Matabar

Ardan closed the book and, leaning back in his chair, rubbed his eyes. They were slightly tired from the light of the oil lamp, which sputtered on the table, casting dancing shadows across its green, felt-covered surface.

With Tatiana’s help, he had finally found his way to the mansion’s library.

It was a true labyrinth of knowledge, akin to a sanctuary where the past, present, and even possible futures intertwined in the harmonious rustle of turning pages. The library’s vastness seemed so grand to Ardan that over the last few days, he’d found himself lost more than once in the enchanting worlds captured in ink.

Endless rows of towering wooden bookshelves stretched out in a room that appeared to have no end, their dark, polished surngs of the Past and faces glistening softly in the surrounding light. Each shelf was crammed with volumes of various sizes, their spines a myriad of colors and textures, each hinting at the vast worlds and stories hidden within.

Between the tall bookshelves swirled columns with scroll cubbies, each scroll adorned with its own peculiar labels and markings in so many languages that Ardi doubted whether specialists could be found to translate even half of them.

The library’s vaulted ceiling vanished somewhere high above, among the dim mosaics darkened by time. Many upper shelves seemed to reach toward it, holding their treasures beyond the reach of their rare visitors. To address this, ladders with rollers had been placed throughout the room, gliding smoothly to allow seekers of knowledge to reach even the most elusive, hidden manuscripts and tomes.

The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of old paper, leather bindings, and a faint hint of polished wood. Soft footsteps on marble floors and the gentle rustling of turned pages created a delicate backdrop for this "cave of knowledge." It was incomparably larger than the one in Atta’nha’s home.

Here, in this kingdom of letters, it was easy to lose track of time, something Ardan had been content to indulge in for five — no, six days straight.

His routine differed very little from what he had established while traveling by train. He would wake up, do a small workout, take care of his morning hygiene, and then have breakfast in the company of the same three people: Atura with her novels, Davenport with his newspapers, and Urnosov... being Urnosov, which spoke volumes to those who knew him even a little. Afterward, he’d journey to the library.

Ardan had hoped to find helpful treatises on Star Magic, given the renowned reputation of the Anorsky family as great Star Mages, but... It would have been foolish to assume they’d keep all their knowledge here, in a place where, as far as Ardan could tell, any guest of the mansion could access it.

So, while this kingdom of manuscripts hadn’t revealed any direct information on Star Magic to him, that didn’t mean Ardi hadn’t managed to find something interesting.

Since the day the she-wolf had taught him how to read, Ardan had not been able to imagine himself living without books. And after all these years, he was delighted to be surrounded by them once again, without anyone to distract him or disrupt their long conversations.

In the past six days, he had already read through a five-volume collection on the history of the Empire, several monographs on the political structure of the world (which had covered far more ground than the limited scope of his school textbooks), and perused the diaries of famous explorers from the Imperial Geography Guild. He’d even skimmed through the notes of a scholar attempting to translate the Fae language, which had amused Ardi greatly, given how wrong the renowned linguist had been in his assumptions. He had also devoured a heap of essays, journals, and even a few textbooks on the development of technology.

After all that, things like central heating, plumbing, and the presence of an elevator in the mansion no longer surprised him. Ardan wished he could try it for himself, but it was located in the eternally-locked west wing.

Curiosity had been gnawing at him for a while about what lay behind the doors of that corridor, but whenever he’d found himself near the entrance, Davenport had appeared, reminding him of Cassara with his silent watchfulness.

So, Ardi had shrugged off those thoughts, deeming them unimportant to him.

One of his most rewarding discoveries in the library, aside from the vast trove of knowledge, of course, was the map of the Metropolis, which Ardan had carefully copied into his notebook.

The household had an unspoken rule: Ardan was required to attend breakfast (he had tested this theory by heading straight to the library once, but Davenport had promptly come to fetch him), after which he was free to do as he pleased, within limits.

Tatiana would bring him lunch, usually to the library, and dinner to the training grounds — perhaps the most valuable place in the mansion for Ardi.

Since he’d finished his apple juice, Ardan closed the book he had been reading about the changes in flora and fauna on the eastern continent after the war between Ectassus and Gales. Glancing at the clock on the wall, which said that it was five in the afternoon, he stood up and made his way outside.

