Matabar

With his sleeves rolled up, wearing a slightly-worn shirt and a loosely-knotted tie, Ardan sat on the cold floor of Aversky’s testing ground, glowering at the absurd dummy. The life-sized mannequin dressed in a jester’s outfit mockingly smirked at him with its crudely-painted crimson smile and sneering blue eyes that decorated the wooden sphere that served as its head.

The Grand Magister himself, who was clad in his characteristic ink-stained, long-unwashed clothes, stood nearby. While layering the dummy with various shield spells, he was somehow also managing to read a newly-published work: “The Recursion of Composite Properties,” written earlier that year by Grand Magister Erik Myasnitsyev, the mentor of Professor Convel.

“I’m not sure if wide-area military spells exceeding sixteen rays at three Stars can be looped,” Aversky muttered under his breath, idly running his incomplete set of fingers over his staff. “Though the calculations are certainly intriguing.”

Ardan’s gaze fell on the missing finger of Aversky’s hand, and his mind flashed back to the scene he’d witnessed at the palace. If not for the fact that the Spider — his name for that Fae — was a Factionless One, and Aversky just an ordinary human, he might have begun to suspect his teacher of something beyond just having an eccentric teaching style.

“Mr. Avers-”

“I’ve told you before, Ard, to address me simply by my first name, but with respect,” Aversky interrupted. “That will suffice.”

Ardan sighed and sprawled out across the floor, spreading his arms out to either side as he stared at the low ceiling. Scorched in places, acid-stained in others, it bore marks that looked as if... it had been melted in the past, but not across its surface, but from within. It was as though fire had erupted from inside the stonework. Or perhaps it hadn’t been fire at all...

He could feel his Star gradually replenishing the energy he had expended. Without any avarice, and with even a hint of laziness, it absorbed the Ley energy suffusing the space that was being transmitted through cables laid out beneath the faintly-shimmering dome of protective spells.

Bit by bit, the rays within Ardi’s consciousness reignited.

Aversky glanced at his wrist, where a simple officer’s watch gleamed on the inner side of it, worn in a military manner. It was very old, much older than the Grand Magister himself.

“You’ve spent two hours trying to hit the target, and so far...” Aversky made an exaggerated show of inspecting the mannequin. “I wouldn’t call it a success. Though perhaps Tony was terrified of your ferocious assault.” Tony... That was what Aversky called the life-sized target dummy. “Perhaps we should discuss certain aspects of your attempts.”

Ardi barely restrained himself from exclaiming, “Oh really, you think so?” Instead, he held his tongue. Over the past week, he had spent his days, nights, and had even skipped several lectures — sacrificing his combat classes, though in their case, there was another reason he skipped those, Jurisprudence, and History for the sake of saving time — so he could pore over the list of textbooks and treatises assigned to him by Convel and Aversky. Naturally, he had only managed to grasp a fraction of their contents, and even then, he’d only done so partially.

The sheer volume of information in the books was so immense that Ardan doubted he could absorb it all within a year, especially since much of it required practice. And practice cost money. Money that now, admittedly, was present in the form of fresh exes in his Imperial Bank account, but still wasn’t an inexhaustible resource to be spent carelessly.

“For starters, Ard, let’s revisit our previous lesson,” Aversky said, closing his book and sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the dummy. He casually leaned his staff against “Tony.” “What are the types of military magic?”

“There are penetrating and suppressive seals,” Ardi replied, still staring at the ceiling.

“Give me a few insightful sentences about them to convince me you’ve grasped the material at a level of understanding, not merely rote memorization.”

Ardan never memorized anything by rote. Atta’nha and Skusty had always taught him that unless the mind had comprehended and internalized new information, making it a part of one’s consciousness and body both, knowledge was as useless as river sand was to a man dying of thirst.

“Penetrating seals are designed to bypass most of a shield and inflict direct damage on the target,” Ardan said, his eyes closed. “They require, paradoxically, more energy than suppressive seals, which merely counteract a shield.”

“How would you explain this paradox, Ard?” Aversky asked, retrieving a slightly-dented flask from his belt — a flask he was never without — and taking a few noisy gulps from it.

Judging by the sharp, herbal scent wafting from it, Ardan would guess that it contained some kind of medicinal concoction.

“Considering the fact that shield spells consist of three types with distinct functions: redirection, absorption, and dissipation, penetrating military spells must be capable of dealing with any of these types, which necessitates additional energy by default.”

“Because...” Aversky prompted.

“Because penetrating spells have the easiest time dealing with absorption type shields, as they are inherently conflicting structures,” Ardan continued, recalling and processing what he had learned over the past week. “This is what led scholars to create the other two types of shields.”

