Matabar

"And yet, we should have crushed that filth in Fatia," slurred Boris, slamming his mug onto the table. It was clear that he’d had too much to drink; his words barely rolled off his tongue. This Boris was the same stranger who had dragged Ardi to their table a few hours ago.

"Yeah, right," snorted one of the others, Chris or Crit was his name — it was hard to tell them all apart. He had a lanky figure with pockmarked skin, his knees awkwardly twisted from some childhood bone disease. "Like we could just charge in and take them."

"Our army reserve is three times their size!" Boris shot back, refusing to give up. "And the bayonets! My father also says we’ll have one point two million troops by the end of this year!"

As far as Ardi could tell while digging into his passable but slightly cold dinner — just as Boris had promised him — at least two of them, Boris and Len, were part of the military aristocracy from the Taia border region. It made perfect sense for them to be in Presny. The other two — Chris or Crit, whatever, and another young man with shifty, rat-like eyes — didn’t seem to know the noble siblings any better than they knew each other. From what Ardi had gathered from their conversation, they had all crossed paths here a few days ago and decided to pass the time together until their train arrived.

"And Fatia has a million," insisted… Chris, let’s say. "And considering the fact that they’re ten times smaller than us, their forces aren’t spread across their entire territory. Do I need to remind you that they have at least four armies stationed on their southern border? On our, the Eternal Angels help me, border! That’s a hundred and sixty thousand bayonets, Boris. And don’t forget, the army isn’t just infantry, cavalry, and artillery. You’ve also got engineers, supply chains, staff officers. So, in reality, we have much fewer than one point two million combat-able troops."

Boris muttered something under his breath, taking another sip of his foamy drink.

"And besides," Chris continued, "Tazidah will never let the Empire reach the Shallow Seas."

The Shallow Seas were the seas situated between the Tazidahian Brotherhood, the Kingdom of Urdavan, Lintelar, Olikzasia, Foria, the Principality of Fatia, Grainia, and… Well, they stretched all the way to the Confederation of Free Cities. In other words, they were the main water route connecting the western and eastern continents. And thus, they were also the most profitable trade route, fought over continuously by nations across the world.

Ardi had once asked his geography teacher why the Empire couldn’t just outfit a fleet on the western coast and sail to Lan’Duo’Ha from the other side. After all, the planet was round. The problem was that the Reverse Ocean, despite its many islands, was literally kept impassable by countless whirlpools. And even that wasn’t the worst of it. The ocean also had several currents so fast and powerful that navigating them was nearly impossible, not to mention the unending storms and tempests that spawned enormous waves.

All of this had something to do with the influence of Ley Lines on the planet’s magnetic fields, or something like that. The topic hadn’t been deeply explored in school.

A few madmen had crossed the Reverse Ocean, of course, but using it for regular travel with a large fleet was simply impossible. So, most trade occurred via the Shallow Seas, or by taking a longer but safer route across the Swallow Ocean that meant you weren’t crossing a myriad of territorial waters.

"Tazidah is always at odds with Urdavan," Boris wiped his lips with a handkerchief, a move that nearly made Ardan smirk. While these people weren’t trying too hard to disguise themselves, such manners still screamed nobility. "And Urdavan’s army is larger. Almost as large as Fatia’s. But don’t forget, if it comes to it, we can mobilize far more people than the Tazidahians, the Fatians, and even the Castilians!"

"But not more than all of them at once," Chris reminded him. "If we start a full-scale war over access to the Shallow Seas, the entire world will erupt. Urdavan will see that Tazidah is weakened from supporting Fatia against us, and they’ll push west. Then Scaldavin will decide to resolve their enclave issues. Grainia will inevitably renew its conflict with the Lintelar-Olikzasia-Foria alliance that controls the islands, seas, and the Swallow Ocean on our side. And don’t even get me started on what will happen on the eastern continent."

"What’s there to start?" Scoffed the rat-eyed fellow. "First off, all five of them will try to bury the Confederation and seize its monopoly on access to the Shallow Seas."

"Which, of course," Chris chimed in, "will lead to one faction forming an alliance to stop another, and in the end, they’ll tear each other apart before they even reach the Confederation’s borders. That’s why it still stands to this day."

"And you really think a war with Fatia could trigger some kind of… all-out war?" Boris frowned, his tone slurred by the alcohol.

"A World War," Len Fahtov corrected him softly, her voice so deliberately low that it was clear that it was an artificial attempt at sounding more masculine.

"And on top of that," Chris, clearly passionate about politics, couldn’t stop himself. "The moment we concentrate on the northeastern front, our northwestern flank will be exposed. Don’t forget about our vast borders with the Armondos."

"They’re all scattered into tribes," Boris protested. "And there aren’t that many of them."

"They’re currently scattered, yes," Chris agreed, before adding, "but rumors claim that they’ve recently had some chosen leader from an ancient prophecy, or just another strong-willed figure, uniting them. And what better way to unite a people than an external enemy? And since you mentioned mobilization potential earlier — remember all those stories about the Armondo cavalry hordes? They’ve been riding since birth!"

"Of course," Chris added, "our new tanks and artillery lessen the threat of the Armondos, but how many tanks do we actually have? If the public sources are to be believed, we have about a hundred and fifty. That’s enough for the Fatian front, but for two… or three, if the Ngians end up supporting their brethren and cross the Great Glacier?"

Boris waved his beer, almost spilling it on the person next to him. Ardan tensed inwardly, lifting his plate off the table. He knew all too well how a slight mishap like that could escalate in a saloon packed with cowboys. He wasn’t about to lose a perfectly good steak to a brawl, even if it was cold, bland, and had been hastily prepared.

"Still don’t believe it," Boris persisted, slurring his words. "No way a mess like that starts over just Fatia."

"Not just Fatia," Chris confirmed, sipping his single portion of cider. Out of all of them, only Boris was drinking heavily. The others had refrained, none feeling entirely safe in this place. As for the noble-born, he was used to no one around him posing any threat, so he acted as freely as he pleased. "But if we gain access to the Shallow Seas through neutral waters, our trade profits will skyrocket, and Olikzasia and Foria will be at risk. Even if we somehow beat Tazidah… No, neither Castilia nor Selkado would allow us to grow that powerful. They benefit too much from us being boxed in by Fatia, Foria, and Olikzasia."

"We have excellent relations with the latter two!"

"Excellent relations don’t exist in grand politics, Boris," Chris shook his head. "Only advantageous temporary alliances. It’s in our interest to ally with the islanders because it reduces our trade costs in their waters and gives us a couple of military bases on their islands. And it’s in their interest to ally with us because we counterbalance the eastern continent’s ambitions. And don’t forget that the Lintelar-Olikzasia-Foria alliance has the largest, most modern fleet in the world! Only Grainia can rival them. Which they always do."

"As I listen to you, I become convinced that the whole world hasn’t gone up in flames yet only because everyone’s interests are different," the rat-eyed one rasped.

"Checks and balances," Chris rephrased. "That’s exactly how it works. And it’s nothing new. Throughout modern history, every war has started, in one way or another, over trade routes. Whoever controls the trade routes controls the money and resources. Whoever controls the money and resources spreads their influence. And the one with the most influence dictates the will of others, leading to even more money and influence coming their way. It’s a vicious cycle. And if you look at the map, you’ll see that all capitals are by bodies of water because water has always been and always will be the fastest and cheapest trade route, no matter what the Metropolis promises with its fancy airships."

Having finished his tirade, Chris took a few noisy gulps and smugly pushed his mug aside.

"If you love politics so much," Boris glanced hazily at the staves and grimoires surrounding him, "why didn’t you apply to the Imperial Lyceum for public service instead of entering the Grand?"

"Because not all of us, Mr. Fahtov, were born into blue-blooded families."

"Born lucky, you mean?" Boris’ sudden burst of anger was unexpected. He slammed his hand on the table, swaying as he struggled to stand. "What do you know about-"

"Feladjo," Len quietly interrupted.

Everyone turned to look at Boris’ sibling.

"Feladjo is the capital of the Principality of Fatia," Len explained. "And it’s not on any body of water. Neither is the capital of the Holy Emirates of Al’Zafir."

"Exceptions to the rule," Chris scoffed. "And the Emirates are ninety percent desert."

"But if there are exceptions to that rule," Len countered, "maybe there are exceptions to everything you’ve said, too. Like the idea that everyone born into noble families is as lucky as you think they are."

Len fell silent, casting her eyes down, and returning to her herbal tea with its heavy, cloying aroma. The only two people in the saloon drinking anything non-alcoholic were probably Len and Ardi.

"Ahem," Chris cleared his throat, rubbing his head with a sheepish smile as he looked away from Boris.

The conflict, which had barely begun, fizzled out, and for a while, a tense silence hovered over their table.

