Matabar

Ardi approached the counter after waiting patiently for two mages ahead of him to finish their business. The first thing that caught his attention wasn’t the striking sorceress standing behind the cherrywood counter among her colleagues. Sure, her lush, nearly platinum hair and vivid green eyes drew attention, but what truly intrigued the young man was what lay behind her.

The employees stood in front of a series of long tubes. These tubes curved slightly, but not near the floor, rather, they did so just below waist level. They had lids, much like small chests. The other mages bustling at the counter would open them now and again, placing tin cylinders inside, each of which contained tightly rolled up documents.

Then they would close the lids, and with a loud whooshing sound — like air being sucked up — the cylinders would shoot up through the pipes, vanishing into the wall.

"That’s the air mail system… Or the pneumatic mail system, if you wanna be pedantic," the sorceress explained in a voice as soft and misty as her appearance. "It’s faster than sending couriers between departments, especially when they’re on different floors."

"Air mail," Ardan echoed, enchanted. And though there wasn’t even a hint of magic in this mechanism, the sheer ingenuity of it still fascinated him.

"I take it you’re from someplace far away?" The blonde asked, her voice light. She didn’t seem to mind that a bunch of first-years had crowded in behind Ardi. After all, she wasn’t the only one manning the counter — there were at least a dozen other workers, so the queue moved fairly quickly.

Ardan, as the son of a seamstress, instinctively appraised the woman’s attire. Under her green cloak, she wore a pristine, pressed silk blouse, though it was fastened with simple wooden buttons. The blouse was tucked into a high-waisted, long skirt, and cinched by a wide leather belt with a buckle shaped like a swallow.

To some, her outfit might have seemed plain, even unremarkable, but Ardan knew too much about tailoring to be fooled. The sorceress was wearing an ensemble that, while not quite as expensive as Ardan’s own, could still have cost someone in Evergale at least a couple of months of their earnings.

It occurred to him, much like it had back when he’d marveled at the size of the capital, that he really ought to stop calculating the cost of other people’s clothes.

"Do you like what you see?" The woman asked suddenly.

Ardan choked, causing her to stifle a soft laugh.

"Hand over your documents," she said, glancing at his hat with a hint of irony. "Cowboy."

Ardan handed her his passport, followed by the envelope containing his credentials, a weapons license, and a few other papers.

"Take off your hat," she teased, winking as she accepted the package.

"Oh, right," Ardi mumbled, quickly removing his hat.

The girl smiled gently again and got to work. She glanced at his surname without so much as a twitch in her expression, then opened one of the many small drawers behind the counter and pulled out another envelope. This one was wide enough to fit a newspaper and had been tied with yellow ribbons.

She withdrew several forms from it, upon which Ardan saw his own initials. She jotted down a few quick notes with a pen before collecting most of his documents: his diploma, the fine for the loss of his imaginary past regalia, a certificate of his oath, a declaration that he had no criminal record during his primary Star Magic training, another certificate signed by a Blue Star mage confirming his exam results, and…

By the Sleeping Spirits, there were enough papers issued to Ardan to stoke several fires. Most of them were now sealed inside the yellow envelope, tied up with ribbons, and handed back to him.

"And... is that all?" He asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

"The rest is in the secretariat," the sorceress replied playfully, though the situation hardly called for it. "Take it there along with this..." She handed him a small card with incomprehensible numbers and symbols. "They’ll talk to you about your schedule, dorm, study group, and everything else."

"Thank you," Ardi nodded, taking the envelope.

He turned and was about to head off — though he had no idea where he was going — when she called out after him.

"The lifts are farther down this side," she laughed, no longer hiding her amusement. "Sixth floor! To the left of the foyer, last door."

Ardi regretted not having a free hand to write that down, though he wouldn’t have had to reach far for a pencil (he still wasn’t particularly good at writing with a pen and ink).

When he turned back to catch the girl’s eye again, she was already engrossed in the next first-year’s issues. There was nothing left to do but head in the direction she had indicated.

Luckily, Ardan’s height allowed him to navigate comfortably even in such a crowd. Standing at least a head and a half taller than most, he quickly spotted the door he needed.