He often felt tempted to visit the training grounds earlier, but like the west wing, the doors to the basement remained locked until the clock struck five, with Davenport standing grimly on guard duty there.

He left his dishes on the table.

He had once tried to bring them to the kitchen himself, but after a few conversations with Tatiana, he’d realized that such an action disrupted the staff’s workflow, as they had their own set routines. And so, he’d had to come to terms with his "noble" role, which clashed with the laws of the hunt, but Ardan was no longer living among animals.

Closing the tall, lacquered doors behind him, Ardi couldn’t resist pausing to admire the woodcarver’s work once again. When the doors shut, the carved relief immediately formed the image of a two-headed white phoenix spreading its wings, looking both east and west, which symbolized, according to the history books, the boundless expanse of the Empire, whose shores were lapped by two oceans.

In its golden claws, the phoenix held the sword of the Kings of the Past and an oak leaf — the new life of the Emperors. Upon its wings, the mythical bird bore the crests of the kingdoms, realms, and peoples once "incorporated" into the new state.

Ardan had seen this symbol before, as it was the crest of the New Monarchy Empire. But until now, he had never found it to be this majestic and, in some ways, even beautiful.

He stood there for a few moments, paying his respects to the craftsmanship, before striding down the corridor, his heels clicking on the white marble.

He descended the staircase — which was fenced off with wrought-iron railings that had a gilded handrail — into the basement, although the term "subterranean floor" would have been more fitting.

The staircase led to a spacious corridor that was illuminated by the cold, sterile light of Ley lamps, their wires snaking along the ceiling.

Proceeding forward, Ardan reached massive, monolithic metal doors that stretched from floor to ceiling and were at least three centimeters thick. Such doors could likely have withstood a hit from heavy artillery, and yet they opened as easily as the most mundane of their kind.

Beyond them lay a vast hall, still bathed in that same sterile light.

However, in its case, even the word "spacious" would have been an understatement.

From the entrance to the opposite wall, Ardi estimated the distance to be about a hundred and twenty meters, while the hall’s width reached nearly forty.

In addition to the Ley lamp wires running along the walls, there were others that seemed to reach down almost to the floor, barely remaining a handspan above it, enveloping the perimeter of the hall.

At first, Ardan hadn’t understood the purpose of this device supported by so many wires, but as soon as he’d tried to summon an Ice Arrow to use it as a benchmark for calculating the offensive power of the Stranger’s spells, the purpose of it had become clear.

The moment the spell, which had first formed a shard of ice, had been launched, the border of the contraption had flared with white light and enveloped the entire hall in the faint shimmer of a transparent dome. His arrow had struck the barrier without even causing a ripple — it had simply dissolved into the haze, becoming part of it.

Ardan had been so astonished by the sight that it had taken him a while to realize the second remarkable feature of the training hall. The Ley energy he’d used to cast the spell hadn’t dissipated. It had hung in the air, so concentrated that the young man had had no difficulty retrieving it.

Next time, of course.

The first time, he had missed the window of opportunity. The expended Ley energy, after the barrier absorbed the spell, would linger in the air for exactly twelve seconds before dissipating.

But even so, in Ardan’s opinion, this hall was a treasure trove, allowing him to practice his spells without worrying about running out of rays. And considering the fact that his wallet now held a little more than two exes, the magnitude of this pleasant surprise was impossible to underestimate.

And so, naturally, by the second day, Ardan had tested the full range of the combat spells left behind by the Stranger. The Frosted Darkness spell, as he had predicted it would, created a static, cold area of darkness within which even his eyes could barely make out any shapes.

The Ice Wall (his own take on the Stranger’s Ice Wave) summoned a moving wall of ice, with modifications to the seal allowing him to adjust its properties. If he wanted it to move faster, the wall became thinner and shorter. If he needed it to be larger and thicker, its movements slowed to a snail’s pace.

Incidentally, in order to break the Wall in its strongest form, he ended up using five Arrows, which, through simple arithmetic, suggested that Ardan himself wouldn’t be able to break it under normal circumstances.

