Matabar

In the first days after the holidays, the Metropolis looked... just like it usually did. Except for one thing: cars were still scarce. Lone trams, creaking slightly along the icy rails, moved in a leisurely manner through the snow-covered streets. Only a few sleek, low-slung new cars kept them company.

Pedestrians, bundled up in their fur coats and winter overcoats, hurried about their business as usual.

The sun was shining. Or trying to shine, anyway... It would sometimes emerge briefly from behind the gray, low-hanging haze that blanketed the sky, turning it into a reflection of the slushy snow gloomily glimmering on the sidewalks and roads.

Their small truck was steadily moving away from Old Town and had already crossed the Crookedwater Canal. Its name came from the fact that the workers digging it had deviated significantly from the planned course, leaving its channel with a pronounced curve.

Buildings of refined beauty gave way to far more utilitarian structures bereft of caryatids, intricate arches, columns, balustrades, bay windows, balconies, and tangled bas-reliefs. These were simple brick boxes, which only occasionally tried to boast a grand entrance instead of a modest stairwell.

And gradually, ahead of them, above the horizon comprised of pale house roofs, skyscrapers began to rise. At first, they were relatively modest ones — “only” sixteen or eighteen stories tall — but as they neared the New City, the buildings grew taller and taller, some reaching heights of up to twenty-five, even thirty stories. Towering over the city like silent sentinels, they looked simultaneously monumental and... somehow out of place. As Ardan gazed at them, he began to understand Duchess Anorsky’s remarks about the grotesqueness of skyscrapers. However, even among their ranks, there were those that resembled austere castles or pompous palaces reaching ever skyward.

Inside the truck, Ardan was being accompanied by Cat and three others, while the driver and a fifth Cloak sat beyond the partition.

Strangely enough, none of them had asked him a single question about the incident on the train. And yet, like the emergency services, they knew something had gone awry. Perhaps the delay had given it away — the train had lost nearly a full day due to the attack... by who knows whom. Calling them mere bandits felt wrong, and Ardi knew too little about the rest to even hazard a guess.

Not to mention the fact that the folded sheet of paper with the seals copied from the Staff of Demons was still tucked away in the inner pocket of his vest...

“We’re here,” the driver announced. His voice was a bit dry and slightly unpleasant, reminiscent of sandpaper scratching against soft wood.

The truck groaned in protest, its frozen brakes creaking as it stopped at the curb.

Cat was the first to jump out and unfold the step ladder leading down. Icy, damp air hit their faces immediately, far colder than in Delpas. The frost gnawed at their cheeks, snow crunched underfoot, and the wind howled in a way that could almost rival a wolf.

And Ardan liked it. He loved winter. He loved it even when it reeked of coal, diesel, cigar smoke, and a sewer system in desperate need of repair.

Holding onto his hat, which kept threatening to fly off amid the gusts of wind, Ardan looked up. They were standing before the infamous Black House.

It was monumental: a massive, rectangular building situated opposite a small square and flanked on both sides by parks with tall trees and fountains. Six stories high, it only had one grand entrance, which was positioned centrally. Bereft of any decorative facade, even the window frames appeared severe and unwelcoming against the somber, dark brick walls.

Unsurprisingly, the residents of not just the Metropolis, but the entire Empire feared this grim edifice. Just looking at it made you want to shrink away and run.

“Want one?” Cat asked, holding out a cigarette to Ardan.

“I don’t smoke,” the young man declined.

“For now,” the Cloak remarked, pulling a steel lighter shaped like a skull from his coat pocket and lighting up.

Soon, his colleagues joined him, taking out cigarettes and lighting them with identical lighters. If not for the icy wind, Ardi would have started coughing; the smell of tobacco irritated him.

“And what-”

“We’ll finish smoking and head in,” one of the Cloaks said. It was the same dry voice from before, and the man himself matched it: tall, gaunt and unremarkable, save for the old burn scars on his hands.

The Cloaks smoked without gloves, their hands gradually turning red. Ardi glanced at his own hands. Despite the frost, they seemed perfectly normal.

“When’s the subway opening?” One of the Cloaks asked, taking a drag.

“Early in the Month of Flowers,” Dry Voice replied. “The first day of spring. Twelve stations at once. They’ll extend from the Boulevard of the Rebel King straight to Market Street.”

That first name rang a bell for Ardan. The Boulevard of the Rebel King was adjacent to Saint Warriors Street, where Boris and Elena lived. As for Market Street... He thought it was somewhere in the Trade District.

“What’s a subway?” Ardan couldn’t hold back his curiosity.

Some of the Cloaks choked on their smoke, while Cat merely chuckled and reached out to clap Ardan on the shoulder, but then thought better of it.

“Underground tram lines,” Cat explained, turning to his colleagues. “Don’t be surprised. Mr. Egobar here is a bit... otherworldly, unless the subject is Star Magic. Right, Magister?”