Truth be told, calling it a "door" seemed an insult to what adorned the passageways of the Grand’s atrium. Each side was nearly two and a half meters tall, and had been crafted from thin panes of crystal framed in gold. The handles, made of silver, were shaped like twisting, mythical dragons.

Ardi knew of museums and had little doubt that such "doors" belonged there as prized exhibits.

As he made his way through the crowd, apologizing here and there if he stepped on someone’s foot or bumped a shoulder, he tried his best not to make eye contact with any of the mages. His recent encounter had already taught him to tread carefully. Ironically, none of Mart’s or the others’ warnings had had quite the same effect that one misstep had produced, quickly instilling a new habit in him. He’d learned to either focus on his shoes or stare high enough that the only thing returning his gaze were the stone gargoyles.

Perhaps Ergar had been right when he’d told his student that no matter how clever one might be, the best lessons were learned with one’s own skin.

"Watch where you’re going, half-breed," hissed a young man after Ardan bumped him with his satchel.

Since he hadn’t heard that particular word used so venomously since his childhood (if you didn’t count the conductor in Presny), Ardan was momentarily taken aback and was about to sincerely ask what had given away his mixed heritage, but the mage took one look at him, went pale, and quickly disappeared into the crowd with his friends.

Surprised, Ardan shrugged and moved on. He hadn’t been affected by such insults in a long time. Neither the derogatory "half-breed," the condescending "mongrel," nor even the outright disdainful "non-human" bothered him anymore. What difference did it make what others called him if he knew who he was? Well... most of the time, anyway.

But those were thoughts for another day.

Finally reaching the doors through a sea of trampled feet and bruised shoulders, Ardan closed his eyes briefly and touched the handle.

"You planning to sleep there?" Someone behind him asked.

"Oh, yes, yes," Ardi stammered, startled.

Mart had been right when he’d said that the young man would need to adjust to the capital’s pace. In a city with nearly twenty million residents, people lived by a different clock.

"Move it," someone else grumbled impatiently.

Ard opened the doors and stepped into a rather spacious, though modest, foyer. The floor was covered with a thin, slightly worn carpet, which had been pinned down at the edges with copper rivets.

Instead of the stained glass that greeted visitors in the Grand’s atrium, there was just one narrow window at the far end.

Above, the ceiling, which had dropped sharply to a height of about three meters, held glowing Ley-lamps. Under their light, near the brass-framed iron gates, stood people dressed in yellow uniforms. They wore white gloves and stood at attention no less rigidly than the guards Ardi had seen earlier. When a group of mages approached them, the attendants pressed buttons on brass panels beside them.

As Ardi moved closer with the others, he saw that there were only two buttons: "up" and "down."

Nine people were needed to press two buttons?

But Ardan’s curiosity was piqued when, with a soft hum and a faint clatter, a cabin began descending behind the gates. Held by what appeared to be heavy counterweights and tightly-wound cables, it gently docked at the platform.

The same attendant who had pressed the button ceremoniously opened the accordion-like gates and let out a few mages. Inside the cabin stood yet another attendant in a yellow uniform who was wearing white gloves.

The group of mages, with Ardi towering like a tree among them, filed in. However, not all of them were allowed to enter. As soon as five had stepped inside, the others were stopped by the attendant’s raised hand.

Inside the cabin, which was paneled with lacquered cherrywood, Ardan stood uncertainly, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do.

"Which floor?" The attendant asked, standing by a lever surrounded by lights and numbers ranging from one to forty-three. Beside the forty-fourth number, instead of a light, there was a keyhole.

"The sixth," one of the girls replied. Like Ardi, she was carrying a staff, along with an envelope similar to his own.

The others in the cabin were carrying them as well, though Ardi was the only one also holding a satchel and a backpack. None of the others seemed to have much luggage.

"Sixth for me, too!"

"We’re all going to the secretariat."

"Very well," the lift attendant said, his expression as stony as his tone. He turned the lever several times until the light next to "6" lit up.

Within seconds, the platform beneath Ardi’s feet trembled, and the cabin gave a sharp jolt. The young man nearly flattened himself against the wall in surprise. And when they started rising, slowly but steadily leaving the ground behind, he shut his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

His heart pounded, and he could vividly imagine the scene: one more violent shake, and they’d all plummet into the dark abyss of the shaft. Ardan had heard enough stories in saloons, where miners had shared tales of elevators breaking loose and falling into the void, to feel terrified.