Ardi, who’d finally finished what seemed like his third plate of food, stretched out contentedly in his chair. No, he hadn’t learned anything about Star Magic or the Metropolis and the Grand University from these folks, but still…

It was curious. While sitting in a dusty classroom in Evergale, he had never thought about the things Chris and Boris had been so fervently debating. To him, the stories of endless border skirmishes with Fatia and the Armondos had always seemed like just another fact of life. Yes, the borders were there. Yes, conflicts occasionally flared up — like the one twenty years ago when the combined losses of the Fatians and the Empire had reached nearly eleven thousand men (known as the "Little War" in textbooks, though the common folk called it the "Fatian Massacre").

Back then, according to the history books, it had nearly escalated into war, but diplomacy had saved the day. And yet, even before and after that, skirmishes had regularly broken out along the border. Every year, at least a thousand people from both sides died. This strained relationship between Fatia and the Empire had even been dubbed a "hot peace" by some.

But Ardi had never questioned why full-scale war hadn’t erupted. To him, war was something that existed only in history books and his grandfather’s stories. And yet…

Like the tales Mart had told him, Boris and Chris’ argument was forcing Ardi to see the world from a new angle, one that made everything he’d once thought to be simple and clear far more complicated. The world beyond his borrowed attic and the foothills of the Alcade suddenly seemed unimaginably vast. Those countries weren’t just symbols on a map anymore; they were alive, real.

As their conversation dwindled into silence, Ardan found himself helping a half-conscious Boris to his and Len’s room, not because he particularly wanted to do so, but because he felt obligated. After all, they had agreed on dinner in exchange for tales of the steppes — which Ardan had intended to embellish anyway, since, as Skusty had taught him, no contract ever specified everything — but he hadn’t told them a single story.

Surprised at how light the noble’s son turned out to be, Ardan laid him down on the bed, covering him with a wool blanket.

Odd. They didn’t even have such blankets in their own room.

"Thank you," Len said.

Ardan nodded, rummaging in his pocket until he found a small bundle, which he handed to Boris’ sibling.

"What’s this?"

"For making tea," Ardi explained. "You’re straining your voice too much when you fake it. This will help with that. It won’t hurt anymore, and you won’t sound so hoarse."

Fear flickered in Len’s eyes, and she pressed her back against the wall, clearly not even considering waking up her passed-out "brother."

Then, suddenly, it dawned on Ardan. They weren’t siblings at all.

"You’re… a servant?" He asked.

Len nodded cautiously.

Ardan turned to the sleeping Boris, reassessing the strange young man. It was one thing for a noble’s son to attend the Grand, but it was an entirely different matter if that noble had a personal servant traveling with him as well. And a future mage, at that.

Ardan hadn’t spent much time with Mart, but he’d learned enough to understand that whoever Boris Fahtov’s father was, that family had more than enough money to spare.

Click. Something snapped behind Ardan’s head.

He slowly turned around, only to find Len trembling and pointing a revolver at him that shook dangerously near his face.

"D-d-don’t even t-t-think about it," she stammered, teeth chattering with fear.

"I wasn’t thinking anything," Ardan raised his hands.

"Sure you weren’t," she sneered, emboldened by the shock on his face. "You’re no more an operative of the Second Chancery than I am Boris’ sister."

Ardan sighed inwardly, realizing with some disappointment that, until a few moments ago, he had indeed thought of her as exactly that.

"How long have you been spying on us?"

"I wasn’t-"

She pressed the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead, and considering the fact that she was barely over 170 centimeters tall, it was oddly amusing. Ardi, funnily enough, realized that he wasn’t all that worried about the weapon pointed at him.

By the Sleeping Spirits… Just a month ago, this would’ve made him panic.

"I’ll ask again: who are you, why are you pretending to be a Cloak, and why are you spying on us?"

Ardan sighed deeply.

"This is just a misunderstanding," he began slowly, deliberately, each word chosen with care. "I’m not a Cloak. The waitress mistook me for one, and Boris overheard her. He invited me to join you. A story of the prairies in exchange for dinner. As you can see, I never got the chance to tell my tale."

The servant squinted at him, her suspicion palpable.

They stood in silence for a few moments before she lowered the gun, collapsing against the wall, clearly drained of all strength.

"I’m sorry," she whispered.

Ardan shrugged, understanding what the girl had gone through. He left the packet of herbs he’d offered her earlier on the table and, without another word, headed for the door.

"Thank you," she spoke from behind him. "And… my name is Elena Promyslov."

He hesitated at the door, tempted to just leave silently.

"Ard," he finally said. "Ard Egobar."

And with that, he closed the door behind him. For a brief moment, he, too, wanted to collapse against the wall. Yes, he wasn’t panicking, but over the past few weeks, he had been too close to too many weapons — revolvers, axes, you name it — that no one in their right mind would ever want near them.

Shaking himself off, Ardi gave his stomach a pat. At least he had eaten. Not bad. The day hadn’t been a complete waste.

Feeling a little more energized, he returned to his room and turned the key in the lock. Though it had long since grown dark outside, the room was bathed in the dim glow of house lights coming in from outside. Enough light filtered through to allow Ardan’s half-blood eyes to pick out a few details.

Cassara was still lying in bed, her face hidden under her hat. However, her hat was now positioned slightly differently, and her boots bore the same dirt marks as Ardan’s own, showing that she’d also walked across the filthy, crowded saloon floor stained with grime and spilled alcohol.

"I wasn’t planning on running off," Ardan muttered, lying down on his bed.

"I know," Cassara replied curtly.

"Then why-"

"I have orders, kid," she cut him off. "And I follow them."

"Someone pointed a gun at me, you know," Ardan reminded her, but not out of a desire to argue with the vampire or because he felt slighted by her keeping an eye on him. He wasn’t even sure why he did it.

"Her revolver wasn’t loaded."

Ardan coughed in disbelief, propping himself up on an elbow to stare at the vampire.

"You’re joking."

"No," she replied calmly. "If it had been, I’d have had to kill her. And Boris. And Chris. And Pivot."

Pivot! That’s right! That was the rat-eyed fellow’s name.

Ardan let his head fall back onto the pillow, his gaze drifting to a small mold stain on the ceiling. For some reason, he saw a strange connection between the stain and everything that had just happened. But why? He couldn’t quite figure it out.

Skusty had used to say that whenever something like this happened, it meant that Ardan wasn’t hearing the world properly.

Maybe the squirrel had been right, but that was a thought for tomorrow.

***

At dawn, just before the sun rose, Yonatan walked into their room (and yes, the door had still been locked). Ardan had awoken just a moment before the Cloak opened the door. Either this spoke highly of Yonatan’s skills, or it would’ve made Ardan blush in embarrassment if he’d had to explain it to Ergar.

After ordering his "cargo" to get dressed and exchanging curt nods with Cassara, the Cloak left for the first floor. The vampire waited for Ardi, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the young man was still undressed.

Stripping off his issued pants and shirt, Ardan donned a white linen shirt his mother had sewn for him and pulled on a pair of brown pants. After washing up and shaving at the washbasin, he examined his freshly-scrubbed face and was satisfied with the result.

As they descended the stairs, they caught sight of Boris and his group leaving the saloon, though they were in such a rush that they didn’t even notice Ardan — a major oversight considering how much he stood out in the crowd.

But it all became clear as soon as they stepped outside. It wasn’t just Boris’ group that was on edge because of the train’s arrival, the whole town of Presny was bustling. Crowds of people moved along the streets with various bundles, trunks, and suitcases in tow. Some walked on foot, others rode in carts or on horses, but they all had the same destination: the packed train platform.

As soon as the Cloaks, along with Ardi, came close to it, a distant rumble, which grew louder and more rhythmic with each passing moment, shattered the morning’s quiet.

Squinting, Ardan spotted a plume of white smoke rising into the air on the horizon, starkly contrasting with the deep blue sky. Then, emerging from the hazy ripples of a land being bathed in the first rays of dawn, the monstrous silhouette of a locomotive appeared, its iron frame gleaming in the sun.

Its massive iron wheels spun faster than anything the young man, who’d been raised among carts and stagecoaches, could have imagined, while its huge pistons pumped rhythmically, creating the rumble they were all hearing. The approach of this steel beast sounded like an oncoming storm — powerful and unstoppable.

The rails Ardan had once considered strange, unnecessary creations of men now revealed their purpose to him, laying a clear path for the beast to follow. He watched in awe as the iron monster gradually slowed, dragging behind it a multitude of colorful carriages. The entire procession, despite its immense weight, seemed to glide easily until it finally halted at the small station that now seemed almost absurdly inadequate beside such a creation of human ingenuity.

People bustled around: some disembarked from the train, while others eagerly climbed aboard. Porters shuffled luggage, hawkers sold their wares to passengers hanging out of windows, their hands clutching bills and coins. A sharp, shrill whistle cut through the noise, and steam hissed from the locomotive’s sides.

"Don’t dawdle!" Yonatan shouted, holding onto his hat as he leaped onto the train’s footboard. He was greeted by a stout man with a luxurious mustache, dressed in a blue uniform with shiny buttons, a crisp cap, and white gloves.

"Your tickets, please, ladies and gentlemen," the conductor asked in a deep baritone.