Ardi stayed silent. He wasn’t intimidated or surprised by the Second Chancery’s knowledge of him — he’d grown used to it.

“It’s part of a project to develop the city’s transportation system,” one of the Cloaks elaborated, extinguishing his cigarette with the sole of his boot and tossing it into a nearby bin. “In recent decades, the number of cars has increased. So has the population. Surface trams can’t keep up anymore. They either get stuck in traffic or break down because of the weather. So, about seven years ago, the Guild of Engineers proposed that they be allowed to dig tunnels for tram tracks. It’ll speed up transportation and make it more convenient for people to move around Metropolis. Not to mention-”

“Arthur, give it a rest,” Cat snorted, flicking his cigarette butt into the same bin.

“Curse that Witch’s Gaze,” Arthur sighed. “It’s insidious. Feels like chatting with a good friend — it lightens your mood and makes you want to spill everything. Like how the other day, my wife and I-”

“Arthur!” The other Cloaks chorused.

“Ah… right.” The talkative Cloak shot Ardan a disgruntled look and fell silent.

“And what about the Ley Lines’ influence?” Ardi mused aloud. “Or were the tunnels shielded like the mines? But... the cost...”

“The subway will require tickets,” Cat waved off the concern. “The Crown and the investors will recoup their expenses... in a couple of decades. The real question, Mr. Egobar, is…”

Ardi didn’t quite grasp this “real question,” so he asked the most obvious thing instead:

“Are we going inside?”

“Everyone done smoking?” Cat asked, for some reason.

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

“One sec,” the last Cloak requested, taking one more drag before discarding his cigarette butt.

“Then let’s go,” Cat nodded and led the way toward the grand entrance.

Ardi frowned and trailed after him. Soft, fluffy snow fell on his head. The blizzard had already moved on farther down the street, disappearing among the low residential houses. He couldn’t help but wonder: what was it like to live next to a nightmare made reality, the kind of thing used to scare the entire country?

“It’s a superstition,” whispered Arthur, who was walking beside him. The man was somewhere in his forties, with a repeatedly broken nose. He continued, “If more than three people enter the Black House, someone has to have smoked beforehand.”

“And what happens if-”

“Trouble,” Arthur interrupted with a shrug. “They’ll assign you a new case out of turn, dock your bonus, send you on a long assignment, or saddle you with someone else’s cold case to reopen. Or something else will go wrong. I don’t believe in superstitions myself, but this has become a sort of tradition.”

“A cold case?”

“Cases that go unsolved within a year,” the Cloak explained. “And no one likes those.”

“Why-”

“You’ll find that out if you come to an agreement with the Colonel.”

By then, they had already entered the headquarters of the Second Chancery. Beyond the massive wooden doors reinforced with iron bands and adorned with cast-iron Imperial emblems (inherited from Gales), was... quite an ordinary building.

The wooden floors were covered with nondescript, worn rugs. Near the entrance was a checkpoint manned by two elderly “guards,” who lazily glanced at the investigators’ IDs that the Cloaks presented.

“And this one?” One of the greeters asked.

“He’s with us. He’s going to see the Colonel.”

“Got it,” came the indifferent response.

Behind the “security booth” or, in this case, the equivalent of an information desk, a long, wide corridor came into view. Paintings of all kinds hung on the walls, ranging from still life paintings and portraits to landscapes. Occasionally, they were interspersed with photographs of city panoramas.

“The cleaners asked everyone to head straight to the cloakroom!” Someone called after them.

“Understood,” Cat replied.

They turned left and approached an old, somewhat shabby white door with a sign reading “Cloakroom.” Inside was, predictably, a cloakroom.

An elderly woman took their outerwear and handed out wooden tokens, including one for Ardan, who reluctantly parted with his overcoat.

“We won’t make it to the cafeteria,” Cat checked his wristwatch. “So, colleagues, let’s split up. The Magister and I will see the Colonel, and the rest of you... well, go where you need to.”

“See you, Milar,” Arthur bid them farewell.

And that was how Ardan learned the real name of this affable, slightly odd investigator.

They entered the corridor together, then parted ways. The other Cloaks headed to the east wing, while Milar/Cat and Ardan went west. They passed a couple of doors before reaching a wide staircase.

“They should’ve installed an elevator by now,” Milar muttered irritably. “Alright, let’s go.”

The first oddity Ardi noticed was that the stairs, though broad and shaped into a sort of spiral, didn’t lead to corridors or lobbies but... to more doors. Judging by the distant sounds behind them, people were moving between these rooms as well. It gave one the impression that the Black House could just as easily have been called the House of Doors.

They climbed to the sixth floor and, after opening — shocker — a door, found themselves in yet another corridor. Walking through it, they encountered only a few workers. If not for the building they were in, they could’ve easily been mistaken for simple clerks. They wore strict yet plain suits, had an abundance of folders in their hands, and somewhat absent-minded expressions.