After six years in the Alcade Mountains, he knew all too well the consequences of such… mishaps.

"Sixth floor," the attendant announced after what felt like an eternity.

The doors unfolded again, and another yellow-uniformed man stepped aside to let the prisoners of the tin box escape to freedom.

Ardi practically dashed out into the foyer of the sixth floor, leaning on his staff as he caught his breath, utterly ignoring the chuckles and whispers aimed his way.

Behind him, the next group of brave souls surrendered themselves to the iron coffin suspended over the abyss...

Or maybe his imagination was getting the better of him.

"Are there... stairs?" He asked the lift attendant breathlessly, still recovering from the ordeal.

The worker gave Ardi a strange look before answering curtly, "They’re at either end of the corridor."

"Thank you."

Ardan wiped the sweat from his brow. He couldn’t, for the life of him, recall the sorceress’ directions. Those ten or so seconds in the lift had been enough to wrap his mind in a sticky fog, and for cold, clawed fingers to grip his heart.

Fortunately, the other mages carrying envelopes were still in sight, so Ardi hurried to follow them, nearly slipping on the worn carpet. As he moved, he carefully took in his surroundings.

This area was markedly different from the grandeur of the atrium. There was no marble on the floors here — just a reasonably good sort of parquet, still expensive but far from extravagant, with patches of chipped lacquer and scuffed boards.

There were no bas-reliefs, no paintings, and certainly no stained-glass windows on the walls. Only the faint scent of fresh paint lingered, suggesting that some recent touch-ups had been made.

The numerous doors were wooden, made from a species Ardan couldn’t recognize. Above them, metal plaques bore numbers and names, some of which were too faded to decipher. Occasionally, a name or surname appeared on a door.

But Ardan wasn’t surprised. In fact, he would have been more shocked if the entire Grand building had looked as opulent as its first floor.

Reaching the secretariat’s doors, Ardan was surprised to find no line. The few times he had needed to deal with bureaucratic matters at the city office — like when he’d gotten his papers at sixteen — he’d spent nearly half a day waiting among other petitioners, claimants, disgruntled citizens, and everyone else who’d needed stamps and seals.

Here, however, the mages carrying envelopes hurried down the corridor and disappeared into the secretariat without delay.

Ardan cleared his throat, opened the door, and stepped inside.

The room was the size of Evergale’s assembly hall, filled with artificial light from Ley-lamps, and packed with people.

By the windows, which didn’t overlook Star Square, but rather, an avenue, several desks were lined up. Behind them sat mages in the same green cloaks he’d seen before, of various ages and genders, tapping away at typewriters, checking carriage returns, and discussing things with first years awkwardly perched on stools across from them.

Some workers scurried between the desks, battling the growing piles of papers. They would collect bundles of envelopes and certificates, delivering them to the cabinets languishing at the far end of the secretariat, while others would send them through the air mail.

Ardan’s earlier surprise at the lack of a queue had been entirely misplaced. On the opposite side of the room, away from the windows and desks, rows of chairs lined the wall, situated beneath photo portraits of some prominent figures whose names and faces Ardi hadn’t thought about since his last history test on the Empire and the world.

Seated in those chairs were those waiting their turn.

"How-"

"Here you go," a young man in a red cloak with a two-pointed star cut him off, thrusting a small slip of paper into Ardi’s hands. The number "27" had been hastily scrawled on it.

"They’ll call your number when it’s your turn."

"Thanks," Ardi exhaled, taking the ticket.

He found an empty chair, and, carefully weaving his way through the rows of waiting students, sat down. The chair was as uncomfortable as he’d feared it would be. A regular-sized person might have rested their back against it, but for Ardi, the top of the backrest jabbed uncomfortably into his shoulder blades. Stretching his legs was out of the question as well — his knees were pressed awkwardly against the seat of the redheaded lady in front of him.

But Ardan had grown accustomed to such discomfort in school. Lifting his hat, he placed it over his face and inhaled its familiar aromas: leather, the scent of the Alcadian forests, and the dry, intoxicating winds of the prairies and steppes. He drifted into a light doze.