Unfortunately, he’d had no opportunity to see how other mages would fare against it — certainly not Urnosov, though the thought had crossed his mind once, only to be dismissed as utterly idiotic.

As for the Ice Volley, the first time Ardan had formed the seal for it, it had shattered before his eyes, just as Mart had said it should, despite no visible errors in its formation.

It shattered again on his second attempt, and his third as well, until Ardi realized that if all his water or ice-related spells were slightly stronger, it meant that he was using more Ley energy than required.

This initially led him to think that he could use fewer rays, say five instead of six, but after his third experiment, when the seal didn’t just shatter, but failed to form at all, he had to abandon that idea.

Thus, for the past four evenings, Ardan had spent some time sitting on the floor in this room, trying to figure out how to reformat the seal so it could absorb the excess power he unintentionally channeled into it. At the same time, he’d also puzzled over why this issue only arose with this particular spell and not with any of the others, despite them also receiving more Ley energy than originally intended by the Stranger.

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Frustratingly, the textbooks he had acquired included no chapters that covered this specific problem.

Unfortunately, trying to decipher all the intricate geometric patterns and runes without a solid foundation was like hoping to fly without wings.

But Ardi wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. And so, his training sessions in the hall now began with him dedicating the first hour and a half to drafting new versions of the Ice Volley and experimenting with it.

During one of his earliest attempts, he had nearly frozen his leg when the seal had burst and exploded in a fountain of icy shards. Then, by the end of his first dozen tries, he’d managed to create something resembling an Ice Arrow but with a forked tip.

However, it had lacked any momentum, and had simply plopped out onto the floor. Ardan had feared that it might damage the strange flooring, which wasn’t quite hard, but wasn’t soft, either — not stone, but not quite wood — but the shimmering dome had absorbed it as easily as any other spell. So, the barrier protected not only the walls and ceiling, but also the floor. And what had been most surprising was that Ardan hadn’t felt it at all...

The following dozen or so variations of the seal didn’t work at all. By the third round of attempts, he had conjured something that looked like two miniature knitting needles. Of course, they hadn’t even been able to scratch his fingers, but they’d still hinted at the core principles behind the spell’s functions.

These needles, as they’d hovered above Ardan’s shoulders, had felt like an extension of his body, and he had been able to control them almost as if they were his own hands. With a mental command, a needle had shot forward along the trajectory his eyes had chosen — Ardan had learned about this particular part of the spell when he’d accidentally sent a needle straight at his own feet.

Today would’ve marked the start of his fourth set of attempts to break open the shell of this stubborn puzzle, though he ultimately decided to put it off for a while.

Skusty had always taught him that if a riddle doesn’t yield after a lot of effort, it was best to step away and give the deeper mind time to process the problem from another angle.

"Alright then," Ardan said, lying down on the unexpectedly warm floor, clutching his staff to his chest.

Usually, in the middle of his training, after trying to crack the Ice Volley, Ardan would spend an hour improving his Ice Arrow, trying to match its casting speed with that of his Shield. So far, the most he had achieved was the ability to conjure the seal from memory without needing to consult his grimoire.

And as for his speed, at best, it still took him five seconds to cast the spell without his grimoire, which wasn’t great at all. Not to mention the fact that he couldn’t yet test whether he could use the Arrow when caught off guard or without any prior preparation. There was no vampire nearby, conveniently throwing rocks at him...

Only after some practical training with the Ice Arrow would Ardi move on to practicing the art of the Aean’Hane. Unlike his studies in Star Magic, this required no calculations, no seals, and no countless repetitions to perfect the movements.

It required only his mind, will, and desire. When these three aligned, a Speaker could hear what they’d come for amidst the whispers of the world.

And Ardan usually finished his sessions this way — lying on the floor while opening his consciousness to the world. However, a few days ago, he’d had the distinct feeling that by the end of his session, someone or something had been watching him.

He’d probably sensed Urnosov’s magic as he’d been spying on his guest. And so, Ardi had adjusted his schedule, making sure not to give the Senior Magister any ideas.

As soon as he opened his will to the surrounding world, the once-tranquil atmosphere of the training hall engulfed him in a symphony of muffled echoes. The stone beneath him, which had been warm before, was now cold and unyielding, yet it cradled and supported him as he reached deeper into these sensations. The faint light, lifeless mere moments ago, began to dance, and the lamps revealed themselves to be silent sentinels, playing across the intricate patterns carved into the walls.