There was one detail Ardan noted again — no one greeted anyone. Even though the workers clearly knew Cat and he knew them, they passed by without even meeting each other’s gaze. Then they disappeared through yet more doors, whose only identifying markers were numbered plaques organized in a manner similar to the Grand: the first digit denoted the floor, and the second represented the office. Peeking into a door alongside a worker going through it, Ardan glimpsed an antechamber — a buffer of sorts. In other words, the doors came in pairs, ensuring that even someone who’d managed to follow a Cloak inside wouldn’t be able to see what was transpiring within, past the second door.

The corridor itself was no different from the one Ardan had encountered on the first floor. It had the same worn gray-brown carpet, the same impersonal paintings and photographs, and nothing that would overtly indicate the nature of the work conducted here. The only consistent companion was the echo, persistently battering against the indifferent windowpanes in a futile attempt to escape.

It all seemed designed to disorient. Should someone stumble in here without entering through the main doors, they’d have no clue where they were. Everything looked the same, offering no hint of the true purpose of the place. And yet the implausible cleanliness paired with deliberate neglect hinted that all was not as it seemed.

This description, incidentally, could just as easily apply to the Metropolis itself.

At the far end of the long, bright, spacious corridor, Ardan discovered... yes, more doors. Unlike the others, however, these bore no plaque. That was their sole distinguishing feature.

“Go ahead,” Milar opened the first set of doors, then the buffer, ushering Ardan into a modest office.

It was far more modest than one might’ve expected the de facto head of the Empire’s most powerful law enforcement agency to have. It was no more than thirty square meters, slightly elongated, and entirely paneled with dark-brown painted wood. This, combined with the emerald-green curtains on the windows, lent the room an air of gentle dimness.

At the far wall stood a desk shaped by two perpendicular lines , illuminated by a single Ley-lamp. Flanking it were two narrow, short cabinets with opaque doors. And... nothing more. The office had no room for superfluous decor. There were no extravagant chairs, no excess furniture. Furthermore, only a simple portrait of the Emperor adorned the wall near the window.

Well, that and a subtle, deliberately-concealed additional door embedded within the wooden paneling.

“Take a seat, Magister,” Cat pulled out a chair for Ardi, then perched on the adjacent one.

They sat in silence for several minutes before the concealed door opened with a barely audible, high-pitched creak.

“Needs oiling,” said a familiar voice.

Along with an equally-familiar folder (the one the Emperor had been holding before, which contained Ardan’s dossier), the man settled into the chair at the head of the table.

He looked almost the same as before, back at the Anorsky estate. All he was missing were his hat and autumn coat. He wore a plain, blue work suit instead — cheap but well-made, a slightly worn shirt with a visibly-mended collar, and shoes polished to a mirror shine, with wide, blunt toes. The kind favored by factory workers.

In every other way, the Deputy Head of the Second Chancery was exactly as Ardan remembered him: a wiry man with streaks of gray in his jet-black hair. He also had an aquiline nose, piercing eyes, and a slight bald spot that was no longer hidden beneath a felt hat.

A scar marred his upper lip, and his right hand trembled faintly — a hint of an old injury. However, his blue eyes had retained their sharp clarity, reflecting a strength emanating not from his lean, aging body, but from the indomitable will of the giant personality within.

Ardan had no doubts about what this man truly was.

“It seems to me that, during our last meeting, I mentioned that you wouldn’t want to see me again, Mr. Egobar,” the Colonel opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a thick cigar, a special cutter, and a skull-shaped lighter identical to Cat’s.

He clipped the cigar’s end, lit it, and took a slow puff, exhaling a cloud of smoke that smelled more like chocolate and vanilla than tobacco.

“Colonel,” Milar straightened up, his demeanor suddenly serious.

“Captain Investigator of the First Rank,” the old man returned the greeting with equal gravity. Then, without removing the cigar from his mouth, he untied the strings of Ardi’s folder and quickly skimmed its contents. “Fifth Street... The Jackets... The Dandy... and now the train. What exactly happened there?”

Ardan recounted everything in meticulous detail.

Except for one thing — the copy of the engravings still hidden in his vest. Why? He wasn’t sure. He suspected that it would be confiscated, and after glimpsing its complex and unusual seals, Ardi couldn’t resist the urge to study them and understand their structure.

“So, the copy didn’t survive?” The Colonel asked, his gaze fixed on Ardan.

“I didn’t see it on the bodies,” Ardi replied truthfully.

“Trevor Man’s assistant might have pocketed it,” Milar added thoughtfully. “And sold it off quietly later.”

“Then you and your team, Captain, will investigate that lead,” the Colonel gestured with his cigar. “Head to Bri-&-Man’s office and discuss why our dear tycoon decided to bring the jewel of his collection to this city.”

