Matabar

Ardan adjusted the collar of his suit and glanced at himself in the mirror. Staring back at him was the same unfamiliar dandy dressed in expensive clothes, holding a staff in one hand and a small satchel in the other, with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Draped over his arm was the warm coat his mother had sewn for him.

He looked around, taking in the palace room that had served as his temporary shelter for a while, however brief that time may have been. Through the window, he could see that the black river was still crashing against the granite walls, its slow-moving waves capturing the glow of Ley-lamps. Ardi would no longer get to see any of this. The thought brought with it an unexpected sense of... calm.

Over the weeks he’d spent at the Anorsky estate, followed by the coronation, the ball, ending with a couple of days in the guest chambers of the Palace of the Kings of the Past, the young man had realized with striking clarity that this world was not his.

And so, as he left the room, Ardan felt more relief than disappointment.

At the door, someone was already waiting for him on the other side of the corridor. It was a short man with gray hair, though his face was too soft and smooth to guess his exact age.

"Let’s go," the man said in a low, gruff voice.

Dressed in a simple but sturdy, gray woolen suit and an obviously-not-new tweed coat, his guide hurried down the corridor, occasionally stopping to check their direction. He would pause briefly, as if recalling something, and then continue.

Soon enough, they reached the "main thoroughfare." Ardi recognized it by the way his guide began walking beside him rather than ahead of him — there was simply no space for anything else. The corridor was packed to the brim with people.

All of them were polished, waxed, draped in absurdly expensive clothes, adorned with jewelry, and drenched in so many different perfumes that Ardan’s head spun from the overwhelming mix of scents. And yet, despite all of this, they pressed together like sardines in a can.

The young man tried to distract himself by turning toward the stained-glass windows, but quickly regretted it.

A pompous man in a black suit paraded past him, strutting like the only rooster in a henhouse. He looked rather like a balloon — one of those children’s toys parents bought for them at festivals. His thin legs somehow supported a bloated belly, which was barely contained by his pants and shirt, both of which were cinched tight by a wide, silk sash that had been wrapped several times around his middle. In his hands — which were softer than a child’s — the man held a long cane with a crow-shaped tip, and he was leaning heavily on it, making Ardi worry that at any moment, the rings on his sausage-like fingers might snap, sending the enormous gemstones flying like bullets from a revolver.

The man’s chin was impossible to find, as it merged with the collar of his shirt and rested on his chest. A few strands of hair, slicked to one side, failed to conceal his baldness, instead only emphasizing its glossy shine, which reflected the tiny glints of light from the chandeliers above.

Ardi smiled, watching the interplay of these little reflections. It was amusing how something so ridiculous could unintentionally create something delicate and beautiful.

Though perhaps not quite as beautiful as the lady who was walking beside the peacock — no, no, he was more like a turkey. Two heads taller than him and coming up to Ardan’s chin, she wore a green dress embroidered with a fine mesh of sparkling stones — diamonds, perhaps? Ardi wasn’t sure; he’d only heard of them in stories from his grandfather and had read a couple of lines in a textbook about them. Her elaborate hairstyle, high heels, and fur collar only added to her grandeur. She carried herself with an air of majesty, as if the long, sharp ears she proudly bore were a crown.

"What are you smiling at?" Came a breathless wheeze from the portly man. "Is there... something amusing... about our appearance?"

Ardi quickly wiped the smile from his face, but it was too late. Two fishlike, gray eyes bore into him, and despite himself, Ardan — caught off guard by the confusion he had felt in recent days — met his gaze. The moment he did, it seemed as though he wasn’t looking into eyes at all, but into two dark holes where ravenous pikes awaited, eager to tear apart his mind.

"How dare you!" The already crimson-faced gentleman flushed even deeper, blotches of purple rising on his cheeks. He attempted to raise his cane to strike him but wobbled and nearly fell over, once again leaning all his considerable weight on the unfortunate staff.

"You... What course are you in?" He hissed, his voice resembling that of a snake in the underbrush.

Ardi could only open and close his mouth in stunned silence. How many times… How many times had people warned him that one day, his Witch’s Gaze would land him in trouble?

And it seemed like that day had arrived.

