Matabar

Ardi lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, where a small ice replica of Kaishas glided lazily through the air. It traced pirouettes around the ever-changing clouds, which at times transformed into the familiar peaks of the Alcade.

The stern, somewhat menacing cliffs hanging over the abyss, carpeted by the tops of firs and pines, now seemed so desirable. They represented a place where everything was clear and known.

Home...

A four-winged eagle soared among the peaks, occasionally dipping toward the mirror-like surfaces of vast lakes that were so clear that, even in their deepest parts, one could still observe the small fish scurrying about the sandy bottom.

It had been three days since Ardan had spoken with the Cloak. And in all that time, an intrusive question had refused to leave his mind, buzzing in his consciousness like an annoying mosquito on a rainy morning, giving him no peace.

Why?

That was the question.

Why all of this? What was the point? What did Ardi want from his life? In the mountains, it had all been so simple: hunting, games, friends, but here...

Sure, his cooperation with the crown was ensuring his family’s well-being, but it would be foolish to deceive himself with such justifications.

The crown hadn’t arranged a better life for Shaia, Erti, Kena, and Kelly out of some desire to please the great-grandson of Aror Egobar or the son of Hec Abar (Hector Egobar). No, not at all.

If the Emperor truly intended to show the Firstborn races that a new chapter was beginning under his rule, he needed a vivid example.

Something told Ardan that, in the newspapers that would come out right after the coronation, he would not only see his face next to that of the future Emperor Pavel IV, but also a picture of a certain house in Delpas and its happy residents. And it would perfectly illustrate the new opportunities for families like the Egobars.

But what then...

Back when Ardi was little, he loved studying the many scrolls of Atta’nha and the art of the Aean’Hane because they reminded him of his great-grandfather’s stories and fairy tales, which had captured his imagination from an early age with words like "magic" and "wonder."

Now...

Ardan raised his hand, and the ice copy of Kaishas folded its wings, descending onto his palm.

Now he was spending hours in a training hall on the other side of the continent, trying to hone spells designed for only one purpose — combat.

What was beautiful about that? What was magical about it, even? And... why and against whom was he supposed to fight?

And so, he kept returning to that same question.

Why?

And he found no answer. If before, Ardi simply hadn’t understood who he was — a mountain hunter or a budding human mage — now there was another question as well. Where was he going, and to what end?

What had been the purpose of his grandfather, whom he had thought to be kind and funny, but who’d turned out to be his great-grandfather who had spilled rivers of blood? And not just the blood of Imperial soldiers, but also of innocent civilians as well?

What had been the purpose of his father, once a simple ranger, who first became a bandit of the Shanti’Ra, bloodthirsty and ruthless, then a hero of the ongoing conflict on the Fatian border, fighting for those he had once hated, and later falling in love with a human woman?

What goals had they been pursuing? What paths had they chosen for themselves, and why had they given their lives for them? And most importantly: why hadn’t they shared their thoughts with Ardan?

All his father had left him was the advice to be strong for his family and for himself. But for some reason, he’d never explained where and how to apply that strength... Strength that, for now, he didn’t even possess.

Ardi sighed and severed his connection to the shard of the Name of Ice. In that same instant, the replica of Kaishas vanished.

It dissolved into a cloud of steam, and the young man, pulling a silver spoon from his shirt sleeve, hurled the makeshift projectile toward the doorway.

"Ouch!" A cry rang out as the spoon hit its mark, seemingly striking a forehead, though Ardi had been aiming for the person’s stomach.

And as he had suspected, the intruder had been standing too close to the barrier that absorbed magic, and the Shield they had intended to deflect his strange projectile with was absorbed along with the clever spell that had previously concealed this uninvited guest from Ardan’s senses.

Propping himself up on his elbow, the young man glanced toward the entrance. He’d expected to see anyone from Urnosov to Tatiana’s younger brother (he had finally figured out who that boy was), but certainly not the person who now stood before him, rubbing her bruised forehead.

Holding a slender, white staff in her delicate fingers, she stared at him with bright blue eyes — eyes that reminded him of the last icicles of early spring. They were not as cold as that, but definitely clear and sharp, like the frozen droplets of a playful brook waking from winter’s slumber.

Her youthful, chubby cheeks were tinted with a natural blush, and her long eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a startled butterfly. She wore a black floor-length dress and a corset that somewhat comically emphasized the developing curves of her young but still childlike body.

She also had a low forehead, an oval face, and as-yet-unformed cheekbones. She was beautiful.

So beautiful that her future attractiveness was evident even though the girl was no more than thirteen years old.

And she had strange hair. She wore it loose, unbound by ribbons or pins. It was straight, went down almost to her waist, and was blacker than a raven’s wing — but in the center of it, a reddish mark stood out. It was almost like a birthmark, if such things could appear in hair. It was in the shape of a flower.

Ardan noticed it when the girl turned on her heel, about to leave the room.

"Wait!" He called out.

Her hand froze, barely touching the door handle.

"I’m sorry," Ardan apologized sincerely. "I didn’t realize a child was spying on me."

"I’m not a child!" She almost growled, which, for some reason, made Ardan smile lightly. "And I wasn’t spying on you!"

"Then what were you doing?" He asked.

"I was studying!" She stated proudly, her voice almost indignant. "I’ve never seen the art of the Aean’Hane before, and I was curious, so I-"

"Spied on me," Ardan concluded.

The girl huffed, flinging the door open wide, and Ardi, shrugging, lay back down on the floor. He didn’t have the time, desire, nor need to figure out who this girl was.

At least she wasn’t Urnosov.