“Understood,” Milar responded, albeit a little reluctantly, and turned to Ardan.

“Should’ve smoked!” he mouthed, his expression vivid and eloquent.

“You’re not concerned about her being a mutant?” Ardi blurted out in surprise.

“There are no mutants in the Empire, Mr. Egobar,” the Colonel replied. “We’re not Tazidahians. We don’t torture our own people with Star Magic.”

“But-”

“And Yonatan Kornosskiy, naturally,” the Colonel cut him off, “isn’t a mutant, either. Just as you, of course, didn’t participate in repelling an attack by a foreign intelligence sabotage group. No, you simply had a peaceful and uneventful journey to the capital and went straight home. Why the emergency services missed you when they arrived at the train after the generator accident — well, that’s anyone’s guess. Understood?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Understood.”

“Excellent,” the Colonel nodded, closing his folder. For a while, he smoked in silence. Then he asked, “What do you think, Milar?”

“I’m not sure, Colonel,” Cat shrugged. “Yonatan recommended eliminating the kid.”

“He recommends that we eliminate everyone,” the Colonel retorted. “That’s why I value him.”

“For his paranoia?”

“For his lack of attachments, Captain,” the Second Chancery’s leader corrected, flicking ash into an elegant, sculpted ashtray that appeared on the desk seemingly out of nowhere. “But I want your honest opinion. Speak your mind.”

Milar cast a quick glance at Ardan, then turned back.

“Deep beneath his naivety and reckless curiosity lies a competent investigator,” he declared. “Coupled with his obvious aptitude for learning that Bazhen reported-”

“Cool it, Captain,” the Colonel mockingly admonished. “Mr. Egobar isn’t on the payroll yet and has never set foot in the Black House. So, let’s leave names out of this.”

“But it seems like he has a penchant for recklessness,” Milar continued. “The Wanderer, the Shanti’Ra, the house on Baliero, the train — it all points to a death wish. The Magister is determined to end his life in the most unpleasant way possible. I don’t want to risk the lives of the men and women who might end up in the same team as him. He’ll drag them down.”

“Hm,” the Colonel murmured noncommittally. “And you, Mr. Egobar? What do you have to say about that?”

“That you’re framing this as if I should be begging you for a position, rather than the other way around,” Ardan replied faster than he could stop himself.

A small snow leopard on his shoulder nodded respectfully, while the squirrel on the other side hid its face in its paws in embarrassment.

“Well, well,” the Colonel drawled after a brief pause. “Care to explain? But let me warn you: yes, we don’t have many half-bloods, and the Firstborn in our ranks can be counted on two hands. In that sense, you’re a rare find. And not every mage is suited to our line of work. Those who might be interested often have far better offers, so-”

“That doesn’t matter to you at all,” Ardi interrupted, not even bothering to apologize. “And you know that I know as much. Which leaves only one thing.”

“And what’s that?” The Colonel frowned slightly.

“The fact that none of those you mentioned have any connection to ‘Operation Mountain Predator.’ But you, like my father and great-grandfather —my great-grandfather on my mother’s side, to clarify — suspect it was a conspiracy.”

A heavy silence fell over the office. The Colonel scrutinized Ardan, while Milar looked between them both. At that moment, Ardi simply didn’t care. The truth was, absurd and pompous as it might’ve sounded, that the Second Chancery needed him even more than he needed them.

“I must ask you, Mr. Egobar, to hand over Alexander Taakov’s journal,” the Colonel demanded, his tone devoid of any coercion but clearly authoritative.

“How did you know?”

“When we first met, Ard, you had no idea about ‘Operation Mountain Predator,’ nor about your mother’s family history,” the old man replied calmly. Although, on second thought, the Colonel wasn’t that old — maybe sixty or slightly older. “Your mother, if she’d known, would’ve already told you. That leaves Aror and your father. Aror is a dubious and shady character — no offense, though feel free to be offended... he’s unreliable. Which means it was your father. A father about whom you knew so little that you wouldn’t trust his words enough to base your reasoning on them. Which means Hector Egobar provided you with convincing evidence. And since every field investigator is required to keep a journal of their investigations, he must’ve left it to you as an inheritance.”

Ardan blinked in stunned silence. So, this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of someone’s deductive reasoning and having your life laid bare.

“You didn’t think your unpolished deductive skills were unique, did you?” The Colonel took another puff, seemingly pleased with himself. “The journal?”

“There’s only a page,” Ardi admitted, not bothering to lie. He opened his satchel, which, along with his bag, he hadn’t checked into the cloakroom, and pulled out his father’s letter. “The rest was burned under... certain circumstances.”

“Ard,” the Colonel winced a little, carefully taking the page from his great-grandfather’s journal. “Don’t make us regret our faith in you. We’re well-aware of your father’s entire story. So, calm down.”

Of course... Of course they already knew.