He dreamed of something… Blackberries, maybe, or forest flowers lazily stretching after a long winter slumber, and perhaps rye. Or maybe it was golden hair spread out among tall grass. And the hot, slightly damp breath that had scorched his face. Those soft hands sliding down his back and firm-

"Twenty-seven!"

Ardi jolted, nearly knocking over the chair in front of him, much to the irritation of the people seated near him. He grabbed his hat before it could fall and looked around in confusion.

"Twenty-seven!" The person called out again, sounding more impatient and irritated this time.

Ardi spotted the person calling him, navigated around the chairs, and approached the desk situated in the center of a line of its fellows. He sat down on the stool across from the mage, immediately bumping his knees against the crossbar.

Behind a stack of papers and a massive typewriter sat a young man who wasn’t much older than Ardan himself. He was painfully thin and pale, and was constantly adjusting his glasses, which had clearly been repaired more than once, as he squinted at the papers.

"Let’s see... Ard Egobar... Evergale School in the Foothills Province... Never heard of that city before."

"It’s a village," Ardi clarified, placing the envelope from the atrium on the desk. "It’s not far from the Alca-"

"Don’t care, to be honest," the man cut him off, his tone tired but devoid of malice. "Instead of starting enrollment in the morning, they decided to do it all in the evening... like we’re supposed to be made of iron... Now, let’s see... Your grade average, and..."

Mumbling incoherently, the mage clacked away at the typewriter keys. They made a funny sound. Click-clack. Click-clack. Like tiny, iron ants scurrying over dry, rotten wood.

Ardan had seen these machines before, but in Evergale, they were prohibitively expensive, with only a few available in the entire village: one at the school, one at the city office, and, if he recalled correctly, one had been sent by Delpas to the sheriff the previous year.

"You have an expanded weapons license?" The man suddenly asked, sounding genuinely surprised. So much so that his eyebrows shot up above his glasses, in fact.

"Yes," Ardi replied with a shrug. It was in the envelope the Cloak had given him at the Anorsky estate.

For the first time in several minutes, the green-cloaked mage lifted his gaze from the documents and regarded Ardan with mild curiosity. Ardi, in turn, noticed the ink stains on the mage’s cuffs — faded but undefeated — and the small badge shaped like scales pinned to his breast pocket.

Ardi recalled from Mart’s stories that each faculty at the Grand University had its own emblem. These scales, as it turned out, represented the Faculty of Magical Jurisprudence.

"A village, you say?" The man murmured, returning to the papers, though this time, he did so without the muttering, and the process seemed to drag on.

For a while, Ardi tried to hold back his natural curiosity, but in the end, he couldn’t resist asking:

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"With the license?" The mage looked up for a moment. "It’s perfectly fine. It was issued at the start of the New Month, and is valid for the calendar year. All the seals are in place. The stamps are authentic. It’s definitely not a forgery."

He delivered these words in a tone that made it sound like he was reciting it all from a manual. Ardan noted that he hadn’t met the Cloaks until well after the New Year and the first month of the calendar. Certainly not by the fourth day of it.

In other words, the license had been issued six months before their encounter...

"But the fact that someone of mixed heritage possesses it," the mage continued, "raises quite a few questions, even for me. And you, Mr. Egobar, are neither from the military aristocracy, who receive these licenses for life by birthright, nor from the Military Faculty. Speaking of faculties..."

The mage opened a drawer and retrieved one of the boxes inside it. After a brief search, he pulled out a badge engraved with an empty circle. This was the emblem of the General Studies Faculty, which was often abbreviated to just the General Faculty, or sometimes called the General Knowledge Faculty (Mart had not been sure why that was, but he’d guessed that it was just one of those quirks of language that developed spontaneously).

How ironic this emblem was... Skusty would’ve appreciated that.

"David!" The jurist called out, catching the attention of one of the runners dashing between the desks, cabinets, and air mail tubes.

A plump young man with rosy cheeks and a sword emblem pinned to his woolen jacket quickly appeared at their side, standing at attention.

"David, please run to the storeroom and fetch the regalia for... let’s see..." The jurist scanned the license, his eyebrows lifting again. "A Seven-point Star... and a red cloak."

