Matabar-Chapter 73 - 72 - Birthday and a Blue Mage

Beneath the cloak of night, which was as thick as a coat of spilled oil paint, the old detective and the young mage trudged through the snowdrifts, drawing ever closer to the mansion. It loomed over them like some fairy-tale monster torn from the pages of a horror story. Pilasters bared their fangs at them; broad panels of rusticated stone gleamed like armor at the corners, set with river rocks; and white balustrades shaped like knights raising their swords clawed at the snowy shroud. The keystones, styled to appear ancient, blinked in the glow spilling from tall windows.

At the center of the structure, where the architect had fashioned a false dome, the sky was being scratched by a sharp fin: a decorative, shattered pediment. Within that sculpted niche crouched the image of a mounted rider, lifting a spiked chain above his head.

Avoiding the patches of snow illuminated by those expensive chandeliers — they were powered by accumulators instead of oil — Peter and Ardi prowled along the eastern wing of the mansion.

The base molding, which rarely rose higher than half a meter, stood a full meter tall here. Below the windows were adorned panels and a crest displaying the owner's family coat of arms. There were at least two meters and twenty centimeters from the ground to the windowsill.

Ardi was already sizing up how to fling himself inside by pushing off the wall when he glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye, a slight roughness on the window's interior casing — fortunately, the curtains hung crooked, revealing a sliver of the mansion's interior finish.

"What is it?" Peter whispered.

Ardan narrowed his eyes, then stepped away from the wall. There, behind the glass, was a small, ten-centimeter-wide seal glowing red — the sign of a delayed spell.

"A signal enchantment," Ardan murmured.

Peter cursed under his breath. "Can you break it?"

Ardan tilted his head. It was a complex, multi-layered web of runes and arrays, with an unusual arrangement of vectors — at least from what Ardan could tell.

"If I had an hour to spare, maybe an hour and a half," he whispered, "I might find a workaround."

Peter cursed again. Straightening, he stood beside Ardan and twirled his revolver around his index finger a few times, as though the trick helped him think.

"What do those spells do?" He asked.

Ardan took a few moments to recall what he knew of such seals. "It'll be noisy… and there might be light involved," he said uncertainly. "A flare, maybe. Or some kind of fire blast. Possibly both."

"Both," Peter echoed on an exhale. Trying not to make the snow crunch too loudly (and failing at it), he circled around the mansion to peek around a corner. "Let's go," he said, gesturing with the revolver behind his back.

Ardan cast one last glance at the cunning magical construct, then followed after him. The next few minutes were spent skirting the building until they reached a frozen fountain shaped like a swan, its beak wide open and wings outstretched. In warmer months, the proud bird likely spouted water into the fountain rather than just standing there.

They left the stone sculpture behind and reached a small ground-level balcony. Topping it wasn't some lavish, tall set of double doors made of rare wood but a modest little panel, painted to match the masonry so carefully it was nigh invisible.

"The servants' entrance," Peter explained.

Ardan nodded and carefully ascended the steps — exposed to all kinds of wind, rain, and temperature shifts, these outdoor stairs surely bore no etched spells. There would be no threat here, at least from the architecture itself.

When they reached the doors, Ardan closed his eyes for an instant, opening his mind to the hidden layers of the world, then tore the connection off. Amid the echo of Ley Lines that distorted reality, he'd glimpsed a tapestry of colored rays. Here, as with the window, runes glowed on the doorframe — delayed spells. But these were slightly different in nature. After all, servants constantly used that door, unlike the windows, so it required something more intricate that would be triggered by opening and closing the door and would filter "one of ours" from "an intruder." It was a tricky bit of design, but feasible if you had Ley cables connecting to the house you could use to power such an enchantment.

In this case, due to a lack of said cables, the framework of the spell was simpler, if still elegant. There were the same delayed spells, but rigged to remain dormant if the person stepping through had the proper key.

"Well?" Peter asked.

"They're mosaic signal wards," Ardan answered. He unfastened his coat, fished out a pencil from an inside pocket, and opened his grimoire to a blank page (fewer and fewer of those remained).

"What does that mean?" Peter's voice held more anxiety than curiosity.

"The Ley flows through the seals along certain... routes," Ardi searched for the right word. "When the door opens, or the threshold is crossed, it releases a tiny, almost microscopic amount of energy that reacts with any route in range. In simpler terms-"

"In simpler terms," Peter interrupted, turning his back to Ardan and facing the garden, "I'm asking if you can do something about it, young man."

"Give me a couple of minutes," Ardan muttered.

He bit the tip of his tongue, set his staff in the snow, tore a page out of his grimoire, then split it in two. On each half, he drew a simple seal. The security system before him was nothing fancy, after all. To figure out how exactly he should draw the "key," he needed to see the "lock" first, which lay on the inner side of the doorway. True, any Speaker — Ardan included — who could see the pattern might have guessed the design. But Star Mages tended to ignore Speakers and, for that matter, the Aean'Hane altogether, simply because so few of them remained and they seldom meddled in public affairs.

So, after barely three minutes, Ardan handed Peter a scrap of paper adorned with a freshly-drawn seal.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?" Peter shook the little sheet in mild disdain.