As Ardan descended deeper and deeper, the background noise of the room faded away, replaced by the trill of ethereal voices. They echoed faintly, like the rustle of old scrolls in the library above, or the ghostly melody of the wind sweeping across barren granite shores and steel-and-concrete buildings.

These voices wove intricate tales of forgotten epochs and unseen worlds, of places where magic filled the air and where stars whispered their long conversations with the earth. They muttered in ancient and mysterious tongues, their echoes rich and complex, passing him by, as elusive as moonbeams breaking through the veil of a gloomy night.

He heard their whispers too.

They strummed the strings of guitars and rang beneath the fingers of an unseen musician lightly touching the keys of a ghostly piano.

Each voice presented itself as a mystery, names and legends he had yet to encounter. They resembled distant constellations, shining and beckoning him onwards, but remaining beyond his reach, shrouded in a veil of enigma.

He drifted past them, lingering only briefly to admire their ethereal beauty.

Ardan sought something else.

One of the few names he had already heard.

Amid the quiet, barely perceptible symphony of whispers, a single voice emerged — a song rather than just a voice. It rang clear and pure, like the chime of a frost-covered bell or the song of the northern lights. Crystalline flakes danced toward each other, each one sharper and brighter than the last, holding within their reflective maze the memory of a winter’s night and the caress of a snowy breeze. When Ardan reached out to them, it felt like a familiar hand, cold yet comforting, had intertwined with his own in an attempt to pull him into the swirling, white storm.

Sounds, images, sensations, and everything that the human language had no words for painted vivid pictures in Ardan’s mind.

From the eaves of dilapidated houses, intricately-designed icicles hung like precious daggers, delicate and graceful. Thick snow squalls cascaded silently from mountain peaks, enveloping ancient forests in glittering white cloaks. Frozen lakes, vast and serene, shimmered beneath the silver embrace of the moon. Children played in the snow, their laughter ringing through the glistening landscape, a joyful echo flowing across the world that was weary of its long rest under the wintry blanket.

And the earth itself — exhausted from the heat and the birth of new growth — lay hidden beneath the cold, finding solace in the stillness of the frost, replenishing its strength before the next cycle of life came.

To Ardan, this name was not merely a word or an image; it was an echo from the depths of his soul, a cherished memory that had accompanied him throughout the winters of his life, calling him home through time.

He felt an overwhelming pull, a desire to merge with this voice, to become one with the frosty embrace of these familiar images. But as Ardan drew closer to the source, and just when he thought the icy threads were beginning to wrap around his consciousness, the name slipped away.

Its form shifted constantly, like a swirling snowstorm, the fleeting glint of frost beneath the first rays of dawn, or the crackle of the freezing air amid sharp, jagged peaks.

And with each moment Ardan spent within this endless cycle of sounds, he felt himself slowly unraveling. His thoughts, his memories, even his own name — all of it was dissolving, becoming part of that song and dance, lured ever deeper by the Name of Ice.

Knowing that he risked losing himself completely, Ardan mentally "grasped" one of the snowflakes from a distant mountain top — or perhaps it was a shard of ice from a sleeping river’s surface, or a snowball thrown playfully by a laughing child, or even the crunch of snow under the feet of a hunter and their prey.

When he opened his eyes, he whispered the words he had heard, and in his hand, a tiny piece of ice, no larger than a matchbox, appeared.

In an instant, it spread its wings out, and a miniature ice eagle soared toward the ceiling of the hall. Its transparent, smooth body caught the light, bending and refracting it, while its snowy feathers shed a glistening rain of delicate snowflakes.

Ardan Spoke the words, not with his lips and tongue, but with his will, heart, and mind, and the ice eagle swooped down in a sharp dive. He Spoke other words, and it soared once more, spreading its small but powerful wings.

Ardan extended his hand, murmuring new words, and the eagle returned to it, transforming into the image of a mighty mustang of the prairie. Stamping its hoof, it sent sparks of snow flying around it, racing along invisible trails through the air.

And then, it all ended.