"We’re going to Metropolis," Yonatan handed him several yellow rectangles stamped with seals and inscriptions.

"Three compartments in the second-class sleeper car," the conductor rumbled, scanning their tickets. "Please hurry. The stop in Presny only lasts two and a half minutes."

"You heard him!" Yonatan waved his hat, signaling for the others to board.

Together with the rest of the Cloaks, Ardi clambered aboard the iron vessel, carefully hauling his staff and grimoire behind him. Inside, they found themselves in a narrow, wood-paneled corridor. Ardi wrinkled his nose at the musty scent of sweat, overly salted and peppered food, and a hint of shoe polish.

Everything reeked of that thick, waxy polish. Perhaps only his Matabar nose could pick up on it, but it lingered on every surface.

"A half-blood?" The conductor stopped him suddenly, his hand resting on the brass-trimmed doorframe. "There’s a separate carriage for-"

"He’s with us," Yonatan interrupted, tugging Ardi along the corridor.

The conductor looked as though he wanted to argue, but a single look from Cassara made him swallow hard and remain silent. Soon enough, he was too busy collecting tickets from the other passengers pressing forward.

They made their way down the threadbare carpet, bumping their shoulders against the walls and brushing up against curtains that half-covered the windows. The doors ahead were so tightly fitted that opening them almost caused them to brush against the rail running along the "outer" wall. Made of polished wood, they gleamed under the carriage’s brass fittings.

"We’ve got compartments eleven, twelve, and thirteen," Yonatan said, checking their tickets. "Damn it, we almost made it without having to deal with any upper bunks... If only there were one fewer of us."

The Cloaks exchanged glances, as if weighing whom to toss overboard.

"That wasn’t a suggestion, you idiots," Yonatan grumbled with a chuckle. "Alright, let’s split up. We’ll take compartment eleven, Cassara and Ardi in twelve, and Katerina in thirteen."

"Why do I get stuck in the last one?" The sharpshooter protested.

"My dearest lady, we only seek to provide you with the most comfor-" Long Neck began.

"I’ll shove your tongue up your ass."

"If you had said that you’d shove it in yours, I’d take that as an invitation to-"

Katerina dramatically tugged on the edge of her cloak, revealing her revolvers. Considering how deftly she handled them, Long Neck merely shrugged and slipped into his compartment as quickly as he could.

Eventually, everyone dispersed to their new homes for the next ten days. Compared to sleeping on the ground under the open sky of the steppes, this...

Ardi, if he were being honest, would’ve gladly returned to the fresh air, the stars above, and playing with the wind. Who cared about soft walls or cozy warmth?

"Alright, kid," Yonatan’s voice snapped Ardi out of his reverie. "No nonsense, and no making friends with strangers."

Ardi glanced at Cassara, but she maintained her stony, expressionless demeanor.

"If you want to visit the dining car, you’ll need my permission. Got that?"

Knowing Yonatan’s temper, Ardi nodded calmly.

"Good," the Cloak flashed him a predatory grin and pointed toward the front and back of the carriage. "Those are the washrooms. If you need to clean yourself up, someone should always be at the door. So, that means that even when you’re taking a piss, you need to let us know. Got it?"

It was tempting to make a sarcastic remark about whether he could breathe or think without permission, but Ardi saw no reason to make the already volatile situation worse.

"Well, alright then," Yonatan relaxed, giving Ardi an unexpected, approving pat on the shoulder. "You’re holding up well, kid. But don’t get too comfortable. Trains have a way of lulling you into a false sense of security, so don’t forget to watch your balls."

With that, Yonatan winked and disappeared behind the door, leaving Ardi alone with Cassara. Given that there were only three doors, it seemed like they had the entire train car to themselves.

Ardan ran his hand along the walls, feeling their rough but well-maintained, lacquered texture beneath his fingertips. The velvet curtains, lined with lace trimmings, softened the light filtering in from the windows, and a delicate, near-transparent tulle added a touch of elegance to the windows that were adorned with patterns that reminded him of falling snowflakes.

Everything was just a bit too fancy for his tastes.

"Sleeping cars are the most comfortable — and most expensive — way to travel, kid," the vampire seemed to be reading his thoughts as she opened the door to their compartment.

Inside, two plush couches upholstered in crimson satin beckoned them with their intricate designs, gleaming softly under the gentle sway of the carriage. In Ardi’s opinion, these were not just seats, but exquisite beds, ready to take him into an embrace so tender it could probably only be matched by...

The thought of the stream and Anna made the young man a little uneasy and he pushed them away, turning back to the world of big money.

Opposite the couches stood a finely-crafted wardrobe, built to hold all the possessions of a traveler, along with a modest table bolted to the floor, its surface scrubbed to a shine. Above it loomed a large window, framed by the same heavy curtains, offering a view of the passing landscapes. Even compared to the corridor’s furnishings, these were no ordinary drapes. Thick and luxurious, they offered both privacy and protection from the elements.

Two upper bunks for storing luggage sat above them, their contents secured by crisscrossing leather straps. Resting atop them were two tightly rolled up mattresses labeled, "For servants."

"That’s ridiculous, honestly," Cassara muttered, stretching out on one of the couches and pulling her hat over her face again. "I’ve never seen a wealthy passenger sleep in the same compartment as their servants. Anyone who can afford a second-class sleeper wouldn’t hesitate to stick their help in the seated car."

"A seated car?" Ardi asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Yeah," the vampire nodded. "If you’re interested, you can take a stroll to the back of the train. Most of the passengers there are poor folk, traveling with all their belongings and sitting for days on end."

Ardan instinctively turned toward the direction she’d indicated, his thoughts drifting toward the idea of exploring the train.

"There’s a dining car ahead," Cassara continued. "Prices there are outrageous, but if you don’t mind spending a few exes on a meal, feel free to indulge. Past that are the two first-class cars."

A dinner costing several exes... Ardi mentally converted the cost. For that price, he could easily buy enough supplies in Evergale to last him at least two weeks, or purchase hunting gear that would feed him for a season.

And in here? It was just a single meal.

"In second class, you’ll get breakfast and a hot dinner. The menu’s over there." Cassara gestured lazily to a calfskin-bound folder resting on the table. Ardan picked it up and read through the options.

"Breakfast choices:

Oatmeal with fruit

Buckwheat porridge with fruit

Lunch:

Not included in the fare.

Dinner choices:

Grilled trout or salmon with roasted seasonal vegetables.

Chicken or pork in prune sauce, served with fresh vegetables and beans."

Ardi’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t eat meat from animals that hadn’t been able to fight back, but the mere fact that they were serving chicken here…

Chicken was a delicacy.

In Evergale, chickens were slaughtered only on major occasions: New Year’s day, the Day of Light, weddings, or the birth of a firstborn.

A good chicken, plucked and ready to bake, could fetch around twenty, maybe thirty kso. After all, raising them wasn’t easy (in sufficient quantities to be sold on the market, let alone industrially produced for large cities). They ate a lot, and you couldn’t keep too many in a coop. And every chicken you butchered meant fewer eggs laid.

It was much simpler with beef, veal, goat, lamb — anything with hooves that grazed on pastures. There was plenty of that meat. If you had a few kso, you wouldn’t go hungry.

"Mark your choice for tonight’s dinner," Cassara snapped her fingers at the cardboard slip beneath the menu. "We’ve already missed breakfast."

A pencil was attached to the slip by a small string.

As Ardan marked down his choice of trout, he had a sudden thought.

"What about you…"

But he didn’t finish that question. He didn’t need to ask what Cassara ate. After all, he’d seen how, several times a day, she would take small sips from a flask no one ever asked her to share.

His gaze drifted to the vampire’s belt, where that infamous flask hung in its leather holster.

It could hold a quarter of a liter at most.

After all the time they had spent traveling, it would have long ago become empty, unless...

"They never noticed," Cassara said, as if reading his mind. "A small price for our services."

That explained why so many of the settlers had complained about fatigue and headaches, though they’d showed no other signs of illness. Ardan had chalked it up to nerves and exhaustion, but the answer had been far simpler.

"I didn’t see any marks on their necks," he murmured, sitting back on his bed.

"There are more convenient — and less noticeable — places on the human body than the neck, kid," Cassara replied matter-of-factly.

A chill ran down Ardi’s spine, and the sudden blaring of the train’s horn, followed by a heavy jolt and the rhythmic clanking of pistons, startled him even further.

And he was ready to swear by the Sleeping Spirits that Cassara had also let out a quiet, somewhat smug chuckle. But maybe he’d just imagined that. Or he was hoping that he had imagined it...

And so Ardi’s days on the train passed.

Morning began with the first rays of the sun, pink dawns playing over the reddening steppe. Accompanied by one of the Cloaks, Ardan would make his way to the washroom.

He had grown used to the train’s constant swaying after the first night, unlike the Silent One, who often spent his time throwing up whatever food he had managed to eat. Ardi couldn’t imagine anyone suffering from nausea that much. For his part, he usually felt fine — only a bit dizzy toward the evenings.

