Matabar

In the dim light of predawn, Ardan stirred from his slumber. The gentle swaying of the train and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on the rails had lulled him into a deep sleep. But now, a strange sensation, like trying to read ten different books at once, had roused him, urging him to lift the heavy veil of drowsiness from his mind.

The moment he did so, the sight beyond the window took his breath away.

On the horizon, the silhouettes of monumental structures came to life, ones that were unlike anything he had ever seen before in both form and grandeur. Towering giants made from a uniform gray material reached ambitiously toward the sky — this was a peculiar kind of stone called concrete, as he would later learn.

These titans rose into the air, their windows gleaming with the reflections of the dawn sky. Eight, ten, and even sixteen stories high, these architectural marvels stood guard over the capital, stretching far beyond even the capacity of Ardan’s sharp eyes to see.

Suddenly, faced with this awe-inspiring backdrop, Ardi felt an unsettling sense of his own insignificance — he was but a speck in the roaring storm of this sprawling human world.

As if seeking refuge, his eyes lowered to the streets below. Desperately, he searched for the familiar green of grass or the rich brown of soil softened by autumn rains. Instead, he saw a strange, dark surface, which was slightly glistening from the morning mist. He remembered Mart telling him that this was called a ‘roadway’ — a special path that was sometimes paved with cobblestones, and in other places, it was paved with something darker and smoother... Asphalt, maybe.

The near absence of nature — save for a few trees in flower beds — in this vast expanse of artificial stone gave him a fleeting sense of emptiness. Yet, curiosity quickly replaced that void.

Ardan’s attention was drawn to the unusual carriages moving as if by their own will. Unlike the stagecoaches, wagons, and carts he knew, these had no harnesses or horses. Their wheels, made of some dull, shiny material, seemed to roll all by themselves. At the front, they blazed with two bright, yellow “eyes,” and the rear of the metal boxes seemed to be letting out a lot of thick smoke. The interiors, behind glass, seemed to emit a faint glow. People dressed in strange attire climbed in and out of these machines, talking, shouting, laughing…

The people...

The sidewalks were another revelation for Ardi, unused to such a sight. Crowds bustled along the streets, and the sea of people appeared denser than any festival day in his hometown of Evergale. Their mismatched clothing and — Ardi almost pressed his forehead right against the wet glass to see better — different builds. He could swear he saw a tall, slender dandy with long, pointed ears, and then a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a beard down to his waist.

As the first caresses of dawn painted the sky in soft, golden hues, casting long shadows and imbuing the gray structures of the Metropolis with an ethereal glow, the world outside seemed to shimmer. It was as if it were trying to pass itself off as one of the fairy tales his great-grandfather had loved to tell on long winter evenings.

For a brief moment, Ardan felt like a hero in one of those stories, caught between the familiar and the unknown, wonder and confusion swirling inside him.

And if he had indeed been reading a magical tale, it might have said that this dawn was not merely the sun rising over the capital of the New Monarchy Empire, but the beginning of a whole new chapter in a mysterious and rather terrifying world he had yet to understand.

“At last,” Yonatan grunted, pulling their few satchels and Ardi’s travel bag out of the cabinets. “Here it is: the filthy, stinking bastard that is Metropolis.”

The train pulled into the station. Unlike the one in Presny, this one was made of the same artificial stone as everything around them. The wheels screeched to a halt, a thick white cloud of steam briefly shrouded the window, and when it dissipated, Ardi’s head spun for a moment.

There were so many people everywhere that it felt like he had entered a forest, only instead of trees, he was surrounded by townsfolk. Old and young, rich and poor, men and women — all of them were bustling about, leaving the train cars that had arrived on a dozen similar trains to theirs and hurrying into a massive building.

He would’ve thought of it as being massive anyways, because Ardi had never seen anything like it before, but even compared to the giants that loomed over them as they approached the station, it still looked enormous.

“Get moving, get moving,” Yonatan urged.

The first to step out of the compartment was the limping, bandaged Katerina, followed by Cassara. Ardi was the last to leave, nearly forgetting his staff in his awe of the views outside the window.

After a quick farewell to the conductor, who gave the young man a disdainful look… Ardan still remembered his sneering “half-blood?” remark and how he’d later learned that there were indeed separate carriages for other races and half-bloods — a second-class one sitting at the very end of the train. The first class, apparently, was an exception. After all, if your pockets were stuffed with enough exes, no one cared about the blood running through your veins. Finally, they stepped out into… Ardi would have liked to say “fresh air,” but no.