The mustang vanished, dissolving into a wisp of icy mist as the small shard of ice fell to the floor and melted away into nothing.

Ardi sighed and looked at the tip of his left index finger, where a tiny red dot was slowly healing over. It was a mark left behind by the prick of a needle.

Frustratingly, he could take away only the smallest sliver of the Name of Ice, and he also couldn’t even maintain his concentration and will when distracted by something as insignificant as a pricked finger.

"Some Speaker I am," he muttered, jerking his head toward the door.

Perhaps it was the lingering sensation of being watched from the past few days, or maybe it was because he had just been traversing the edges of the hidden world, but this time, Ardan didn’t just feel a gaze upon him — he felt a presence.

"Who’s there?" He called out, instinctively grabbing for his father’s knife, which was sheathed at his back.

Only silence answered him, and the sensation of being observed vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Frowning, Ardi glanced at the clock hanging above the entrance. The hands showed that it was nearly half past seven, making him curse under his breath.

This was exactly why he preferred to end his Aean’Hane sessions earlier. Time didn’t just slip away from him, it ceased to exist entirely when he communed with the names.

Standing up, Ardan crossed the hall, carefully stepping over the perimeter ledge, and exited the room.

Just outside the door, as always, lay a silver tray, so polished it could have been used as a mirror. On it rested two covered dishes with sides and meat, along with a glass of berry juice. Except this time, the glass had been tipped over onto its side, its contents slowly spilling across the floor.

Ardi crouched and examined the smudged footprints trailing in a jagged line toward the staircase.

He read them almost as easily as he would in the forest. There, the task might even have been complicated by the soft moss, the wind stirring up twigs and leaves, or the tall grass. Here, though...

Ardan ran his fingers through the cold moisture.

Someone had been standing by the door, not in the hallway outside, but within the training hall itself, and had then hurried out. They must have collided with the tray in their rush to escape, spilling the juice, and had then hastily stepped around it before running for the stairs.

"Not Urnosov, then," Ardan whispered.

The way the prints were smeared told him clearly that whoever had been spying on him hadn’t just left — they had fled. But the distance between the steps was too small for Urnosov. Besides, no Five-Star Mage would’ve run from him.

The tracks were too light for Tatiana or Atura, and too close together for Davenport. He, too, wouldn’t have run.

Among the people Ardan had met in the house, that left only the boy who faintly resembled Tatiana, or...

"Or some other servant, most of whom I haven’t even seen yet," Ardan concluded and immediately slapped his forehead.

For someone to go unnoticed while spying on him, they must have had some grasp of Star Magic, or perhaps they possessed a special artifact.

Both options seemed unlikely for a servant.

"And who are you, strange stranger?" Ardi muttered under his breath.

"Mr. Egobar?" Someone called out from near the stairs.

Ardan stood, lifting the tray, and found himself looking into Tatiana’s eyes.

The servant’s gaze moved meaningfully to the stained floor and then back to Ardi.

"An accident," was all he could say.

"I see," she replied, though it was clear she didn’t believe him. "You have visitors."

For the second time that evening, Ardan was completely taken aback.

"Visitors?" He repeated, thinking he’d misheard her. "But I don’t know anyone in the Metropolis."

He was about to add that he didn’t know many people well enough for them to visit him anywhere, let alone in the mansion of a duchess, but he stopped himself.

"P-p-please hurry," Tatiana stammered nervously, then hurried up the stairs.

Her tone carried clear concern, but it wasn’t directed at Ardi — it was aimed at something or someone else.

"So much for dinner," Ardan sighed and followed her.

He left the tray on a small table by the first-floor staircase, where Davenport was already waiting for him. As impassive and unyielding as a cliff on a cold winter’s night, the former soldier led him through the corridors to one of the many rooms.

After opening the door for the young man, Davenport remained outside.

Inside, Ardan found not Duchess Anorsky, nor the Great Prince Pavel, whose photos often graced the newspapers. Instead, sitting in a high-backed leather chair, behind a wide desk, was a lean, wiry man with streaks of gray in his jet-black hair. His sharp nose, piercing eyes, and small bald patch usually concealed by a felt hat resting on the desk completed the picture.