David blinked, his eyes wide in shock. And when he saw the badge lying in front of Ardi, he began glancing between him and the mage, clearly confused.

"Don’t look at me like that!" The mage snapped, waving his hands. "I didn’t make a mistake."

"But-"

"His Star has seven rays and he’s a two-meter-tall half-breed with an expanded weapons license. And he belongs to the General Faculty."

"Bazhen, are you sure you didn’t overdo it last night at the-"

"Shush!" Bazhen hissed, nervously glancing around. "Just do as you’re told. Get the cloak and-"

"What size?"

"Do you need me to lend you my glasses?" Bazhen scowled. "Get the biggest one you can find. It’ll still be too small... And the regalia. Hurry up, or my shift-"

"Our shift," David grumbled, "will last until morning, if you’ve forgotten."

David gave Ardi another strange look before spinning on his heel and heading out of the secretariat.

"Are-"

"Military students, like everyone else, get assigned various duties as punishment for infractions," Bazhen explained, answering Ardi’s unspoken question. "First and second-years like David usually help out in the secretariat or at the information desk in the atrium."

"Got it," Ardi nodded, though if he were being honest, he didn’t quite understand.

What infractions? What were "duties?" And most importantly, what had everyone found so surprising about his humble self?

"You’re quite the anomaly, Mr. Egobar," Bazhen mused, pulling out another document — this one related to the license attached to Ardi’s staff.

From his reading in the Anorsky library, Ardi had learned that magical staves, being a type of weapon, were produced only by enterprises or craftsmen with special state-issued permits.

All others were considered illegal contraband and subject to destruction. Naturally, every staff came with documentation detailing its components, the presence of any pre-carved seals, and other information.

"Wait a minute," Ardi said suddenly. "So, without the expanded license..."

"You’re new in the city, aren’t you?" Bazhen replied, his sharp eyes glinting. "Haven’t you noticed that mages in the city carry their staves in sheaths?"

Ardi, who’d only ventured into Metropolis’ streets sporadically over the past few weeks, and always under less-than-ideal circumstances, hadn’t paid much attention to the pedestrians.

But now that he was thinking about it, he did recall that, both during the car ride and while waiting in line at the Grand, most staves he’d seen had been tucked away in simple cloth sheaths tied at the top with drawstrings.

Apparently, this was done to hide their carved seals. This wouldn’t do much good if the mage knew the seals by heart, but the law was the law.

So, the Second Chancery had pre-approved his ability to carry his staff without a sheath, not to mention other weapons.

But... why?

It felt strange. Not just strange — too strange.

"Alright," Bazhen waved off his papers and resumed typing. "The fines have all been paid... Yes... The fine for losing your regalia has, but the license, which shouldn’t be issued if the mage has had such violations in the past year... Oh, look at that... The license was issued six months before the loss of regalia... How convenient... Let me just..."

Bazhen grabbed the accursed official document once more, but this time, he also held up his own simple, thin metallic staff — one of the dozens Ardan had seen today.

A moment passed, then another, and soon, a complex seal was glowing beneath the mage’s palm, emitting a faint, greenish light. He tapped the floor with his staff, and from the seal, a long, spectral dog’s nose poked out. The ghostly, green silhouette of a hound sniffed at the license before vanishing.

"Not a whiff of forgery, pardon the pun," Bazhen chuckled. "Mr. Egobar, you must lead quite an interesting life."

Ardan, meanwhile, was pondering the might of the Second Chancery, about which the most frightening legends and rumors often circulated. And he thought about how Bazhen, despite his two and three-pointed stars, had managed to figure out that something was off about his documents within minutes.

"Stop squirming, Mr. Egobar," the mage grimaced. "Or I’ll start believing in narmaak."

"Narmaak?"

"It’s from the kingdom of Kargaam," Bazhen replied, his fingers resuming their dance across the typewriter keys. "They believe that everything you do in life comes back to you — either as good fortune or bad."

"Interesting..."

"Not the word I’d use... What’s even more interesting is that students of the History Faculty are usually in charge of processing enrollment documents." Bazhen gestured toward his neighbor, who wore an emblem shaped like a book and quill. "We jurists get sent here, like the military students, only after committing infractions."