"Nothing," Ardan shrugged, holding onto his own half of the page. "It's a passive seal. It's like a key for the lock. We'll just-"

"I get it," Peter interrupted him yet again.

The old detective pulled a leather tool roll similar to Milar's from his pocket, though the one Peter took out looked older. The leather was cracked in places, and the ties had long ago been replaced with felt strings. Inside lay simple picks, and Ardan could easily guess their purpose.

After studying the lock, Peter selected a few and, after a few cunning, swift movements, a soft click sounded. Despite the cold, the door opened smoothly, without a single creak.

Peter pocketed his tools and stepped boldly over the threshold. No sooner had he done so than the seal on the doorframe flared, and a tiny, shimmering blue spark flew out from the scrap of paper in Peter's pocket, slipping into the "mother" seal.

"Interesting," Peter muttered.

Ardan followed, his entrance greeted by an identical spark. Before he fully stepped through, he propped a nearby umbrella stand against the door, just in case. Unfortunate memories were hard to shake sometimes…

They found themselves in a small foyer, clearly intended for servants to change their coats and shoes there, judging by the racks and little compartments. Past that was a modest corridor with several tiny rooms, each door wide open. Inside…

Peter, revolver drawn, checked each room carefully. None was more than eight square meters: just enough for a bed, a small table, a nightstand, and a shabby wardrobe. Everything was made of the cheapest materials, including the mattresses, which looked stuffed with straw, if even that. There wasn't a single servant to be found in any of the seven rooms — only closet doors flung open, sheets stripped off the beds, and odd personal effects left behind in apparent haste: combs, tins of tooth powder, handkerchiefs, little knickknacks…

"They left in a hurry," Peter whispered his verdict.

Overhead, lamps glowed, their flickering light casting shifting shadows that forced the two intruders to wheel around constantly, spooked by fleeting shapes their anxious minds were painting as threats.

"This doesn't bode well," Peter hissed.

They reached the far end of the corridor and stood before the doors leading from the servants' quarters to the main house.

The detective pressed his ear to the doors, standing motionless for a moment, trying to hear more than just the creaks of the floorboards, the murmurs of wall paneling, and the dozen other nocturnal sounds of an old house that never truly slept or fell silent.

"Which way should we go?" Ardan asked in a hushed tone.

"Good question," Peter nodded. "It's clear there's hardly anyone here."

"Or no one at all," Ardan said hopefully.

"Or no one," Peter agreed.

The old detective opened the door a crack to peer through it, then carefully stepped over the threshold. Ardan, sighing, followed him.

The abrupt shift from the cramped servants' corridor to a vast, airy room left Ardan momentarily off-balance, but the sensation soon subsided.

Their boots, leaving dirty stains behind, sank into a plush carpet woven from camel hair. It was a costly import from the Al'Zafir desert, and not present merely in one salon or sitting room — the entire floor was covered in it. Cherrywood panels from the Azure Coast lined the walls, prized for their durability and subtle wine-red tint. On the ceiling, chandeliers made from Alkade crystals glimmered, and each of them was connected by small cables running through stone channels to discreet boxes near the floor. Those boxes presumably housed accumulators.

There were also paintings predating the Empire, golden candelabras, and endless figurines carved from pure white "pearl" marble mined in Kargaam — a stone so flawlessly pale one could never find a single gray vein within it.

"Is this man part of the aristocracy?" Ardan ventured, stepping in Peter's footprints so as not to dirty too many spots.

"No," the old detective said, to Ardan's surprise. "He got this estate as a gift."

Ardi shook his head as though trying to dislodge what he'd just heard. A gift? Something like this? He had grown somewhat accustomed to the capital's luxury over time, but it still staggered him to think that anyone had enough money to waste on such finery — and the mansion itself besides.

And from the looks of it, there must've been dozens of rooms, not just one or two living rooms, a reception hall, a parlor, a smoking lounge… all the sorts of spaces Ardan had only read about in high-end real estate magazines lying around in the Anorsky estate. Even if the owner had a dozen children, multiple lovers, plus entire families of relatives living under the same roof as him, the place would still be too big — so big, in fact, that it felt empty despite its immaculate shine.

"The servants haven't been gone long," Ardan noted, running a finger across a lacquered side table bearing a vase of the finest crystalline material — one Ardi didn't recognize by name. He believed it came exclusively from Lan'Duo'Ha.

Not a speck of dust came away on his finger.

"It's probably because the bastard's planning to skip the country," Peter growled through clenched teeth. "He sent his staff away, but hasn't started shipping out his valuables… There's no sign of trucks or cars."

"Could he have sold the property in absentia?"

"Doubtful," Peter said. He leaned out to check around a corner, surveying a broad, winding staircase encircling a wide, open atrium in the mansion's center.

Wide steps and landings reminiscent of those in the healers' wing of the Grand University spiraled all the way up to the fourth floor.

"All clear."

"Yes, I noticed that the servants must have cleaned recently," Ardan agreed with a nod.

Peter slowly turned to him, eyes narrowed. "Right… Let's suppose you're not mocking me, young man. 'All clear' means there's nobody up ahead."