“And I’ll be keeping this page — no hard feelings,” the Colonel carefully placed it into one of those familiar tubes meant to be used with pneumatic systems. Spinning in his chair, he opened the left cabinet, which contained not books or files, but an array of pneumatic mail tubes.

Well, then... Nothing was as it seemed.

“Especially since you’ve already made a copy,” the Colonel remarked, sending the scroll off with a satisfying whoosh.

Ardi tried not to react. He hadn’t made a copy. It hadn’t even occurred to him. Besides, why would he need one? But the Colonel was so certain, as though... As though he believed Ardan was wholly focused on uncovering the tragedy of his father’s people.

“This connection still doesn’t make you a suitable candidate, Ard,” the Colonel returned to his seat.

“Then I’ll head home on the Marcov Canal,” Ardi shrugged.

Tellingly, none of them moved. They all understood that they needed each other, perhaps not equally, but in a way that left little room for negotiation.

“I’ll offer you a three-month probationary period,” the Colonel said after nearly five minutes of silence. “During this time, your salary will be twelve exes and forty kso. And sixty kso for each ray of your Red Star. That makes sixteen exes and sixty kso.”

The sum didn’t particularly appeal to Ardan. Yonatan’s skepticism about Second Chancery salaries suddenly made a lot more sense, as did the reason for why mages weren’t lining up to join them. Even with bonuses for their Stars.

“And whose team will we assign him to, Colonel?” Milar finally asked after a long pause.

The leader of the Second Chancery didn’t reply. Instead, he shot a meaningful look at the captain, who seemed to realize something a moment later and practically exploded.

“Mine?!” Milar shot to his feet. “An untrained kid? Maybe in five years, he’d be of some use, but... this is absurd!”

“If he can’t catch up in three months, we’ll dismiss him,” the Colonel replied calmly. “You’ve been submitting reports for nearly a year, always asking for a mage to be assigned to your unit.”

“A combat mage,” Milar grumbled, sitting back down. “And I was hinting at Aversky or, at worst, Mshisty.”

“Aversky volunteered to train our new, albeit temporary, colleague,” the Colonel said, passing Milar the dossier.

“Aversky?” The captain’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Volunteer? Why would that lunatic do something like that?”

“Because Cassara asked him to. Back when Ard was with Yonatan’s group.”

“Ah, of course. If Cassara asked him to, then the asshole would move heaven and earth...” Milar grumbled. “Yet when we asked him to help with the illegal magic shield lab, he practically told us to fu...”

“All the more reason to take him, Captain,” the Colonel’s blue eyes glinted faintly. “You’re already leading the case.”

“I am,” Milar admitted. “But I don’t need a second investigator, and he’s not cut out for being an operative, even with all his potential.”

“Aversky will train him.”

“Not in three months!”

The Colonel narrowed his eyes slightly, and Milar immediately sat up straighter, almost as if saluting.

“You’ll work with him for three months,” the Colonel’s tone was steady, but steely. “You’ll have time to dig into Baliero, investigate the Dandy’s interests, and look into Trevor Man. Ard has already gotten involved in this mess, so you’ll help him.”

“Help him... clean up, you mean?” Milar sighed in defeat and said no more.

The Colonel turned to Ardan, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.

“If you don’t fail your probationary period, Mr. Egobar, and join the staff, you’ll become a fully-fledged member of the Second Chancery and gain access to the case materials for ‘Operation Mountain Predator.’”

“I’m still a student at the Grand,” Ardan reminded him. “And since the crown is no longer paying for my education, I need a full scholarship… and the stipend, which-”

“Is entirely your problem, Mr. Egobar,” the Colonel interrupted immediately. “The Second Chancery offers a course in military magic. In your case, one of our best — if not the best — specialists will handle your training. You’re already acquainted with him. It’s thanks to his efforts that you didn’t get too close to a deceased terrorist.”

Vulture...

“You can continue studying as long as you can manage both,” the Colonel continued. “Or you can decline our offer, and, as I said before, you were never in the Black House, and we never met.”

Ardan thought about it deeply. He genuinely wanted to uncover what had happened to his father’s ancestors. But when weighing the tragedy of the Matabar against his education at the Grand, ‘Operation Mountain Predator’ lost the battle.

Well, it was as Atta’nha had once taught him: “Life doesn’t allow you to have everything at once.” The she-wolf had meant to say that it would be impossible to master all of the True Names, and in fact, even mastering several of them would be a challenge. The best idea was to focus on those closest to one’s heart.

“Then I’m afraid I must refu-”

There was a knock at the door, interrupting Ardan.

“Ah, here he is,” the Colonel raised his cigar and took another puff. “Come in!”

A broad-shouldered man of average height walked into the office, leaning on an iron staff etched with seals. He was dressed in an expensive suit embroidered with silk thread. He also had pristine white cuffs adorned with ruby cufflinks, was perfumed with a sweet fragrance, was wearing “not-for-the-streets” shoes, and he had a gold watch chain jingling against the silver buttons of his vest. Even his grimoire, hanging from his belt, was a work of art.