A scar ran across his upper lip, and his right hand trembled slightly — a telltale sign, from what Ardi knew, of an old shoulder injury that had left a lasting mark.

And yet, the blue eyes that locked onto him were different from Davenport’s cold stare. There was a subtle but unmistakable detail missing — it was something small, almost imperceptible, but enough to differentiate him from a soldier.

And if he wasn’t from the military, then...

"You’re from the Second Chancery," Ardan guessed.

"Lieutenant Kornosskiy mentioned in his report that you’re observant, Mr. Egobar," the stranger’s voice matched his appearance: sharp and dangerous. "Have a seat. We have a small matter to discuss."

Placing his staff aside, Ardan cautiously sat down on the guest chair, positioning himself so that-

"You won’t make it."

"Excuse me?"

"You want to be able to draw your knife from your boot," the stranger clarified, maintaining eye contact with Ardi. "You won’t make it in time."

With that, he lifted his hat slightly, revealing what lay beneath. Ardan had only heard rumors of such a thing. The marshals and the Cloaks had spun stories by the campfires about how the capital was working on self-loading pistols.

Not revolvers, but weapons where the cartridge loaded itself into the barrel and then ejected the casing. And what lay before the stranger right now looked like something similar.

It resembled a revolver, but it had no cylinder, with a short barrel tucked into a metal frame and a long, rectangular grip.

"It’s a prototype," the stranger said without a hint of irony. "To be honest, I’d rather not test it out on you, young man, so don’t give me a reason to."

Ardan nodded, straightening up and moving his hand away from his leg. Ergar had taught him to know when to lie low and not reveal anything.

"Now then," the stranger placed his hat back on the desk and steepled his fingers. "Mr. Egobar, son of Hector Egobar, the last registered Matabar in the Firstborn Registry, and the seamstress Shaia Taakov, of Galessian descent, daughter of settlers from the eastern coast. Seventeen and a half years old. Two meters and one centimeter tall. One hundred and three kilograms. Foot size: forty-nine. Eye color: amber. Hair: black. Skin: tanned. Capable of harnessing Star Magic at the level of a seven-ray Red Star. Trained in the art of the Aean’Hane by someone, somewhere. One of the top students of Evergale’s school in the Foothill Province. Associated with Anna Polskih, Neviy Foster, Kevin Foster, and Faruh Amani. Before being taken under our care, you were observed to be in close contact with the aforementioned Polskih, the daughter of a prominent farmer. And... what else? Oh yes. You possess a sharp mind, are attentive, but somewhat cowardly, and clumsy with cutlery. That last bit is likely why one of your school subjects didn’t earn the highest grade. Fine motor skill issues. Which also explains your poor marksmanship. You nearly took out one of the best shooters of the Second Chancery — Katerina Tari. And... I feel like I’m forgetting something..."

Ardan kept silent.

"Smart," the stranger nodded approvingly. "Continue with that strategy. Keeping your mouth shut will serve you well."

Ardan remained quiet.

"Indeed, you are not a fool," the man chuckled. "Ah, right. You dueled Gleb Davos, didn’t you? Naturally, you lost. Without a chance of victory, at that. Unfortunately, Mr. Davos decided to take a little stroll through your homeland afterwards and got lost. Lieutenant Kornosskiy sent out a search party. They looked for three days. Found nothing but bloodied clothing and personal belongings. He’s most likely dead, having fallen from a cliff, his body taken by the beasts. His things were reportedly stolen during an attack by the Shanti’Ra gang, and their whereabouts remain unknown. Did I get anything wrong?"

That final question was loaded with meaning, and Ardi, still silent, shook his head slightly.

"Well then, excellent," the Cloak smiled, revealing a few gold-capped teeth. "Let’s hope his belongings don’t resurface anywhere, or the Davos family might be upset to learn that the story they were told — and the one I just relayed to you — doesn’t exactly align with the truth."

While living in the mountains and forests of the Alcade, Ardi had learned how to recognize a cunning, dangerous predator in his first few months there. Without this skill, even under Ergar’s watchful eye, he would not have survived.

And right now, every instinct in his body was screaming that the man sitting across from him was perhaps the most dangerous person he had ever encountered.