Ardan nodded in understanding. He still held his grimoire open, staff raised just enough to strike the floor at a moment's notice.

"I have a good idea of where the bastard might be holed up, entertaining himself before he flees," Peter said, returning his attention to the staircase. "But hunting for his lair of vile pleasures might take us a while."

"And what do you…"

Peter lifted his revolver and fired several shots. The blasts ricocheted down the corridors in rumbling waves, rattling the stained glass overhead and echoing among the old walls for an uncomfortably long moment.

"…suggest we do instead?" Ardan finished in a dismayed tone.

"Come on, Ard," Peter nodded toward the broad archway that opened into a sitting room, where a velvet sofa sat facing a crackling fireplace. "They'll be here soon enough."

Transferring the revolver to his left hand, Peter seized one of the armchairs and dragged it over to a corner, ripping the carpet up and scraping the floor as he went. There, he settled in with his back against the wall, a vantage point from which he could see both the entrance to the sitting room and the window.

Watching this, Ardan couldn't help recalling Milar's foray into the "gentlemen's club" named "Irtiad." In a way, the detective and the inquisitor were cut from a similar cloth.

Stepping through the sitting room, Ardan settled in beside the window, letting the chilly stone wall beneath the paneling protect his back. He had a clear line of sight to the staircase, and, in a pinch, he could dive out that window as well.

A tense silence followed. Even the merry popping of the firewood seemed mockingly derisive, as though the hearth was laughing at the two fools who had dared invade the lair of a corrupt official protected by a Blue Star Mage and a Star-born werewolf.

All Ardan could do was hope that Milar and his operatives arrived soon. He hadn't been able to activate the medallion any earlier than he had — its beacon was fixed to wherever it had first been triggered.

Peter eyed his watch with ill-concealed irritation. "They're running late."

Meanwhile, Ardan kept a shield and his most powerful spell, Ice Flowers, at the ready in his mind, secretly wishing no one would ever come downstairs at all.

Fate had other ideas.

A man descended with a stumbling gait, tapping a staff against the banister as though to keep his balance. In his right hand, he held a plain wooden staff — nothing like Ardan's. Ardi's artifact had been carved from ancient wood, steeped in Ley and the blood of his ancestors. This staff looked simple, lacquered, and was etched with the standard military runes taught to newly-enlisted mages in the Imperial Army.

And yet, the mage didn't look fresh out of training. Judging by the lines and loose skin around his face, he was about forty-five. Maybe younger if his threadbare, olive-green uniform made him look older than he was. That uniform marked him as having served in the infantry.

His scuffed army-issue boots clashed with the officer's insignia on his shoulders: he held a major's rank, plus the epaulettes denoting that he had three Stars with four, three and three rays respectively.

Despite being a military mage with a major's rank, the man looked only slightly better off than some washed-up drunk, with greasy, unwashed hair slicked back by an overabundance of the gel that was currently in vogue. Ardan used that gel himself, though mostly to save time washing his hair, since he often had access only to public baths. Something about the man's hair caught Ardan's attention.

He might have ignored it, had he not recognized those broad cheekbones, that protruding lower lip, those beady eyes set so close together. And the gray at the temples…

Mart's voice rang in his memory:

"Saimon has published several treatises on the application of the Dragon's Tail Shield Seal. It seemed like he was aiming for a career in the military. Until he drank himself into oblivion. Bars, brothels and social events — no matter how enjoyable — lead to nothing good. Remember that, young man."

Then he recalled Bazhen's warning about how Colonel Kshtovsky's daughter had married one Saimon Davos. Evidently, that had happened before he'd given in to the bottle's call.

A ragged, stained blue cloak with a torn hem fluttered behind this man Ardan had never intended to meet. Atop his staff, a green crystal flickered in the firelight — not perfectly clear, but not fully opaque, either. It was likely a defective military accumulator, discarded for its subpar quality.

On his finger was a ring identical to Gleb's, with a red accumulator inside of it. So, at a minimum, Saimon had thirteen Red Star rays and ten Green ones at his disposal and, even if he had no blue accumulators on him, he still possessed three rays of the Blue Star as well.

"You don't look like people trying to commit suicide," came the man's voice, filled with the sort of swagger that said even the Angels themselves would bow down in awe of him.

Ignoring Peter's revolver, Saimon strolled over to the bar and pulled out an expensive bottle of cognac, plus a delicate, wide-mouthed glass that would be easy to cradle in an open hand. He poured himself a very large amount of the fancy drink, taking several noisy gulps as though he were guzzling common water.

Ardan frowned faintly at the display.

Setting his glass down on the table, Saimon flopped into a chair and tipped his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He seemed more intrigued by the ornate plaster vines overhead than by Peter's revolver or Ardan's staff.

"Let me guess," Saimon drawled, flicking his fingers as if he were tracing the swirling leaves. "You must be Peter Oglanov, the retired Chief Inspector. The one who spat in the Minister of Internal Affairs' face?"

"Twice," Peter confirmed.

"Got it," Saimon said, waggling his chin as if acknowledging Ardan. "And you must be the sorry mage Peter talked into this misadventure… A pity. Seven rays aren't bad, but just one Star… That's too few Stars, kid."