“Which subsequently...” Aversky pressed further.

“Which subsequently inspired military mages to develop a second type of military magic — suppressive,” Ardi said, waving his hand vaguely, as though struggling to find the right words. “Suppressive magic requires less energy than penetrating magic and is indifferent to the type of shield it interacts with.”

“Then why hasn’t shield magic become obsolete under these circumstances, Ard?”

“Because... Because...” Ardan frowned.

Actually, why hadn’t it? Suppressive magic should have theoretically rendered shield spell research irrelevant. It required fewer rays than shields inherently possessed. And yet in practice, the situation was the exact opposite.

“Let’s approach this from another angle, Ard,” Aversky said, his tone carrying a familiar, crooked smirk that made the scars on his chin and neck even more pronounced. “You mentioned the differences between the types of military magic. But what do they have in common?”

“The commonality lies in their free array,” Ardan replied, “as all military magic is based on the principle of infinite modifications.”

“And shields?” Aversky’s smirk seemed to grow wider. “Assuming we’re not talking about stationary, heavy-duty shields powered by accumulators or cables.”

Ardan’s eyebrows twitched and rose. How had he not stumbled upon such an obvious and rather basic pattern earlier?

“They share the same principle.”

“Correct,” Aversky said, snapping his fingers. “Which means offensive and shield magic compete...”

“Not in terms of the contours that define spell properties, but in a clash of the arrays that dictate the rules.”

“Excellent, Ard!” Aversky exclaimed, his tone carrying a trace of sarcasm that suggested this was anything but praise. “It only took us half a month to get you to this realization. It’s a pity your professor an Manish doesn’t cover lockpicking shields until the third year. Otherwise, you might have noticed the dependency of arrays much earlier... Oh, wait. Aren’t you the one who broke the shield at Baliero?”

Ardan clenched his teeth and inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly to calm down. Lately, especially after the incidents at the bank, on the train, and with Boris, Ardi was a bit... on edge. He was like a coiled spring about to reach its limit and snap. Naturally, in Ardan’s case, the spring would likely end up snapping back into his own face.

“And since you’ve so cleverly highlighted these dependencies, you should have no trouble answering my question: why did your Ice Arrows, Ice Barrages,” Aversky casually listed the names of Ardan’s spells, a fact that was unsurprising after Lavrilov’s slip. “Not to mention your clumsy, preemptively botched Stone Fist and Fire Charge, fail to even strain my shields?”

Ardi took a few more deep breaths. Obviously, a Grand Magister of military magic wouldn’t have missed the fact that Ardan had been forming his seals for the non-water-or-ice elements somewhat carelessly.

“It’s smart of you to avoid showcasing your ability to wield all the elements,” Aversky said, now almost openly laughing. “But any idiot who knows a bit more than just reading seals from a book will see through it. Plus, you’ve stopped attending your military training sessions, and elemental protective spells aren’t taught until — yet again — the third year. So, you can dial down your theatrics, Mr. Speaker. Incidentally, it’s thanks to your Aean’Hane skills that you can handle the elements so easily. Just a fun fact I figured I’d share to keep you from feeling like some sort of supreme mage.”

Aversky likely found great pleasure in demonstrating his superiority. Well... no, he absolutely did. And Ardan was beginning to understand why Milar and the Grand Magister had such a tense relationship. Aversky, it seemed, suffered from a classic case of always needing to be the smartest person in the room.

Ardan recalled all the attempts he had made to hit the target with a spell. Regardless of what seal he’d formed, or how he had adjusted the spell’s direction, speed, area of effect, or resistance intensity — nothing had worked. Every modification he’d made to his seals had run into an impenetrable barrier. Not just one type of barrier, either, but all three. To make matters worse, Aversky had alternated between them.

He would cast shields sequentially: absorption first, then redirection, and finally dissipation, cycling through them in that order.

And yet, amid this carousel of multicolored flashes and wasted energy, Ardan, after Aversky’s pointed clue, finally noticed a hidden pattern he had missed before. Each time, the Grand Magister had conjured his shield after Ardan had begun forming his spell.

Sleeping Spirits... If not for the fact that Ardan could sense a Fae from a mile away, he might have started doubting Aversky’s humanity.

“You read my arrays during the seal’s formation stage,” Ardi breathed, shocked. “But that’s-”

“If it’s impossible,” Aversky interjected, “then how did I do it, my dear Ard?” He tapped the cover of the monograph lying beside him. He had been reading an advanced academic text simultaneously, after all. “Still, I do question the feasibility of looping area spells.”

No, Aversky wasn’t arrogant enough to try and inflate his already well-earned ego at the expense of a first-year student. Most likely, he was trying to provide a hint.

