Matabar

All sound in the hall ceased. The instruments of the musicians fell silent, and the rustling of gowns and the clatter of heels from the noble crowds moved like waves, parting away from the main entrance of the hall, which stood perpendicular to the podium with the thrones. They were massive thrones gilded with gold, upon whose high backs rested platinum phoenixes crowned with regal headpieces.

Amid a silence so deep that one could hear the breathing of those standing nearby, the chamberlains opened the doors. Slowly, carefully, without the aid of a cane, the Great Prince Pavel walked toward the throne where the Holy Bishop awaited him.

The old priest, who had a turkey-like chin, stood garbed in gold, clutching a golden staff in his hands, with a wreath resembling the sun perched atop his head. He was frail and wrinkled, his bleary eyes barely open, hunched over from his bloated belly, and he required the support of two young acolytes just to stand upright.

The contrast between him and the future Emperor was stark. Despite the prosthetic that had replaced his right leg, Pavel walked unaided, rejecting any assistance. Each step visibly caused the heir to the throne pain, but he pressed forward. With his head held high and his unyielding, brown eyes fixed on the people below the podium, he commanded their respect. Those watching bowed their heads, not out of obligation or custom, but because they could not withstand the storm that raged within his gaze, a force of will as fierce as a tempest.

He wore a green military tunic adorned with only a few medals and a single Order, without ostentatious decorations or costly frills. Only his family ring glittered on his right index finger. Wearing simple cavalry boots, black pants held up by a wide, black belt with a heraldic buckle, he moved slowly, step by step, toward the throne.

Behind him followed Oktana, in a lavish white gown styled after the old fashion, with a necklace around her neck worth several lifetimes of an average person’s labor. Next came the Grand Princess Anastasia in a light, flowing dress woven from golden threads, her diadem glittering with diamonds of black, white, and pink hues. As richly as his wife and daughter were dressed, Pavel remained modest in his attire.

No one dared utter a word.

Even those who had previously been chatting and laughing fell silent, bowing their heads and stepping aside.

Ardan had seen something like this before.

Whenever Ergar strode through the mountains of the Alcade, the other beasts would part like this after sensing the most dangerous and fearsome predator in their midst.

At the heir’s waist hung a saber in a crumpled scabbard, its hilt blackened in places, while a wide, blue sash rested across his chest. There was no doubt that Pavel knew how to wield his weapon. Perhaps he could even do so better than most.

As he reached the bishop, the two men exchanged glances before Pavel began to carefully kneel. Guards rushed to assist him, but with an authoritative wave of his hand, he froze them in place.

No one moved.

No one uttered a word.

In this absolute silence, the raspy voice of the Holy Bishop, steeped in wine and endless feasts, echoed:

"Pavel Agrov, son of Daniel Agrov, worthy husband and father, today, by the will of the Face of Light and by the right granted to me by the Father of Fathers in the Holy See of Uldjingood, I call upon your blood," the bishop wheezed, leaning slightly forward, the staff beneath him nearly creaking under his weight. He took a knife and ran it over Pavel’s outstretched palm. Scarlet drops of blood fell to the floor, and the wet splats echoed against the walls in the stillness of the hall. "Blood of Agrov, flesh of the flesh of your people, bone of the bone of your land, do you swear to dedicate the remainder of your life to the Empire? To all its peoples, its past, present, and future?"

"I swear it," Pavel replied quietly and calmly, though even in that tone, there was something so primal that the hairs on Ardi’s neck stood on end, as if a dangerous predator had just growled in his face.

"Do you swear by faith and truth," the bishop continued, sweating profusely, "without sparing life or effort, to fulfill the sacred duties of Emperor?"

"I swear it."

"Do you swear to publicly name a single, infallible heir at the hour when the Eternal Angels of the Face of Light come for you?"

"I swear it."

All the while, blood dripped from Pavel’s hand, each "I swear it" punctuated by the sound of another ruby droplet hitting the floor.

"Then by this symbol," the bishop’s trembling hand lifted a golden triangle from the velvet cushion beside him, "before the people, under the gaze of the Eternal Angels, by the will of the Face of Light and the covenants of our ancestors, I name you Pavel IV, Emperor of the New Monarchy!"