Instead, he greedily inhaled a thick, heavy shroud that clung to his lungs like a sick, starving beast. The sharp burning from unfamiliar smells — perhaps these were... What had Mart called them… Oh yes, exhaust fumes or the remnants of factory smoke — pricked and stung the walls of his throat, which was a far cry from the life-giving breaths of mountains and forests.

Among the urban poetry of clamoring voices and distant clangs, a muffled mustiness reigned, like a moth-eaten coat abandoned in the shadows of an old, moldy closet.

Ardan coughed and almost lost the meager breakfast he’d eaten earlier, but he managed to suppress his urge to vomit.

“Endure it, boy. Give it a couple of weeks and you’ll get used to it,” Long Neck patted him on the back.

Ardi was about to retort that he had no desire to get used to it, but the crowd swept him along with the rest of them. Beneath iron canopies, they passed the platform, where some people were unloading from the train while others, far fewer of them, were boarding.

Following the yellow lines painted on the floor, they moved toward towering, heavy doors made of stained oak and iron rivets. Four meters tall, they seemed never to close, so dense was the stream of people rushing through them in both directions.

Ardi, who was sandwiched between the Cloaks as he was walking among the crowd, suddenly realized that he was mostly seeing heads — that is, men’s and women’s hats of various styles — and only occasionally meeting the eyes of someone looking out over the throng like he was.

Beyond the doors lay a vast — though Ardi was beginning to realize that he should refrain from using that word, as everything in the Metropolis seemed vast to him — foyer. The clumsy march of thousands echoed across the polished tiles covering the floor. Along the walls, marble staircases (Ardi knew about marble thanks to Atta’nha’s scrolls) rose toward the upper floors, where more people milled about. There were countless benches, with travelers sitting on them and waiting for their departure.

At first, Ardi didn’t understand how they knew when and where to go, but within a few minutes, his attention was drawn to an enormous… to a panel of staggering size. But upon closer inspection, it was clear that it was a sheet of metal with countless slots in it, and a worker in a blue coat was walking back and forth along a catwalk, constantly changing the labels on the slots.

And every thirty seconds or so, a female voice would ring out from iron megaphones:

“The train to Shamtur is departing from platform three in five minutes, please do not be late!”

Then the announcement would be repeated in several other languages Ardi had never heard before.

All around him, life teemed and buzzed. People conversed loudly, children screamed, and mothers tried to calm them down. Servants hauled luggage as throngs gathered around the many ticket booths; station workers darted back and forth, and along the sides, in secluded spots, signs for... cafes appeared. Ardi only knew what cafes and restaurants were thanks to Mart’s stories.

The sheer abundance of everything made his head spin, and his stomach churned in knots.

“Endure,” Long Neck kept repeating. “Endure, Ardi. You’ll get used to it... Everyone does.”

As if in a fog, Ardi barely noticed when they reached a counter with workers in red uniforms — the guards. They were asking strange questions to the people passing through.

“Which country are you from? Your city of residence? What is the purpose of your visit? How long are you staying? Are you bringing anything with you that needs to be declared?”

Then they would ask for documents, stamping them soon after. As far as Ardi could tell through all the noise and commotion, most of the people were from the Empire, but from different cities.

“It’s high time they reduced the number of border guards at train stations,” Katerina grumbled irritably. “I can’t stand queues... And most foreigners go through customs at the seaports, anyway. What’s the point of this being here?”

When it was Yonatan’s turn, he sullenly held out a packet of documents to the redcoat, the same one he had once shown Marshal Kal’dron.

Inside that packet were also Ardan’s own papers.

The policeman scrutinized the group with an appraising look, then, without asking any questions, silently stamped their documents and handed them back.

“Have a pleasant day,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Sure,” Yonatan replied, feigning indifference.

Noticing Ardan’s confusion, Katerina, who was limping due to her injuries to her right side, whispered in his ear:

“The Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Second Chancery can’t stand each other.”

“Why?” Ardi asked, surprised.

As far as he could tell, both “establishments” seemed to do the same job.

“Good question, Ardi,” she shrugged, but quickly caught herself and grabbed her crutch. “Let me know when you find out.”