And then it hit Ardan. He abruptly sat up, staring straight ahead. As he had suspected, Aversky was smirking while idly fiddling with the prosthetic digits of his hand.

“There’s a sort of system to the arrays in military magic,” Ardan murmured, stunned. “You weren’t reading the array itself — you were recognizing the type of array and selecting the appropriate shield against it.”

“Close, very close, Ard,” Aversky nodded. “I won’t torture you further — let me just point out that the principles of study for the Military and Medical Faculties are remarkably similar. Both fields require students to memorize an unseemly number of seals and their modifications. But rote memorization alone isn’t enough. A person who only memorizes dozens of seal modifications will still be useless in battle. Care to guess why?”

“Because it’s impossible to remember all of them.”

Aversky gave an approving hum.

“All hope is not lost, it seems. Right, Ard?” The Grand Magister rose to his feet, briefly revealing the prosthetic foot beneath his pant leg. “The Military Faculty exists because, in addition to memorization, a combat mage must be able to modify their seals on the fly. Not rewrite them entirely — that takes too much time — but make corrections to the key nodes. They don’t need to know how to change every single bit, just the commonalities: speed, for instance. Or area of effect. And so on. From the second Star onward, elemental interactions come into play as well. In essence, mage combat resembles a more complex version of rock-paper-scissors.”

Ardan nearly slapped his forehead. While reading the Stranger’s book, he had come across a mention of “maximum rune combinations,” which had been divided into those same “nodes” Aversky had just referenced.

“For instance, suppose you’re constructing a fast Stone Fist,” Aversky said, striking his staff against the floor. Almost instantly, a seal flared beneath his feet, and from his staff’s tip, a small, quick stone resembling a child’s fist shot out.

The stone zipped across the floor and vanished into a flash of light as it collided with the testing ground’s barrier.

“If I see the speed node in your seal,” Aversky continued, “I immediately form a shield with elasticity and load redistribution properties.” Another tap of his staff, and Aversky was surrounded by a shimmering, soap-bubble-like barrier that bent slightly at the edges.

It was only now that Ardan realized that Aversky hadn’t used a single shield with more rays than Ardan’s own spells had contained throughout the past two hours.

“If, however, you sacrifice speed for greater volume or, say, penetrating properties, I simply adjust my shield’s array to counter that. These are the broad strokes, of course. If I have any real skill in the military arts, I should also aim to ensure my shields consume less energy than your offensive spells. That way, when you run out of energy, the fight ends with a single spell from me. But we’ll get to that later.”

“What if I simply don’t attack you?” Ardan grabbed his staff and stood up. “Then you won’t be able to read my seals.”

“Brilliant, Ard. Absolutely brilliant. It’s such a wise move to stand before a military mage and let them strike first,” Aversky snorted and slammed his staff into the floor.

Faster than a blink, a thin, icy spike materialized in front of him, zipping through the air so quickly that if not for the testing ground’s protective properties, it would have pierced Ardan’s throat before he could even channel any energy through his staff to form a shield.

“Alright, I get it,” Ardi muttered, nodding in frustration. “But that’s you. What if two evenly-matched mages face off?”

“There’s no such thing as evenly-matched mages,” Aversky replied, shaking his head. “One is always better and the other worse.”

“I’m just trying to frame the question in theoretical terms,” Ardan said, spreading his arms out. “What if we assume-”

“There is no theoretical framework in military magic, Ard,” Aversky interrupted sternly. “It’s all knowledge and practice. Nothing else. Leave theoretical musings to people with big titles and yellow bellies who sit in workshops and read about battles in textbooks.”

The Grand Magister unconsciously touched his scars before catching himself. With a small sigh, he continued:

“But if you insist, Ard, then theoretically, if neither mage were to attack first, they’d simply walk away and go home.”

“That means the attacker is always at a disadvantage, since they reveal their seal first,” Ardan argued.

“Really?” Aversky raised an eyebrow. “I attacked you just now. Did that help you? Did you read my seal?”

To be honest, Ardan hadn’t even noticed the seal. In a real battle, he would have been dead without ever understanding what spell had sent him to the Sleeping Spirits... or the Eternal Angels.

“The difference lies in skill,” Ardi said, refusing to back down.

“Exactly,” Aversky agreed without hesitation. “Which is why the Military Faculty requires years of study. Then come the constant drills in units on the military training grounds. Only thousands of hours of practice and hundreds of hours of studying seals, their properties, and more besides will keep you from dying in your first combat encounter with someone skilled in the military arts.”

At least now it was clear why the testing grounds were reserved for the Military Faculty students according to their own schedule and used by them free of charge.