Ardan's gaze flickered between Peter and the wayward scion of the Davos family. Something here didn't add up. He was missing a piece of the puzzle.

"Oh-ho," Saimon said, straightening slightly to stare at Ardan. "Peter didn't tell you, did he? Though I can't say I'm surprised. The Chief Inspector — pardon me, the former Chief Inspector — came here to settle an old score." Saimon smirked and raised his glass in a mocking toast. "You're standing in the home of Erik Irigov, First Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs for the Empire. And, by no small coincidence," Saimon winked, "the Minister's son-in-law."

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Ardan glanced at Peter. The detective sat in silence. He looked old, sullen, his belly puffed out like a balloon, gripping his revolver tight as he kept it trained on Saimon. As if that would change anything. Against a Blue Star military mage, a revolver was no more threatening than a child's toy.

"That does nothing to change his vile appetite for young boys," Peter said evenly, voice cold as iron.

"It doesn't," Saimon agreed.

"And you, Baron Saimon Davos, army officer, Knight of Valor — First and Second Class — choose to serve such a…" Peter spat. "…creature?"

"And you, my dear former head of the Metropolis detectives, can you see any medals or Orders on me?" Saimon jerked the front of his uniform, revealing a bare chest. "I pawned them first, after my older brother cut off my allowance. Then my staff, my books, my instruments… Even my pre-Imperial artifacts, and finally, my patent for the Dragon's Tail seal — everything that was worth even a handful of exes." Saimon eyed his staff with bitter contempt.

"Being the husband of Colonel Kshtovsky's renowned daughter is an expensive hobby, you see. Though lately, she swears I'm married to the bottle… So, let me tell you this much, Oglanov: it's better to lie with a cheap whore and cheaper booze than with an aristocrat." Saimon hoisted the cognac and took a swig straight from the bottle. "If not for my father and my brother, I'd never have tied my fate to that… rock. She's both as beautiful and as dead as a statue. Nah. She's plain disgusting. And the children she bore me are equally vile. So arrogant. They look at me like I'm filth."

"Maybe that's because they've never seen you sober?" Peter offered with a shrug.

"What else can I do?!" Saimon roared. "I can't stand the sight of any of them! Only the bottle keeps me sane… The bottle and the Crimson Lady's girls. I can't afford the Black Lotus anymore... Then there's that damned marriage contract… If not for that, I'd have divorced her ages ago." Saimon jerked back suddenly, glancing at himself in confusion. "Why am I telling you all this, you old dog?" His gaze slid from the bottle to his own hands, then to Ardan. "A Witch's Gaze? Didn't feel it through the booze... Hmm… Two meters tall, a half-blood with the Witch's Gaze… Are you Ard Egobar? The descendant of Aror Egobar?"

Before Ardi could answer, Peter hastily spoke: "And an apprentice to Grand Magister Edward Aversky," he said, as though slapping down a winning card.

For a moment, Saimon just blinked at him. Then he burst into laughter.

"So that's it, you came here with a Cloak?" He chortled, tears springing to his eyes. Throughout this exchange, his staff hovered just shy of the floor — one misstep, and a flurry of spells would erupt. "Or do you not realize that Aversky has served the Black House for years? An 'apprentice' half-blood, I imagine, was foisted on him like a chore. I doubt the Grand Magister would step outside his own home for the likes of him."

Ardan nearly exclaimed, "I told you so!" but he held his tongue. At the moment, he was choosing to stick to his favorite strategy, the one Ergar had taught him as a child: remain quiet, watch, and wait for the right moment.

It was useful for both attacking and fleeing. And, given their current circumstances, he'd most likely be fleeing.

"Think about it, Davos," Peter maintained an impassive expression. "Why saddle yourself with so much trouble? Cloaks, Grand Magisters, corrupt officials… Perhaps you should just tell us where Irigov is and walk away. You've already pocketed the money for your services, haven't you?"

"Are you capable of making it troublesome?" Saimon smiled, taking another swig from the bottle and keeping his gaze on Ardan. "You're a sly old dog, you know that? You dragged a Cloak along, who's staying in the background without threatening me directly… except there's one little hitch."

"And what's that?"

"Something extremely awkward," Saimon smirked again, "awkward for you, you old dog. You see, a few weeks ago, while I was lying in my own bed with a couple of girls, my darling wife decided to inflict some pain upon me. She barged into my chambers, shrieking like a demented hysteric," Saimon grimaced and took another gulp, "raving on that the Cloaks had deceived us and that Gleb hadn't vanished in the Alcade by accident. She'd been in love with him, you see… but Gleb, well, let's just say he played for the other team. She assumed he was just being mysterious and aloof. Idiot. My father and Kshtovsky both knew the truth, which is why they married her off to me instead of Gleb. She's thrown fits about it for years, tried to turn my life into a living hell — and, to be fair, she succeeded. Ha! That Witch's Gaze is quite a vicious little trick."

Saimon waved the now empty bottle for the last time and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames leaped up, greedily licking the shards that crumbled into ash.