The cover, made from deer hide, was ornamented with an ancient heraldic design. The spine, embossed with a rugged pattern and shimmering with gold lettering, promised that the book would have at least four hundred pages, if not more.

And yet his face, neck, and hands stood in stark contrast to his attire. His strong, slightly heavyset face was laced with scars. His right hand was missing a ring finger, and his left was barely gripping his staff, likely due to an old injury.

Only now did Ardan notice Vulture’s shuffling, slightly sliding gait. He had a prosthetic. But not one like the Emperor’s — just his foot had been replaced, it seemed.

“Colonel,” Aversky nodded and, leaning on his staff, took a seat at the table.

“Major,” the Second Chancery’s leader replied in kind. “You arrived just in time — Mr. Egobar was about to choose his studies at the Grand over our organization.”

“Is that so?” Aversky seemed to be pleasantly surprised. “That’s good. It means he has brains. If the lad had chosen differently, I would’ve refused to train him, despite Cassara’s request.”

“Apologies for interrupting,” Ardan interjected, feeling utterly exhausted. He wanted to sleep and, even more so, eat. Almost anything was preferable to sitting in the company of these unpleasant people discussing equally unpleasant topics. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to leave. My first class of the semester is tomorrow, and-”

“Mr. Egobar,” Aversky cut him off in turn, pulling something from his pocket. “As far as I know, attending all the lectures at the Grand isn’t mandatory. I would propose this: you attend the lectures you find interesting, both the theoretical and practical ones, and I’ll cover the missed material with you personally.”

Vulture then placed several items on the table. The first was immediately recognizable to Ardan — he had these himself, albeit his were far more modest. Before him lay the epaulettes of an Imperial mage. There were six Stars depicted on them, with seven, eight, another eight, nine, three, and two rays.

After Velena Emergold — the university’s head librarian — Aversky was only the second mage Ardan had ever encountered with six Stars. And with an impressive number of rays to boot.

But what struck Ardan even more weren’t the epaulettes, but the medallion lying next to them. It was a simple, forged iron disk bearing the emblem of an ancient wizard’s hat and a book.

Once, in the Empire’s early days, the academic ranks of mages had had seven levels. First had been the Novice, then the Apprentice, the Practitioner, the Magister, the Senior Magister, the Grand Magister, and the Supreme Magister.

Over the years, the first three ranks had fallen by the wayside, replaced by the proud and resonant title of “student.” After graduation, if a mage chose to pursue Star Magic further, they could attempt to enter the Magisterium.

The Magisterium existed in only one location — directly within the Grand. There, Magisters and Senior Magisters delved into the most intricate and convoluted realms of magical science.

The title of Magister was awarded upon successfully completing another three years of study. Achieving the rank of Senior Magister required one to make a significant contribution to the field and then defend a thesis on a specific topic.

For example, Senior Magister Bogdan Urnosov, who taught the Grand Princess Anastasia, had reportedly developed a new principle for creating stationary shields. That didn’t sound particularly impressive in theory, but in practice, Urnosov had single-handedly established an entirely new branch in the science of shield wards.

However, the medallion Aversky had produced — those were awarded only to Grand Magisters. To individuals who’d not only made invaluable contributions to the study of Star Magic, but had also achieved something recognized by the global scientific community.

And “universal” really did mean the entire scientific world. These medallions were given only to universally-acknowledged masters.

As for the Supreme Magister — or, as they were known on the eastern continent, the Arch Magister — there was only ever one of them at a time. The current Arch Magister, Shilit Es’al’mus Hamni, a native of the deserts of Al’Zafir and a seven-Star mage, hadn’t been heard from since before Ardan was born. He led a reclusive life, dwelling... no one knew where.

So, the man currently facing Ardan wasn’t just a six-Star mage, but something akin to a beacon of the academic world. A figure of both scientific and, given the incident with the Aean’Hane elf, military renown.

Even the heir to the throne, with all the crown’s wealth and influence, was being taught by “merely” a Senior Magister. The opportunity being presented to Ardan right now wasn’t something money could buy, even with unlimited funds.

But this raised a reasonable question: what was Aversky, who was clearly a man of means and a Grand Magister, doing in the Second Chancery? And why hadn’t Ardi heard his name during an entire semester at the Grand?

But those were thoughts for another day.

“I agree,” Ardan said, unable to take his eyes off the medallion.

“In that case, Captain, Major, I entrust this young talent to your care,” the Colonel concluded. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.”

“Colonel,” Aversky nodded as he rose.

“Colonel,” Milar echoed.