“What about when I’m fighting multiple opponents?” Ardan asked, recalling his recent experience at Warehouse 6.

“There are particular strategies for that,” Aversky nodded, “but it’s not worth discussing them with you yet.”

“And what if a number of mages face off against another group?”

Aversky’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“It’s not a theoretical question,” Ardi waved his hands defensively. “Well, maybe just a little theoretical. Suppose it’s a military operation, and ten mages face another ten-”

“In that case, the commanding officer who allowed such a confrontation would be executed, or sent to dig trenches if they are lucky enough, Ard,” Aversky interrupted harshly, even aggressively. “Because in such a battle, no mage would survive — nor would anyone who happened to be in the vicinity. But if, for some reason, both sides decided to squander their irreplaceable assets, it would be chaos. Brutal, merciless, and pointless. Every kind of spell would fly, and it’d be like playing marbles. Are you familiar with that game?”

“The one where you knock over little pyramids from a distance?”

Aversky nodded.

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“Whoever has their shield fail will die,” the Grand Magister shrugged. “And given the sheer number of spells flying in all directions, everyone’s shields will fail. Which is why, on the front lines, mages are either used as supplementary artillery to blanket areas with spells, counter-artillery meant to neutralize enemy mages, or in precise sabotage operations where mass confrontations aren’t expected.”

“Then what’s the point of spending so many years and exes training a specialist who could be replaced by a few artillery rounds?”

Aversky’s gaze grew even heavier.

“Follow me, Ard.”

Without waiting for a response, the Grand Magister headed to his office. Opening the massive, heavy door, he stepped inside, propped his staff against the desk, and pulled a thin, 150-page book from a cabinet full of grimoires, printed works, and even handwritten treatises.

Placing it on the desk in front of Ardan, he locked eyes with him. “This contains a spell. For studying it, distributing it, or attempting to cast it, you’d normally be executed, along with your family and anyone you’ve shaken hands with in the past six months.”

“Strategic magic,” Ardan said, nodding.

“Exactly,” Aversky opened the first page.

On the first page was a single, incredibly complex seal that was seemingly composed of multiple interconnected seals. Just looking at it made Ardan’s head spin.

Seeing his reaction, Aversky turned the page. Soon, it became clear that all 150 pages of the book were dedicated to a single spell. A spell that, judging by its description...

“This is...” Ardan began.

“Monstrous?” Aversky supplied the word, snapping the book shut. “What you see here isn’t even the worst of what can be found in the realms of strategic magic, Ard. Thankfully, in modern conflicts, spells like this are never used, because... If one side uses them, the other side will, too. And then it’s not a little skirmish anymore, but a war of annihilation. And no one wants that — for now.”

He let the implications hang in the air for a moment before changing his tone.

“Well, now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, let’s get back to it. By the end of today’s session, you must manage to hit the target at least once.”

“But how can I, if you’re reading my seals?”

“Ard, by the Eternal Angels, don’t make me regret taking you on as a student,” Aversky sighed with mock exhaustion. “If I’m changing my seal’s properties on the fly, then-”

“I have to rewrite my seal as well,” Ardi said, his face lighting up for a moment before darkening again. Aversky had already explained this to him. “But if I try to alter my seal mid-formation, it’ll break.”

“Not if you practice enough,” Aversky replied curtly. “The ability to rewrite a seal during its formation is a requirement for advancing from the second to the third year of the Military Faculty. And as for you, Ard... Since you have my direct guidance, if you can’t manage it within the next month, I’m afraid that will mean you have no aptitude for military magic, and our collaboration will come to an end. Now, let’s head back. We still have plenty of time until two in the morning.”

As they left the office, Ardan cast a quick glance at the carelessly discarded book sitting on the desk — the book containing that horrific secret. On its second page was a photograph of a spell trial.

An area of pure stone, 250 meters across, was depicted in that photo. It was filled with stone trees, stone grass, stone streams, stone puddles, stone trucks, stone cars, and stone fragments of fallen, shattered birds. And also... stone statues of animals frozen in unnatural poses, as well as people who’d been tied to posts, their faces now eternally twisted into agonized screams.

Everything touched by that horrific magic had turned to lifeless, dead stone created from the Ley. This was the essence of strategic military magic: death, and nothing but death.

***

“Today, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve gathered you here for a single purpose. That purpose is as great as it is terrifying. It will haunt your worst nightmares, and from now on, you’ll pray that you never find yourself serving as a military mage in the borderlands of the Enario Theocracy.”

With that ominous declaration, Professor Kovertsky adjusted his perpetually-smudged glasses, picked up a chunk of bloody meat from the desk, and approached a box covered with a dark cloth.