Stepping out of the brightly-lit station, Ardi found himself on a broad, dimly-lit boulevard. Elegant buildings stood tall on either side of him, their facades showing signs of age: cracks, small chips, and scuffs. But all of this was softened by the windows, which were like gleaming portals glowing warmly in the twilight.

To his left and right, the sidewalks were crowded with countless pedestrians: men in suits and hats, women in various dresses, all of them moving almost in unison, resembling flocks of lemmings. Their footsteps echoed in rhythmic harmony, a peculiar song of the city that pulsed deep within the cobblestone streets.

And directly ahead, as if drawn to the very core of Ardi’s soul, something began to emerge that had been hidden from him by the mist.

Rising from the fiery embrace of the coming dawn and cutting through the horizon, a monolithic titan of lifeless stone and gleaming steel stretched upward, as if defying the very stars. Its structure — a labyrinth of countless windows, each reflecting a unique shard of the city’s soul, which was oh so strange to Ardi — was at once repulsive and yet equally captivating.

Floor upon floor, the countless steps of human ambition soared to a nearly fantastical height of twenty-five... six... seven stories, or perhaps more. Crowning this architectural wonder was a spire, slender but unyielding, which seemed to scrape the azure sky itself with a fervor and boldness that took Ardi’s breath away. The echo of Mart’s voice, tinged with reverence, resounded in his mind: “Skyscrapers…” And never had a name felt so fitting.

While Ardi marveled at this, another stray beam of the rising sun broke through the maze of buildings, momentarily blinding him with its brilliance. When his eyes adjusted and he could see once again, something unusual caught his attention in the previously orderly flow of pedestrians. Two figures — a man and a woman — were standing still in the midst of the crowd, as if the other people were parting around them like a lake along a boardwalk.

And, of course, it was toward these two that their group was heading. As they drew closer, Ardi could properly assess the strangers. The woman, who was around forty years old, was dressed in a strict gown with a wide skirt and had a heavy fur stole draped over her shoulders. Her hands were tucked into a warm bag or something similar, and hanging from her hat, a small veil fell over her face, adorned with knots shaped like roses.

But even through that veil, Ardi could make out striking features: a sharp nose with a slight bump, a face that wasn’t quite oval, and subtly-slanted eyes. Somehow, all of these elements blended in the woman so harmoniously that one couldn’t help but stare.

Ardi closed his eyes for a moment, counted to ten, and steeled his will. When he opened them again, he only saw a pleasant-looking woman with a faintly glowing pendant.

This was the work of the magic of the Aean’Hane, or perhaps its Star Magic counterpart. It wasn’t an enchantment, but rather some sort of spell that made you see slightly more than the truth.

Next to her stood a man of roughly the same age. He was broad-shouldered, with a thick neck exposed by the absence of a scarf or a raised collar on his brown leather coat. His belt was cinched with a shiny buckle, and he wore striped pants and round-toed shoes.

Ardi noticed how awkwardly the man was tucking his left hand under his right, trying, perhaps subconsciously, to conceal the prosthesis that had replaced his missing pinky and ring finger.

The air around the stranger carried the same scent of danger that Yonatan exuded.

“Madam Atura, Mr. Davenport,” Yonatan greeted them, his tone devoid of its usual irony or mockery.

“Officer,” the woman, whose name seemed vaguely familiar to Ardan, gave him a curt nod. Over the last month, he had heard so many names that his mind had become a jumbled mess.

“Here,” Yonatan gave Ardi a firm nudge in the back, “delivered safe and sound.”

Madam Atura cast a sharp, evaluating gaze over him, her eyes lingering briefly on his side, where a shard of rock had struck him during the hunt for the Wanderer; then on his chest, marked by the orc’s blade, and finally on his leg, scratched by a bandit’s bullet.

Even though all his wounds were hidden beneath his clothes, Ardi had no doubt that she could see them as clearly as if he were standing there entirely bare.

“If this is what you call safe and sound, officer, I dread to imagine how you handle less valuable cargo.”

Yonatan responded with a predatory grin.

In turn, Atura glanced at her companion and made a small, almost imperceptible gesture with her palm. The man, Davenport, reached into the inner pocket of his coat with deliberate slowness, pulling out a neatly-folded sheet of paper and handing it to Yonatan.

The Cloak snatched the paper from him, tipped his hat, and turned to leave. For a brief moment, his eyes met Ardi’s, and the officer silently mouthed:

“Watch your balls, Ardi,” before disappearing from view.

