is the fair-haired boy."

Onson.

Sweet Onson!

The skeptical one! Had it been a ploy? Was he trolling, even as he cast the spell that killed Bobsom? Her imagination filled in the gaps and slowly her guilt and sorrow were replaced with a roasting rage. Jass sprang to life, jumping to her feet and ransacking her kitchen.

"What are you looking for?"

"Knives," she answered, opening and slamming drawers. "I am going to kill that motherfucker."

"Don't bother," said the man with the miniature harp. "When you are ready to join battle, you shall need no blade but the Lord's." He stood and waved his instrument. It disappeared in a shower of golden sparks. "We can kill Assassin's Master with this, if it pleases you." His left hand disappeared behind his back, then reemerged holding a giant sickle sword, easily over four feet long, ridiculously large in the man's hand. Yet he held it like it weighed nothing.

"What is that thing?" asked Jass.

"The sword of Goliath the Philistine," replied the man. "As you are now ready to talk, perhaps it is time for a proper introduction. I am David son of Nitzevet and Jesse, King of Israel, Servant of the Saber Class. I am confident that in a straightforward confrontation, I can easily defeat any other Servant in this Holy Grail War. Now, tell me about yourself. What kind of magecraft do you use?" He waved his hand, and the giant sword was gone.

Jass just looked at him with her mouth open.

"You seem surprised, for a Master in this war."

"I... I suppose I am," she said slowly. "The David?"

"Call me Saber. Our enemies must not learn my name. Tell me: what do you wish to know?"

Jass sighed and closed the knife drawer. She rubbed her temples and poured herself a glass of water. There was no going back. If this man was offering her information, she should take it.

"I guess everything," she said.

"That could take a while," said Saber. "Can you not put some defenses in place before we get into it?"

"I'm not a magus or whatever!"

For the first time, Saber seemed taken aback.

"I suppose that is possible," he said, "though unexpected and unfortunate. How did you come to summon me?"

"Again, this professor wanted it. We just followed his instructions."

"Do you mean to tell me that none of the Masters are magi? And you all know each other?"

"We are close friends." A practiced line, a summary of something more complicated. Then she thought of Onson's boyish face, his hesitation. Bobsom turning purple on the floor. "Were."

Saber frowned, then his face lightened.

"I assume you do not want your close friends dead."

"Not all of them."

"Okay. That is honorable. We will focus on defeating Servants. If you and your friends coordinate, you can have them order their Servants to attack me head-on. I shall defeat them all and we will attain the Grail. No victory could be easier."

"Why can't we just share the Grail?" asked Jass. "Why is there a war?"

Saber shook his head sadly.

"The Grail does not work until no more than one Servant remains. We must defeat the other six and take it for ourselves. Take heart, Master: if you truly wish it, the Grail can restore your love."

Jass didn't say anything. If she could make one wish on the Holy Grail, will one miracle into existence, would it even be to revive one dead human? Her heart yelled at her as she considered the possibility that she wouldn't use her wish to save Bobsom. There were so many problems in the world. Hunger, thirst, imperialist war. The idea of a miracle seemed incomprehensibly grand. Could she not save millions? Billions?

She was still processing, but she could sense Saber's impatience, so she took action. Walking over to the edge of the kitchen counter, she reached behind the microwave, pulled out a thin black cable, and plugged in her cellphone.

"I'll talk to them," she said. "I'm sure my friends and I can agree on a wish. Then it won't matter which Servant wins. You guys can fight it out to your heart's content and we'll stay safe."

Saber laughed at that. Jass, assuming the laughter was mockery, felt her hairs raise, but then she saw the kind look on his face. He was unworried.

"Talk to them, please. But if you come up with any plan that doesn't involve me taking the Grail, you will be hard pressed to command me. At the conclusion of the war, one Servant and one Master—one pair—are granted their wishes. I shall have mine."

Jass stared at him, trying to see how serious he was.

"I'm sure there's still plenty I don't understand, but aren't you here at my pleasure?" She couldn't gauge his reaction. "Could I not send you back to wherever you come from, and be done with all this?"

"Do you not seek the Grail?"

"If my friends agree with me, then their wishes are mine. It doesn't matter who wins."

Saber shrugged.

"You know them better than I. If you are certain they share your wish, you have no reason to continue fighting. Luckily for you, I am above threatening you to stay in the war. But let me ask you this, Master: are you certain they share your wish? And how safe do you think you are, even if you dismiss me?"