Pavel kissed the top of the triangle, then rose and, still accompanied by silence, walked to the throne. He turned, slowly lowering himself onto it, and at that moment, the platinum phoenix above the headboard spread its wings and, with a piercing cry, burst into white flame.

The mythical bird soared toward the ceiling of the hall, hanging in the air for a fraction of a second before plummeting down. As it fell, its flames grew brighter, transforming into a brilliant fireball before plunging into Pavel’s head.

Legend had it that someone without a rightful claim to the throne would be instantly incinerated by the phoenix, but if the claim was just…

A moment passed, then another. The flames, briefly obscuring Pavel’s face, dissipated, revealing the new Emperor unharmed. A platinum crown shaped like interwoven wings had formed on his head. And inside it, like one was looking through glass, flickers of fire could occasionally be glimpsed.

"Long live the Emperor!" The crowd roared. Applause thundered, echoing off the walls of the hall.

But the ceremony wasn’t over yet. Pavel, lingering on the throne for only a few seconds, rose once more. Together with his wife and daughter, he began walking through the hall.

People parted before him, bowing their heads low.

"Emperor," they whispered as they bowed and curtsied.

And Pavel walked on, without guards or attendants, just him and his family. He was limping and clearly weary, but the primal strength emanating from him only grew, not diminishing at all.

After walking the length of the hall, he climbed the stairs leading to the balcony, flung open the doors, and stepped out to face the crowd. Kings’ Square stood frozen, just as the nobles had moments ago. Ardi ’heard’ the sea of people who were enchanted, as if turned to stone, their countless gazes fixed on the burning crown.

"My people!" Pavel’s voice, enhanced by magic, boomed over the square. "Brothers and sisters! On this day, I stand before you! A soldier, a father, a husband, and only then an Emperor of our homeland! And I would love to tell you, my friends, that from this day forth, a simple and bright future awaits us, but that would be a lie! No, difficulties and dangers lie in wait for us! Obvious and hidden! Heavy and fleeting! We must never forget this, my friends! But, likewise, we must never forget that we, the peoples of Gales, Aradir, Ranita, Atruae, Sanash, Ectassus, Oturkar, Elirilia, and all the others whose crests are held by our two-headed phoenix — we are all here, on our land. We are all the people of the Empire, bound by blood, a shared past, and a shared future! Together, as one, we will face whatever tomorrow brings. Without fear! Without regret! With honor and our heads held high! And when our children and grandchildren ask us about these days, we will proudly tell them how we, together, hand in hand, built a new, bright world for them. A world where they won’t need to fear hunger, or suffer oppression and humiliation! A country for all of us! The one that the first Emperor envisioned! The one that lives in our hearts! And now, by our labor, sweat, and if fate demands it, by defending our homeland with our very blood, we will build this new world for them. For our descendants! But that is for tomorrow! Today, my friends… My brothers… My sisters… Today, celebrate! Today, I embrace each and every one of you! I raise a glass in every home! I wish happiness and prosperity to every family! For besides our kin, my dear ones, we have no one else! Remember this! For the glory of the Empire!"

"For the glory of the Empire!" Roared thousands of people.

"For the glory of the Empire!" Pavel repeated, raising his fist into the air.

"For the glory!" The people echoed. "For the glory!"

Cannons fired, and the night sky was lit by dozens of fireworks blooming overhead, turning the darkness into a bright day where the sparks of the sky’s explosions merged with the light in the eyes of the thousands gathered in the square. Their hearts beat in unison, and their breaths flowed like a force capable of stopping mountain winds.

Emperor Pavel IV stood for a few more moments on the balcony while countless camera flashes, twinkling among the crowd, appeared like stars being born and extinguished again and again. After a while, Pavel IV turned and headed back into the hall, and the chamberlains hurried to close the balcony doors behind him. But even so, the jubilant cries and cheers of the crowd penetrated the hall, overpowering even the fireworks’ explosions.