For several seconds, Ardi lay with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he saw her round face peering down at him, so close to his own that their noses almost touched.

"What are you doing now?" She asked.

"Studying," he replied.

Indeed, her gaze held a lively curiosity and interest that was so pure and simple that, for a moment, Ardi felt like a captured animal being led this way and that, as she tried to figure out exactly what she had caught.

"You look human," she said after a few seconds. "Only your eyes and fangs aren’t human. And your height. I think the only person I’ve ever seen who was close to your height was the General-Governor of Shamtur Town, but he’s probably shorter."

"By much?" Ardi asked.

The girl pondered, then held her fingers apart, indicating a couple of centimeters of difference.

"I see," Ardi murmured and closed his eyes again, briefly returning to his thoughts.

"Why are you lying on the floor?" She suddenly asked.

Ardan reluctantly opened his eyes. The girl was still crouched next to him, her staff lying beside her.

"It helps me think better," Ardan answered honestly. "A habit from childhood. My teacher always said that if you lie on stones and look at the stars, your thoughts will have more room to wander."

"And who was your teacher?"

"An old snow leopard."

She laughed.

"But snow leopards can’t teach humans!" She exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh... you’re not a human."

Ardi smiled.

She was odd. And she smelled strange. She bore that same flowery scent he himself carried, which clearly indicated that they used the same kind of soap. And yet, her hair held a faint aroma of smoldering embers and river stones.

She reminded him of a curious, young fawn that was afraid of its strict parents who’d forbidden it from leaving the grove. But when no one was watching, the fawn would slip away for secret adventures.

Ardi had done something similar in his childhood.

The girl looked up at the ceiling.

"But there aren’t any stars here," she pointed out reasonably.

"Nor in all of Metropolis," Ardan agreed.

Indeed, over the past few days, he hadn’t seen a single star in the evening sky.

"That’s due to light pollution and the low cloud cover," the girl promptly reported, as if she were taking an exam. "The city emits too much light."

"I see," Ardi nodded. "Thank you. That’s good to know."

She tilted her head and studied his face.

"You’re not mocking me," she stated, not asking.

Ardan had indeed thanked her sincerely and seriously. He had spent some time searching the library for information on the starless sky of Metropolis, but in the overwhelming abundance of books and sections, it wasn’t easy to find an answer to such a specific question.

Unexpectedly, the girl then lay down next to him, her legs in opposite direction, head to head, so close their ears nearly touched.

"I’ve never seen stars," she suddenly said. "No, wait. That’s a lie. A few years ago, my father took me to an estate in the King’s Forest, and there were stars there, but I fell asleep almost immediately and don’t remember much."

And for some reason, her voice sounded so sad and strained, like a violin weeping without comfort. Though clearly, her sadness was not because of the stars...

"Would you like to see them?"

"See what?" She asked, surprised.

Ardan smiled.

"The stars."

She frowned.

"I’m not even allowed to leave my room without permission, and you’re talking about stars. Where would I-"

Ardi ran a pin, which he hadn’t used to prick his finger this time, along the stone floor, striking sparks. He caught them in his hand, feeling them burn against his skin, and then brought them to his lips and blew, directing them upwards.

At the same time, he listened to their cheerful laughter and constant chatter. They were like joyful girls before a date. He felt their heat, which was so wild that, compared to it, even the fastest mustang seemed like a tame foal. And he also sensed how brief their lives were. Born in a moment, and destined to disappear in that same moment.

But Ardan didn’t let them.

He caught the echo of sounds that weren’t even fragments of their names, drew in their melody, became part of their whispers, and Spoke the words — not with his tongue or lips, but with his soul and mind.

These words lifted the sparks higher and higher until they reached the ceiling. Then the tiny flames flared, multiplying until they covered the entire ceiling with countless sisters of theirs, which twinkled like stars.

They shone and sparkled, forming constellations so familiar and dear to Ardan.

This was what the sky over the Alcade looked like in his memory.

"Beautiful," the girl whispered in awe, reaching toward the ceiling. "Oh, look! There’s a shape like-"

"That’s the Soaring Phoenix constellation," Ardan explained. "Its beak always points to the central peak of the Alcade Mountains, and its wings to the north and south."

"And what’s that?" She moved her hand lower.

"The Cavalry constellation," Ardi answered. "They gallop across the Swallow Ocean, their horses’ heads turned toward the islands."

"And this one?"

And so they lay there, perhaps for almost an hour. The girl asked him about constellations, and he told her everything he remembered from the scrolls of Atta’nha. Somehow, it brought him a sense of peace.

"Amazing," the girl whispered at one point. "Such beautiful magic."

"Magic?" Ardan asked, surprised. "This isn’t magic."

"Then what is it?"

Ardi gazed at the starry sky above, and letting the sparks drift freely, he shrugged. He didn’t know how to explain the art of the Aean’Hane to the girl. It was like trying to describe how you remember to breathe or think or...

It was simply part of him, like a hand or a leg.

"Your name is Ard, isn’t it?" She asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes," the young man admitted.

"What does it mean in your language?"

Ardan pulled a cord out of his shirt, from which hung a talisman shaped like an oak tree.

"Strong roots," he replied with a lump in his throat.

"That’s beautiful," she said dreamily.

"And what’s your name, young lady?"

"I’m not young!" She snapped, springing to her feet with the grace and agility of a cat, and heading for the door.

Ardi turned to look at her, suddenly realizing what had unsettled him during the first few moments of their encounter. Her hair, which was so smooth it could easily be mistaken for silk, was concealing traces of breakage and paint in certain places — especially where her fiery red "birthmark" bloomed in the shape of a flower. It had clearly been hidden. And dyed over.