"'Daddy Kshtovsky,' she whined," Saimon said mockingly, trying to imitate a woman's voice, "'spotted a student with an accumulator bearing your family crest.' A mere trifle. Anyone could've come across it. Mages buy, sell and swap them all the time." Davos got to his feet and stretched, bones cracking. "But here's the coincidence, old dog: turns out that accumulator belonged to none other than Ard Egobar — the same Ard Egobar that my brother and the Cloaks dragged here all the way from the ass end of the country."

Saimon's face went dark. Lowering his chin, he peered up at Ardan from beneath his brows. Such a look sent a chill coursing through Ardi's body, as if his very skin was trying to crawl away from him and onto the floor.

"I loved my brother, you filthy beast," Saimon hissed through clenched teeth. "He was the only one who never judged me, who valued me for who I truly am. He was my friend. My first and only friend."

"I…" Ardan tried to find the right words.

"Irigov is on the second floor," Saimon said, without turning to Peter. "Take the first corridor to the right. Third door on the left. He's there… with a couple of kids."

"Thank you," Peter said and rose to his feet.

Not once glancing Ardi's way, the old detective walked calmly toward the door of the sitting room. Saimon made no move to stop him.

"Hey, old man," Saimon called out after him, "it just occurred to me… You knew, didn't you? You knew this beast here was the one who killed Gleb. Same as you knew that Irigov had hired me. That's exactly why you brought this monster along."

The old detective froze at the top of the stairs. He stood in silence for a moment before turning to look at a stunned Ardi. In a tone laden with genuine remorse, he said, "I'm sorry, young man," then continued up the stairs, gripping the railing heavily.

Saimon cackled like a ravenous wolf, while Ardi stood there in shock, feeling like he'd just plunged into a cold, murky lake.

Peter vanished as he headed up to the second floor, yet Ardan remained rooted in place. Saimon's voice finally snapped him out of his stupor:

"Has no one ever told you, beast, that in the Metropolis, you can't trust a soul?"

They'd told him. More than once. Mart, Cassara, Yonatan, Katerina… They'd all warned Ardan never to trust anyone here. Life in the capital wasn't like life in the country's remote corners. In those smaller towns and villages where everyone knew one another, the most precious currency was your word, and once you broke it, you could never mend it. No one would do business with a liar or a coward.

But in the capital, which was teeming with more people than the entire Foothill Province combined, a person's word was worth about as much as the wind.

Very well. Those were thoughts for another day. A bigger problem loomed right now.

"I didn't kill your brother," Ardan exhaled.

"I know," Saimon startled him. "Gleb may not have been especially gifted in military magic, but he would never have lost to a Red Star Mage. Not in a million years."

"Then why-"

"Because I can't reach the ones truly responsible for his demise, beast," Saimon growled. "So I'll vent my rage on you. That, and I can't stand your kind."

He struck the floor with his staff. At his feet, an angry red seal flared to life. Ardan tried to parse the runic pattern, but the elemental structures twisted too fast for him to grasp. Erupting from his staff's tip, a scythe of fire seared across the carpet. Hissing and spitting sparks and molten flame as it went, it came at Ardan with lethal speed.

Without attempting to use a shield, Ardan kicked a low table toward the scythe. The table collided with the spell and vanished in a flare of bright fire, leaving not even ash behind. The blazing spell lost some of its force and speed, but still refused to vanish.

Ardan, however, had pursued a different tactic. The moment the magic had struck the table, he'd noticed the wood being sliced cleanly in half before it burned to cinders.

The fire was nothing but misdirection. The real danger was a cutting gale of compressed air fueling the flames. This was sophisticated military magic spanning multiple elements.

Ardan could never have defended against that with a shield. And so he hurled himself sideways, pushing off from the floor with every ounce of strength he possessed.

All of this — from the moment the spell was cast to Ardan's leap — happened in less than a second. Thankfully, the blade of fire wasn't too fast, and Saimon had been standing a fair distance away from him.

The older mage arched an eyebrow in surprise.

He tapped his staff lightly against the floor, and while Ardan was still in the air, another fiery seal ignited beneath Saimon's feet. In the blink of an eye, three flaming serpents that looked like living ropes of fire sprouted from the floorboards around Ardan.

The drunkard had miscalculated the spell parameters, so two of them missed. But the third coiled itself around Ardi's leg. He tried to raise a shield, but in his disorientation, he swung his staff at empty air instead of the ground.

The fiery scythe tore through the paneling behind him, carving a deep groove in the stonework, leaving magma dribbling and sizzling down the wall. At that moment, Saimon flicked his staff upwards, then sideways. Obeying his gesture, the serpent spun Ardan around and slammed him into the ceiling.

He struck the plaster hard.

The impact drove every bit of air from his lungs. Gasping for breath, Ardan stared in horror at the floor rushing to meet him. But he never made contact.

Like Kerimov before him, Saimon also used elemental resonance, gathering the last dregs of Ley from his spells to forge another seal. A fist of lava that was much like the remnants of his previous spell now streaming down the wall hurtled straight at Ardan's chest. Unable to even cast a quick shield, Ardan only had time to thrust his staff out in front of him.

The molten mass crashed into the wood, spattering Ardi with droplets of lava and sending him flying once more — this time slamming him into a painting on the opposite wall.