Neither Cassara nor Yonatan could compare. Only the leader of the Shanti’Ra gang had evoked a similar sense of menace, but even that was different, for that foe had not been human.

The power radiating from the Cloak wasn’t physical. It wasn’t in his muscles — which were nearly nonexistent — or in his magic — which he didn’t possess. It was in his eyes.

It was in the sharp, piercing gaze of those blue eyes, and in the intellect that shone behind them. It wasn’t the mundane kind of intelligence, but something altogether different. Something Ardan never wanted to see turned against him.

But he gave no outward sign of this realization. Or at least he hoped he didn’t. He sat silently, with a straight back, trying not to avert his gaze in their silent battle of wills.

"How do you like the Metropolis?" The Cloak asked unexpectedly.

Ardan stuck to his strategy and said nothing.

"Young man," the stranger’s smile widened. "Do you know the difference between strategy and tactics? In strategy, keeping your mouth shut is fine, but in tactics, sometimes it’s a good idea to open it."

"It’s incredible," Ardan replied, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Incredible," the Cloak echoed with a chuckle. "Well, let’s see what you’ll say after a couple of months of living here."

The Cloak reached into the inside pocket of his long, black leather coat and pulled out a wide envelope, the kind normally used for delivering newspapers to remote provinces. He broke the Imperial seal on it and emptied its contents onto the table. There wasn’t much inside.

There was a small, thin booklet, resembling a notebook, with embossed edges and a recognizable emblem on the cover: two roses entwining around a young birch tree.

This was the crest of the largest bank in the Empire, and as it just so happened, it was a bank owned by the crown.

The Imperial Bank.

"This is your account," the Cloak slid the "booklet" across the desk toward Ardi. "Your scholarship will be deposited there, and if you decide to work, your salary will be sent there as well."

Ardan blinked in surprise. In Evergale, things were much simpler — people were paid in cash, with no need for bank accounts, which most residents didn’t even have.

Only farm owners or major businesspeople needed loans from these banks, but that was a different story entirely.

"And this is your insurance," the Cloak extended a small, thick card covered in official fonts, signatures, emblems, and all the other trappings of a formal document. "It’s for a small but reliable clinic. It’s located in the Tendarri district, at the intersection of Miners’ Street and Seventh Avenue."

Thanks to the journals in the Anorsky library, Ardan knew that the Tendarri district was one of the poorest areas in the city, located in the southeast, near the industrial zone, where most of the workers lived.

"This is the document for your enrollment in the Imperial Magical University," the Cloak continued.

"But there hasn’t been an opening ceremony or any exams yet!" Ardan blurted out.

The stranger gave him the same look that Atta’nha had used to give him whenever her student had said something utterly foolish.

"Take it," was all the Cloak said.

Ardi picked up the official-looking document. At the bottom, below all the signatures and the usual formalities, it read:

"This decree confirms the enrollment of Ard Egobar to the first-year class of the General Faculty of the Imperial Magical University.

The 24th of the Month of the Saints, Year 517 F.o.E."

And beneath that, there was the university crest — a book serving as a doorway into a tall tower.

The General Faculty... Of course. It would’ve been naive to think that the crown would let him choose his own field of study.

Incidentally, today was only the thirteenth of the month, and the decree was dated for the twenty-fourth, which would be the day when the results from the entrance exams came out.

Normally, the exams took place not in the ninth month of the year — the Month of the Saints — but in the seventh, and they lasted four weeks. The results would then be announced in the eighth month, and on the first day of the Month of the Saints, the university would hold a ceremony to welcome future magi.

However, this year, the schedule had changed because the coronation of Great Prince Pavel was set for the twenty-first.

"I trust you haven’t lost your passport and school certificate?"

Ardan shook his head. The documents were in his travel pack back in his room.

"Excellent, then the paperwork is settled," the Cloak said, closing the envelope and leaving it on the table. "Now, let’s discuss a few things. I won’t remind you, Mr. Egobar, that your family is currently under our watch in Delpas, supported by the crown. I assume you can remember that well enough without my help."

Ardan tried not to react to the statement.