And as for his Cloak escorts? They didn’t really make a difference. Despite the train’s seemingly breakneck speed, it moved slowly enough that jumping off wouldn’t mean certain death.

Sure, a bad landing might break a leg — or worse, his collarbone — but he’d most likely survive.

Inside the washroom, next to the iron sink and the most elegant toilet Ardi had ever seen, a small window stood tall. It wouldn’t take much to break it.

In other words, every day, twice a day, Ardan was tempted to flee.

But it wasn’t the endless prairies stretching out beyond the train that stopped him. He could still find his way home. He needed only the stars to do so.

No, it was the thought of his family back in Delpas. As long as he cooperated, they’d enjoy a far more comfortable life than he could’ve provided for them.

For now, at least.

So, after his morning ritual, Ardi would return to the compartment, and after some time, breakfast would be brought to him. Two portions. One was for Cassara, though she had no need for it. So, without feeling any guilt, Ardi would eat both of them.

And the food? It was excellent.

Ardi spent most of his day poring over the Stranger’s manual. But the author had refrained from sharing more theories or musings, focusing methodically on spell descriptions. Judging by how varied and seemingly unrelated they were, the spells had likely been created as the need for them had arisen.

For instance:

"Well, my dear, unknown apprentice, my newest creation is the Cold Shadow. It’s not that I often need to hide from others, but I still consider it quite useful, especially since most humans cannot see in the dark.

[Star: Red

Number of Rays: 2

School: Universal

Element: Water-Ice

Maximum rune combinations: area/density/temperature].

I would advise that you use this spell only in enclosed spaces since it dissipates in an instant in any open area. This leads me to think that Star Magic might have a closer relationship to the laws of nature than the magic of the Aean’Hane and… No, I won’t share those thoughts just yet. I need more time to structure them properly, and you, my dear apprentice, still need to learn a few more seals and other useful skills, which I will mention later."

Ardan carefully copied the seal into his own grimoire, then spent a few hours trying to understand it. Even considering the fact that this wasn’t his first seal, far from it, and that Mart had made it clear that the essence of Star Magic was, in fact, a precise science, Ardan still couldn’t figure it out.

It was like trying to solve a complex equation without knowing the basics of arithmetic.

After setting aside his attempts to grasp the seal’s inner workings, Ardan deduced that, based on the number of runes, their properties, and their placement, the Cold Shadow likely created a dense mist over an area of about ten or twelve meters, dropping the temperature by roughly sixteen degrees.

He considered experimenting with this new spell, but soon realized that testing it in a train car filled with nervous Cloaks, all of them heavily armed, might not be the wisest idea.

So, his experiments postponed, he moved on to the next seal:

"I’m not sure if you’ll have the strength for this, but today, after having to pull yet another batch of enemy darts out of Bashtag, it occurred to me that in certain situations, a lot of small arrows are much more useful than one big one.

So, I present to you my latest creation. I’ve named it the Ice Volley. The seal is quite complex and consumes a lot of energy. It will require a lot of focus and several experiments, but trust me, it’s worth it. Over the last six months, it’s been my best work.

[Star: Red

Number of Rays: 6

School: War

Element: Water-Ice

Maximum rune combinations: quantity/direction/speed/density/force]."

A single glance made it clear that this seal was a modification of the Ice Arrow — a spell Ardan hadn’t cared much about until recently.

Up until the past few months, war magic hadn’t interested him at all. Who was he supposed to fight in Evergale? The drunken cowboys or the wild animals trying to steal some beef?

But now…

Ardan carefully copied the seal into his grimoire, amazed at what he saw. To begin with, it consumed six rays. That meant that if Ardan used this seal, he wouldn’t be able to cast anything else, aside from a simple Spark.

The Stranger had never created such massive seals before. Throughout his time studying the manual, Ardan had only encountered one other seal that required six rays — the Ice Wave, which conjured, well, a wave of moving ice.

And now this...

Before reading the spell’s full description, Ardan tried to decipher the runes on his own. The combination for speed and direction was straightforward — it was a standard set for any projectile-based spell.

The first set of runes determined the velocity at which the spell would move (allowing it to be made faster or slower), while the second dictated its trajectory.

Force was also relatively easy to understand, though a bit more complicated, as the combination of force runes was a pairing of speed and volume runes, creating a chain of calculations that…

Ardan groaned, chewing thoughtfully on his pencil. Why hadn’t the Stranger taken the time to explain the basic theory behind all of this?

He knew he was looking at a puzzle, but he was doing so without the initial data needed to solve it.

Fine, it would remain something to figure out later…

But then there was the entirely new rune combination: quantity. This was something Ardan had never encountered before.

He had no choice but to refer to the spell’s description:

"Ice Volley creates four ice bolts. They have a much shorter range than the Ice Arrow, and the impact isn’t as strong — they likely won’t penetrate steel armor, but against wooden shields and leather, they’re ideal. And, what’s more, until you’ve expended all the energy in the seal, they’ll stay with you. But I wouldn’t recommend walking around with four ice bolts hovering at your side.

First of all, I doubt the guards would appreciate it. Secondly, remember the primary law of Ley circulation: anything created through it will return to it. I haven’t tested it, but I doubt Ice Volley would last longer than half an hour before it dissipates.

And as for its use... My dear apprentice, I’ll leave that for your inquisitive mind. My own master always encouraged my desire to experiment, so I’ll try to plant the same seed in your thinking. To understand how to best use this spell, you’ll need to cast it yourself.

Good luck."

Ardan nearly cursed aloud. Six rays for experimentation? That would either mean spending the next thirty-six hours — give or take — recovering his strength, or, if he translated it into exes and added up the cost of Ley accumulators from Bri-&-Man, it would amount to…

He paused for a second to do the math.

"Twenty-two and a half exes!" He exclaimed.

Cassara remained silent, paying no mind to his outburst, continuing her inspection of the inside of her hat.

Sleeping Spirits...

And there was no arguing with the Stranger’s instructions. Experimenting would be necessary… Ardan was already regretting meeting Mart and having his eyes opened to questions he hadn’t even thought to ask before.

All these years, he had naively thought he’d figured out Star Magic. There would be a seal. Inside it, there would be various combinations of runes. He could even roughly understand how to position them to change the properties of spells, but...

Why those specific runes? Why this exact number? What principle did they follow? What did not only the runes mean, but all those lines and figures inside the seal as well? And… a hundred other questions he had yet to answer.

And so Ardan’s days passed, mostly spent studying the Stranger’s manual, sketching seals, and pondering the mysteries of Star Magic. The bright hours of the day would give way to cool, damp evenings, and soon after, the conductor would knock on their door, delivering dinner.

Then, sleep.

One day would blur into the next, distinguishable only by the slowly changing scenery outside or the scent of their increasingly worn clothes. While the landscape shifted only subtly, the smell was far less forgiving.

Each evening, the plains outside became greener, dotted with small groves, their leaves thickening as they neared the distant forests of the Metropolis.

During these times, Ardan’s mind would wander back to Evergale and the forests surrounding the town, those endless woods that stretched from horizon to horizon. He missed the trees, their soft whispers as the wind moved through them, the scent of the earth changing from morning to night, the rustling branches, and the streams and lakes that reflected the life thriving within them.

Ardi loved the forest.

Perhaps he loved it only slightly less than the mountains.

"Mr. Egobar?"

The young man jerked slightly, pulling away from the window where the fading fields of once-green meadows swept by. He glanced up at the conductor. Dressed in a blue tunic, black cap, and white gloves, the man, who was likely around thirty, extended a steel tray with two napkins toward him.

For the seventh day in a row, Ardi was going to eat nothing but fish, and he didn’t mind. There were times when the hunt was scarce, and he could survive on rabbit for months.

But today, a pork chop lay on the tray.

"Apologies, sir, but we’ve run out of fish," the conductor said, sounding apologetic.

"Thank you," Ardi accepted the meal.

The conductor nodded courteously and then disappeared silently. The young man sighed, looking down at the meat. He was about to step into the corridor with his tray when Cassara’s voice stopped him.

"Don’t forget your staff and book."

Ardi slapped his forehead, returned to grab his staff, and hooked his grimoire to his belt using the special chains. Ever since they had started working on the Shield spell, Cassara had never let him leave without his magical tools. Though he hadn’t yet grown accustomed to that, he had, by now, become so used to the swaying of the train that he almost felt stronger here than he did on solid ground.

He knocked calmly on the neighboring door, and after hearing a curt, "Enter!" he stepped inside.

Yonatan, the Silent One, and Long Neck, as usual, were playing cards.

"What do you want, kid?" Yonatan growled, his expression that of a man clearly losing.

"Has anyone got any fish left?" Ardan asked. "I’ll trade it for a pork chop."

The Cloaks exchanged glances and burst into laughter.

"Just a week spent in comfort, and look what’s happened," Long Neck snorted. "The cowboy’s turned into a nobleman."