For the first time Ardan could recall, Yonatan had addressed him by name.

“Until next time, little one,” Cassara’s whispered words reached him just as the Cloaks melted into the crowd. Only Yonatan’s distant shout of:

“What?! A bill for dinner amounting to two exes and thirty kso?! Katerina, are you out of your fucking mind?!”

brought a brief smile to Ardi’s lips. They were such strange people… And they had been neither his overseers, nor his enemies… Or his friends.

“Grab your things and let’s go,” Atura urged him. “We still need to get you cleaned up.”

Ardi was puzzled for a moment, wondering what things she was referring to. All of his belongings — his backpack and grimoire — were with him. He glanced around, somewhat confused.

At his feet lay a satchel that had once belonged to Gleb Davos. It was open, revealing the grimoire of the late mage and several artifacts, including the Green Star accumulator extracted from his staff.

Ardan looked off into the distance where Yonatan Kornosskiy, Cassara, Katerina, the Silent One, and Long Neck had just disappeared.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Humans… Why were they always so complicated?

He snapped the satchel shut, intending to carry it himself, but Davenport, showing no tolerance for objections, took the bag from his hands. His backpack was also swiftly taken by the former soldier (if he indeed was a former soldier).

Curiously, Davenport left his staff and grimoire untouched, as if he didn’t perceive them as threats.

Accompanied by Atura, who was walking ahead of him, and Davenport, whose gaze Ardi could feel between his shoulder blades, they moved in silence toward one of those strange carriages Ardi had seen from the train window.

This one, however, was more... elegant, perhaps, with a beige leather roof, lacquered cherrywood sides, an iron cover arching over the wheels, and a soaring eagle ornament situated at either the front or back of the machine.

As they approached, an elderly man in a black uniform and a cap with a gleaming visor stepped out.

With a bow, he opened the door for Atura, helping her climb inside. Over her shoulder, Ardi glimpsed the luxurious interior. The walls were lined with green satin, the seats were covered in the softest calfskin, and the hardware had been crafted from the same cherrywood as the exterior.

Once Atura was seated, the old man carefully closed the door, making sure not to catch her dress, then circled the vehicle to open the other side and stand beside it.

Ardan didn’t quite grasp what this meant, but a light push from the satchel at his back gave him the clue.

He climbed in after her, awkwardly bumping his head on the edge of the roof as he tried to find a place for his staff between the seats.

Davenport fussed with something in the back for a moment, then there was a thud from the iron trunk, and the man immediately appeared beside the elderly driver. The latter, after fiddling with some switches and buttons on a console, placed his hands on a round contraption and jerked his right foot in an odd motion, and a moment later, they... were moving.

Without horses.

It was so astonishing that for the first few minutes, Ardi didn’t even notice the fact that each time they encountered a bump or crack in the road, he would hit the taut roof with the top of his head.

It was an amusing sensation.

“Be so kind, Mr. Egobar, as to not ruin the upholstery,” Atura’s voice was softer now, more relaxed than it had been minutes before.

“My apologies,” Ardi replied sluggishly, trying to settle into his seat without causing further damage.

It wasn’t cramped... for normal-sized people. No matter how he contorted himself, though, his knees pressed against the back of the front seats, or he bumped the accursed roof, or he ended up leaning all his weight against the door, causing the cherrywood trim to groan under the strain.

Atura seemed to pay no attention to this. Taking a cigarette holder from her bag, she placed a small, white cigarette in it and lit it with what must have been the most expensive lighter Ardan had ever seen.

The air soon filled with the heavy scent of tobacco, and Ardi involuntarily coughed.

“I can’t stand New Town,” Atura commented idly, watching the buildings, people, and other horseless carriages flicker by outside the window. They varied in size, detailing, and embellishments, but all of them shared the same principle of movement. “Those soulless high-rises and skyscrapers... At least the Upper Chamber had the decency not to allow tall buildings in Old Town. Of course, they’ll still get their piece of the pie from the reconstruction of the historical buildings.”

“You’re right, ma’am,” the elderly driver responded dryly, steering the vehicle as he spoke.

Wherever the driver turned the wheel, the carriage followed.

This self-moving carriage... Of course! Mart had told him about these things — they were called automobiles! Back then, Ardan had thought the mage was teasing him, and he hadn’t believed the story.

But it seemed like Mart hadn’t been joking after all.