Ardan lay back down and looked up at the ceiling. He knew what kind of flower it was. He recognized the scent.

"You know, young lady," Ardan began, his throat tight with emotion, "in my father’s homeland, there’s a legend. My grandfather used to tell it to me when I was a child. It’s about a master who lived on a mountain." He paused as he heard the door creak open slightly. "When he was old and gray, the Fae kidnapped him to make him their servant — they were so enamored with how the master worked with stone."

"Where are you going with this?"

"The Fae, in order to ensure that the master wouldn’t grow homesick, decided to deceive him. They did not lie, for the Fae cannot lie, but they tricked him, because even without lying, they are the best at deception. And so, the master returned home, but no one loved him anymore. His elderly parents didn’t recognize him, his wife was in another’s arms, and his own children were afraid of him. So, the master thought that his entire past life had been a dream and left with the Fae to their kingdom. And when, decades later, he realized that he had been tricked, it was already too late. His children were old and had grandchildren of their own, and his parents and wife had long since become grass and trees."

"But how did he live for so long? Even Matabar don’t live that long."

Ardi didn’t bother pointing out that he hadn’t mentioned that he was a Matabar. She knew who he was. And he had guessed who she was.

"The Fae made him live longer," Ardan answered. "But the master found a loophole and began to age, little by little. Before his death, he carved a flower from mountain crystal. The Altane’Mare. The Crystal Mountain Flower. In the Fae language, it means ’Night Heart.’ And this flower became his greatest creation, for though it was born from stone, it was alive. And whoever drinks a healing brew made from it will be cured of any ailment of the heart and freed from the bonds of any enchantment that makes the heart hard and unyielding."

The girl remained standing at the threshold, holding the door ajar but saying nothing. Finally, she whispered softly, her voice trembling slightly:

"I’ve always wanted to thank you," she said, her words barely audible. "And… your great-grandfather… If I could…"

"Such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits," Ardan replied quietly.

She left.

This was the little girl whose life had been saved several years ago by a foolish boy, setting into motion an entire chain of tragic events.

The Grand Princess Anastasia, daughter of the future Emperor.

***

"My lady," Tatiana knocked softly on the bathroom door before stepping inside.

She was carrying a tray laden with bottles and jars, as always. Placing these "treasures" on a side table next to the tub, Tatiana began opening them while Anastasia gazed out of the window. Outside, the streetlights gleamed, and every now and then, car headlights flashed as they passed by.

Almost like stars.

Only not in the sky, but on the ground.

"Tatiana."

"Yes, my lady?"

"Have you ever had a friend?"

The maid was clearly surprised by the question but quickly composed herself.

"A friend?" She repeated.

"Yes, a friend," Anastasia nodded. "And don’t try to twist the meaning. I’m thirteen, not six. I know what favorites and lovers are, but I’m asking about a friend."

Tatiana flushed slightly, but after taking a calming breath, she sat on the edge of the tub, not caring that her apron and dress might get wet.

She dipped her hand into the water, wetting her fingers, and gently ran them through the young princess’ hair.

The girl in the tub… was the same girl who’d used to dash through the mansion, peering into every corner. Armed with a broom, she had bravely fought off rats to help her beloved cats. She’d explored the farthest nooks, imagining herself a heroine of many adventures and journeys.

She had once argued fiercely with anyone who’d claimed that such activities were beneath the dignity of a Grand Princess, threatening to run away and travel across the Empire.

And then... Then she had fallen gravely ill. The best healers of the land, including elven healers and Grand Magisters from the Grand University, had been unable to cure her ailment.

No one could heal her until one day, her mother disappeared. When she returned, she brought with her a crystal flower — alive, though it was made of crystal. She told them how to prepare the healing brew, and the princess was saved.

But everyone had been so terrified of her getting hurt or sick again, including the heir to the throne, that the girl was stripped of any freedom from then on. Tatiana could count on one hand the number of times Anastasia had been allowed to leave the mansion since then. And even those outings were brief, strictly monitored by trusted operatives of the Second Chancery, and had never lasted more than an hour.

As for balls, receptions, and other formal gatherings, Anastasia had outright refused to attend those, going so far as to throw tantrums. In her youthful ignorance, she’d believed she could change her parents’ minds, but they had simply resigned themselves to her refusal and had found the perfect excuse to offer to high society: the lingering aftereffects of her illness.

And that had instantly silenced all rumors and questions. Perhaps the Cloaks had had a hand in that as well...

And as for her education, the finest tutors in the land would come to the mansion to instruct the girl, who had shown a remarkable aptitude for learning... and an equally remarkable talent for driving her tutors to the brink of a nervous breakdown.

Only Urnosov had remained her steadfast, permanent teacher, likely because Anastasia found solace in the Star Magic he taught her.

Tatiana had always pitied this sincere and kind child, trapped like a swallow in a gilded cage. She was meant for the sky, not...

"A long time ago," Tatiana replied, stroking the girl’s hair gently, "I had a friend."

"What was his name?"

"Stepan. We lived in neighboring apartments in a tenement building. We went to the same school."

"How did you become friends?"

Tatiana thought about it for a moment.

"I don’t really know, my lady," she shrugged. "I never really thought about it. We were just friends, and that was that. I felt comfortable with him, and he didn’t ask anything of me or try to... well. Perhaps we should leave that part out."

"I’m not a child."

Tatiana scooped up a handful of foam and playfully flicked it at Anastasia’s nose, causing the princess to frown and puff out her cheeks.

"Of course not, my lady," the maid replied with a warm smile.

The Grand Princess turned back to the window.