"Rowdy parties?"

Bazhen pulled a face, looking as if he’d bitten into a sour lemon.

"Very..." He muttered quietly, with obvious regret. "You know, Mr. Egobar, if I cared even a little about what, why, or how, I wouldn’t rest until you explained to me why I’m seeing the documents before me. But... I don’t care. I absolutely do not care."

And yet it seemed like Bazhen was trying to convince not Ardan, but himself.

Bazhen pulled the document from the typewriter, snapped the carriage, and arranged several stacks of papers in front of him. Ardi quickly deduced that they were organized by subject matter.

The jurist then retrieved a board with several stamps from a drawer, and, at a frenetic pace, sometimes blowing on the ink, began stamping the papers.

When all the documents were finally stamped, he took a few from the pile and handed them to Ardan.

"This is the confirmation of your official enrollment into the first semester... damn it... first year of the General Studies Faculty," Bazhen corrected himself, clearly not in top form. "This paper is your agreement that your stipend will be deposited into the bank account listed in-"

"What if I don’t agree to that?" Ardan interrupted.

"Save your questions for later," Bazhen pleaded, clearly weary. "Now, as I was saying… stipend to the bank. The essential textbooks required for your courses will be issued by the library, which you should be able to visit today, since the poor souls there will be working all night... This is your permit for accommodations at the dormitory, room number two in the men’s building, sublevel one. And... Mr. Egobar, you look like you’re about to explode."

"Why sublevel one? Where’s the library? And what-"

Bazhen scowled, his patience fraying as he shot Ardan a rather displeased look.

"Do I look like an information desk?" He grumbled. "I’ve got the whole night ahead of me in this hellish outpost... But let’s make a deal. You answer one of my questions, I’ll answer one of yours."

"Alright," Ardan agreed, seeing no other option.

A spark of amusement flashed in Bazhen’s eyes.

"Where did you get that license?"

"The Second Chancery issued it to me," Ardan replied truthfully.

Bazhen’s scowl deepened. Of course, all weapon-related licenses were issued by the Second Chancery. Technically, Ardan hadn’t lied, but his answer had been so straightforward that it left nothing for Bazhen to pick apart.

It wasn’t that Ardan wanted to deceive him. It was just that some habits, especially those instilled in him during his childhood by the spirit of a squirrel and a wolf, were hard to break. He couldn’t even count the number of times he, Skusty, and Atta’nha had played their games of wits, trying to outsmart each other in deals with imaginary Fae or spirits.

"You got me, Mr. Egobar," Bazhen sighed, shrugging in defeat. "Your dormitory is on sublevel one because... well, that’s how things turned out. They used to segregate the Firstborn and half-bloods, but there was a reform a while back. I’m personally more inclined to believe it’s due to plumbing. It’s easier to provide showers for two buildings rather than three. So, they relocated the Firstborn, making them mingle with the rest, and their old building was turned into greenhouses for the Alchemy Faculty."

Ardan nodded. Bazhen seemed poised to ask something else, but at that moment, a breathless, red-faced David returned.

He placed a small, brown paper package tied with white strings on the table, along with a crimson cloak that clearly needed both washing and a few repairs.

"If you want, you can buy another cloak in town later," Bazhen suggested. "But, if you do, don’t forget to file the appropriate paperwork with the secretariat and send a copy of your license to the Office of Mage Affairs."

Ardan closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and started mentally reciting his favorite challenging math problems. As always, they calmed him down.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure which he disliked more — adventures or bureaucracy.

Inside the package were two stiff plates, to which the stars would be attached. At the moment, the stars were disconnected. If Ardan was understanding things correctly, the plates needed to be sewn onto the cloak, and the stars fastened on top.

Ardi took the stars in his hands and... felt nothing. As a child, he’d dreamed about these regalia countless times, imagining the day he would finally wear them. But now, at the moment when his childhood dream had come true, all he felt was a desire to go to sleep as soon as possible.

"Now then," Bazhen cleared his throat. "Also-"

"I don’t have an analyzer," Ardan suddenly remembered.