"Let’s focus on something else," the man continued. "The Lieutenant mentioned in his report that he had one delicate conversation with you, during which you made it clear that a few thoughts have taken root in that sharp head of yours. So, let me be clear: leave them behind. Forget them. Throw them away. Don’t even think about them again. All you need to know is this: for now, and I emphasize, for now, you are our guest. Yes, the circumstances of your family’s encounter with the state apparatus were... tense, but... Of course, I’ll understand if you suddenly feel the urge to avenge your great-grandfather. But, in that case," the Cloak tapped his hat, "don’t be surprised when we shoot you, bury you, and forget you. And we’ll tell your family that it was an unfortunate accident. Fell off a cliff, we’ll say. His body taken by the beasts."

Ardan understood the veiled threat. Not that it was all that hidden to begin with.

"I see you’re sticking to your strategy," the Cloak winked, his foxlike grin widening. "That’s commendable... Now, let’s move on to business. Eight days from now, the coronation will take place. Festivities, celebrations, all that. At the Palace of the Kings of the Past, where the main ceremony will be held, there will be a grand ball in the evening. It’s there that the Emperor will present you and announce the amnesty he’s granted your family."

Ardan barely resisted the urge to snap and shout that there was nothing left to grant amnesty to since both his great-grandfather and father were now in the care of the Sleeping Spirits.

"You will stand beside the Emperor, and I trust that you understand that if you cause any trouble in the city, only you will fall from that cliff. But if something goes wrong during the ball, well, forgive me, but your entire family, including little Kena — may the Angels forgive me — will suffer a similar ’accident.’"

This wasn’t even a threat, but a simple statement of fact. And that made it all the more terrifying.

"After the ball, you will be a guest at the palace for three days, though, personally, I wouldn’t recommend leaving your chambers during that time, but that’s just a suggestion. You have a sharp mind, perhaps you’ll take my advice," the Cloak coughed and continued, "On the twenty-fourth, you’ll be taken to the opening ceremony and enrolled at the Grand. After that, our paths will diverge. We’re not going to keep you on a tight leash or, as you might think, hold you captive. The crown has paid for your first semester, so you’re obligated to complete it. After that, if you can’t pass the exams to qualify for a scholarship and subsidies, or if you simply want to leave, we’ll be glad to see you go. Frankly, the farther a descendant of Aror Egobar is from the capital, the better for everyone it is, no matter what the future Emperor might believe about the unity of nations on our now-shared land. A naive man on the throne — what could be worse…"

The Cloak stopped mid-sentence.

"The Witch’s Gaze, right?" He said, lifting his hand toward his hat for a moment, then, after a brief pause, lowering it again. "I have two amulets ready to counter it, and yet I didn’t even notice you slipping into my mind."

Ardan looked away. He hadn’t been trying to. However, like with Davenport — who, for some unclear reason, had chosen to tell Ardi about the heating system and pumps, even though the young man hadn’t been trying to extract information — it had just happened. He had simply been curious.

It was as if the more Ardan practiced Star Magic, the stronger his Aean’Hane abilities became as well.

"Ah, so it was not intentional," the Cloak remarked, as if reading his thoughts. "Then I would suggest that you learn to control this ’gift’ of yours better, or you might just lose yourself on some cliffside..."

They sat in silence for several seconds. Some of the longest seconds of Ardi’s life.

"So, to summarize our little meeting, after the twenty-fourth, you will study for a semester at the university, live in the dormitory, attend lectures, eat, sleep, and try your best to make sure we never meet again," the Cloak’s eyes flashed, sharp as knives. "Because, young man, if we do meet again, it will mean something so serious has occurred that your family will be burying you in an empty coffin."

With that, the Cloak rose from his seat, and in one smooth motion, donned his hat with his right hand and holstered the pistol beneath his coat with his left. Even though he was barely taller than one hundred and seventy centimeters, he seemed to loom over Ardan like a mountain troll.

"I would say ’until we meet again,’" he remarked as he reached the door, "but trust me, Ardan — you don’t want that."

And then he departed, leaving the young man alone. The Ley lamp burned with its cold, white light, and Ardi recalled Yonatan’s words. What had he said again?

"Vampires and their damned hearing?"

Ardan would have added one more thing to that: "Orcs and their damned long tongues!"