"What do you mean?"

"As we speak, any number of Servants may be preparing to kill you. Taking out the Master would seem the path of least resistance for the likes of Assassin or Caster. And you are not even a magus."

Jass considered this. She couldn't put it past Onson to come for her. She could text everyone that she was quitting, but would she believe it if she received such a text from Onson? It would seem a ploy. An hour earlier she couldn't have fathomed distrusting anyone from the group. She had said "close friends," but they were more than that. She also couldn't have fathomed Bobsom's sudden death, and that changed everything. She shook her head sadly, opened the group chat on her phone, and began typing.

"I'll keep you around for now," she said.

Saber nodded in her peripheral vision, then sat back down and began strumming again. Jass finished typing her brief message—"we need to talk"—and turned back to her Servant.

"What is that thing?" she asked.

Saber's eyes were closed. "It is a lyre," he said, "capable of lifting any spirit and driving off any evil."

Jass finished her glass of water and sighed deeply. This whole thing was fucked. Jerry had disappeared, Onson had turned evil, Bobsom was dead. A magical spirit that claimed to be King David was relaxing in her apartment, playing strange melodies on a stranger instrument. She had to figure out how to come to some kind of agreement with the others. No more fighting, no giant swords or magic circles. Fuck the Grail. She just wanted to forget the image of Bobsom's corpse, and to finish the reading for English 440.

Just as she was starting to feel hungry, finally, and actually considered doing something about it, Saber spoke up again.

"We still need a better safehouse for you."

Fuck.

# # #

The voice sounded like it was coming over an old radio. Slowly, the static cleared and the words emerged.

"... at all, Captain. With these methods we can have a Holy Grail War every year, at least." Silence, waiting for a response. "Yeah, yeah, we got his notes. It's all here. We can begin preparations for the next one immediately."

Onson felt he was lying on something hard, long, flat, wooden. His left side was pressed up against another wooden slab.

"Okay, yes. But what should I do with this crop of kids? ... What?" A distant chuckle. "If you say so, Captain. Yes Ma'am, freedom from men and God."

A couple footsteps came from a few feet away.

"Sorry, kid, did I wake you?"

Onson forced his eyes open. The room was dark, illuminated only with what seemed to be candlelight. He lay on a wooden pew, in at least a short row of them, judging by the presence of another to his right. The ceiling above looked like worked rock, the floor below carpeted.

"Where am I?" he asked, looking up at a white-robed blonde man whose haircut could have placed him in an Eastern German village, marching against Merkel's refugee plans.

"First of all, you're safe. Sit up, let's talk."

The man's voice was friendly. He offered Onson a hand, but Onson didn't accept it, instead pushing himself up with a palm on the pew bench. Shrugging, the robed man stepped back and then leaned against the next pew.

"I'm guessing you don't know what you've gotten yourself into. Thankfully, I am the Church-appointed supervisor for this Holy Grail War. While you're in my sanctuary you are untouchable, and I can fill you in on all the details. Where shall I start?"

"The top, probably," said Onson, grimacing as he finished waking up and tasted the inside of his mouth.

"Alright. One thousand years ago, a family of magi known as the Einzberns uncovered one of the truest forms of magic, said to grant immortality by turning one's soul into a the magical equivalent of a perpetual motion machine. This art was never fully mastered, however, and—"

"How relevant is the backstory?" Onson interrupted.

"You said the top," the priest reminded him, frowning. "Anyway, to make a long story short, to this day, magi seek the power of this lost art—among others—, and the Holy Grail War is one method of accessing it. Now kid, do you prefer comforts or truths?"

"Truths."

"Your professor Jerry Cormic is dead. He was an idiot dabbler and got played by a secret society of British magi. They used the mana released by his death—magical energy, mana—as the final catalyst to start the Grail War, trapping you and your friends in a deadly game. You are Masters, and the magical beings you summoned are Servants, manifestations of the Grail's power. With me so far?"

"Yes." He wasn't really with it, but he could follow along if he pretended it was the back cover of a bad fantasy novel.

"Okay. To access the Grail's power, these manifestations must be destroyed, their mana fed back to the Grail. The last standing Master and Servant pair get to wish on the Grail, their desired miracles realized."

"Jerry said he was going to have his wish granted by the Grail."