"I-"

"Mr. Egobar," Ardi’s guide interrupted them abruptly, cutting off the rotund noble. "We must hurry. Our car should be waiting at the entrance."

With that, the guide grabbed Ardan by the elbow and began cutting through the crowd of aristocrats and imperial dignitaries as if he were clearing a path through a crowd of children gathered around a bakery door. They hurried down a wide staircase and into the hall, heading toward freedom.

Through the open doors of the grand entrance, they stepped into the cool air, but Ardi barely had time to take a breath of fresh air (though the air of the Metropolis could hardly be called fresh) before they were pulled farther along.

Still ignoring the murmurs of the crowd, nearly stepping on the feet of people wearing outrageously expensive shoes, and snatching the keys from a valet, the guide flung open the doors of a car. It was far bulkier and less elegant than the vehicles the Anorskys owned.

The guide practically shoved Ardan inside, causing him to bump his head on the roof — not a fabric one this time, but metal. After slamming the door shut, the guide quickly entered the driver’s seat, spun the wheel, and drove away from the glittering mass of automobiles leaving the palace.

Inside, instead of plush upholstery, the cabin smelled of tobacco and, oddly enough, something salty. The seats were covered in the cheapest leather, worn down to a point where they could be used as sandpaper. Rust, like hungry mold, crept across the metal parts here and there.

The engine rattled like a sawmill in full swing, while the vehicle itself groaned like an old man grumbling about the youth of today.

The guide, who’d now transformed into the driver, adjusted the rearview mirror — not to see the road but to keep an eye on Ardi. Their gazes met, and just in time, Ardan turned his head away.

"You should have done that earlier," muttered the driver, his voice unexpectedly pleasant.

They retraced the familiar route Ardi had traveled once before, and after presenting documents to the guards with rifles, they drove onto the avenue, leaving the palace lights behind.

It was only when they were swallowed by the flow of cars, pedestrians, and trams all rushing in the same direction that the driver seemed to relax a little.

Ardi, just as he had on his previous trip, observed the buildings. These silent stone beauties adorned with various hues and lights lined the streets like mute sentinels watching over the people. Beneath the wheels, the cobblestones clicked with a slightly playful rhythm.

Thanks to the Anorsky library, Ardan had learned that the streets in the city had different surfaces. The closer to the center one got, the more old cobblestone roads there were, still echoing the clatter of horseshoes and the creak of carriage springs. Farther out, toward the modern high-rises of steel and stone, lay the lifeless, gray asphalt made from granite chips and petroleum bitumen.

In the poorer areas, especially near the factory dormitories, they could boast of neither.

"You picked the wrong mind to delve into, boy," the driver sighed.

Ardi glanced at him through the same rearview mirror. His companion mostly kept his eyes on the road, but occasionally cast glances at his passenger.

"Is the Second Chancery going to take issue with me because of that?" Ardi asked.

The driver didn’t flinch, but the slight twitch of the car told Ardi he’d hit a nerve.

"What gave me away?"

"You’re not even going to deny it?" Ardi was surprised.

The stranger remained silent, his jaw clenching slightly.

"Honestly, it seemed like you weren’t trying too hard to hide it," Ardan shrugged.

The dangerous, steely glint in the driver’s eyes that he could see through the mirror said it all.

"Are you mocking me?"

"No," Ardi replied earnestly, though he immediately remembered Yonatan’s, Cassara’s, and Mart’s warnings. "Sorry, I’ve only recently come from Evergale, which is in the Foothill Province. We tend to be a bit more straightforward there and-"

"I know where you’re from, Ard Egobar," the Cloak interrupted. "I also know your age. I know that you practice the art of the Firstborn, possess seven rays of the Red Star, enjoy cocoa, avoid eating livestock, and, oh, you lost your virginity to a farmer’s daughter. So, spare me the small talk."

Well, of course... Of course his... what was the right term for it? Dossier? Obviously, every Cloak had read his file, each one more detailed than the last. Ardi could only hope he’d never have to deal with any of them again.

All he needed to do was stay quiet until the New Year, then return home with a clear conscience.

"So, how did you figure out I wasn’t one of the palace servants?" The Cloak repeated his question.