Stopping on the staircase, with his wife to his left and his daughter to his right, Pavel IV finally allowed the servants to drape the royal mantle over his shoulders, though he refused the scepter, which was the ancient symbol belonging to the first Emperor of the country.

"My first decree as the new Emperor of our land is as follows. Major Taveriy Ensky," a young man, no older than thirty, stepped forward from the crowd and bowed before the Emperor, "in recognition of your faithful service, I bestow upon you the hereditary title of baron, lands in the province of the Azure Sea, as well as a promotion to the rank of general."

The crowd applauded, though not as fervently as during the coronation. Chamberlains brought forth a document and pen, with which the Emperor left his grand signature at the bottom.

"I serve the Empire!" The soldier stood to attention and, bowing deeply, took the document.

"About time," Davenport whispered into Ardi’s ear. "Ensky, despite his relatively young age, is an incredibly talented commander. Listing all his feats on the border would take until morning. But the most notable is that he led a single division of twelve thousand, almost without any artillery support, to defeat a thirty-thousand-strong Armondo tribe, captured their leader, and-"

"Later," Atura shushed him, tugging Ardan along by the elbow and guiding him through the crowd. "Let’s hurry. Ard’s turn is coming soon."

While they made their way through the throng, Pavel IV continued to issue decrees.

"My second decree is to award the Order of St. George, Second Class, to Dr. Baroness Anita Kri, for her outstanding research in the field of pharmacology that allowed us to combat the smallpox epidemic. I am also granting her a reward of five thousand exes."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ardan saw an elderly woman who just barely managed a light curtsy as she said, "I serve the Empire!" She graciously accepted the document and lacquered box (presumably with her Order inside of it) before stepping aside.

"My third decree is to establish that, by the end of next year, we will lay the foundations for three new shipyards on the southern and eastern coasts. They will be two military and one civilian shipyard. Funds will be allocated from the treasury, and construction companies will be contracted through competitive bidding."

This statement meant nothing to Ardi, though it sounded serious.

"My fourth decree," Pavel continued, "is to grant the elected members of the Lower Chamber, after twelve years of service, provided there have been no complaints, penalties, or fines during their tenure, the opportunity to take a state exam before a commission, which will be created by a non-public decree. Should they pass, they will be eligible for reelection if the citizens of their provinces and districts will it."

Not everyone in the hall applauded this time, and some even began to whisper, though this seemed to not bother the Emperor at all.

"My fifth and final decree for today…" Ardan wasn’t sure how and when Atura had pushed him toward the stairs. Suddenly, he found himself standing directly before the Emperor. He was so close that he could see the shallow wrinkles on his face, the few round scars from shrapnel on his right cheek, which someone had clearly attempted to conceal with powder, and the gray in his bright red, almost fiery hair. It was a strange combination: dark brown, almost black eyes and red hair. "Ard Egobar, descendant of Aror Egobar, ally of the Dark Lord."

Once again, the hall plunged into silence. A living, tangible silence so thick it felt as if one could reach out and touch it.

Without hesitation, Ardi bowed his head. Not because he was unable to resist the Emperor’s will — he probably could. Nor out of etiquette, either, but simply because, in these few short minutes, he had grown to respect Pavel IV. There was something in this unassuming man standing before him. Something simple and sincere. Something that could have maybe provided Ardi an answer to his question — "Why?" — but, alas, he could not grasp the fleeting insight.

"More than two centuries ago, your ancestor, Ard, sided with the Dark Lord in his attempt to sow discord among the peoples of the Empire," Pavel IV’s voice was steady, and in his gaze, fixed on the youth, there was neither disdain nor anger, only calm. "Much blood was spilled because of that decision. Justly and unjustly. Not only did entire families perish, but the Empire itself lost an entire people to the fires of madness. The Matabar people. Their history, their traditions, their culture, and their language. All of this was taken from us due to the mistakes made by both sides. But no sin of any individual or group of citizens can outweigh the life of an entire people. And so, once I received confirmation that Aror Egobar had completed his earthly journey, I decided to grant amnesty to the Egobar family, as well as to the Matabar. From now on and forevermore! And I want my words to be heard in every corner of our planet, so that our friends and foes alike can understand that the Empire is united and indivisible."