If Ardi’s internal compass was still pointing in the right direction, they had arrived from the northwest and were now moving closer to the bay and, consequently, to the city center.

As they left the train station behind, the towering steel and concrete giants that had once loomed over the skyline began to recede, gradually giving way to a softer, more intricate panorama. The monochrome of urban uniformity faded, replaced by vibrant colors and architectural elegance. Going from tall, gray behemoths with heavy metal-framed windows, the buildings shrank, and yet somehow seemed to soar as well.

The monotonous dreariness of the towering cityscape melted away, giving rise to a colorful patchwork of facades, each one a tale of a different era of grandeur. Pastel hues — green, peach, lavender — dominated the walls, accented with stone and metal so rare and exquisite they seemed to shimmer in the early morning light. Ornate wrought-iron railings lined the balconies, and intricate wooden cornices framed the rooftops, all so finely-crafted that even Ardan, who had grown up near lumber mills, could only marvel at the craftsmanship.

The tall windows, framed by immaculate white sills, gazed back at him indifferently, often crowned by stately, triangular pediments, reminding him of stern watchmen silently observing the chaos of the city. The doorways, adorned with intricate carvings, hinted at the grand halls that lay beyond their thresholds. Every now and then, Ardi’s eye was drawn to a graceful spire or the glint of a gold or turquoise dome in the distance.

Between these architectural marvels, wide avenues and streets stretched out, their cobblestone sidewalks shaded by old trees whose branches cast playful shadows on the paving stones below. Occasionally, small parks and gardens appeared, dotted with statues, fountains, and neatly-trimmed bushes, providing brief oases of calm amidst the frenetic energy of the city.

Lanterns and windows bathed the streets in warm light, cutting through the lingering morning haze. The sidewalks teemed with people who were moving leisurely, pausing here and there to peer into the brightly-lit shop windows that adorned the lower floors of the buildings. The displays were brighter and more extravagant than anything Ardi had ever seen during the festivals or fairs of Evergale.

What amazed him the most was that, despite the magical beauty surrounding them, no one seemed to notice or care. The residents of the Metropolis passed by these wonders with barely a glance, as if they were part of the scenery, as ordinary as the very stones beneath their feet.

“We’ll be turning onto the King’s Bridge now, madam,” the elderly driver said, breaking the comfortable silence. “We’ll be at our destination in just a few minutes.”

“Good,” Atura replied curtly.

They veered onto the embankment of a wide, black river, its calm surface lapping against granite banks as if held in place by cold but gentle hands. Ardi wished he could stick his head out of the contraption to take in the full expanse of the river, which seemed impossibly wide. He recalled its name from his geography lessons — Niewa.

The wheels clattered rhythmically over the cobblestones as they crossed the bridge. To Ardan, it felt more like a grand avenue suspended above the water than a bridge. Thirty meters wide and stretching over a kilometer long, it was truly a marvel of engineering.

“But how do ships pass underneath?” Ardan muttered, realizing too late that he had spoken aloud.

“The bridges are raised during the navigation season,” Atura explained. “I’ve heard foreigners say it’s quite a sight to behold, but for the locals, it’s a terrible inconvenience. You have to memorize the schedule, and even then, every night, there’s a forty-minute window when the first bridge hasn’t yet been lowered, and the city’s banks are completely disconnected.”

“It’s especially difficult for those living on the islands,” Davenport, who had been mostly silent, added with a nod.

Ardan had heard Mart mention something about these drawbridges, but, like with the automobiles, he had thought it was just another one of the old mage’s fanciful stories.

As they reached the far bank of the Niewa, Ardi spotted a sign on an ornate post: “St. Vasily’s Island.”

In Metropolis, besides the two main banks of the river, several islands sprawled across its mouth, all connected to the mainland by these grand bridges.

They rolled on through the streets, and Ardi’s eyes were glued to the scenery, trying to take in everything at once. The elegant buildings, the strange but stylish pedestrians, and the horseless carriages — automobiles — that whizzed by. Occasionally, he would spot a strange wagon rattling along tracks, its rectangular body clad in wood and its upper half made entirely of glass windows. With its iron wheels clattering beneath it, it moved without any visible means of propulsion, except for the two long metal poles extending from its roof to the overhead wires. The unmistakable hum of Ley energy hinted at its power source.

“Trams,” Mart had called them.