Ardan heard ribs crack, felt blood rise up in his throat, then crashed to the floor.

The fractured accumulators Saimon had been channeling scattered into motes of colored dust, but the man didn't seem to care. He hadn't even touched his Blue Star yet.

A Fiery Scythe, followed by Flaming Snakes to bind him, a Lava Fist — all of them were two-Star spells. Sure, they demanded a lot of power, especially that last one, which was why Saimon had infused it with remnant energy from his previous spells. But still — they were two-Star spells.

"And this is Edward Aversky's disciple?" Saimon sneered, fishing another green accumulator from his pocket. This one was large and cloudy, clearly not military-grade. He fitted it into the tip of his staff.

Ardan wheezed, groaned, and struggled in vain to stand. The snake's fire had ravaged his right leg up to the thigh, blackening it and leaving the stench of burned flesh behind. His fractured ribs stabbed at him from within, and his bruised lungs refused to work.

"No one taught you, beast, that a military mage must keep his footing? Stay rooted so he's always able to cast or shield himself?" Saimon eyed the struggling youth like a vile insect, leaning against the doorframe as he did so. "All that jumping around… That's ancient history."

Ardi, who had part of the painting's shattered frame still lying across his back, couldn't regain control of his body.

"Time to finish this," Saimon declared, raising his staff over the floor.

At last, Ardan managed to roll onto his side and press his palm against the back of the painting, touching the spot where sunlight had never reached, where not even spiders or beetles had roamed — where darkness alone ruled. Startled by this sudden intrusion, that darkness latched onto Ard's fingers, clinging to him with the same desperate hope he felt for it.

In an instant, the painting crashed to the floor, and Saimon froze, staff still raised, scanning the area in confusion.

"You veiled yourself, beast?!" He shouted, though he made no immediate move to cast again. "I never even saw a seal!"

Ardan, the world around him drowning in ashen shades, carefully crawled behind the sofa, struggling to keep his movements to a minimum. Wheezing and concealed behind the haze of shadow, he looked at his leg. The flesh was crumbling into cinders. Chunks of scorched muscle were sliding off the bone.

With his body going into shock, Ardan hurried to draw upon the Ley of his Green Star and flipped open his grimoire to one of the marked pages, skimming through a few more. He had six rays in one Star and eight in another, so he spent two red and three green rays before striking the floor with his staff.

"Clever, beast!" Saimon spat the words out as soon as Ardi's healing seal lit up beneath him.

This time, instead of springing away, Ardan tried to roll aside but was too slow. Saimon's fire-whip slashed across his shoulder, just grazing it, but it was still enough to do harm.

As the flesh and tendons in Ardan's leg bubbled up like water and promptly regenerated, sloughing off the charred shell and restoring itself to its normal, healthy appearance, his left shoulder started scorching and boiling. Blood gushed out, hot and thick, from his seared joint, as if half his shoulder had been sliced off.

Ardan screamed, losing his grip on the darkness he'd summoned. Startled, it fled into the city's nighttime gloom. Saimon cackled anew at the sight of his opponent.

Ardi lay on the floor, back pressed to the wall, his clothes singed and tattered, blood trickling where it wasn't boiling. He breathed in ragged bursts, spitting out blood that foamed at the corners of his lips.

Meanwhile, the flaming whip still hadn't faded away. It coiled out from the tip of Saimon's staff, awaiting its master's next command.

Just like Nicholas the Stranger's Ice Barrage, this whip obeyed its creator's will and would endure until its energy was spent. This was a three-Star spell.

Ardan had read about it in his textbooks. It needed four Red Star rays, two Green ones, and one Blue Star ray. While Saimon probably had only a handful of rays left in each of his Stars at most, Ardan could not take advantage of that fact.

His pain-scorched mind couldn't even summon any Names, and that all-consuming, mindless rage he'd felt back in the bank refused to appear now.

And so, Ardi did the only thing he could in that moment. Feeling out the length and depth of his shoulder wound, he flipped through a couple more pages of his grimoire while Saimon merely stood and watched him do so, occasionally snickering. Finding the right seal, Ardan struck the floor again with his staff.

A fresh seal flared up at his feet, consuming two more Red Star rays and two more Green ones. The flesh under Ardi's hand frothed, regenerating at a frantic pace. The process was no more pleasant than the burn itself.

"Futile thrashing, beast," Saimon spat, flicking his staff. His fire whip extended out, lashing across the sitting room. It carved through furniture, scorched the paneling, and even ate into the stone beneath, leaving globs of molten rock behind. "You've no chance against my magic. Though I must admit, you lit your second Star with remarkable speed. You've probably got a decent well of rays in it if you're not resorting to accumulators. I'd even-"

"You talk too much, drunkard."

Saimon turned just in time to see Milar, Alexander, and Din — breathing hard and dusted with snow — burst into the house through the front entrance. They raised their revolvers and pulled the triggers.

The whip moved with such speed it became a fiery net, disintegrating the bullets in midair. Twenty-four leaden wasps (Alexander was dual-wielding) fell short of their target. Those molten droplets scattered across the floor, burning holes in the boards and igniting the wood.