The three of them left the office, walking past the doors that were the silent guardians of the Black House’s secrets. They descended to the first floor, retrieved their outerwear from the cloakroom (where Aversky casually donned a coat lined with black, Scaldavian sheepskin, which was the same material that the Anorsky family’s tailor had used to make his suit), and then stepped outside.

The first thing that caught Ardan’s eye was the car parked at the entrance. It was the same make as the duchess’ own car, only slightly newer, with a longer, sleeker cabin.

“Mr. Egobar,” Aversky approached the car, where his driver, an older man wearing glasses, opened the door for him. A personal driver... “My schedule is very tight, so I’d appreciate it if we could meet, say, once a week at my house. Let’s say… on the evening of the fourth day. And I’d be even more grateful if you came prepared with genuinely challenging questions for our sessions, rather than something simple like the dependency of the contour and array of runes within a seal.”

Ardan nearly collapsed right there on the spot. He hadn’t even known such a dependency existed!

“You have the address...” At this point, the driver approached Ardan and handed him a note, “... already. Sessions will begin promptly at seven in the evening and last until two in the morning, whether you arrive on time or not. And perhaps we already have something to discuss this week.”

Aversky’s gaze lingered briefly on the spot right in front of his inner pocket, where Ardan carried the transcribed seals from the Staff of Demons. It was unlikely to be a coincidence.

“Captain, please take good care of my protégé. On the fourth day of every week, he must arrive at my residence. Preferably with his head and at least one hand intact. The rest of his limbs are of little interest to me.”

“And what else do you want, you-” Milar began.

“Thank you for your understanding, Captain,” Aversky climbed into the luxurious car and closed the door.

His driver bowed slightly before stepping inside and starting the engine. Soon, they disappeared into the snowstorm.

“What a bastard,” Milar spat. “He does whatever he feels like and everyone indulges him. Because, of course... he’s a Grand Magister, damn him.”

Ardan’s mind struggled to reconcile...

“You’re wondering how he ended up in our little circle, aren’t you?” Milar seemed to read his thoughts as they walked to a small parking lot near the park, where the employees’ cars slumbered under the snow. “And why he answered to that... What did you call that Lord-General? A top hat? Well, Aversky made a deal about ten years ago. Almost like Yonatan. He was to either be declared an outlaw for his utterly immoral experiments with no boundaries, or join us. Personally, I think they shouldn’t have offered him that reprieve. He acts like the world owes him, and won’t lift a finger without a direct order from the Colonel.”

Experiments... Aversky... And then it hit Ardi.

“Edward Aversky?” He asked. “That’s Edward Aversky?”

“Yeah.”

Elena had once told him, while explaining the principle behind the practice grounds, that back when they hadn’t existed, all work with Star Magic had carried the risk of catastrophic side effects.

That was why, for example, Arkar had threatened to break Ardan’s legs if he blew something up. People still believed in some stereotypes because Grounds were a relatively recent invention. They had only started becoming widespread about twenty years ago.

The patent, and thus the royalties from every one of them produced, belonged to none other than Edward Aversky. And he had earned the title of Grand Magister, as well as worldwide recognition, because of them. But those Grounds were merely a byproduct of his research, as Edward Aversky was one of the best specialists in a very narrow field of Star Engineering.

Edward Aversky’s creations included some of the most destructive and lethal seals used in military applications. Many of them were classified as having strategic significance. In the Grand’s library, no student, no matter how privileged, could access Aversky’s works.

Only those studying to become Magisters were allowed to familiarize themselves with Aversky’s non-classified research and publications.

It was no wonder that Ardi hadn’t recognized him immediately. They lived in entirely different worlds.

“Judging by your expression, you’ve only just realized what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Milar grinned somewhat bloodthirstily. “Hop in. I’ll brush off the snow and drive us home.”

He unlocked the passenger door, letting Ardi into the car. Armed with a stiff brush, Milar swept the snow off the roof and hood before getting in as well. Starting the engine, he warmed it up briefly before they set off, heading through the snowfall toward Ardan’s lodgings.

***

“Take this,” Milar handed him an iron medallion that depicted a shield and dagger. It was slightly larger than the Grand Magister’s medallion, heavy and solid — impossible to lose by accident.

“What is this?”

“A product of your new mentor’s research and our science department,” Milar shrugged. “Don’t ask me how it works, I have no idea. All I know is that if I press this,” he held down the hilt of the dagger engraved on his own identical medallion, “this happens.”

At once, a translucent arrow appeared above his medallion, resembling a compass needle. It spun several times before pointing toward Ardi. Next to its ghostly silhouette, the number “1” appeared.

The medallion in Ardan’s hand instantly heated up — so much so that holding it became nearly impossible.

“It’s classified tech, because you can imagine the consequences if it falls into the wrong hands,” Milar pressed the hilt again, and the arrow and number vanished. Ardan’s medallion immediately returned to its original temperature. “When it heats up, it means I’m looking for you. Stay put and wait. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll polish your budding investigative skills in the field. But I doubt we’ll see each other before next week.”