The auditorium, filled with students from the second group of the General Faculty and the first group of the Military Faculty, collectively held its breath. They were situated in a fairly spacious, yet peculiar hall.

It was part of the Star Biology and Alchemy Faculty building, but located in the basement level. Benches and desks were arranged in a wide, circular amphitheater overlooking a sand-covered arena.

Yes, it was exactly that.

A three-meter pit yawned beneath the students’ feet, ending in a sandy arena about seven meters in diameter. Access to the arena (via a discreet staircase with a clever lifting mechanism) was restricted to the professor alone. At that moment, Kovertsky descended onto the sand under the dim, yellowish glow of Ley-lamps. Despite his stained glasses, equally untidy clothing, and perpetually-disheveled hair, he looked unexpectedly imposing as he stood on the patchy, stained ground.

“Forgive the theatrics, but the first lesson on Ley fauna requires me to show you something that will likely deter the faint-hearted from pursuing this field of knowledge.”

Kovertsky, who was smiling awkwardly as if he had practiced the gesture beforehand in front of a mirror, yanked off the cloth covering the box while simultaneously tossing the chunk of meat into it.

“Aaaaah!”

“Eternal Angels!”

Some people screamed and others grabbed their staves, frantically trying to cast shield spells to no avail. Several particularly sensitive ladies and even a couple of young men fainted outright.

On the sand, within a snow-white, lidless cage, sat... something.

Leaning forward, Ardan inhaled through his nose, but detected none of the usual stench associated with the Factionless Fae or demons.

Instead, the creature reeked of blood, musk, and, surprisingly, fish. Considering it resembled a giant crayfish, the distinctive odor wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Clutching the chunk of meat with a clawed limb, it stained the white bars of its cage with blood as it crammed the food into its enormous, toothy maw, swallowing without chewing. Its strange, elongated, chitinous tendrils — it had antennae where a face might have been — twitched and writhed. Simultaneously, its chitinous plates scraped against each other with an unpleasant screech, like rusted metal grinding together.

The creature’s vaguely-humanoid body revealed a ribcage fused into a grotesque, single structure. Its long torso rested on nearly absent leg-limbs, while clawed, hand-like appendages with four digits each reached into the air, their six-segmented tendril-fingers curling like whips.

The creature, which was blood red in color, emitted a drawn-out, rasping squeal, its enormous mouth occupying nearly its entire bulbous head. The thing’s maw looked grotesquely out of place on its undersized body, and was lined with rows of long, needle-like teeth that came together into a lock-like structure extending almost to the back of its head.

The monster groped the air awkwardly with its clawed limbs, as though it were trying to latch onto something unseen.

It had no eyes. No nose. No ears. Only those antenna-like protrusions writhed spasmodically above its head.

Ardan’s jaw slackened slightly, and he clicked his teeth together — the monster’s screech felt as though it were cutting directly into his eardrums. Eveless, dressed in an extravagantly expensive gown, and a dwarven half-blood in a Military Faculty uniform, dropped their quills, staining themselves with ink as they clapped their hands over their ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound.

Curiously, none of the other students seemed to react to the creature’s screeching.

“I think that’ll suffice for now,” Kovertsky’s words barely reached Ardan over the noise.

The professor picked up the cloth and covered the cage again. The creature fell silent immediately. Ardan clicked his teeth once more, while Eveless and the dwarven half-blood shook their heads, fumbling to retrieve their fallen quills.

“Can anyone tell me,” Kovertsky asked, adjusting his glasses and positioning himself in the center of the arena, where all the students could see him, “what kind of creature this is?”

Several hands shot into the air.

“Mr. Larin, please.”

A wiry youth with a face covered in freckles, who was dressed in a red cloak and wearing a badge shaped like a sword — marking him as a Military Faculty student — stood.

“The Eyeless Water-Dweller,” he answered hesitantly, “or just... the Maw.”

“Quite correct,” Kovertsky nodded. “Anything else to add?”

“It lives in rivers and other bodies of water,” Larin continued, slightly more confident now. “It can hardly move on land and is incapable of jumping. But in water, it can reach speeds upwards of six or even eight knots when swimming downstream. It reacts to vibrations detected by its antenna-like protrusions. It’s also completely silent.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken,” Kovertsky shook his head, wagging a finger. “In fact, this creature’s screech is quite audible and profoundly unpleasant. Prolonged exposure to it can cause shock and paralysis. However!” Kovertsky paused dramatically, his gaze shifting deliberately to Ardan, Eveless, and the dwarven half-blood. “It is only so to the Firstborn and their closest descendants. Mr. Larin, given your family’s expertise, perhaps you can explain why?”

Ardan didn’t know much about his classmates, but after six months, some details had inevitably stuck with him.