Pavel IV extended his hand, clearly signaling for Ardan to turn and face the hall. The moment he did, camera flashes sparked, momentarily blinding him.

"And now, my friends, let us conclude this evening’s formalities and enjoy the celebration," the Emperor said. Only then did he accept a cane from the chamberlain and, walking with much more freedom, he returned to the throne.

"You did well," Davenport suddenly appeared beside Ardi, patting him on the shoulder.

"But I did nothing."

"Exactly why I said you did well."

Following Gabriel (a surprisingly gentle name for such a man) and Atura, who rustled the hem of her gown as they walked, Ardi made his way back toward the tables of food.

The music resumed, and couples began to twirl in slow, graceful dances. The trend Mart had mentioned about new musical styles in the Metropolis, where melodies cried out from a wounded soul, and songs burned with such heat that they could be mistaken for passionate love letters, didn’t seem to have reached this hall.

Aside from those dancing in the center, men gathered in groups around the edges of the hall and on the stairs and balconies, engaging in deep conversations. Ardan couldn’t help but notice that these groups seemed strangely divided by belly size — the larger the belly, the more distinguished the gentleman bearing it. It made sense, considering the price of food in the capital… And their companions, gathered nearby in flocks, were noticeably the opposite — unnaturally thin, with a wild gleam in their eyes.

What had Katerina said about Angel Dust?

Of course, there were only a few of these bloated men with an unnatural gleam in their eyes, but they stood out so much that it left a definite impression.

"You seem to have dropped this," someone tapped Ardan on the shoulder.

Turning around, Ardan saw a man with an incredibly luxurious mustache curled into two sharp points. He wore a garish tweed suit in a loud shade of purple, black gloves, and rings that screamed for attention, just like his suit.

The man held out a white card made of material far sturdier than paper. Upon its pristine surface, two red symbols were inscribed — "D.H." — and nothing more.

"This isn’t mine..."

"It’s yours now," the stranger smiled, slipping the card into Ardi’s pocket.

The man’s face vaguely resembled an otter, with the same elongated shape around the nose, a small chin, and wide cheekbones. He wasn’t handsome, but rather… roguish, as if he wasn’t attending the coronation of an Emperor but celebrating a drinking buddy’s birthday in a saloon.

"And you are…?"

"Does it matter?" The man shrugged. "I just helped a person who dropped their card."

And with that, he strolled off, his white shoes clicking as he disappeared into the crowd of nobles. It wouldn’t have been remarkable if not for the fact that when he’d handed over the card, he had brushed the back of his hand across his chest and then his forehead as if wiping something away.

It was a gesture Ardi would find impossible not to recognize…

Ardan pulled the "business card" from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers, but after finding nothing unusual about it, he tucked it away again.

Reaching Davenport and Atura, who stood by the tables, Ardi gestured in the direction where the colorful stranger had vanished.

"Who was that?" He asked, somehow sure that the two had seen the man approach.

"It’s curious that he even got in here," Davenport grumbled.

Ardan just stood there, waiting for an answer.

"He’s a well-known collector of pre-Imperial artifacts, books," Atura explained, "cultural items, and anything that can be cheaply bought and…"

"Or stolen," her husband interjected.

"And then sold at a much higher price," Atura concluded, not even bothering to refute Davenport’s remark. "Honestly, I don’t know his real name. Everyone simply calls him the Ragman."

Ardan sighed. Of course. It made sense that the only person who would approach him without ill intentions had turned out to be a man with such a questionable reputation.

Mentally waving the whole thing off, Ardan caught the eye of a waiter.

"Do you have anything made from wild game?"

"Yes," the waiter immediately grabbed a plate and indicated several dishes with some tongs. "We have pâté from-"

"I’ll have one of each, please," Ardi interrupted.

The waiter paused, then began filling the plate. When the first was full, he reached for a second, but by the time he did so, Ardan had already finished the first.

Atura looked at him with silent reproach, while Davenport’s eyes twinkled with respect and playful amusement.

But, to be honest, Ardi didn’t care. The Emperor was now sitting on his throne and receiving various dignitaries, some of whom were clearly foreigners judging by their unusual appearance and attire.