"I’ve always dreamed of having friends," she whispered softly. "When my mother told me about the boy she met in the mountains and how he led her to the Fae Kingdom, I felt like a heroine from a book. I got this feeling that somewhere far away, I had a friend."

Tatiana remained silent. Who better than her, the one who had raised the princess while her parents had been occupied with the affairs of the Empire, would understand how the girl, after her illness and confinement, had lost herself in books, wandering through the legends, myths, and novels that had filled her days?

"And now, I’ve met that boy," Anastasia continued. "But I think he’ll never want to be my friend."

Tatiana recalled the scene from just over a week ago when sir Egobar had declined the royal gifts and had left the dinner hall with his head held high.

Yes, they were alike.

"Life, my lady, is always more complicated than it is in books."

Anastasia sank lower into the bath, hiding under the foam until only her nose and eyes peeked out.

Tatiana ran her fingers through the princess’ hair again, then stood and approached the tray of bottles.

"Don’t," came a soft plea from behind her.

"My lady, you-"

"This Crystal Mountain Flower," Anastasia brought her hair forward and stared at the pattern she had once loathed, the mark that had become the symbol of her cage, an impenetrable lock and the strongest of bars. The mark that had turned her once fiery red hair into a black as dark as night. "It’s called Altane’Mare. The Night Heart. It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?"

"It does," Tatiana nodded.

"I won’t dye it," Anastasia said, crossing her arms defiantly.

"But my lady-"

"If my mother wants it dyed so badly, she can do it herself, however she likes!" Anastasia declared. "I won’t! And you can tell her that."

The Grand Princess turned her back to the maid, her posture radiating finality. She stared out the window at the lanterns that looked like stars.

Maybe if she had a friend, those lights wouldn’t seem so cold.

***

Ardan stood before the mirror, gazing at a stranger’s reflection. He was clean-shaven, without dark circles under his eyes or sunken cheeks, and with clear skin free of blackheads and blemishes. No more greasy hair matted in places from dust and grime, either.

And, most unsettling of all, the stranger was dressed in a suit. He wore a black woolen jacket, cut in a military style (Tatiana had told him it was the latest fashion), with gleaming lapels and a high collar. There was also a white shirt paired with a peculiar bowtie, which had been tied in the shape of a butterfly. Without Tatiana’s help, Ardi would never have managed such a noose.

A narrow leather belt, fashioned from the hide of an unfamiliar reptile — he’d identified that it had been made from an amphibian by its scaly pattern — with a broad buckle embossed with the Empire’s crest, held up tailored pants with sharp creases. The ensemble was completed by polished shoes with thin, impractical soles that would be shredded after the first few hundred meters of road.

But, as Tatiana had assured him, these shoes were "not for the streets."

"Not for the streets," Ardi repeated, adjusting his shirt cuffs, held together by gleaming cufflinks adorned with small emeralds.

To him, the concept of "shoes that were not for the streets" sounded absurd.

He glanced once more at the mirror. Yes, the suit looked outrageously expensive, and had surely been crafted from the finest of materials, but could it really cost a hundred exes? Had everyone in Metropolis gone mad?

Sighing and grumbling about his future stipend — or rather, the fact that he wouldn’t see it anytime soon — Ardan moved away from the mirror toward his sparse belongings.

A knapsack that held the clothes sewn by his mother and the textbook of the Stranger, a satchel filled with Gleb Davos’ books and artifacts (no one had come looking for them, so his stained pillowcase seemed to have been unnecessary), and a case containing his everyday clothes. That was all.

He tucked his father’s knife into the belt at the back, hung his grimoire at his side, and held his staff firmly.

Technically, he should have been wearing the Star Mage epaulettes on his jacket, but the future Emperor had decreed that, on the day of his coronation, the rule requiring mages to wear their regalia was suspended until the end of the festivities.

Recalling Mart’s tale of Theia Emergold’s rebellion, Ardan figured it was a pretty shrewd political move.

"And since when did you start caring about politics?" Ardi muttered to himself.

He picked up his sack and satchel, gave a final look around the room that had been his sanctuary for the past two weeks, and bade it farewell as he stepped into the hallway.

Davenport was already there, waiting to take his bags. As Ardan had suspected, Atura’s husband was indeed a military man. Today, he was dressed in a green formal uniform. Medals gleamed on his left breast, while ribbons decorated his right, and his epaulettes bore the golden insignia of a general. No wonder he had such an easy rapport with Urnosov.

After all, as a general — perhaps a retired one, given how much time Davenport spent at the Anorsky estate, but it was more likely that he was one of the Grand Princess’ tutors — he was high up in the social pecking order as well. Incidentally, after their brief encounter in the training hall, Ardan hadn’t seen the future heir to the throne again.

"If you forgot something, just send a letter, and we’ll have a courier bring it to you," Davenport reminded him as they descended the stairs.

For once, the typically taciturn, maybe-retired general felt chatty.

"At the ball, try not to engage in conversation with anyone," Davenport continued, his words as measured as his steps in his high black boots. "And certainly don’t get into any debates, especially about politics or religion. If someone offers you a dance — refuse immediately."

Ardan couldn’t resist blurting out, "Why?"

Davenport stopped, turning to look at him as if Ardan had suffered a childhood head injury. Then again, considering how many times Ardan had tumbled down cliffs onto rocks…

"Because you’re the great-grandson of Aror Egobar," Davenport said calmly. "And though the Dark Lord has been dead for centuries, that doesn’t mean there aren’t still those among the children and grandchildren of those who served under his banner who hold to his ideals. Believe me, you don’t want to get caught up in their web. Just as you don’t want those who suffered by the Lord’s hand to associate you with those who spilled their families’ blood at the fortress of Pashar."