“In what field?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Milar clarified irritably. “Fieldwork means assignments outside the Black House. Now, rookie, out with you — I’ve got to get home to my wife. My lunch is already cold. Yesterday’s lunch... I haven’t been home in a day. My kids are starting to forget what I look like, and... By the Eternal Angels! Work on that Witch’s Gaze with Aversky, or I’ll shoot you myself. All right, off you go. Until next time.”

Milar leaned over the front seat and opened the door for Ardan, gesturing for him to leave.

Ardan climbed out, and as soon as he closed the door to the aging car, Milar took off, vanishing into the snowy streets alongside the sparse traffic.

Ardi stood there for a moment, watching the car disappear, before turning to the bar’s entrance. It had only been two weeks since he’d last been here, yet it felt like a lifetime.

Stepping inside, he found the same small, intimate venue, the same chairs flipped onto tables, and the ever-present Arkar eternally polishing glasses.

“So, you finally showed up,” the half-orc said without turning around. “Thought you’d leave me the deposit and vanish.”

Ardan approached the counter, pulled out his wallet, and counted out the sum he owed for his lodging.

“There’s a message for you from the bank. It came an hour ago,” Arkar tossed his towel over his shoulder and pulled out a small note from his vest’s inner pocket. “Wanted to tell them I’m no one’s errand boy... no one’s messenger, I mean. But those fellows... Serious sorts, they were. Talking like they meant business. So here, but next time, handle your affairs elsewhere.”

Ardan took the note, broke the wax seal, unfolded it, and read:

“Dear Mr. Egobar,

At 4:43 day capital time today, an amount of 300 exes and 0 kso was transferred to your personal account by the company Bri-&-Man. Thus, including the previous deposit from the state organization known as the Imperial Magical University, your current balance is:

308 exes and 40 kso.

Additionally, a permanent safe deposit box has been opened in your name. You may collect the key upon your first visit to our second branch, where it is located.

We apologize for the inconvenience, but the central branch of the Imperial Bank is under reconstruction.

With best regards.”

Well, how about that... He had managed to score above ninety on his mid-term exams after all! Too bad he hadn’t quite reached the level needed for a higher stipend.

“Arkar, you didn’t see anyone go into my room, did you?”

“Ard, do I look like your butler?” Arkar snapped and went back to polishing glasses. “And no, I didn’t see anyone.”

So, the Cloaks had broken into a property controlled by the Orcish Jackets and retrieved Ardi’s belongings, and the gangsters had no clue? What was it someone had recently told him about the Second Chancery’s capabilities being exaggerated?

With that chilling thought, Ardi thanked Arkar for passing on the note and headed upstairs. On the stairs, as had become something of a tradition, he ran into Tess. She appeared to be preparing for tonight’s performance — after all, the holidays were over.

“Ardi!” She smiled like spring sunshine, and his spirits lifted slightly. “You decided to visit your family after all?”

“Yeah, I stopped by,” he stammered a bit.

They stood there on the staircase, silently looking at each other — another part of the ritual.

“May I pass?” She asked with that same warm, friendly smile.

“O-of course,” Ardan stepped aside, letting Tess pass in her warm, though old, fur coat and those same well-worn boots.

“Tess!” He called after her as she was nearly downstairs.

“Yes?” She turned.

“The Festival of Light... want to go together?”

She glanced away, sighing softly.

“I’ve already been invited, Ardi.”

“And you...”

“I promised to go.”

Ardan’s heart skipped a beat, and it felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

Well… He hadn’t planned on returning anyway, so it was only fair. But then why did it feel so unpleasant?

“Maybe next time?” He asked for no reason.

“Maybe next time,” she replied. “Goodbye, Ardi.”

“Goodbye.”

And she walked away, leaving Ardan alone on the stairs. He stood there a moment longer before heading up to his room. Closing the door behind him, he looked around.

Nothing had changed. The dozens of seal sketches substituting for wallpaper and curtains were still there, as were the lone wardrobe, the bed, the sink, the small table, and the chair.

Ardan placed his things on the floor and, ensuring the door was securely locked, retrieved the folded sheet of slightly peculiar-feeling paper from inside his vest.

Thoughts of Tess were soon replaced by thoughts of Star Magic. And now, finally, he had the opportunity to examine something that had captivated representatives of not one, but two nations. Before him lay the copied seals of the Staff of Demons.

Unfortunately, the Castilian hadn’t finished the sixth one (the final contours were only lightly sketched, not completed), and part of the seals was smeared with blood. Yet even the things Ardi could see were enough to make him clutch his head and whisper:

“What is this supposed to be?”

Just one glance at these monsters of engineering made him feel as if he’d never studied Star Magic at all.

What a start to the new year this was, by the Sleeping Spirits and Eternal Angels...

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