Larin was the youngest son of the family that owned the “Larin Hunting Guild.” They specialized in capturing Ley-poisoned creatures. They would sell some of them and hunt others in order to assist farmers plagued by monster attacks or small towns in need. But the bulk of their business lay in harvesting ingredients.

A significant portion of Star Alchemy relied on components extracted from Ley-creatures’ bodies. Not to mention the fact that monster cores — crystallized Ley energy — were highly valued by mages for their unparalleled purity and the fact they required no refinement to be made into accumulators.

“The Maws... pardon me,” Larin cleared his throat. “The Eyeless Water-Dwellers were originally created by Galessian Star Mages to counter merfolk and tritons. That’s why their screech affects the other Firstborn.”

“Exactly right,” Kovertsky praised him — a rare occurrence. “And as you all know, most monsters and creatures now populating our continent are the product of the War of the Birth of the Empire. Some were created by the Galessian Star Mages and others by the Aean’Hane of Ectassus.”

Ardan glanced at the cage shrouded by its covering. After yesterday’s session with Aversky, he had changed his opinion on Star Magic a great deal.

“As you are already aware, any experiments involving the сhimerization of humans are strictly forbidden by the International Star Magic Pact, which was signed in the 117th Year after the Fall of Ectassus at Ael’Al’Zafir,” Kovertsky said, his gaze remaining bored as he paced the sand. “As is studying demonology, blood magic, malefic magic of all kinds, and other inherently harmful aspects of Star Magic.”

“As if anyone actually follows that pact,” someone muttered from the Military Faculty section.

“Thank you for that critical insight,” Kovertsky sneered slightly. “But we’ll leave such discussions for your History lectures. As for our own lessons, we’ll explore the origins of various creations — those of our ancestors and those born from native Ley energy influences. This will include, of course, all the precautions and countermeasures one should take against such creatures. Even though these lectures may seem less practical considering the fact that, as Mr. Larin can attest to, Ley-creatures are rarely encountered outside of remote, sparsely-populated regions, or the Dead Lands, we will proceed with them nonetheless. Now then, let’s begin. Use your analyzers. When I remove the covering again, direct them at the creature, and your rune plates will display its basic information. Within that, you-”

The door suddenly burst open, and a breathless girl in a green cloak bearing the emblem of a flower and cauldron — marking her as a student of the Star Biology and Alchemy Faculty — was standing in the doorway. Beside her emblem was another patch shaped like a small crown. This was the Faculty Prefect.

“Professor!” The young woman called out from the threshold. “There’s a commotion in the menagerie — a Six-Limbed Bear has broken through its cage!”

“What a day...” Kovertsky muttered. “For years, I’ve been asking the accounting office for funding for new cages... I’m in the middle of a lecture, Miss Kleverov. Isn’t there anyone else in the building?”

“Everyone else has lectures,” the prefect replied, her voice tinged with mild panic. “And only you have first-years.”

“Hazing, is it? Very well,” Kovertsky cast a stern look over the students. “I’ll be stepping away for a moment. If anyone dies during my absence, I’ll face reprimands. And make no mistake, if that happens, I’ll raise you as undead, necromancy ban be damned, and use you for-”

“Professor!” The prefect interrupted. “The Six-Limbed Bear!”

Kovertsky squinted at her before ascending the stairs to the balcony. He flipped a lever, causing the steps behind him to retract into the wall. With slow, clanking groans, metal bars began to slide back into place within their slots, forming a network above the sandpit.

Grabbing his staff along the way, Kovertsky exited into the corridor with the prefect, slamming the door heavily behind him in obvious irritation.

As soon as the door slammed shut, a wave of whispers, giggles, and low murmurs swept through the rows of students, filled with typical youthful mischief and speculation.

Ardan, however, was uninterested in wasting valuable time, and so he retrieved a stack of his own schematics from his bag. Since no one was seated nearby, he spread the papers out before him and resumed his work.

His sessions with Aversky had sparked certain ideas regarding shield magic, and these were concepts he intended to explore in his new creation. His goal wasn’t to merely modify the Water Shroud, but develop an entirely new spell rooted in its principles.

Ardan’s primary goal wasn’t to solve the issue of the Water Shroud’s inability to halt objects with significant mass, but rather, to create a more universal shield system.

If he could prepare specific contours and rune arrays for shields that could be quickly adjusted to counteract the “nodes” of opponents wielding offensive magic, that would, theoretically, make his defenses more effective.

Of course, achieving tangible progress would require a deeper understanding of not only the literature assigned to him by Convel and Aversky, but also concepts like “vectors,” “compound seals,” and other advanced topics from upper-level coursework at the Grand, or even the Magister program.