"Jerry didn't know what he was getting into," said the priest. "Like I said, he got played. If he hoped for a shot at the Grail, he would have had to be chosen by it and summon a Servant of his own." The priest smiled sadly. "It's too bad for him, really. He could have wiped the floor with the rest of you, probably, since he was a magus and you kids aren't."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Onson. He vaguely knew that Jerry thought himself a wizard, but until now that hadn't meant much.

"For one thing," said the priest, standing straight and then walking over to a small altar, "the Grail provides the mana for the summoning of the Servants, but they are anchored in this world by their Masters. They need their Masters' mana to stick around long, especially if they get into combat. Magical energy is needed to maintain a Servant's physical form, to heal its injuries, to power its strongest attacks, and that typically comes from the Master."

"I can't do that, then," said Onson.

"Conveniently for you, it's a level playing field. None of your friends can. There are other ways to feed a Servant, especially if you can find a magus... have sex with them, or drink their blood, or eat their heart. Doubtless some of your friends are hunting for magi as we speak."

"Hunting for magi?" Onson asked. "How would you even find them? Aren't they rare?"

"They're not abundant, no," said the priest. "But a big city like this is bound to have at least a few thousand folks with magical circuits, whether or not they know how to use their powers."

"And you're telling me that my friends have jumped right into this, whole-heartedly, and are going to go around murdering people in order to power their Servants?" Onson could barely finish the question, the idea angered him so. His friends were angels.

"The Grail is on the line, kid. Their Servants want to win; they want to win. Don't you want to win? Your hands aren't clean."

"What have I done?" asked Onson. "I didn't do anything. I just passed out from shock."

The priest burst out laughing, a deep belly laugh.

"Kid, you got first blood." Onson's eyes widened. "I'm the supervisor; of course I see what happens. You all summoned your Servants in the same room, and your Assassin killed Archer's Master in a flash."

Assassin!

"That was her?" Onson asked, blanching. "Where is she?"

"I'm here, Master." The voice came as if she sat a foot away on the pew. Onson felt like he couldn't move away fast enough, jumping up and running backward into the aisle.

"Stay away," he yelled, trying to sound commanding but knowing that he sounded frightened.

"Fear not, Master, I won't harm you. I dematerialized to preserve our resources."

Onson backed away further.

"You, you killed Bobsom?"

"If that was the name of Archer's Master, yes." Assassin sounded proud. "My ability to defend you from attacks is close to zero, and I cannot win a fair fight against most Servants. I assessed that to best protect you in that moment, I should go on the offensive against the Master of the Servant most immediately threatening you."

Onson felt a cold fury build inside him.

"I didn't ask you to hurt anyone."

"You asked me to abide the summons and laws of the Grail. One down, five to go."

"Fuck!" yelled Onson, kicking the nearest pew, causing a magnificent pain to burst through his foot. "Fuck the Grail. I didn't want it, I wanted to make Jerry happy. Why are we dying? Why are we fighting?"

"For better or worse," interjected the priest, "you are a Master in the war now. Don't hate Assassin, who only did more efficiently what another Servant was slower to attempt."

"Is there no way out?" asked Onson.

"Normally, you could give your Command Seals to another magus willing to make a contract with your Servant." The priest pursed his lips. "But Jerry made some mistakes, and I'm afraid you're stuck with her until she loses or the war ends."

"Lose," said Onson simply.

"Excuse me, Master?"

"Go find another Servant and die. I'm done."

"I refuse," said Assassin.

"Aren't I your Master?"

"And my will, yours," came the voice. "Your words. We have a contract. I will obtain the Grail. Help me as little as you like, but I will not sabotage my own odds. And Master—" Suddenly the voice was coming from directly behind Onson, and he jumped forward, turning to see the green woman standing inches away. "—you will keep my mana up. You will figure out a way. You may find I can be quite—" Her hands encircled his face, millimeters from his skin. "—convincing."

"Don't scare him to death, Assassin," laughed the priest. "You won't get far without a Master."

"Tch."

Assassin vanished in a blue flash, and Onson reeled backward, falling on his butt.

"What should I do?"

"My advice?" asked the priest. "Win. Worst case scenario, you use the Grail to bring your friends back to life."

"It can do that?"

"It's the cup in which the blood of Jesus Christ was collected. It works miracles, kid."