"I have no interest in the Dark Lord, politics, or the nobility," Ardan replied honestly.

It was all, frankly, irrelevant to him.

"I believe you, Ardi," Davenport nodded. "But you’re a new piece on the board for these bloodthirsty fools. So…"

He left the sentence unfinished.

"You don’t like the nobility," Ardan realized suddenly.

"Not all of them, kid," Davenport didn’t deny it. "I’ve served alongside the sons of dukes, great princes, and high-ranking noble families. Many of them are honorable patriots, willing to give their lives and their fortunes for the good of the Empire. But I’ve also met such vile creatures and sycophants that I regret the ban on executing the heirs of noble bloodlines."

Ardan still recalled that aspect of the criminal code from his civics lessons. Dukes, princes, and their heirs were exempt from the death penalty or hard labor.

"You’d be right to say that this applies to many people and Firstborn as well," Davenport added as they reached the front door, "but they don’t have the same resources as…" Davenport trailed off, turning slowly to look Ardan in the eye. "Ardi, for the love of all the Eternal Angels and Saints, you’ve got to do something about this. I’m literally pouring my heart out to you like I’m in front of a priest in a confessional. Someone is going to kill you for it one day."

Ardan smiled awkwardly, while Davenport shook his head grimly and stepped out onto the front steps. A cold wind, brought by the ocean’s autumn gales, slapped Ardan in the face. The first shy snowflakes fell on his skin, melting into cold droplets. Here in Metropolis, winter laid its claim to autumn far earlier than it did in the Alcade.

The truth was, Ardan didn’t even understand how his Witch’s Gaze worked on ordinary people. Skusty, during their training, had taught him how to peer into another’s soul through their eyes, but now people seemed to be telling Ardi everything even during simple conversations.

Ardan had no idea how to control this gift, but one thing was clear: if he didn’t address this issue, he could find himself in a dangerous situation one day.

But that was a concern for tomorrow.

Climbing into the familiar automobile, Ardan placed his staff on the floor and gazed out the window. Atura sat beside him once again, resplendent in a shimmering gown, her hair styled in a complex updo; she also wore a fur wrap over her shoulders and held a small purse in her hands.

Up front, beside the chauffeur, Davenport checked something in the glove compartment, and they set off.

As they drove through the twilight, Ardan listened to the hum of the engine, which seemed like a distant rumble against the backdrop of the city’s living, pulsing rhythm. The scenery outside the window, winding through alleys and wide boulevards, revealing the granite embankments, unfolded like the pages of an enchanted tome.

The world beyond the window had wrapped itself in a shroud of brilliant light, a kaleidoscope of glowing hues born from a myriad of different sources. The glowing windows whispered softly of the quiet lives within, of the joys, concerns, and troubles brewing behind each glowing light.

Street lamps topped with the emblem of the two-headed phoenix stood tall over the sidewalks and roads, casting golden beams upon the cobblestone streets and the joyous people bustling below. Every corner, every alley of the city seemed alive tonight, harboring its own secrets.

Leaning against the misted window, Ardan watched the figures strolling along the pavements. Their faces were bathed in the soft glow of the lanterns, their voices providing a melodic accompaniment to the city’s heartbeat.

Every now and then, the sky would be filled with the bright flashes of fireworks, their light reflected in the eyes of the many spectators making their way toward the Kings’ Square. Each new explosion in the night sky resounded with the joy of an entire city, serving as a prelude to the coming event. The emblem of the two-headed phoenix fluttered upon the flags being waved by the crowd. It was as if it were wrapping its broad, fiery wings around all the people and making no distinction between rich or poor, commoner or noble, human or Firstborn.

And the closer they drew to their destination, the more people there were. Many overflowed from the sidewalks onto the streets, blending with the cars, whose drivers didn’t honk or shout at the pedestrians. Instead, they moved slowly, allowing the people to walk alongside them.

The masses surged toward the heart of Metropolis to witness firsthand the ascension of their new ruler.

He was the heir to the Agrov name, the family that had ruled the Empire since Gales’ rebellion against Ectassus — Grand Prince Pavel. He was the future Emperor of the New Monarchy, Pavel IV. From the newspapers in the Anorsky library, Ardan had learned that the people loved him far more than his two younger brothers, his older sister (while she’d still been alive and the heir to the throne), and numerous cousins.

Pavel, who’d been sent to the Imperial Cadet Academy in his youth, had risen from the rank of private to become a Colonel of the cavalry corps. He had sustained several injuries on the Fatian border, including one that had left him unable to walk or run properly, so he now relied on a cane to move. But even so, he hadn’t left the service until his honorable discharge.

After retiring from the military at the age of thirty-seven, Pavel had dedicated himself to public service. He’d built a coalition in all three Chambers of Parliament, using it to push for social reforms and legislation.

Thanks to him, even in small towns like Evergale, schools had received new textbooks, teachers now earned a decent salary, and students could expect a reasonably competitive education.

After fifteen years, Pavel’s efforts had increased literacy in the Empire by nearly sixteen percent, had cut child mortality in half, and had even led to the opening of nearly a hundred new rural hospitals and schools each year.

Not to mention his introduction of state health insurance for the most vulnerable segments of the population, including Firstborn, and new benefits for factory and plant workers.

So, it was no surprise that the entire capital was celebrating the ascension of its beloved heir to the throne.

A never-ending stream of people and Firstborn flooded into the city’s heart, chatting and laughing as they moved toward the festivities.