Luckily, Ardan enjoyed puzzles. These challenges gave him satisfaction, not frustrating him at all as he methodically pieced together the intricate mechanics of magic.

“Shame Fahtov isn’t here,” a voice rang out from the opposite side of the hall, pulling Ardan’s attention away from his sketches. “He’d have appreciated that Maw.”

The voice unmistakably belonged to Iolai Agrov, who was seated at the center of his little clique. “Little” was an apt description, as the so-called Great Prince had managed to assemble a small but notable following. The group consisted of a handful of aristocratic heirs. Specifically, they were Baron Kerimov, Baron Shestov, Baron Zahatkin, and Lady Erkerovsky.

Until last week, Orvilov had been part of their entourage, but after recent events, his absence from the Grand was conspicuous. Rumors swirled, but the official version…

Well, as Ardan liked to say, such concerns were for “tomorrow’s thoughts.”

“Maybe he’d even find a kindred spirit in it,” Kerimov squeaked, his voice high-pitched and incongruously sharp for his broad, square-jawed frame. The whispers about his mother’s alleged dalliance with an orc were obviously baseless, and yet his unusual vocal timbre often fueled such gossip.

Standing taller than Ardi and boasting five rays in his Red Star, Kerimov wasn’t the most prominent figure among the Military Faculty students. However, as the scion of a family with a storied history that had produced a lot of great frontline mages, he carried a reputation no one dared challenge lightly.

“Right,” someone chimed in, their tone oozing mockery. “He’s probably some failed chimerization experiment himself. No wonder the Duke-General disowned him.”

These words had come from Zahatkin, the nephew of Lord Zahatkin, who owned a major pharmaceutical factory supplying medicine to elite clinics across the capital and the Empire.

Unremarkable in appearance, Zahatkin had narrow, gold-framed glasses perched on a slightly-crooked nose, and his teeth were misaligned in a way that baffled those who wondered why a wealthy family with ties to Star Medicine hadn’t corrected them in his youth. Despite his unassuming looks, Zahatkin bore a six-ray Star.

Shestov, in contrast, rarely spoke. The middle son of Lord Shestov, proprietor of “Derks” (the company that produced mid-range automobiles), was quiet, average in build, and entirely unremarkable. His grayish eyes and perpetually slicked-back hair made him quite forgettable. Like Kerimov, he possessed five rays.

“I was just saying,” Kerimov chirped again, either laughing or squealing, it was hard to tell, “that Fahtov’s big mouth would fit right in with that thing’s face.”

“And maybe that’s why he fell ill,” Kerimov added with a sharp giggle. “What do you think, Polina?”

“I think that I couldn’t care less about what happened to Fahtov,” Erkerovsky drawled dismissively, brushing her belt adorned with agate-inlaid buckles.

With her striking black hair, slightly sun-kissed complexion, long legs, and slim figure, Lady Polina Erkerovsky was undeniably beautiful. She was the daughter of Duke Erkerovsky, a prominent politician and patron of the Imperial Theater, and an enigma of the Military Faculty.

Her enrollment was likely due to her seven-ray Star and her mother’s lineage — she’d come from a family of military aristocrats from the Empire’s northwest.

Ardan, however, had gleaned none of this information firsthand. He’d heard it all through Boris’ extensive diatribes about “the conniving Iolai and his lackeys.”

“And yet his servant girl is nowhere to be seen,” Zahatkin added with mock concern, shading his eyes with his hand as if he were scanning for someone among the General Faculty students. “Could it be they’re both unwell? I warned Fahtov that associating with someone like her could lead to all sorts of unsavory infections. They probably don’t even wash their hands, let alone the other parts of their bodies. Alas, it looks like he didn’t listen to me.”

Ardan returned his attention to his schematics, uninterested in their vulgar speculations. They could say whatever they liked.

Shali had insisted on one simple truth when teaching him: “If you stop at every howl from another hunter, you’ll starve long before you catch your prey.”

Though her words often applied to all sorts of situations, they also fit well enough here.

“I doubt it. Not even Fahtov would stoop to something as banal as bedding his own servant,” Iolai interjected, speaking with an air of pomp, as if he were presiding over some ministerial reports. “But look, there’s their little pet. Seems like they’ve left Egobar unaccompanied by his knight in shining armor.”

“Oh, how will our poor little friend manage without Lord Fahtov’s protection?” Zahatkin mocked, feigning a sob. “I suppose skipping military training was his only choice — he must be too scared of something… unpleasant happening.”

Ardan didn’t so much as flinch from his work. The best strategy, one he’d learned long ago in Evergale’s school, was to ignore such provocations. Nine times out of ten, such “unique” individuals would quickly lose interest and move on.