"Pointle-"

Ardan slammed his staff against the floor. The flames in the building died in an instant. Clouds of steam puffed from the Cloaks' and Saimon's lips. The Ice Flowers spell — draining the last of Ardi's Green Star rays and leaving a single ray in his Red one — bloomed around Saimon's feet.

But this wasn't a vampire.

Without even looking, the man tapped his staff against the floor again. Around him, a fiery shell that was far more potent and brilliant than the one Gleb had used flared up — it looked like the coiled tail of a gargantuan serpent.

The ice petals shattered on contact with the impenetrable barrier, dissolving in a mist of steam.

"Seems like once I kill you Cloaks," he said, "I'll have to leave this city myse-"

"Down!" Ardi shouted with all the force his lungs could muster, dropping flat to the floor.

No second warning was needed. The Cloaks obeyed instantly, ducking down. Saimon realized too late that not all the Ice Flowers had been trying to pierce his defenses. In fact, most of them had settled on the floor, arranging themselves into an icy diagram. Turning to the windows, he saw the runes flaring along the frames — those same suspicious seals Ardan had spotted earlier. With weary resignation, Saimon muttered:

"Well, damn…"

A moment later, the entire first floor erupted with multiple explosions. Green fire snaked through the mansion in search of one specific target pattern.

And it found him.

The emerald blaze flared around Saimon. When it finally receded, virtually nothing of the man remained — just a small heap of smoldering ash.

Coughing up soot and smoke and leaning on his staff, Ardan staggered to his feet. The Cloaks rose as well, bits of ash drifting overhead.

Surprisingly, despite the destruction, there wasn't the slightest sign of fire on the first floor — or at least none that Ardi could see from his vantage. And if it wasn't burning here, it likely wasn't burning anywhere else in the manor either.

This really was a masterpiece of protective spellcraft. Had Ardan not drawn on his experience with magical lockpicks, those wards would have burned them all alive, sparing only those carrying a "key."

The spell had activated with a clear delay to ensure unwelcome guests were inside and complacent when it struck. It was magnificent, elegant, lethally efficient, and incredibly complex.

Ardan sighed, exhausted.

He knew exactly one mage, an expert in shield spells, who would have absolutely adored such a performance… Absolutely adored it…

"How are you, partner?" Milar asked as Ardan joined the Cloaks and shook their hands. "You missed our company so much you called us right after lunch?"

"Pretty much," Ardi answered.

He marveled at how long a single day could feel. It seemed to him like an entire week had passed between them finishing their meal at the café and then ending up in an explosion at the Deputy Minister's mansion.

"Here," Milar reached into his pocket and pulled out two accumulators: one red and one green.

"I-"

"We'll talk later," the captain interrupted, noticing Ardan's uncertainty as he stared at the green accumulator. "Where to?"

"Second floor. First corridor…"

"Lead the way," Alexander grumbled in his familiar, irritable tone, reloading his revolvers as he did so.

They ascended to the second floor, rounded the correct corner (imagine having intersections in a house) when a thunderous gunshot cracked through the air.

The Boom! was followed by a wild, agonized scream:

"Aaaargh!"

The Cloaks and Ardi exchanged looks and tore off toward the source of the noise. Alexander and Din kicked the door in, and Ardan, rushing in alongside Milar, instantly turned away.

He couldn't let himself look at what was going on there. At what had happened in the past.

And yet, the image refused to fade from his mind: an enormous canopy bed, two figures laid out like dolls upon it — painted, powdered, their faces done up in unnaturally theatrical makeup. Two bound dolls. Two eleven-year-old boys, glassy-eyed and smothered by velvet kerchiefs, their limbs splayed out and tied down with ropes and sticks. They'd been forced into a star shape, left unable to move.

They lay on pristine white sheets… with bloody stains around their crotches.

Ardan, breathing heavily, tried to reclaim control of his senses. But his mind refused to accept what he'd just seen. The world blurred around him. His heart pounded like a drum in his ears, accompanied by the hysterical shrieking of the tall, emaciated man he'd glimpsed upon entering.

He was wearing women's undergarments, his face was caked in old-fashioned makeup, and he had protruding ribs, thin arms and legs, watery eyes… The man rolled across the floor, contorting in agony as he clutched at what used to be his male organ. It now lay severed off to the side.

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"Aaaaaah!" Irigov howled, trying to stanch the blood jetting out of him.

"Damn it, Oglanov!" Milar shouted. He drew his saber, slashed off a chunk of the bed's canopy, and tossed it to the writhing man. "Hold this over your wound — what a godforsaken mess."

Peter stood there, a smoking revolver in hand, his expression utterly flat.

"Why, Oglanov?" Milar rasped. "He was our lead…"

Peter turned his head, not to face the captain, but Ardan.

"Bastards learn through pain," he said simply. Then he holstered his revolver and headed for the door.

He didn't make it to the corridor before Alexander pressed a revolver muzzle against the back of his head and Din's blade almost sliced into his coat.

"You-"

"Aaaaaaah!"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Milar muttered. He spun and gave Irigov a savage kick to the jaw. The man blacked out, arms flung wide, blood spurting from where his genitals had once been. "Peter, you used my partner in the dark."