Ardi observed it all through the car window as they turned off Niewa Avenue and down an unassuming side street, where other equally expensive and grand cars were lined up. They approached a checkpoint where several men in red and black uniforms stood, along with a pair of mages carrying staves.

The guards from the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Second Chancery were working together tonight.

"I’m Corporal Norsky," the young man in uniform, who was also wearing a warm coat, introduced himself. A rifle with a bayonet hung on a strap over his shoulder.

The driver handed over a paper, and Norsky saluted Davenport before waving them through.

Along with other fortunate guests, they drove into the square. The oval-shaped building of the Army’s General Headquarters flanked the square from the city’s side, its center marked by a tall arch with beautiful, wrought-iron gates, its bars forming the symbol of the two-headed phoenix. Right now, the gates were closed, keeping the citizens out, and several companies of soldiers, along with a platoon of cavalry and mages, stood guard.

But on the river side...

At the very heart of Metropolis, spanning almost six hectares, lay the Kings’ Square. Paved with cobblestones, it was now dotted with puddles from melting snow, but even those added to its grandeur by reflecting the celestial lights and street lamps.

And there, on a slight elevation, with broad stairs leading up to it from the square, stood the Palace of the Kings of the Past.

An architectural fusion of grandeur and elegance, it seemed to hover above the ground. Its walls, bathed in an otherworldly glow, radiated a magical aura, as if the essence of moonlight had been captured by skillful hands and etched into stone. Every cornice and every corner seemed alive — not only in the reflection of gilded details, but in the warm embrace of this indescribable, mystical light, which was emanating not from floodlights, but seemed to be coming from within the palace itself.

Cylindrical pillars soared upwards, their white surfaces adorned with intricate golden reliefs telling the story of the vast Empire’s past. Every thread of fine carvings shimmered, catching and complementing the nuances of the golden light playing upon them.

The dome of gold and platinum reached toward the sky, crowned by a proud spire, yet it did not appear overbearing or haughty. On the contrary, it seemed to offer reassurance, inviting all to come inside, promising to make no distinction between those who had just entered and those who had once lived here in the heart of the Empire.

And around the palace, trees of various species grew, each one glowing with a golden radiance.

Ardan’s breath caught.

It was one thing to see the Palace of the Kings of the Past in illustrations and grasp that it was truly massive, spanning from the square to the riverside. But standing here, near it — he could only see the main façade and the grand entrance for now — was entirely different. The palace defied imagination.

Their car, along with a procession of others, sliced through the puddles as they pulled up to the eastern steps. Doormen approached and, with a bow, opened the doors.

Davenport exited first, extending his hand to help Atura, and only then did Ardan step out. The cold air kissed his face, and after two weeks of being cooped up inside, he welcomed the chance to take a deep breath.

"Don’t linger," Atura urged.

The three of them ascended the steps, and while the nobles chatted and murmured amongst themselves, Ardi couldn’t tear his gaze away from the palace. It could’ve made all of his grandfather’s stories and legends fade into the background with its beauty, surpassing even the grandest of myths.

He extended his hand, allowing it to bathe in the golden glow. It was warm, like the heat from a bonfire lit on a particularly cold night, and gentle, like a kitten.

It was only when he came to the grand doors, which were massive and gilded with intricate patterns forming the ever-present symbol of the two-headed phoenix, that Ardan snapped out of his reverie.

Stepping onto the red carpet, they walked beneath the palace’s vaulted ceilings, heading into a place where a simple hunter and cowboy from the borderlands should never have found himself.

Here, in these vast halls, everything was steeped in a luxury that far surpassed anything Ardan had ever seen, even in the Anorsky mansion. Silver, gold, platinum, gemstones, rare kinds of wood, marble, and granite — everything his gaze landed on not only possessed unimaginable value, but had also been crafted with such elegance and mastery that Ardan momentarily felt as if he were surely dreaming.

For a fleeting moment, he even felt slightly out of place, until the feel of his staff, carved from the wood of his homeland’s foothills, restored his confidence.

Flanking them in what seemed like an endless corridor of doormen and guards, and standing by numerous open doors, halls, mirrors, and galleries, moved the nobility. They were every possible kind of noble and, surprisingly, they were from different races as well. Ardan could have sworn that he spotted several nobles who weren’t just sturdy but almost too sturdy — barely reaching the waist of a normal human and yet with shoulders broad enough to rival any brawny man’s, and beards so thick they could be mistaken for armor.

He also saw tall — even taller than himself — statuesque figures whose faces were so perfect it was impossible to distinguish whether they were men or women — only their clothes and the slight differences in build offered any clues. Their silken hair was long, and their ears were longer still, sharp and pointed.

But the surprises didn’t stop there. Among them, Ardan recognized the familiar sight of steppe-dwellers. He saw massive orcs clad in suits and uniforms, accompanied by equally solid women in dresses. It was surreal enough that Ardan had to pinch himself.

And when they finally entered the grand hall, which was almost as large as the square outside, where couples danced to the music of an orchestra under the balconies and mezzanines, and stayed in close-knit groups as they chatted, Ardan’s eyes were drawn to even stranger sights.

His great-grandfather had told him that, aside from humans, orcs, dwarves, and elves, other races had once inhabited the New Monarchy. But after the wars of Ectassus and Gales, followed by the Dark Lord’s rebellion, their numbers had dwindled.

And so, getting to see a group of giants — human in appearance, but standing an average of three meters tall — as well as several ogres, who instead of wielding clubs, carried massive walking sticks and were leaning on their wrinkled hands... it was overwhelming. Ardan wasn’t sure what to make of it, but even more unsettling was the sight of gaunt goblins, stooped and thin, who were holding crystal goblets.