“I heard,” Polina chimed in, adjusting her agate belt with a practiced flick of her wrist, “that Lord Fahtov fell passionately in love with some low-grade singer who performs for… non-humans. He and Orvilov even fought over her at the Festival of Light, like common factory workers.”

When they heard her say “non-humans,” Eveless and the dwarven half-blood bristled, their gazes sharp and disapproving, though they held their tongues.

“Maybe we should ask her what happened to our dear friend Boris?” Kerimov suggested with exaggerated earnestness. “She might know. It’s simply not right that our comrade should suffer in isolation while we can’t even offer him our support.”

Ardan’s pencil slipped, marring his schematic with an irreparable error. He sighed, erasing the mark and starting anew. There was no need to worry about Tess.

Ergar’s lessons came to mind: “When a hunter roars loudly, he won’t strike you quietly. All the packs will know before he’s even readied his claws.”

Their chatter was nothing but noise, and yet Ardan could still feel his fangs begin to elongate slightly.

“Egobar!” Iolai called out sharply, taking a break from his usual indirect mockery to directly address him, which was a first. “Perhaps it was you who did poor Boris in? After all, I can see that you’ve got so many books and schematics that it looks as though you’ve raided a printing house. Did you take advantage of poor, naive Fahtov? Did you stab him in the back? That seems to run in your family — striking from the shadows. Did you keep Promyslov as a trophy? Drag her back to your den? Or wherever it is you creatures live? Holes? Caves? Cesspits? Forgive me, I’m not well-versed in such matters.”

Ardan set down his pencil and looked at Iolai — not into his eyes, but at the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t about to risk peering into the Great Prince’s soul with his Witch’s Gaze, especially since Iolai was likely warded against it.

“The smaller the dog, the louder it barks,” Ardan said calmly, quoting a line from one of Atta’nha’s scrolls.

No one else in the amphitheater understood the language of the Fae — except Eveless, who laughed outright.

Ah, yes. Of course. That singular exception. Iolai, while unpleasant, was no fool.

“What did you just say, non-human?” Iolai snarled, gripping his staff tightly.

“You heard me, Your Highness,” Ardan replied coolly. “Whether you understood it is another matter, but that’s no concern of mine.”

With that, Ardan gathered his papers, slid them into his grimoire, tucked it into his bag, and stood. The tension in the room was escalating, and it was high time for him to leave.

Ardan headed toward the door, determined to leave the perilous situation behind him. Just like in Evergale, there was no purpose to be served in tangling himself up in disputes where his pride might lead to trouble. He’d already made one mistake like that with the Anorsky debt, and that was more than enough for now.

“Egobar! How dare you turn your back when a Great Prince is addressing you?”

Ardan stopped in his tracks, his grip tightening on his staff. Before he could catch himself, the words slipped out:

“What position in line for the throne are you again, Your Highness? The hundredth? The thousandth? Last?” His voice carried an unsettling calm, as though he were hearing himself speak from afar. Damn his wearyness …

“I, for one, am the sole official representative of the Matabar tribes, which, de jure, makes me the Chieftain of the Alcade clans. So tell me, mister Agrov, how is it that you feel entitled to address me with such disrespect?”

The room fell silent, and with measured steps, Ardan crossed the threshold and gently closed the door behind him. In the quiet hallway, he sighed heavily and slammed the top of his staff against his forehead.

Why? Why couldn’t I just hold my tongue?

Now Iolai would never forgive him.

Descending the stairs, Ardan brooded over his lapse in self-control. Anastasia had often teased him about this in their recent correspondence, especially when he would absentmindedly address her as “Your Imperial Highness” instead of using her name.

That was how he’d learned about his technical right to the title of Chieftain, seeing as he was the last of the Matabar line, even if just a half-blood. Of course, this title held no legal weight in the Empire — titles like Matabar and Orc Chieftain, Dwarven Under-Master, or Elven Keeper of the Forests and Meadows were little more than cultural relics. But the knowledge was… amusing.

An amusing fact that he should have kept to himself rather than using it to provoke Iolai Agrov, whose title was not only officially recognized, but carried real power and influence.

“Maybe I should visit the apothecary for some calming herbs, roots and berries, and brew something,” Ardi muttered aloud as he descended farther. “At this rate, I’ll end up barking at stray dogs in the streets.”

He was still calculating the potential cost of such a purchase when a sharp heat flared against his leg. Startled, he reached into his pocket and pulled out Milar’s medallion, which had grown so hot it was almost too painful to hold.

The Cloaks’ investigator was nearby… very nearby.

“Oh,” Ardi let out a resigned sigh, veering toward the atrium. “There goes my shopping trip…”

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