Ardi stayed silent for a few seconds but, after realizing that they had a long journey ahead of them and that the silence hanging in the air wasn’t exactly healthy, saw no reason not to answer.

"You didn’t seem very familiar with the layout of the palace," the young man began listing off his observations. "And yet, you weren’t uncomfortable around aristocrats, like you see yourself, if not as their superior, at least as their equal. You weren’t afraid of that mage, either, but hurried me away. And I don’t think servants usually shove aristocrats out of the way like they’re dispersing onlookers."

"That’s it?"

The incredulity in the man’s voice was so thick that it could have fueled several cars.

"No."

"What else?"

Ardan took another deep breath and looked at the Cloak again through the mirror.

"You smell like cheap alcohol and gunpowder — just like Lieutenant Kornosskiy. And when you walk, you keep your hand close to where most people wear a revolver. You also favor your right leg, but only when you walk quickly — those kinds of injuries are rare in ordinary life and are usually sustained during hunting... or in combat."

"Anything else?" The Cloak wasn’t letting up.

"When you grabbed my elbow, I noticed a scar on your right wrist. It was too deep and too long for a simple cut. It was left by a knife — not a kitchen one, either. And while we walked, you made sure we were never surrounded by more than two or three people. And most importantly," Ardan spread his arms out to indicate the car, himself, and the Cloak, "we’re here, alone. No guards. Which means you think you can handle me if I try to escape."

"Are you going to try?"

"Is there any point to me trying?"

"Who knows."

Ardi nodded briefly and turned back to the window. Outside, lights shone brightly and pedestrians and all manner of cars flowed down the streets. Some were smaller, nimbler, with only two doors, zipping in and out of traffic, eager to reach their destinations.

Even though the celebrations after the Emperor’s coronation had ended, the capital hadn’t stopped rejoicing. If anything, the city now seemed to be awaiting something truly magical and extraordinary: the beginning of the academic year at the Grand.

"There’s no point."

"What?"

"There’s no point in running," the Cloak clarified. "Not because I think you can’t beat me, mage, but because I know you won’t."

And there wasn’t even a hint of bravado in his voice, nor a shred of doubt. The Cloak was utterly, unquestionably certain that Ardi wouldn’t be able to harm him.

Ergar’s apprentice might have grabbed his staff, slammed it into the brake pedal, and grabbed the Cloak’s neck in a chokehold.

From reading the newspapers, Ergar’s apprentice knew that automobile accidents were common in the city. Not frequent, but frequent enough that it could be passed off as an unfortunate incident.

But Skusty’s apprentice... Skusty’s apprentice would’ve found that to be an incredibly foolish idea. For one, it would be too many coincidences for a single descendant of the Dark Lord’s right hand, who was already viewed with suspicion. Secondly, why bother?

It was much smarter and simpler to endure for four months. It wasn’t even half a year.

"You wouldn’t have succeeded."

"What?" Ardi repeated.

"You’re thinking about grabbing your staff and hitting the brakes, but it wouldn’t work, Ard. Do you know why?"

The Cloak raised his left hand. All this time, Ardi had only seen his right hand on the wheel, occasionally tugging the… What was it called... the gearbox. He’d naively assumed his left hand was there, too. But when the Cloak wasn’t holding the wheel, he was steering with his knees. And his left hand had been holding a revolver, which had been pressed against the back of the seat all along.

Ardi slowly raised his hands, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender.

"Relax," the driver winked through the mirror and lowered his hand, revolver and all, keeping the barrel pressed into the back of the seat. "Your file says you’re clever, but cowardly. So, this is more for show than anything."

Ardan remained silent. The older he got, the more he understood why Skusty’s title was "The Sage of the Tree Crowns." Emphasis on Sage.

"Eternal Angels, mage," the Cloak suddenly chuckled. "With a mind like yours and those eyes, you’d make an excellent investigator. It’s almost a shame... such talent going to waste."

Ardi didn’t flinch. Even so, the thought of actually, voluntarily working for the Second Chancery was laughable. The idea was utterly absurd.

"What we teach some people for years, if we even find anyone teachable at all, you..." The Cloak trailed off as he swerved the wheel and honked the horn. A small, nimble car zipped past them.