Ardan shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the image of ogresses and goblin women in dresses, hoping they wouldn’t haunt his dreams.

He devoured the sights of the grand hall, intended for lavish celebrations, balls, and grand receptions. Three stories high and crowned with an oval dome, it glittered with floating chandeliers, which were not suspended by ropes or chains, but seemingly hanging in mid-air. Countless rows of candles flickered, their light dancing across the stained-glass windows depicting rulers of the past.

Ardan felt the same awe he’d experienced when he had first entered the humble home of Atta’nha.

"The art of the Aean’Hane," he whispered.

"Indeed," confirmed Atura, who was standing beside him. "Several Speakers, in exchange for immunity from prosecution, enchanted this hall two hundred and fifty years ago, and it has remained unchanged ever since."

Enraptured by the magic, the grandeur, and, truth be told, the people and Firstborn who’d filled the hall, Ardan, along with Atura and Davenport, moved to the far wall. There, long tables groaned under the weight of an array of appetizers.

Beyond them bustled servers, who were dressed in simple but clearly expensive outfits. They poured drinks and held silver platters polished to a mirror-like shine, ready to offer hors d’oeuvres to the guests.

"Cod liver pâté and a glass of Lintelarian red, please," Davenport requested in a polite tone.

"Of course, General," the server replied, hurrying to fulfill the order.

As Ardan had gathered, the retired general was courteous to everyone, whether they were a janitor or a nobleman — except, perhaps, for Urnosov. Oddly enough, the mage had been absent for several days now.

Before the server could return, a stout man with a gleaming, bald head and a protruding belly, which was straining the buttons of his formal uniform, approached them. He was about Davenport’s age, though his companion looked much younger. The young woman’s white dress was adorned with wide skirts and a tight corset, while the thin strap of a watch encrusted with diamonds, rubies, agates, and more, encircled her wrist. She also wore a necklace so heavy it nearly made her graceful neck bow under its weight.

"Gabriel!" The man boomed, embracing Davenport without a shred of decorum.

Surprisingly, Davenport returned the gesture, clearly pleased to see the man.

"Maurice," Davenport replied, patting the man’s back. "I see your belly is growing, and your wives are getting younger?"

"And I see your fingers are stiffening along with your character. What happened to the fun-loving artilleryman I knew?"

Davenport answered with only a thin smile.

Maurice turned to Atura and, bending down slowly, kissed her hand.

"Lady Atura, you are as beautiful now as you were twenty years ago."

"Thank you, Baron-General," she replied.

Baron-General… Meaning Maurice was not only a high-ranking officer, but also held a noble title, albeit the lowest one. In essence, he and Davenport were equals in the military, but in the social world, Maurice was a true nobleman, while Davenport was only nominally one. This was reflected in their ranks and insignias.

"And this, I assume, is the great-grandson of our dear enemy?" Maurice turned his gaze on Ardan, sizing him up from head to toe.

"Ard Egobar," the young man introduced himself.

"Your surname is well-known to me," Maurice responded coolly, without the slightest bit of pleasantry, but also without any hostility, either. "Your great-grandfather once burned half of my family alive and impaled their charred skulls on pikes."

Ardi nearly choked on the air he was breathing in, but Maurice simply chuckled and slapped him on the right side, his hand landing almost exactly where his wound from the Wanderer had yet to fully heal.

A sharp flash of pain momentarily blinded the young man, but he managed to keep his composure.

"Relax, Mr. Egobar," Maurice smiled a dead smile. "That was over two centuries ago. I wouldn’t even recognize those people in their portraits. Let’s not dwell on the past."

Ardi nodded, doing his best to avoid reflexively clutching his aching side.

"Gabriel," Maurice turned away from him with the same casual disregard people would show to something utterly insignificant, "I was glad to see you, but I must remind you that I’m still waiting for you at the club with the rest of our comrades."

"Of course, Maurice," Davenport shook his hand. "As soon as I can, I’ll join you."

Maurice once again kissed the back of Atura’s hand.

"Lady Atura."

"Baron-General."

"Honored to have your acquaintance," Maurice said with a slight bow, then disappeared into the crowd with his young wife.

Once the portly man was well out of sight, Ardan exhaled and rubbed his side.

"As I was saying, Ardi," Davenport handed him a plate of hors d’oeuvres.

"He- "

"Maurice Talos," Atura explained, picking up where Davenport had left off. "Is one of the sons of the Talos noble family, with a seat in the Upper Chamber. A reliable and brave man."

"And considerably fatter since he retired," Davenport muttered, sipping his wine. "He changes wives almost every five years."

"But he’s still your friend, dear."

"A friend," Davenport confirmed, "though our political views no longer align."

Ardan decided it was best to follow the advice given to him earlier — he would keep his mouth shut.

"The Talos, boy," Gabriel continued — Ardan suddenly realized that it was only now that he’d recognized Davenport’s given name — "are among those who oppose any laws or amendments that aim to equalize the rights of humans and Firstborn. And when he claimed that he doesn’t even remember his ancestors who were killed by your great-grandfather and the Dark Lord… Well, when men like Maurice Talos speak, don’t listen to their prattle — watch their actions."

Davenport nodded toward Ardan’s still-aching side.

Over the next half hour, as the hall continued to fill with more guests, several more notable figures approached them.

First was a man so thin it bordered on sickly, with thick glasses and a quick, almost nervous manner of speech. He turned out to be a prominent researcher in the field of alchemy and the head of the Alchemists’ Guild. After that, an elderly woman exchanged a few cold words with Atura before leaving. Apparently, she was a famous dressmaker or something of that sort. Then there were a few retired military men who embraced or shook hands with Davenport, and a few women of Atura’s age with whom she exchanged pleasantries.