And so, as Ardi lost himself in the endless wonder of the city, another ten minutes passed before they came to a stop in front of a four or perhaps five-story building, enclosed by a decorative wrought-iron fence.

The wrought iron was purely ornamental, barely reaching the waist of an average man. And the building itself? Ardi couldn’t be sure. From the street, it seemed to have four floors, but the protruding glass dome on the roof suggested there might be more. The first floor gleamed with massive windows, which spilled warm, golden light onto the damp street. Above that, three more floors featured windows set with small balconies or big ledges, each connected by intricate pilasters and elaborate porticoes, which served as reminders of the architecture lessons Ardi had taken and somehow aced despite his lack of interest.

To the left of the main entrance stood a series of bay windows, their columns rising into a single glass dome, which capped the building like a crown. It was this dome that had made Ardan question the actual number of floors.

“Let’s go,” Atura said, gently urging him forward as they stepped out of the automobile.

Ardan took one last look at it, then at the building. Only when he noticed several other similar buildings nearby — each distinct in design but all grand and stately, with fences and automobiles of their own — did it dawn on him that this was not some shared structure, but likely the home of a single family. The sheer magnitude of wealth required to not only build but also maintain such a residence in the heart of the Metropolis was staggering.

He didn’t even want to think about how many exes it would cost. Some numbers were too indecent to speak aloud.

Together with Atura and Davenport, who was still carrying Ardi’s belongings (a fact that made him uneasy, as it clashed with his upbringing as a Matabar), he approached the grand entrance. Atura pressed a small button embedded in the doorframe. Immediately, from the other side of the oak doors, with their beautifully-crafted mermaid-shaped handles, came the trill of a bullfinch. It was so lifelike that Ardi nearly mistook it for the real thing.

Moments later, the door opened, revealing a stern-looking man in an even sterner suit, complete with pince-nez, white gloves, and the posture of someone who had swallowed a flagpole.

“Madam Atura,” the man inclined his head slightly, his gaze briefly scanning Ardi with an air of mild disdain, though by now, the young man had grown used to such looks. “I see your lady’s endeavor was successful.”

“It was,” Atura replied with a nod.

The man stepped aside, allowing the trio to enter. As soon as Ardan crossed the threshold, he felt something brush against the edges of his consciousness. Something soft, yet firm, probed gently and weaved around the Star of his Ley before pulling back to settle at the periphery of his awareness, like a watchful guard dog.

Alarmed, Ardi glanced around. He hardly noticed the grandeur of the entryway — its size alone rivaled his entire home back in Evergale — nor the gold leaf, the marble floors, or the broad staircase that spiraled gracefully along the walls toward the second floor, bordered by a brass balustrade. The mirrors, paintings, plush carpets, doors of solid wood, and countless rare metals and stones — none of it mattered at that moment.

He was trying to figure out what had touched his core when-

“It’s a household warding spell, boy,” came a grating voice from the corridor leading to the east wing. Its owner soon appeared, and he looked every bit as unpleasant as he sounded.

He was hunched over, with thinning, slicked-back hair attempting to cover a balding scalp, and his piggish eyes squinted at Ardi from beneath a hooked nose. His knobby fingers clutched a staff — not carved, but forged from some strange metal and adorned with dozens of magical seals.

Over his finely-tailored woolen suit, he wore a pink cloak, signifying that he possessed five Stars. Ardi’s eyes also didn’t miss his golden epaulettes bearing five silver stars, which had six, eight, six, four, and three points respectively.

Ardan knew enough to recognize the man for what he was — a monster. Not a beast of fang and claw, but a creature clothed in the garb and regalia of an Imperial mage. He seemed ageless and could just as easily have been forty or sixty. And when he recalled the power of the Ice Arrow, which required only three rays of the first Star, Ardi could barely imagine what this mage was capable of.

It was no wonder that the Aean’Hane had lost to Star Magic. If humans could breed mages like this one in such a short time, it was a miracle Ectassus had held out for so long in the war.

“Senior Magister,” Atura bowed deeply, nearly to her waist. “I humbly request permission for our guest to practice magic in the house.”

The mage’s gaze swept over Ardi, filled with disdain and a hint of scorn.

“I don’t think that-”

“It’s the lady’s order, Urnosov,” Davenport cut him off, his voice firm and brooking no argument. “Or are you going to question her, Bogdan?”