For a brief moment, the air in the cabin grew thick with tension. As the Cloak focused on the road, Ardi had a split-second opportunity to act on his plan. The driver, no matter how skilled, wouldn’t have been able to fire his weapon — not while his attention was elsewhere.

They both knew this.

But Ardi didn’t move. What would he gain, except satisfaction for his own pride?

"Indeed," the Cloak snorted. "Clever... but cowardly."

Ardan was about to respond, perhaps with something biting or witty, but the words caught in his throat.

By this time, they had turned off the main road, weaving through narrow streets and slipping past a raised barrier, where the guards stood to attention without even bothering to check their papers. The car zigzagged through the alleys before emerging into a wide square.

The square was filled with people, so many people that nearly a kilometer of space had turned into a living, roiling mass. But even this enormous gathering, the likes of which Ardi had never seen before (when the Emperor had been giving his speech to the people, Ardi had heard them, but had not seen them) and could scarcely believe even existed, paled in comparison to the building standing at the far end of the square.

Only now did Ardi truly understand why the Imperial Magical University was called the "Grand."

The building was as tall as the smallest of the Alcade Peaks. It looked like no other structure Ardi had seen from a train car or automobile.

It was taller than all the skyscrapers, yet just as wide as a mountain slope. Its façade was an endless sea of columns blending seamlessly with the sprawling wings of long walls. Between them, slender windows gleamed with bright light. But upon closer inspection, one thing became clear — they weren’t columns at all, but countless towers. Dozens of them!

It was as if a mythical giant had taken them in their hands, fused them with clay, and molded them together, paying homage to the legends of the past, those days when mages built their tall dwellings in an effort to reach the clouds. Only now had they truly succeeded.

And at the very top of the colossal structure stood what appeared to be a miniature castle. It poured out ribbons of pure, white light, which cascaded down through the twilight sky in long threads of silver.

And below, at the foot of the Grand, stood a majestic entrance arch, glowing with the same light. Yet this light was joined by the shimmer of stars, softly floating outwards and, as if on a staircase, climbing toward that castle, creating the illusion of a waterfall.

Ardi had never seen anything like it, not even in his imagination, back when he’d sat as a child on his great-grandfather’s lap, listening to stories about Ectassus.

"Mr. Egobar," the driver opened the door for the young man. Mimicking a servant, he extended his hand in a mock-invitation and gave a slight bow. "Welcome."

Ardi gulped and, with an effort of will he was becoming all too accustomed to, tried to block out the cacophony of sounds and the whirlwind of scents surrounding him.

It didn’t work very well.

"You’re heading that way," the driver pointed toward a group of guards standing on the edge of the sidewalk.

Behind them, a corridor of barriers stretched along the square, separating the crowd from the passage leading directly to the Grand.

Occasionally, people in colorful cloaks and carrying staves approached them, showing them small identification books, exchanging a few words with the guards, and then passing through.

Ardan was so captivated by the sight before him that he almost forgot to thank the Cloak. Whatever their conversation had been like, the man had still helped him out of the situation with the noble mage, even if it had just been part of his orders.

But when Ardi turned to express his gratitude, he saw only the black smoke coughing out of the vehicle as it disappeared into the winding alleys.

Shaking his head slightly in mild disappointment, Ardan turned back toward the Grand. He lifted his chin so high to take it all in that his hat almost slipped off his head. This hat, which had been a gift from the cowboys at the farm, wasn’t worth much money, but held many dear memories.

Had anyone from the farm seen him drop his hat — well, if not a brawl, then certainly a long and heated argument would have ensued. Dropping your hat out of clumsiness rather than hard work was an insult on par with soiling holy scripture. That was how the cowboys saw it, at least.

Adjusting his hat, Ardan glanced at the crowd. Unlike his broad-brimmed, stiff, and curved hat, the headgear worn here was much more modest and elegant.

But that was fine.

Rotating his head nearly three hundred and sixty degrees, holding his satchel, and leaning on his staff, Ardi continued to take in the sights around him.