Onson looked up at the crucifix on the altar. Wait. The likeness wasn't just uncanny.

"Jesus is one of the Servants."

The priest raised his eyebrows, poorly-feigned surprise.

"I have to kill Jesus to win?" Onson asked. "What the fuck have I been dragged into?"

"Again, it's the Holy Grail War. And you would do to stop thinking of it as 'being dragged in.' You made a contract with a Servant. You chose to speak those words and begin the ritual. You may be young, and you may not be a magus, but you have a chance at a miracle, kid. Most people would kill for this opportunity. You already have! So just stick with it."

"I really don't like you," said Onson.

"You really don't have to," said the priest. "I'll protect you while you're here, whether or not we're buddies. And once you leave, fair warning, you're on your own."

"Fuck," said Onson, standing and brushing himself off. He felt around in his pocket for his cellphone and produced it. Zero bars. "Are we underground or something? I'm going outside to call my friends. We can figure this out." He started walking toward the exit, double doors opposite the altar.

"Careful, kid." Onson stopped. "I said you're on your own once you leave, and I meant it. You should realize the danger you now face, constantly. You are likely to be attacked the second you step outside."

"Great," said Onson. "Is there a back door?"

The priest shook his head.

"Assassin, go out first." She'll take a hit, I'll run.

"Gladly, Master." He was surprised. "We should come up with a plan first, though. Will you stay here until I have finished off our competition? The priest will watch you for as long as the war continues."

"What?" Onson threw up his hands. "You want me to hide in this hole until you're done murdering my friends?"

"That is one way to put it."

"Fuck no," said Onson. "We're going out, you're going to stop any psycho Servants that try to kill me, and I am going to talk to my friends. While you and your fellow magic assholes kill each other over this Grail thing, we'll bury our friend and drink ourselves into a stupor. If you make it to the end, good for you."

"I am surprised by your naivety, Master."

"Shut up, and get out there."

"No."

"Then fuck it I am going."

"No." Assassin materialized in front of the doors, arms spread. She looked past Onson. "Priest, what is your name?"

"Hubert Manweal."

"You said the ritual was incomplete, and that Masters can't transfer their Command Seals willingly."

"Correct."

"I won't last long if my Master dies, but if I find a suitable replacement quickly enough, I can form a new contract, correct?"

"Correct."

Onson's heart caught in his throat.

"Hubert Manweal, Priest of the Church. Will you fight for the Grail?"

"Of course," said the priest.

"Wait—"

"You seem to be a magus. Will you not supply me with mana? Will you not guarantee our success?"

"Definitely. I would kill for the chance."

"Would you kill this boy?"

Onson fell to his knees, curled into a ball. Stop it, stop it—

"I can't do that," said Hubert. "Not while he receives my sanctuary."

"Then I will," shrugged Assassin.

She stepped toward Onson.

"Use a Command Seal, kid!" yelled the priest, and Onson found himself looking at the back of his right hand. He was hopelessly confused and scared, but he knew what he wanted more than anything else: to survive. Without fully understanding why, he focused on the flowers painted on his hand and wished for his life to be spared. One of the three flowers faded into his skin, leaving just the top and left side of the skull pattern intact. A red light flashed through the room and Assassin stopped, an arm's length away.

She spat at Onson's feet. The carpet wilted and burned where her saliva touched it.

"Sorry," said Hubert, addressing Assassin. "I can't let you kill him here, either."

"You are a lucky man," she said, disdainfully, looking down on Onson. "And I am a fool for bringing you here to protect you."

Onson said nothing, rocking slightly in place.

"The way I see it, we have three options. Would you like to hear them?" Assassin waited for a response, then continued when none was forthcoming. "One, you can hide here while I win the war. Two, we can step outside so that you can die and I can create a new contract with the priest. Three, we can formulate a plan for winning this war together."

Assassin paced, the carpet crumbling beneath her bare feet.

"I will take care of him if he stays," said Hubert, "and I will take care of you if he goes."

"Master," said Assassin, impatient. She crouched down, knees, wrists, and face level with Onson's tired gaze. "Every second we waste, the enemy Servants refine their plans. They devise traps, prepare weapons. I don't have all day." She stood and stomped her foot. "If you can't talk, raise your hand. One, two, or three."

Onson thought he would die after all, then and there, burning to a crisp in his shame, as he lifted one finger above his head.