Urnosov’s lips twisted in displeasure, and his grip tightened on his staff, the top of which was crowned by a fist-sized yellow Ley crystal.

For a few tense moments, the two men locked eyes in a silent contest of wills before the mage, with a barely-noticeable tap of his staff against the floor, lifted the ward. In an instant, Ardi felt the invisible presence retreat.

Without another word, the mage turned on his heel, his cloak billowing like the wings of an owl, and disappeared behind a door. Ardi found himself profoundly grateful that he wouldn’t have to deal with this man any further.

“You shouldn’t have pushed him like that, dear,” Atura said quietly.

“He’s far too full of himself,” Davenport replied neutrally. “The young man is our guest for the next two weeks. Whether Urnosov likes it or not, he’ll have to respect that fact.”

Ardi couldn’t help but wonder who Davenport really was, to speak to such a powerful mage in that kind of tone.

Either Davenport was utterly confident that the Five-Star mage couldn’t harm him — which bordered on the fantastical — or he had some other kind of protection.

In any case, Ardan had no doubt that neither Atura nor Davenport, nor even Bogdan Urnosov, were the true owners of this grand mansion.

“Let’s go, Mr. Egobar,” Atura addressed him again. Where had he heard her name before? “We’ll take you to your room. The lady is running a bit late, but she’ll be up shortly. I believe she’s been quite eager to meet you.”

And for the first time, Ardan finally decided to ask the questions that had been plaguing him.

“Who exactly is your lady? Where are we, and why was I brought here, and-”

“All your questions, young man,” Davenport interrupted in the same tone he had used with Urnosov, “will soon be answered. Have a bit of patience.”

With that, the broad-shouldered man, who would likely struggle to pass through a normal door, began climbing the stairs. Ardan followed, with Atura bringing up the rear.

They ascended first to the second floor, then to the third, weaving through corridors, passing from one hall to another, and occasionally throwing open doors. Along the way, Ardan couldn’t help but marvel at the décor.

It wasn’t the wealth that impressed him, though there was certainly plenty of that, but the beauty. The elegance of the sculptures, the intricate designs, the perfectly-selected materials and color schemes. Ardan had always liked the images of museum pieces in his history books.

Now, he felt as though he had stepped into one.

Yet, for all the splendor, it also felt stifling and uncomfortable, as if living here wasn’t quite right. Still, there was no denying that it was beautiful.

After one more turn, Davenport pushed open a pair of tall, cedar doors painted white, and beyond them lay a room so vast that Ardi didn’t immediately understand its purpose.

It was so large that it could’ve easily housed two classrooms from the school where Ardan had spent five years of his life in Evergale. The ceilings soared, and the windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framed in rich redwood. Against the far wall stood a bed large enough to comfortably fit Yonatan’s entire squad, draped with crimson velvet canopies.

Next to the wall, there was a massive, heavy desk with countless drawers, gleaming with a fresh coat of varnish.

And against the opposite wall stood a wardrobe so large it could’ve held not only all of Ardan’s clothes, but also the wardrobes of Shaia, Erti, and possibly their entire family as well.

But what struck Ardi the most was the absence of a fireplace. How did they heat such a place?

“The heating will be turned on within the next three days,” Davenport placed Ardan’s few belongings in the center of the room and, noticing his confusion, tapped his knuckles against the strange, cast-iron pipes between the windows.

“Central heating,” he explained. “A recent innovation. There’s a boiler in the basement. It heats the water, and the pumps distribute it throughout the mansion and... damn. Why am I even telling you this?”

Ardan blinked and averted his gaze, realizing that he had been staring too deeply into Davenport’s soul while lost in thought. Well, at least now he knew that Davenport wasn’t a Star Mage; otherwise, he would have felt the Witch’s Gaze, as Mart had once called it.

Frowning, Davenport marched out into the hallway, where Ardan faintly heard him mutter:

“Perhaps Bogdan was right after all…”

Left alone in the room with Atura, Ardi suddenly felt the weight of the silence.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Egobar,” she said with a warm smile, sensing his discomfort. “Nothing will threaten you here in my lady’s home.”

“But-”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Atura interrupted him gently but firmly. “The lady will be here within half an hour.”

Determined not to give up, Ardan opened his mouth to press further, but with a swish of her skirts, Atura turned and left the room, closing the door behind her. She left the key in the lock on the inside, a gesture that felt more symbolic than practical.