On either side of the square stood buildings of all shapes and sizes. Some were only two or three stories tall, while others reached higher. Many were plain, unremarkable, but there were some that flaunted their pilasters and elaborate bas-reliefs. There were both oval and rectangular, wide and narrow ones. And while they might have seemed unrelated to the Grand at first glance, a closer look revealed that all these buildings were connected by covered walkways.

Ardi didn’t even notice that he’d reached the guards.

"Documents," one of the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ officers demanded, his tone a bit weary, even sleepy.

Despite his green uniform, and the black cap on his head, he seemed to serve a more decorative purpose than anything else — at least compared to the palace guards Ardi had seen earlier. Ardi had deduced as much from the lack of a bayonet on what was likely an unloaded rifle.

Reaching into his coat’s inner pocket, Ardi pulled out his documents, which now bore the Magistrate’s seal, and handed them over. The guard, looking suspiciously at the staff in Ardi’s hand and the obvious absence of a cloak or regalia, examined the papers closely.

The silence dragged on. Where others had been allowed to pass with just a glance at their documents, Ardi’s inspection seemed to be stalling.

A grumbling crowd of mages gathered behind him, murmuring in frustration and irritation.

"It says here you’re a half-blood of the Firstborn, Mr. Egobar," the guard drawled.

"That’s correct," Ardi replied, quickly pulling out one of the papers from the envelope handed to him back at the Anorsky estate.

The guard took the letter of credentials and scrutinized it for a while. Ardan noticed how the corners of the man’s mouth twisted into a frown when he saw the seal of the Second Chancery.

Folding the letter which permitted Firstborn half-bloods and other such individuals free passage through the Empire, and returning it to Ardi, the guard made a show of adjusting his rifle belt.

"Where’s your regalia, Mr. Egobar?" He asked, not in a hurry to hand the documents back.

"They are to be issued to me at the university’s secretariat, as my previous robes were lost," Ardi recited the rehearsed line.

"And the fine-"

"Here’s the receipt for the fine," Ardi interrupted, offering yet another document.

In truth, no fine had been paid, but according to the instructions in the envelope, this made forming the "legend" easier. What that meant, Ardi had no idea.

"How much longer?" Someone behind him asked.

"We’ve been standing here for a quarter of an hour already!"

"Well, not quite a quarter, but close enough!"

"Open a second line! There are six of you here, and we’re all going through one guard!"

The frustration of the mages behind Ardi began to boil over, spilling out like milk from an overfilled pot. The steadily arriving mages pressing against them didn’t help matters.

Seeing the rising tension and realizing that everything with the documents was in order (after all, the Second Chancery had pored over them), the guard still didn’t seem eager to return his identification. Instead, he moved to pocket the papers and, judging by his body language, was about to ask Ardi to follow him.

And at that very moment, despite the overwhelming mixture of strange and pungent scents, Ardan caught a whiff of something familiar.

"Private, is there some sort of problem with my companion’s documents?"

Ardan turned in surprise to see Boris Fahtov. And while Boris had looked stocky and solid as a stump in that Presny saloon, now… Now he still looked stocky, still seemed to be very solid, but dressed as he was in a fine, purple suit, polished shoes with sharp toes, and a warm coat draped over his shoulders, he was also markedly different. A red cloak also hung over that coat, with epaulets gleaming on his shoulders.

Ardi squinted, thinking his eyes must’ve been deceiving him. But no. Boris bore not just a star with eight rays, but his companion, a woman dressed in a simple autumn dress and a strict coat, had a star with six rays on her own red cloak.

The guard didn’t miss the number of rays either. Nor, apparently, the ring on the hand that held out his identification.

"I would suggest you take this," Boris commanded, his voice cold and lifeless — entirely different from the jovial and warm tone Ardan had heard before. "And for your own sake, it would be best if you ripped that filthy badge off your sleeve."

Ardan glanced at the cuffs of the guard’s greatcoat. There, on the right sleeve, was a small patch stitched with black thread, depicting a grinning skull.

The mark of the Tavsers.

"You-"

"To you, I am Lord Boris Fahtov, son of General-Duke Saimon Fahtov, commander of the southern fleet," Boris announced, his voice clear and authoritative, loud enough for everyone within ten meters to hear even over the din of the square.