"For a good cause," Peter replied without turning. "And I was also hoping that he might have a way to contact you."

"You were hoping…" Milar echoed, and for an instant, silence fell.

"Go, Chief Inspector," the captain said at last. "Consider this our deal: we won't blow your brains out for cheating us, and you'll send us whatever else you find out."

Peter nodded slightly, touched the brim of his hat, and said, "Gentlemen," then exited into the hallway.

"Ard," Milar said, "can you do something about that gushing blood before our 'canary' bleeds dry?"

"Canary?" Ardan repeated, still out of breath. "But he… Well, it was shot off-"

"Yes, his dick was, correct," Milar cut in. "But 'canary' is what we sometimes call a witness from the enemy's camp. In short, Magister, make sure he doesn't die on us before we haul him in for questioning at the Black House."

Ardan glanced from the bleeding man to the dead children on the bed, then quickly looked away.

"Ard," Alexander gripped his shoulder. "He won't be walking out of headquarters. He'll spend his final days regretting the fact that he's still alive."

"But-"

"Peter's right, partner," Milar said, lighting a cigarette out of habit. "Scum like him only learn through pain. And he'll be studying hard for quite a while — maybe forever. And while he's at it, he'll tell us everything he knows."

Ardan sighed and struck his staff against the floor.

***

A rusty, black car with two conspicuous, round headlights pulled up outside the empty bar.

A tall young man stepped out, and the vehicle rolled on down the street.

Ardan watched the Cloaks depart with the Deputy Minister in tow, presumably to interrogate him, then turned to head home.

The bar was deserted, which had been the norm for the past few days. Arkar was nowhere to be found. To his own surprise, Ardi realized that he wouldn't have minded the half-orc's company. Maybe Arkar would've said something harsh and unpleasant… but it would've also been precisely what Ardan needed to hear.

However, Arkar clearly had his own affairs to deal with that were far more important than the emotional turmoil of a single half-blood mage.

Ardan climbed the stairs and let himself into his apartment. Not lighting the lantern lest Tess notice it, he stripped off his ruined coat and cloak, picking out whatever garments could still pass as decent.

After washing and rubbing himself down with snow, Ardan changed clothes and stepped back into the hallway. Only upon reaching Tess' door did he realize that he was still holding his staff, his grimoire swaying at his hip.

It seemed like the habit Cassara had tried to instill in him had finally taken hold.

But that was yet another thought for another day.

Right now, Ardan was so exhausted he barely remembered it was his eighteenth birthday. During his fight with Saimon, his flask had been destroyed along with part of his suit, so the invigorating brew he'd been relying on was gone.

His body was now demanding payback for all those borrowed hours of wakefulness, like a miserly banker collecting a debt with interest.

Ardan rapped his staff against Tess' door.

A moment passed, then another, and he heard the sound of footsteps… in high heels?

Tess opened the door. Though drowsy — it was past midnight by now — she was dressed in that same dazzling outfit from the night they'd first met: a shimmering black gown with a daring slit, her fiery hair cascading freely, sparkling earrings, and just enough makeup to transform an already striking beauty into something almost Fae-like, making her appear like something plucked from a painting.

"Come inside, quick," she urged, tugging him by the hand.

Ardan, shaking his head to clear it, stepped into her apartment. The entry hall contained a small wardrobe, a bench, and a shoe rack. Then there was a separate bathroom and toilet, followed by a corridor. To the right lay a spacious kitchen, and to the left, there was a cozy sitting room with a large alcove that had been repurposed into a bedroom.

Everything was furnished modestly yet tastefully, in soft colors, with potted plants, vases full of flowers, and a few photographs on the walls. There was even a single painting — a landscape of Tess' hometown, as per the inscription on the frame.

"You-"

"Sit," she guided him to the small table set in the middle of the sitting room and eased him into a chair. "I'm not sure if I made it right, but the way you described it… I just hope you'll like it. One second…"

Tess bustled around, slightly flustered, still in her high heels. Then, heels clicking, she retreated to the kitchen.

Ardan — his exhaustion pulling him under like a weight — suddenly remembered blackberry pie. His favorite treat. Fragrant, fluffy, crisp on the edges… Just like his mother used to bake.

***

"Happy birthday!" Tess exclaimed, carrying a tray with both hands as she re-entered the sitting room.

She froze, the tray still in her grip, then carefully stepped out of her heels. Barefoot, on tiptoe, she brought the blackberry pie over and placed it on the table in front of Ardi.

Then she sat down across from him, smiling for a moment at her… she-couldn't-quite-define-what-he-was.

Ardi had stretched his arm across the table and was resting his cheek against it, fast asleep. Soft little snores escaped his nose. Tess smiled, extending her hand to brush aside his wavy, overgrown hair.

"I should suggest he cut it," she thought.

She sat there for a little while longer, quietly smoothing down Ardi's hair. Then, rising just as gently, she went to fetch a blanket.

Scooting her chair closer without making a sound, she settled in next to him, nestled her head against his back, and draped the blanket over them both.

A moment or two later, they were slumbering side by side, breathing in soft unison.