Ardi ignored the jibe and continued standing there with the tray.

"Fish isn’t meat, boy, just like women aren’t…" Yonatan waved him off and seemed about to add something else when he abruptly fell silent, his gaze shifting toward the wall that separated their compartments. "Vampires and their damned hearing… No, kid, there’s no fish here. If you’re so keen, take Katerina and go to the dining car. Amir, give him seventy-five kso from the travel fund."

The Silent One, whose name Ardi could never remember, rummaged through his bag and pulled out a fifty-kso bill and a few coins.

Ardi thanked them, left the tray of pork on the table, and stepped back out into the corridor, where he knocked on Katerina’s compartment.

"It’s open!"

Ardi slid the compartment door aside, froze for a moment, and then swiftly slammed it shut again.

"My apologies," he blurted out in one breath, trying to erase the image of a completely naked redhead cleaning her revolvers from his mind.

"Eternal Angels, kid!" Came the shout from inside. "You’re not a virgin, are you? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before!"

"Hey, Katerina!" Long Neck’s voice called out from the far compartment. "I’m not a virgin either, so maybe-"

"I’ll shoot your balls off!" Katerina cut him off.

"Mortals," Cassara hissed, though her voice could be heard throughout the entire car.

Blushing red as a boiled crayfish, Ardi knocked again.

"Hold on then," came the reply. "I’ll get dressed."

Standing there like a complete fool, Ardan nervously fidgeted with the money in his hands, trying to calm his racing heart. Katerina usually wore oversized, baggy clothes. Add to that her rifle, bandoliers, cloak, and pouches, and her figure was often hidden beneath layers and layers of gear. And admittedly, it wasn’t as provocatively perfect as Cassara’s — no, the vampire was something else entirely, a lethal and mesmerizing work of art.

But Katerina…

Ardi couldn’t shake the image of her long, muscular legs, her slender waist, her not-too-large and firm chest, and those collarbones. Sleeping Spirits help him, he hadn’t even realized collarbones could be something beautiful, something that could capture one’s attention.

The door flung open before him.

The Cloak gunwoman, now fully dressed, looked him over, her eyes lingering briefly below his belt before she gave a low whistle.

"Sometimes I forget, Ardi, that you’re not quite human…" She said for some reason, before meeting his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Dining car," he stammered.

"What?"

"Dinner. In the dining car."

"Angels and Demons, Ardi!" Katerina flared up. "If you want to blow off steam, just grab my chest already! Can you speak properly or not?"

Ardi flinched but forced himself to see not the naked woman from moments ago, but the dangerous gunwoman of the Second Chancery.

"I’m going to the dining car for dinner," he said in a much calmer tone. "Yonatan said to take you with me."

"Oh, really?" Katerina clicked her tongue, glancing toward the far compartment. "And this same Yonatan didn’t think to give me any travel money?"

"All expenses will be settled after the mission!" Yonatan’s voice came from the other compartment. "The kid’s got seventy-five kso! Don’t hold back and… Fuck! Damn the Face of Light! I didn’t get it again! How much longer can this go on?"

Katerina rolled her eyes and, grabbing the utterly confused Ardi by the elbow, yanked him along.

"What are you standing there for? You’ve already seen me as I came into this world, so now treat a lady to dinner, and who knows, maybe we’ll-"

"Katerina," Cassara’s quiet, insidious hiss cut through the air, piercing one’s very soul.

Katerina shivered, her face paling slightly.

"I was just kidding," she said curtly. "Let’s go, Ardi. Let’s see what the rich folk are choking on."

They passed through their car and into another just like it, where muffled conversations, sometimes in languages Ardi didn’t recognize, could be heard coming from behind locked doors. Then, crossing yet another connecting platform, they arrived at a wooden door. Pushing it open...

Ardan remembered Mart’s stories of "restaurants" in the Metropolis, places so ornate you couldn’t help but realize that you had found yourself in a fancy, extraordinary establishment. Whoever had designed this dining car had clearly been following the same principle.

Instead of compartments, there were tables on either side, draped in white silk cloths and topped with crystal glasses and silver cutlery.

Travelers sat at some of these tables. There were women in dresses that Ardi’s mother had always dreamed of sewing: sparkling, shimmering gowns that hugged their figures and fell almost to the floor, making them kind of resemble tall, elegant champagne flutes.

The clicking of their high heels tapped softly against the wooden floorboards, and fur stoles — white fox, sable, mink — were draped across their often bare shoulders. Intricate hairpieces adorned with feathers or small hats perched atop their heads.

Across from them or beside them sat their gentlemen. Most were stout, their bellies pressing against the fabric of their black suits and crisp, white shirts. The cufflinks and buttons on their attire gleamed with precious stones...

Ardi squinted as he noticed that both the men and the women wore jewels on their wrists or fingers. Rings with diamonds, bracelets of rose and white gold, or wristwatches encrusted with those same diamonds, rubies, agates, and all manner of things that had been dug up from the earth and sold for a hefty price.

"Well, I’ll be damned," Katerina whispered. "Usually, you don’t see this... Ah, right. The coronation. Everyone’s heading to the Metropolis for the coronation."

"Sir, ma’am," a conductor appeared as if out of nowhere, addressing Ardan and Katerina. "May I inquire which car you’re from?"

He nodded subtly toward a sign on the wall that read:

"Please keep in mind that the dining car is for second and first-class passengers only."

Below this, the message was repeated in several languages, none of which Ardan could read.

"Here," Katerina handed over their tickets.

The conductor glanced at something, smiled, and guided them to an empty table.

"Just a moment, sir, ma’am," the young man said in a syrupy voice. "I’ll bring you the menu. Might I recommend the venison from the Royal Forests with Aosi sauce? It is a most tender dish. Highly recommended."

And just like that, he vanished, leaving Katerina and Ardi alone with the menu, which didn’t offer a wide selection, but each dish took some time to read, given its long list of ingredients.

Not to mention the prices.

"That venison dish is…" Ardi croaked, suddenly feeling lightheaded. His chest tightened. His head spun. And the money in his pocket seemed to burn.

"Sixty-two kso," he barely whispered.

"We’ll take two," Katerina grinned slyly.

Ardi gave her a sheepish smile and laid the money he had been given out on the table.

"I only have…"

"We’ll put it on the compartment’s tab," Katerina waved him off. "When we disembark, Yonatan won’t have a choice but to settle the bill. Don’t worry about it."

Ardi was about to protest that this wasn’t fair, that it bordered on theft, but then he remembered a few things. For one, he had been kidnapped, separated from his family, and… Well, despite Yonatan’s better qualities, the man was still an unpleasant bastard.

"But we’ll still spend this money," Ardi said firmly.

Maybe it was because he was trying to strike a deal with his conscience, or maybe he just didn’t want anything to do with such roundabout thievery.

It went against the laws of the hunt, after all.

"Oh, don’t you worry about that," Katerina’s grin widened, and perhaps she took his words to mean something else entirely.

Within fifteen minutes, two steaming plates of venison were set down before them, along with bowls of vegetables, a bottle of whiskey — most likely a ridiculously expensive one given its elegant appearance — and glasses of water for Ardi.

The meat was as delicious as promised, more flavorful than Ardi had ever even imagined food could be. They ate, drank, and chatted about nothing in particular. Katerina told him stories from her time with the Cloaks, while Ardi mostly listened in silence.

Minutes melted into hours, and outside the window, the fields had long since been swallowed up by a starry night. Still, they kept talking, sipping tea that cost a staggering twelve kso per pot. For that price, Ardi thought it should have been brewed from herbs plucked from the Fae gardens themselves, but it was just regular tea, even if it did come from Kargaam.

"Do you miss it?" Katerina asked suddenly.

Ardi flinched and looked her in the eyes. Not in the way Skusty had taught him, which Mart had called the Witch’s Gaze, but just… He just looked at her.

"Miss what?"

"What came to mind first?" She asked, her tone serious.

Ardi thought about it. When she’d asked him that, for a brief moment, he’d recalled the vast stretches of the Alcade mountains, then his mother and brother, and finally, the sheriff and Kena.

Anna didn’t even make the list.

"If you miss something, that’s good," Katerina sighed. "It’s worse when there’s nothing to miss. Believe me, Ardi, I’ve seen people like that. People with nothing and no one to long for. Empty people. People like this bottle."

She pointed at the whiskey, which was now nearly drained. Maybe a finger of amber liquid was sloshing at the bottom, no more than that.

"Whole on the outside, but empty inside, without purpose," she said soberly, straight to the point, as if she hadn’t just downed nearly a third of a liter of strong liquor in less than two hours. "So, always ask yourself this: is there something or someone you miss? As long as the answer’s yes, you’re still… Well, you’re still a decent human… or a Matabar. Face of Light… sometimes I really forget that you are not human."

"Still a decent human," Ardi repeated, making sure to remember the phrase.

"Just don’t confuse decent with good," Katerina raised a finger.

"Is there a difference?"