Even Ardi was taken aback. He had suspected back in Presny that Boris belonged to the military nobles from the Taia border region, but he had never imagined that Boris came from true aristocracy.

There weren’t many dukes in the Empire. Maybe twenty, or even a little less. And not all of them had five children apiece.

The guard, hurriedly tucking away the insignia of the terrorists, accepted his identification with trembling hands. Meanwhile, his fellow soldiers took several steps back and stood at rigid attention, as if they were welcoming their own commander.

"Sir, I-"

"Elena," Boris interrupted without waiting to hear the guard’s excuse, "once we’re done with our business at the Grand, please write to General-Baron Vetrov and inform him that there are lice among his ranks. Small, inconspicuous, but very noisy, and very bitey."

"Of course," the girl, who had been standing quietly beside Boris, responded, her tone calm and steady, without taking her eyes off the guard. "I will be sure to send the letter."

With a sharp motion, Boris snatched his own papers back, retrieved Ardi’s identification as well, and, taking the young man by the arm, marched with precise steps toward the university.

Ardi, turning to look back, caught a glimpse of the guard, who was now pale and clutching a lamppost for support.

For a while, they walked in silence along the sidewalk. That is, if you didn’t count the chatter coming from the left, where the crowd was applauding and cheering at the wonders displayed on the façade of the Grand.

Ardi finally understood what had caused such excitement among the townsfolk and why they had gathered here in such numbers. The stars flowing out of the university’s arch were in constant motion. They formed various shapes, ranging from mythical creatures to historical heroes.

These silhouettes created by magic engaged in duels and reenacted historical scenes, sometimes even bursting into colorful fireworks only to fly overhead as a shower of starry dust, gifting people a fleeting piece of untainted wonder.

"Will this cause you any trouble?" Ardi asked, remembering the words of Atura and Davenport at the ball.

"Trouble?" Boris’ voice held a mix of sadness and irony. "Trouble found me the moment I wasn’t born to my father’s second wife."

"Boris, enough with that talk," Elena chided him, her tone sharp but surprisingly informal for someone speaking to a lord.

"Am I wrong, Elena?" Boris shrugged. "My father now has new, more... legitimate heirs, and I... I was born from an unwanted marriage to an unwanted wife, whose grave is hardly worth tending."

Ardi had no idea what they were talking about. Unlike Faruh, who’d devoured every piece of news about the Empire and the Metropolis with an insatiable hunger, Ardi had had little interest in big or small politics. At the time, at least, it had been as far from him as the distant Delpas.

"So, to answer your question," Boris turned to the guards, his words suddenly loud enough to echo across the square. "I don’t give a fuck!"

He laughed, pulling Ardi farther along. The young man, clutching his satchel, followed, his mouth hanging open like a bystander caught up in the spectacle.

"By the way, I wanted to thank you for what happened on the train," Boris said abruptly.

Ardi tore his gaze from the stars, which were now dancing above the crowd’s heads after assuming the forms of fairies.

"Actually, I should be the one-"

"Oh, come on," Boris waved off the gratitude, though there was a slight stiffness to the gesture — one that suggested he hadn’t fully recovered from an injury. "We’ve both figured out that they mistook me for you, though..."

Boris looked up at Ardan from below. Quite far below. Their height difference of nearly thirty centimeters probably made the scene somewhat comical, which Elena, standing nearby, seemed to confirm by turning away to hide a small, harmless smile.

"After... everything that happened, we wanted to talk to you," Boris continued. "But you had quite a colorful entourage... back then. I don’t see them now, though."

"They’ve completed their assignment," Ardi said calmly.

"Right, of course," Boris scratched his head with... his staff, nearly knocking off his hat — a neat little felt number with a bright silk ribbon around the brim. "Elena and I saw you at the coronation ball, but, well, we couldn’t approach you... Our circumstances didn’t allow it."

Ardi didn’t ask what those circumstances were. He wasn’t particularly interested, though he had a general idea of their nature. Besides, his brief but vivid encounters with nobles and aristocrats had confirmed Cassara’s warnings: dealing with the upper echelons of society was more trouble than it was worth.

By now, they had reached the Grand’s arch. And, strangely enough, when they got close, the stars, along with the silver light, vanished in an instant.