But overall, the dozens of people who approached Atura and Davenport never stayed longer than it took to exchange greetings before melting back into the crowd.

Ardan didn’t understand the point of such brief interactions. It was like saying, "Look, I’m here, and you’re here," and that was it.

Finally, just as the hall had become crowded enough to almost burst, a stooped old man approached, leaning on a staff carved from white wood. To his left glided several women of such blinding beauty that even Cassara would have had a hard time competing with them. To his right walked two young men — one wore a saber at his side and the other carried a staff similar to the old man’s.

Their sharp ears marked them as elves, and the old man’s face was even streaked with patches of bark, while small twigs and leaves peeked out from his long hair, which cascaded down onto his old-fashioned robes.

As soon as Davenport spotted the approaching delegation, he set his glass aside and bowed deeply for the first time that evening. Atura, too, dipped into a graceful curtsy.

"Your Grace," Davenport greeted the elderly elf.

"You’re Gabriel, I believe," despite his age and appearance, the elf’s voice was as clear and pure as a spring breeze passing over a merry stream. "The illegitimate son of Inockentiy Anorsky."

Ardan’s eyes widened in surprise. He had learned more about Davenport tonight than in the entire two weeks they had lived under the same roof.

"That’s correct, Your Grace," Davenport replied without rising.

The elf nodded and turned his gaze to Atura.

"And you, Atura Davenport, are the closest friend of our future Empress-Consort. You bear a pleasant appearance along with a venomous tongue, like a snake in the grass," at these words, Davenport tensed but held himself in check.

"It is an honor, Duke Abrailaal, that you know my name," Atura responded with a measured tone.

Abrailaal... Duke Abrailaal...

Of course! This was one of the four Firstborn who held seats in the Upper Parliament. Ardan had read about him in the papers. There, the duke had been congratulated on his six hundredth and something birthday.

This was the oldest living being in the Empire. The last of those who had witnessed Ectassus and…

"And the offspring of a traitorous people," the duke’s green eyes, devoid of pupils, since his iris blended with the hue of his sclera, locked onto Ardan’s.

…the one who had not initially joined Ectassus’ battle against Gales, but had later betrayed the Dark Lord, switching sides to aid the humans, which led to the Dark Lord’s forces being surrounded and crushed at the fortress of Pashar.

Their eyes met, and for the first time in his life, Ardan felt the touch of the Witch’s Gaze upon himself.

It was as if someone had tried to reach into his mind and peer into the deepest corners of his soul, uncovering his most hidden thoughts.

As Skusty had taught him, Ardan mentally conjured up the towering peaks of the Alcade and the snowstorms that raged there during the most violent tempests, along with the fierce roar of Ergar, who would always welcome the storm, his native element.

Abrailaal exhaled a small cloud of frost, and the sensation of the foreign gaze vanished.

"Indeed," the duke said in the language of the Fae, "you really are a descendant of Aror…"

With that, he simply turned and, along with his entourage, drifted off without so much as a goodbye or a word more.

Davenport and Atura straightened and exchanged glances.

"What did he say to you, Ardi?" Davenport asked.

Ardan translated.

Davenport muttered a curse under his breath. "Abrailaal, Ardi, is one of the most dangerous and fearsome figures in high society," Davenport warned, watching the elf’s delegation disappear into the crowd. "Considering how long his wooden face has been in this world, he’s likely become a grandmaster in political games by now, so… pray to your Sleeping Spirits that this was the only time your paths cross."

"He seemed-"

"He didn’t seem like anything at all," Davenport cut him off and, seeing Ardan’s shocked expression, sighed. "Of course, you don’t know… Your great-grandfather killed Abrailaal’s eldest daughter in a magical duel. His pregnant daughter. So, compared to Maurice, who doesn’t remember his ancestors due to the passage of time, Abrailaal… He’s an entirely different story."

Ardan shook his head. Was there anyone in this hall whose ancestors hadn’t been-

"They won’t approach you," Atura said suddenly, answering the question Ardan hadn’t even asked aloud. "You’re probably wondering if there’s anyone here who would be inclined to favor you. Well, there certainly are a few of them at least. But they won’t come near you because that would be too loud a statement, drawing unwanted attention. Meanwhile, your possible enemies, or detractors, are the ones who want to make public declarations of their stance."

"So that means…"

Atura nodded.

"All those who approached us during this time — you can be sure they’re not to be trusted, as they came here with only one goal: to publicly declare that you are out of their favor, which means anyone who interacts with you positively will likewise fall into disfavor."

"This is…" Ardan struggled to find the right word. "It feels like some sort of game."

"It is a game," Atura agreed. "Only the stakes are your life, Ardi. But for now, you don’t need to worry about that. Everyone knows you’re under the crown’s protection, and aside from some petty schemes, they won’t dare try anything more."

Suddenly, Ardan realized why Atura and Davenport hadn’t left his side the entire evening. An illegitimate son of the Anorsky family and the closest friend — the "gatekeeper" — of the future Empress-Consort… That duo, too, was a public statement.

Sleeping Spirits… how complicated the world of high politics was.

Mart had been right.

Ardi should’ve stayed as far away from this pit full of quicksand as possible.

"Your attention, please!" A booming baritone echoed through the hall, drawing everyone’s gaze. "Entering the hall now are the heir to the throne, His Grace, the Grand Prince Pavel Agrov, with his wife, Duchess Oktana Anorsky, and their daughter, the Grand Princess Anastasia Agrov."

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