"I was just about to get to that," Bazhen sighed heavily. "The thing about the analyzer, Mr. Egobar, is that it’s not that simple. According to your documents, you’ve already paid the fine for losing the one issued to you in school, and you’ve paid for a replacement... Fascinating, isn’t it? How did you manage to lose both your regalia and your analyzer within a month, yet keep all your meticulously-preserved certificates and licenses? I suppose you were storing them in separate satchels, huh? And-"

"Bazhen," David interjected with a desperate plea. "Please... Remember what happened last time you tried to dig into someone’s documents? I believe it involved the papers of the illegitimate daughter of the Great Pri-"

"David!" Bazhen nearly shouted, then coughed and loosened his tie. "But you’re right... So, Mr. Egobar, your paperwork is impeccable! I must say, it’s quite impressive how you’ve prepared every certificate, document, license, and letter for every possible inquiry. You must’ve spent the better part of a year preparing for this trip, gathering all the-"

"Bazhen," David repeated, but this time, his voice was not just pleading — it carried a note of despair.

The student jurist cleared his throat again and rubbed his temples.

"Analyzers for Star Mages are crafted individually," Bazhen explained. "Yours will be ready within ten weeks. You can either pick it up at the dean’s office, or we can send it to you by post. But, from experience, I would recommend picking it up in person."

At that moment, David was called away to another desk. Bazhen finished the paperwork, while Ardi... Well, Ardi couldn’t resist. He reached out and flipped over the ledger in which Bazhen was recording the students he had processed.

The numbers listed were "6," "9," "14," "22," and "28."

There was no twenty-seventh...

Ardan glanced at the mage’s nose, avoiding eye contact. It didn’t seem wise to meet the gaze of someone who worked for...

"Smart move... But a coward would’ve kept his hands to himself," Bazhen muttered with a smirk, his face suddenly much more relaxed.

Ardan sighed, shook his head, and returned the ledger. The Second Chancery would obviously have people stationed in the sacred halls of Star Magic. After all, students from all over the country, and even abroad, came here. The brightest, the most privileged, the most powerful young minds on the planet… It was foolish to think that they wouldn’t keep a close watch over such a place. As foolish as thinking that they wouldn’t keep an eye on him.

And those few months he’d spent with Yonatan and the others, followed by those encounters with new Cloaks, had been enough to make Ardan realize that Bazhen wasn’t the only one planted by the Second Chancery at the university.

"Here are your papers," Bazhen said, his tone neutral and businesslike as he handed the documents back to Ardan. "These are your passes to the library and dormitory, as well as your schedule for the semester. As for your stipend inquiry — you can file a request to receive it in cash, but it won’t take effect until the next semester. So, who knows — maybe you’ll just end up wasting ink and paper."

"Thank you," Ardan said sincerely. He had no reason to harbor ill will toward Bazhen.

Only... Only their little game of "question-for-question" had felt a bit silly. And what had been the point of it? Bazhen had clearly known everything already...

"Off you go, Mr. Egobar," the jurist yawned, his earlier energy fading. Or perhaps he wasn’t a student at all...

"Thank you," Ardan nodded, collected the envelope and the two passes, and, after stowing the cloak in his satchel and the bundle of stars in his pocket, made his way to the exit.

Just before reaching the door, he paused and glanced back at Bazhen. The young man, with an air of quiet melancholy, was lazily handling the documents of the next first year. And, come to think of it, if Bazhen hadn’t put on that little show of praising Ardan’s paperwork, he would never have thought to flip over the ledger. It simply wouldn’t have crossed his mind that anything was amiss.

So... why?

But maybe it was time to stop asking "why," the same way he had recently stopped using the word "enormous."

Pondering all of this, Ardi stepped out of the secretariat and into the corridor, letting a group of hurrying gentlemen pass by before heading toward the lifts.

The man in the yellow uniform raised an eyebrow at him.

"Decided to try it again?" He asked, surprised.

Ardan looked past him at the lift and shuddered. No, without a dire need for it, he had no intention of willingly entering that infernal contraption again.

"Could you tell me how to get to the library?" Ardan asked, holding out his pass.

"The library occupies the entire eastern wing of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth floors," the lift attendant rumbled.

"Thank you," Ardi said, and, turning away from the lift, headed for the stairs.

For some reason, this day just didn’t seem to want to end.