Ardi turned and saw the crowd still reaching out their hands to catch the shimmering dust, cheering for the new illusions. The magic had disappeared only for them, not for the rest of the crowd.

They’d clearly crossed a sort of threshold and-

"Well, my dears," Boris let go of Ardi’s arm and, closing his eyes, spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the finest magical institution on the entire planet!"

Ardi, after adjusting his hat, couldn’t help but gape in awe.

They stood in an atrium that was nearly as large as the main hall of the central train station. The ceiling, which almost seemed to disappear somewhere high above them, rippled with the illusion of an ever-changing night sky. Constellations, piercing through the swirling clouds, shimmered with countless stars. Among them, Ardi recognized the familiar ones from Atta’nha’s scrolls, along with many new ones he had never even heard of before.

From time to time, distant planets from their solar system whizzed across the magical sky — planets Ardi had only read about in geography textbooks when they’d briefly touched on astronomy.

Lower down, broad columns supporting the hidden ceiling above thrummed with streams of white energy, which, judging by the sensation, was Ley energy. There was so much of it here that it cascaded down like rivers, coursing through transparent tubes before disappearing into the floor.

The floor itself was made of polished black marble, divided by golden lines, and so shiny that it reflected the figures and faces of the people around them. Combined with the reflected magical sky above, it all gave off the impression that there was no clear distinction between up and down.

It made Ardi’s head spin slightly.

In the center of the atrium stood a bronze monument, depicting the scene that marked the beginning of the Empire’s history. The wounded and dying last King of Gales was plunging his sword into the heart of the King of Ectassus. Their faces were hidden beneath their helmets, and their figures didn’t appear particularly mighty. Around the monument, comfortable couches and benches were arranged in circles. This was probably where students gathered on a normal day.

Gargoyles perched along the walls, frozen in various poses, watching over their vast dominion with a predatory gaze, their sharp eyes never leaving the visitors.

And no matter how hard Ardi tried, he couldn’t find any stairs. In various corners of the atrium, he spotted a few doors, but that was it.

Aside from the countless mages in colorful cloaks and the wide, semi-circular reception desk along the left wall, there was nothing else here.

"But how do we-"

"Elevators," Boris interjected. "They have elevators here. Like in the skyscrapers."

Ardan nodded thoughtfully. After learning that the Anorsky mansion had an elevator (which, unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten a chance to use), he had looked up information on them in the library.

They had been invented just over thirty years ago. Or rather, the kind that could be used in residential buildings, not just in mines, had been invented then.

"Well then," Boris turned to Ardi and gave him a firm handshake. "We’ll be off to our own business, and you should head to the reception desk so they can take you to the secretariat. By the way, what faculty are you in?"

"The General one."

"I thought so," Boris smiled slightly. "Elena’s in the same faculty, so she’ll keep you company."

Ardi glanced skeptically at Elena, who was mesmerized by the magical ceiling. It didn’t seem to impress Boris nearly as much.

The last time Elena had "kept him company," she had found it necessary to spice up their conversation by pointing an unloaded revolver at his head.

"I’m in the Military Faculty," Boris grimaced, "so we probably won’t see each other much. But don’t forget, you’ve got a good friend in me, Ardi. I don’t believe in fate, but why not listen to it at times? Here, take this."

He opened his hand, revealing a small card. It read: "Saint Warriors Street, house 8, apartment 8."

"That’s our address," Boris explained. "Just a few blocks from here. If you need anything, feel free to drop by. We can chat, and you still owe me a story about your journey!"

"Thank you," Ardi replied.

As he tucked the card into his coat’s inner pocket, he knew he would likely never use the invitation, but he didn’t say that out loud.

Though, judging by the look in Boris’ eyes, the young lord knew that as well. There was a chasm between them that a few fleeting encounters and a shared adventure couldn’t bridge.

Boris hesitated, clearly wanting to say something else, but, unable to find the right words, he called Elena over, and together, they headed toward the distant doors.

Ardi instinctively adjusted his hat as he watched them go, then shifted his satchel and made his way toward the reception desk, where mages in green cloaks stood behind the counter, while clusters of red-cloaked first-year students, just like himself, gathered around them.