"A huge one!" The gunwoman snorted. "A good person — that’s a slippery shit. What’s good for some is bad for others. It’s a label, Ardi. We call who we need ’good,’ and those we don’t need ’bad.’ Then we make war on the bad ones, exile them, discriminate against them, whatever. They’re bad. We are justified in doing so because they’re bad."

Ardan didn’t entirely follow her train of thought, but he still listened intently.

"But being a decent human… Well, that’s a label, too. Forget what I said. All of us who do what needs to be done? We’re always the villains in the eyes of the obedient sheep."

"Why?"

"Because, kid, our existence is a thorn in the side of these ’good people.’ We remind them that the WORLD IS SHIT!" Katerina suddenly yelled, glaring at the remaining patrons in the dining car. "A dirty, rotten place where the strong eat and fuck the weak. Where everyone lies, betrays, and kills. And the good people? They don’t want to see that. It’s uncomfortable for them. While we remind them of all that filth just by existing. That’s why we’re the bad guys. And they… want us… gone."

"But that won’t solve the problem."

"Exactly," Katerina drawled. "You get it. That’s fine. Most people… Ah, forget it, Ardi. It’s the whiskey talking. Or maybe it’s just because I hate delivering death notices."

She fell silent, and Ardi offered an apologetic smile to the other patrons who had been eyeing them with disapproval. Maybe that helped, or maybe it was the fact that Katerina had revolvers on her hips, and Ardan had his grimoire and staff within easy reach. Either way, the onlookers went back to minding their own business.

The wheels clattered, the train swayed, and outside, the stars shimmered in a sky that Ardi could still navigate with ease, knowing exactly where they were based on the constellations.

"Tell me about the Alcade," Katerina suddenly requested. "I mean, the real Alcade, not the place where we first found you or where we spent a month hiding out. I’ve always been curious-"

"Yes, we’re quite curious, too," a familiar voice interrupted.

Ardi turned to see Boris standing beside their table, dressed in a suit and holding a staff, and next to him was Elena, now wearing a long, tailored dress, her pretense of being a man long abandoned. However, the folds of her gown made it clear that she had something strapped to her thigh — a knife, or perhaps a small revolver.

"We agreed on a dinner in exchange for a story, Mr. Egobar, and we’ve yet to hear it," Boris said.

"I-"

But Ardi never got to finish his response, or justification, and it seemed like Boris would never hear that story, either. The train, still moving at full speed, abruptly slammed to a halt, and Ardi, thrown forward by the inertia, was sent flying straight into a divider between the windows, his head slamming hard against the wood.

***

When Ardi regained consciousness, for a moment, he thought everything had been a dream and that he was still lying in the crevice where he’d fallen while playing with Shali. There’d been no troll, no magic-wielding wolves, none of it had happened.

He slowly came to his senses, his vision expanding from the center outward, with sounds echoing as if they were coming to him from the bottom of a well.

It took a few more seconds before Ardan realized that he was lying on the floor, beneath a bench, covered by a tablecloth torn down during his fall. Scattered utensils, food, and spilled drinks littered the ground around him. And then… he saw blood. Blood that wasn’t his.

"Hurry up, move!" A gruff, unfamiliar voice shouted, the sound of spurs on old boots ringing in time with the command. "Rings, earrings, necklaces! All of it, into the bag!"

"Do you even know who I am?" A bass voice protested. "I’m the cousin of-"

The dull thud of a revolver hilt striking flesh cut the man off, followed by a howl of pain.

"Couldn’t give less of a damn who you’re related to," the revolver clicked, its hammer cocking. "I’ve always wondered if a bullet could punch through a gut as big as yours or if it’d just get stuck, so…"

"Iskrien!" Another voice barked. "The cargo’s what matters, the rest doesn’t."

Ardi couldn’t see beyond the legs of the robbers, which frustrated him. Carefully, he stretched his hand out from beneath the tablecloth and pulled a tray toward him, angling it so he could glimpse the scene reflected in its metal surface.

The dining car no longer resembled the luxurious establishment it had been just moments before. Everything had been strewn across the floor: curtains torn, dishes smashed, oil lamps shattered. But more importantly, three men stood at the center of it, between the tables.

They wore leather jackets, cowboy pants, high cavalry boots with spurs, belts packed with bullets and revolvers, wide-brimmed hats, and they had bandanas covering their faces.

Ardi could hardly believe his eyes.

His mother had always told him that the steppes were dangerous because of magical creatures, orcs, and bandits. Had he really encountered all three in one journey?

One of the bandits was holding Boris by the hair, forcing the nobleman to kneel. Nearby, Elena lay in a pool of blood, her right arm horribly broken. She was growling softly, trying to free herself from under the boot of one of the bandits, but he had her pinned firmly to the floor.

Ardi adjusted the tray slightly and barely suppressed a yelp of shock. Katerina was slumped against the wall, breathing heavily, her hand pressed to her left side. Blood oozed between her fingers.

However long he’d been unconscious, it had been long enough for everything to be turned upside down. In both the literal and figurative sense.

"Creso!" That same bandit from before shouted.

"What?" Came a reply from the direction of the second-class car.

"What’s going on with the lawmen and the undead?"

"The artifact will hold them off for a couple more minutes!"

The bandit nodded and turned to his comrade who was standing beside him.

"Iskrien, find Ludewit and the Gray One. If they’re not done cleaning out the first class yet, tell them to wrap it up. The cargo-" he shook Boris by the hair, making the nobleman groan as he tried in vain to loosen the man’s grip, "is already ours. Let’s get out while we’ve still got time."

"What about securing our escape?"

The bandits exchanged glances.

"Got it, Milad," Iskrien laughed.

He struck Elena hard at the base of her skull. She twitched and went still. Ardan checked — she was still breathing.

The bandit lifted his boot from Elena’s back and, turning to one of the wealthy passengers, gave his belly a playful pat.

"See you around, your lordship," the bandit mocked with an exaggerated bow. As he straightened back up, his gaze met the eyes of the pale, trembling companion of the rich man, a young woman who had been sobbing quietly. "And as for you, ma’am, I’d love to get to kno-"

"Iskrien, you bastard!" Milad shouted. "Do what you’re told! Once we hand over the cargo, you can buy yourself ten of those whores!"

The bandit grimaced, spat, and turned away. He began walking toward the first-class cars, right in the direction of Ardi.

Skusty would’ve advised him to stay hidden under the tablecloth and keep out of sight. That probably was the most sensible and correct thing to do in this situation…

"They were ordinary people, Ardi."

The hunter’s heart began to race faster and faster.

There were three of them, armed to the teeth, with Katerina injured and the rest of the Cloaks trapped by some artifact. Even more worryingly: how had these bandits known about Yonatan’s group and even made a plan to deal with them?

Iskrien was getting closer.

Ergar had taught him not to meddle where he couldn’t handle things. Ardan had already broken that rule several times, and it had never led to anything good.

This wasn’t his hunt.

They wanted Boris. They’d take him and leave. He could help Katerina, and...

Iskrien was now within reach, but Ardi’s mind raced.

"Now, repeat the mage’s oath after me…" Mart’s voice was replaced by Tevona’s.

Sticky threads wound around Ardi’s throat. His mind became clouded, and his heart was squeezed by them so tightly that it slowed to a crawl.

The orc’s fangs and axes gleamed overhead once again. How terrifying that had been…

Something burned against his leg. Ardi flinched. There, by his boot, lay his father’s knife. Hector Egobar’s knife.

That was the blade his father had used to sacrifice his life for those he had once hated, for those who had once used his name to frighten their children. And it was for those children that Hector had died.

Ardi didn’t know why or how.

But…

He looked again at Boris, at the battered Elena with her broken arm, and at Katerina, bleeding out from a gunshot wound. Two of these people he had met only once in his life, and as for Katerina… No matter how strange his relationship with the Cloaks had become, they had still kidnapped him from his home, torn him from his family, and…

Ardi shifted his gaze to Iskrien and the frightened, wounded people pressed against the walls and corners.

What, really, was the difference between these bandits and that mountain troll?

That one thought was all it took for Fear to loosen its grip, and Ardi, drawing his father’s knife, slashed just above Iskrien’s spurs. The bandit cried out and collapsed to the floor, while Ardan, throwing off the tablecloth, jumped to his feet, slipping the knife back into its holster and drawing his revolver. To his own surprise, he hadn’t let go of his staff, and it was still gripped tightly in his hand.

But that was just a minor detail.

Taking advantage of the element of surprise, he kicked the man’s weapon out of Iskrien’s hand. The bandit was writhing in pain from his severed tendons, and he aimed the revolver at his head, lifting his gaze to meet the eyes of the other two bandits.

"Let Boris go," Ardi said calmly. "And leave the train, or I’ll shoot your friend!"

Milad, the leader, exchanged a glance with his comrade.

"Face of Light, kid!" Katerina groaned through the pain. "You idiot!"

Ardi didn’t understand why he was an idiot. He had calculated everything correctly. He’d taken one of their men hostage, which meant that the bandits wouldn’t be able to shoot because if they did, he’d shoot Iskrien and-

Bang!