They seemed intent on making him feel like a guest, not a prisoner. And perhaps, in some ways, that was true — if he could forget the fact that his entire family was living under the watchful eye of the Cloaks in Delpas, and that their ancestral home in the Alcade now housed the grave of his great-grandfather.

“Thoughts for another day,” Ardi muttered, shaking his head. There was no point in obsessing over the same problem again and again and expecting a different outcome.

He carefully unpacked his meager belongings, placing them in the enormous wardrobe. His mother’s handmade wool coat was now hanging on a hook. Soon, the cold would set in, and Ardan wasn’t sure how well he’d fare in unfamiliar lands during the winter. He wasn’t likely to be as sensitive to the cold as regular humans, but an extra layer of clothing never hurt.

With that done, Ardan unfastened Gleb Davos’ satchel. He immediately set aside the artifacts — the ring, the earring and the pendant — since without an analyzer, he wouldn’t be able to discern their functions.

Instead, he retrieved only the grimoire and the Ley accumulator. Resisting the temptation to dive straight into the book, Ardan placed the crystal on the floor and sat before it, closing his eyes as Atta’nha had taught him. He extended the threads of his will, casting them out like nets, as Skusty had taught him, and began searching not for something in the physical world, but for the hidden places within it.

He regretted it instantly.

Whether it was the household ward that Urnosov had mentioned or the overwhelming amount of Ley energy in the house, it felt as though he had plunged headfirst into a kaleidoscope of shattered reflections, all boiling and roaring.

Ardan shook his head, suppressing the urge to vomit, and immediately opened his eyes, fighting off the dizziness. Now he understood why Star Mages relied on analyzers — if every house was hiding such a grand display beneath a veil of normalcy, it would be impossible to see anything clearly.

“Then again…” Ardi murmured, recalling how he had healed Tavskiy’s daughter.

Back then, when he had glimpsed the hidden fabric of reality, it had tried to trap him, but he had managed to pull himself back by focusing on the essentials.

Perhaps the same approach would work here.

Calming his breath and closing his eyes once more, Ardan opened his will and gaze to the secret corners of the world. Again, the storm of images, sounds, and even tastes and sensations, crashed against his mind and will. It was like a maddened bull raging with no purpose or intent, just a force of chaos driven to move for the sake of motion.

Ardan nearly faltered when faced with its pressure, but with each passing moment, he managed to trim away more unnecessary fragments of flashing colors, cacophonous sounds, and false sensations. And yet, the more he cut away, the more concentrated the chaotic flow became, making it harder and harder to hold his will steady. Ardan still hadn’t found the Ley crystal amid all the madness.

If he had found himself in this situation while attempting to claim his Red Star, Ardan wasn’t sure whether he would have even been able to locate the crystal, let alone harness it, and-

“There!” He shouted in his mind as he caught sight of the faint Ley glow and the crystal’s rays.

The rush of triumph almost broke his concentration, but he quickly reined it in, counting four rays before opening his eyes and releasing his will.

Panting and wiping the sweat from his brow, Ardi picked up the accumulator, tossed it lightly into the air, and smiled in victory as he pocketed it.

“I’ll still need to find an analyzer somewhere,” he muttered to himself.

Catching his breath, and seeing that only a quarter of an hour had passed, Ardan reached for Gleb Davos’ grimoire. He didn’t have high hopes as he opened the book.

And sure enough, the entire text was an indecipherable mess of squiggles, dots, dashes, numbers, and something completely abstract.

A cipher. It was to be expected. Logical, even. And while Ardan might attempt to crack it in his free time, it wouldn’t be happening today.

Turning the page, he encountered the first seal. At a glance, it seemed straightforward, but the longer Ardan studied its structure, the more he realized he didn’t understand it at all.

On the surface, it appeared simpler, more elegant, and more organized than the seals the Stranger had created. It was like comparing modern farming equipment to ancient plows. The purpose was the same, but the convenience and potential were vastly different.

And yet, in Davos’ seals, all the runes overlapped, intertwining in a complex web. The Ley channels connected at impossible vectors, crossing and merging in ways that made it impossible to discern where one ended and another began.

“Another cipher,” Ardan muttered in frustration, though with a tinge of excitement. “I’ll need a key not just for the text, but for the seal itself.”

Just as he reached for his own grimoire and a pencil, the doors swung open, and the last person Ardan had expected to see walked in.

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