A gunshot rang out.

Something surged within Ardi, and only a split second later did he realize that he had slammed his staff against the floor. A magical seal flared beneath his feet, and the Ley energy within his Star pulsed.

A shimmering shield enveloped Ardi, but whether it was too weak, not designed to stop bullets, or for some other reason entirely, the bullet tore through it. However, it slowed down and changed its trajectory slightly, and instead of striking Ardan’s heart, it grazed his left shoulder.

He spun from the impact, and by pure instinct, his body curled inward from the pain.

His entire body.

Bang!

Another shot exploded, this one louder because it had come from right beside him. Ardi blinked, not fully understanding what had happened or why a cloud of gunpowder smoke was rising from the barrel of his revolver.

Or why women were screaming. Or why, instead of Iskrien’s head, there was now just a grayish-red mess of flesh and bone where the bandit’s face had once been.

And then everything spiraled into chaos.

"Snap out of it, Ardi!" Katerina screamed, but her cry was abruptly cut off by a fist to the jaw, knocking her unconscious.

"Boys!" Milad and his remaining comrade dove in opposite directions, taking cover behind the benches. "We’ve got another mage here! He took down Iskrien!"

Ardi, standing there with a smoking revolver, didn’t understand who they were talking about. He even turned to look behind him, only to be met with the barrel of a revolver that was being pointed at him from the walkway leading to the first-class car.

The hunter’s instincts, ingrained in him through claws and fangs, kicked in, and Ardi dropped to the floor just as a bullet whizzed past over his head. He swung his staff toward the bandit standing opposite him, hitting him in the groin.

The man howled like a beaten dog and tried to fire again, but Ardi was faster. Perhaps the Cloaks would have laughed in his face, but at that moment, he acted purely on instinct, with no conscious thought involved.

Instead of pulling the trigger again, Ardan simply hurled his revolver into the face of the stunned, gray-haired bandit, then straightened up, ducked under the man’s arms as Guta had taught him, grabbed him by the throat, and with a powerful twist of his torso, he swept the bandit’s legs out from under him, sending him flying toward Milad and the others.

The shots that followed tore bloody holes through the bandit’s airborne body while Ardi, diving onto the walkway between cars, pressed his back against the metal to dodge the hail of fire.

His heart was pounding so fast it felt like it was trying to escape from his chest. Ardi, trying to silence the ringing in his ears, looked down at his chest.

Now would be the perfect time to… Well, do what he had done when fighting the orc.

Ergar’s symbol remained silent and didn’t even hint at glowing.

There was no sensation of running alongside the snow leopards as he had experienced years ago.

"Wonderf-"

The rest of the word was drowned out by the sound of gunfire and the whizzing of bullets.

"Alright, alright," Ardan muttered, closing his eyes. "They’re just mountain trolls. Really angry, gun-wielding mountain trolls, and you’ve got a staff… You’ve got a staff!"

Ardi tried to recall any seal he could, but aside from the Shield Spell, none of the other spells he’d spent so long learning came to mind.

Shit!

He forced his right hand to release his staff, leaving it in his left, and started flipping through his grimoire, but he couldn’t even remember how he had organized his own book or where the combat spells were.

"Not this… Not this either… None of these…" Ardan muttered, flinching every time a new bullet zipped past.

The hunter’s instincts flared again, and Ardi hit the ground just as a spray of sparks erupted when a bullet ricocheted off the iron railing, grazing his back.

He growled in pain and looked up. There, in the first-class car, stood another bandit.

"Milad! I’ve got this giant fucker in my sights!"

"Then shoot, damn it! Kill him!"

A shot rang out, and Ardi, knowing what was coming, activated the seal beneath his feet at the same time a shimmering barrier enveloped him. He turned his body just in time for the bullet to pass through the weakened Shield Spell and fly off to the side.

"You bastard!" The bandit cursed, raising his hand to fire two quick shots, but Ardi was ready this time.

He ducked to the side, moving out of the line of fire, and, grabbing something from his boot, lunged forward. For a moment, he wasn’t fully aware of the fact that he wasn’t holding a claw but a regular knife.

Ducking low to the ground, Ardi dodged two more shots, deflected a third with his shield, and despite the sharp pain in his leg, he struck the bandit with his "claw."

The knife sank into the yielding flesh up to the hilt, and the bandit’s body was lifted off the ground. Clutching Ardan’s wrist, he gurgled blood, his eyes glazing over.

Ardi, who was seized by fear for a fleeting moment and terrified of what he had just done, released his grip, and the convulsing body collapsed into a pool of its own urine, feces, and the blood spurting in waves from the severed artery in its abdomen.

Ergar had taught his student to finish off his prey with a single strike...

The hairs on the back of Ardan’s neck suddenly stood on end. He spun around to find two revolvers, their hammers already cocked, aimed directly at his face.

The magical seal beneath Ardan’s feet flickered into life again, but before the guns could fire, they dropped to the floor, followed by two severed hands. Then came the heads, the torsos that got split open, and finally, with a dull thud, the legs crumpled as well.

Yonatan, flicking the blood from his saber, sheathed it in one smooth motion. The entire action had happened faster than Ardan’s eyes could follow. All he’d seen were a few silver flashes, the rest already over before he’d had time to register it. Wisps of black steam rose into the air from Yonatan’s lips, his pupils dilating unnaturally.

Nearby, the Silent One was already tending to Katerina, while Long Neck hovered over Elena and Boris. Both of them were alive. Only Cassara remained on the walkway between the dining car and second class, methodically devouring one of the bandits`.

She was eating him.

Her fangs were tearing chunks of flesh from his neck, chest, and arms. While the man screamed and wailed, she gulped the pieces down without so much as chewing, drenching herself in the fountain of his blood.

Ardan coughed and turned away, not certain whether his dinner would stay down.

"Kid," Yonatan called out from behind him. "Did you really take down three bandits on your own? Respectable, I suppose."

Ardi didn’t have the energy to respond. Struggling not to look at the corpse or his own bloodstained hands, he gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, back, and leg, bent down, and pulled his father’s knife from the dead bandit’s belly. Wiping it clean on the man’s clothes, he stood again.

At least it was over.

"Hey! Kid!" Yonatan’s voice rang out again. "Why’s your revolver lying there with five bullets left in the chamber? Do you mean to tell me you were throwing it at people?"

Ardan closed his eyes. He already knew the kind of jokes he’d be hearing for the foreseeable future...

Then his eyes shot open, looking farther down the corridor, toward the coal cars and the engine. The air around him seemed to thicken. A rancid wind, normally impossible to find in these parts, gusted through the shattered windows and open doors. Something dark crept along the floor, like an acrid fog rolling in from moonless swamps, hungry for another victim to claim.

A bitter taste stung the tip of his tongue, like the pain of old wounds and distant farewells, the kind of hurt that never fully healed. And he also felt a chill — not the kind brought by winter’s breath, but one that defied the very fabric of reality.

Behind him, Cassara shrieked, and the sound had nothing human in it. How could it, when no living corpse could feel true pain? And yet, the vampire was screaming in agony.

"Run, child!" She hissed through the torment, her words slipping into the language of the Fae.

But Ardan didn’t move. His gaze was unwavering, his hands were steady, and one of them was adorned with the bracelet that now pulsed with shadow. He had never faced what was now about to step into this world, but he’d heard enough stories from Atta’nha to know what it was.

He didn’t feel fear. There was no point.

Fear was for those from whom you could run, those whose pursuit you could outpace with swift legs. Skusty had always said so.

Demons? You could not outrun demons.

And, as if his thoughts had summoned it, a grotesque, festering fold of dark energy tore through space itself. Accompanied by the sound of shattering glass and the screech of metal being torn apart, the creature appeared.

A monster. An abomination. A demon.

It was a thing that had only existed in the old, dusty scrolls of the she-wolf. Its form was an eerie combination of a bat and a mass of thick, black smoke. Arms and legs flickered into and out of existence as though born from the writhing darkness. Its maw glowed, its fused fangs forming a twisted snarl, and from its singular, blazing yellow eye, a light like molten gold seared through the night.

The creature turned toward them, and the people behind Ardan began to scream just as Cassara had, writhing in the same incomprehensible pain. All except for Yonatan, who was muttering softly under his breath. Those were prayers, perhaps, to the Face of Light.

Ardan remained on his feet. He felt the pain as well, but it was no worse than his bullet wounds.

The demon sniffed the air, its body of smoke twisting as if it could taste them.

"Blood of apes and a clay hunter?" It croaked, its voice an awful mix of maggots squirming in rot and the sickening squelch of muddy hoofprints. "With a drop of art within? You dare stand in my way?!"

The demon raised an arm of swirling smoke, claws solidifying and gleaming as they slashed through the steel walls. Ardan didn’t doubt for a moment that no matter how many seals he poured his energy into, nothing could stop that blow.

So instead, with a cold calm that washed over his mind in that moment, he sidestepped, letting the attack pass just inches from his chest, and looked down at his grimoire.

Flipping through the pages, he spotted a familiar seal.

How about that… Just one more page, and he would have found it.

It was probably for the best that he hadn’t.

Channeling the Ley into the pattern, Ardan began weaving the spell’s structure as instructed in the book. Frosty runes flared beneath him, the temperature plummeting. Moisture, blood, and everything else that had been spilled around them lifted into the air and crystallized, fusing into a long, sharp spear of ice.

As soon as it formed, it shot toward the demon.

It all happened in less than a second. The creature hadn’t even swung again before the ice spear slammed into its chest. It exploded in a flurry of shards, but instead of dissipating, they left streaks of frost behind, which looked like faint scratches on the demon’s smoky form.

The demon screeched in rage, unfurling its wings. It was tearing the train car apart with each violent movement.

"Duck, big guy!"

Any other time, Ardan might have ignored this man, but right now, for some reason, he trusted him.

Following Mart’s command, he ducked, and a glass orb, small and glowing with light, flew over his head.

The orb shattered on the floor, releasing a blinding flare of light. For an instant, the dining car blazed like it was the height of noon, bright and scorching. This time, it was the demon that howled in pain, scratching at anything it could, its form unraveling as it was sucked back into the twisted rift from which it had come. Moments later, it was gone. And along with it, the tear in reality sealed shut, disappearing as well.

Ardan collapsed to the floor, laying his staff down beside him, his thoughts on one thing.

He had spent five rays.

That was almost nineteen exes.

Cassara had mentioned how expensive dinner in the dining car was, hadn’t she?

***

The train didn’t move again until morning. Even then, it ran slower than before, as the demon had torn the first-class car apart, leaving it dragging behind and slowing the train. It could only be detached at a technical station, where locomotives stopped to load extra coal.

A demon...

Ardan still couldn’t believe what he’d seen — or rather, what he’d done.

Wanderers, demons, bandits, orcs, mages, foreign lands… All the old tales from his childhood had come to life, and Ardan wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

He had never cared much for adventure. Now books… Books were another matter entirely.

"Give me a drink," Katerina groaned from her seat.

"Hold it, soldier," Yonatan snapped. "Painkillers and alcohol... I’m not delivering another death notice."

Long Neck had stitched Katerina up, and Ardan, with the few supplies they’d had left, had brewed a restorative for her. Thankfully, she’d drunk it before Yonatan had pulled out a syringe from his bag and injected it into… well, into the place where her spine lost its noble name.

Since then, Katerina had drifted in and out of a light slumber.

At the moment, they were all crammed into one compartment, as the damage to the first-class car had forced many of the wealthier passengers into second class, and the second class, well, into third.

The conductors, given the circumstances, might have wanted to change things up, but as Mart, who had been riding in first class, had dryly commented, "It was company policy."

As for the mage himself, Mart had barricaded himself in his compartment and hadn’t uttered a word since the demon’s attack. Nothing new there. And the fact that he had helped deal with the demon... Well, Ardan was sure Mart had only acted because the creature would have wiped out the entire train otherwise.

"If we don’t get a bonus for this job," Yonatan leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, "I’m going to tell the Colonel exactly what I think of all his damn paranoia. The secrecy. The misdirection. The fact that we spent an entire year preparing…"

Yonatan cut himself off, but it was too late.

Ardan’s mind raced, connecting the dots that had previously slipped past him. Suddenly, everything fell into place, and details that had seemed unimportant before now loomed large.

Why had they separated Ardan from his family? Wouldn’t it have been easier to control him by keeping them close? Threaten them daily to ensure his compliance? But no, they were taken far away, to Delpas, and they went to great lengths to convince him that his family was safe and well-off.

That wasn’t how hostages were treated.

So why the separation?

Because it was easier to protect one than to protect five.

And using that tidbit, Ardan found the answer to another question that had been haunting him. The month spent in his childhood home — why waste so much time and resources there? The answer was clear: the Cloaks had needed the marshals’ caravan far more than the caravan had needed them. Yonatan had known exactly how many people Marshal Kal’dron would be bringing with him.

Why?

He made another step forward in his reasoning.

Gleb Davos. If it hadn’t been for Mart, Ardan would never have known that Gleb was not just a mage, but a member of a powerful, influential family. And yet, Yonatan had traded Gleb for Ardan without hesitation. It hadn’t just been a calculated decision, either — it had almost seemed like all the potential problems with the Davos family hadn’t concerned him at all.

Why?

Another deduction.

The Wanderer.

It hadn’t just happened to be in the river where the caravan was supposed to cross. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence, but not when combined with everything else. The Wanderer had been badly wounded — wounds far too deep for the orcs to have inflicted without using extraordinary magic or some other force. But it wasn’t just about the injuries. The creature had been driven there, and the orcs… They hadn’t finished it off. They had been… trying to… help Ardan?

It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

And there was more. The bandits who’d attacked the train had known about the Cloaks and Cassara. They had prepared an artifact to trap the Cloaks, and another to make it look like the train was destroyed by a demon. He didn’t doubt that the newspapers would’ve later blamed it on a terrorist group like the cultists of Enario or something similar.

And their main target had been Boris.

A mage.

And who else was a mage? Ardan Egobar.

He might have chalked all of this up to paranoia if not for the fact that the bandits had known about the Cloaks and had been prepared for them. They had simply mistaken Boris for Ardan.

And another critical point: Ardan posed no real threat to the Cloaks. He was fully aware of that, having seen them in action. But despite this, Cassara, the most dangerous and powerful of the group, had been assigned to stay with him constantly. At first, Ardan had thought it was to keep an eye on him. But what if she hadn’t been assigned to watch him, but to protect him?

All of this added up to one clear conclusion: the Cloaks hadn’t just kidnapped Ardan or tore his family apart... They were… protecting him from someone else… He was a pawn in a game between two factions. One side, he now knew. The other…

Ardan turned his gaze toward Yonatan, and Yonatan froze.

In that moment, Yonatan understood. He realized that Ardan had figured it out.

The Cloak’s hand twitched toward his revolver, but he hesitated, stopping just short of drawing it.

"Boss, what are you doing?" The Silent One asked, confused.

Yonatan slowly pulled his hand back, away from his gun, nodding toward Ardan.

The Silent One glanced at the young man’s face and tensed up, as did Long Neck. Only Cassara and Katerina remained unbothered — Katerina because she had slipped back into her half-sleep, and Cassara because she was, as usual, reclining with her hat pulled over her face.

"Boy, you better lower that sharp look of yours," Yonatan hissed in a low, snake-like tone. "People in Metropolis don’t live long with eyes like that."

"But-"

"Whatever you think you’ve figured out, keep it to yourself," Yonatan cut him off sharply. "There’s only one thing you need to know. Your family is safe. Two teams of our people are with them at all times. You’re expected at the coronation, and after that, you’ll be heading to the Grand University and live a happy, carefree life. That’s all you need to focus on."

Ardan said nothing. Yonatan had emphasized the important parts clearly enough.

A heavy silence settled over the compartment, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels and the occasional creak of the wood and metal. Outside, the endless plains and prairies had given way to meadows and forests, small villages and towns flashing by as station after station passed them in a blur.

But Ardan wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He was trying to solve the puzzle, though he knew he still lacked crucial pieces. And that... intrigued him.

He had always enjoyed a good mystery.

"Fuck, kid!" Yonatan exploded, unable to hold back. "So many good people died to get you here!"

"Boss, take it easy," the Silent One said calmly. "Ardi’s a solid guy. Maybe he’s a bit scared, but he’s got backbone. He’ll be fine."

"He’ll be fine in his own ass," Yonatan snapped back. "Especially when someone grabs it… Damn it, boy! Just don’t screw this up!"

With a frustrated motion, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat. Ardan tensed, but it seemed like he was worrying for nothing.

Long Neck grabbed Yonatan’s arm and asked, "Are you sure?"

"Are you against it?"

"I don’t know." Long Neck eyed Ardan critically. "Amir’s right. The kid’s timid. I’d even say he’s slippery. And he’s young. Who knows what life will shape him into? Is it really worth giving him an officer’s mark?"

Ardan had no idea what an "officer’s mark" was, but those words were enough to make Cassara tilt her hat back, showing interest for the first time.

Yonatan hesitated for a couple of seconds, then shrugged Long Neck’s hand off.

"I don’t want our efforts to end up being in vain," he said, pulling a black coin from his pocket. It was slightly larger than a kso coin, but instead of the Empire’s crest, it bore the simple engraving of the Second Chancery: a round shield with rivets along the edge, and nothing more.

Yonatan placed the coin in Ardan’s hand.

"If you ever find yourself in a deep, stinking pit, a real mess where there’s no other way out," Yonatan said in a low, steady tone, "show this to the person making the decisions."

Ardan could sense that Yonatan was being sincere.

"Thank you," Ardan said, tucking the coin into his pocket.

And with that, not another word was spoken until they arrived in the Metropolis.

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