The nobles danced and engaged in languid conversations, casually determining the fates of millions of humans and Firstborn alike. And as for the great-grandson of a former conspirator? He had no idea when he would next get a proper meal (hunting in the Metropolis seemed unlikely), so he’d decided to preemptively solve that problem for as long as possible.

And so, as he moved along the table and consumed anything that contained even a hint of wild meat, time passed. As an aside, Ardan had once eaten a vegetable salad and then hadn’t been able to get up from the toilet for twenty-four hours. The Matabar, though omnivorous, still had some specific needs. All in all, this feast was a testament to the Imperial Palace’s chefs.

During this time, several notable performers also graced the hall: first a woman whose voice seemed to make the stained-glass windows tremble due to the high notes she could reach, and then a man whose deep, rich bass could easily drown anyone in its intensity.

Then some elves performed, painting with the colors of the wind, which didn’t impress Ardi much — Atta’nha could do far more impressive things without making a spectacle of herself.

There were also a few magicians, though, given the presence of dozens of actual mages in the hall, it seemed rather out of place. Later, a theater troupe from the Central Theater of Metropolis performed a brief, fifteen-minute play, illustrating the well-known scene of the wounded King of Gales climbing to the top of the last fortress of Ectassus. There, before his death, he was named Emperor, and an hour later, the first ruler of the Empire died from his wounds.

It was a heroic epic beloved by all the boys. Ardan had liked it too.

Strangely enough, he now realized that his grandfather… great-grandfather had recounted this part of history with just as much enthusiasm and reverence as the rest, even though it depicted the fall of Ectassus and the heroism of a human king.

By the end of it all, when there were hardly any dancing couples left, and the musicians had changed for the third time, with only the crowd outside the palace still engaged in raucous celebration, the Emperor rose from his seat.

Once again, the hall fell silent.

"I thank you, my loyal subjects," Ardan noticed that Pavel IV had referred to the common people as "friends, brothers, and sisters," but to the nobles as "subjects." "But all merriment must have its limit. This day is no different from others. Tomorrow, we will once again face our duties. Some will be personal, some will be state affairs. Therefore, I declare that this will be the last dance of the evening, after which I ask for peace for myself and my family."

Ardan didn’t quite understand why, but the atmosphere in the hall grew tense after these words. It seemed people hadn’t expected to hear that, and their expressions showed surprise. His own confusion must have been apparent as well.

"Usually, the celebration of a coronation among the nobility and officials lasts several days," Atura whispered in his ear. "After all, it’s not often that they all get to gather here from every corner of the country. So, His Majesty the Emperor has somewhat… caught everyone off guard, to put it mildly."

"And to put it bluntly," Davenport smirked, "he’s reminded the lazy aristocrats and the bloated bureaucrats that besides their wine and beds, they should also remember their work."

Ardan took note of but didn’t dwell on the traditions and customs of the upper class. He was a stranger at this grand event, brought here by chance (or a series of chances), and had no intention of lingering. No one was waiting for him here, so…

"May I have the honor of this dance, my friend?"

Ardan nearly choked on a piece of bread covered with pâté, which, judging by the taste, seemed to have been made from a duck’s liver.

Standing before him, dressed in a golden gown and wearing a tiara encrusted with multicolored diamonds, was a girl with black hair, upon which the pattern of a Crystal Mountain Flower shimmered.

"Your Imperial Highness," Atura curtsied.

"Grand Princess," Davenport bowed, pressing a hand to his heart.

Only Ardi stood there like an idiot, with a half-eaten bruschetta held near his mouth. Before him stood Anastasia, her eyes alight with a mischievous glint like a fox planning some particularly wicked prank.

Ardan glanced around, as if searching for help, but found no one offering him a rescue.

Everyone’s eyes were cast downwards, as etiquette demanded. Such things weren’t taught in school, but his grandfather… Back when he was a boy, Ardi had always wondered why…

"Idiot," Davenport hissed, still bowing. "Don’t make the Grand Princess wait. Say something!"

"But I don’t know how to dance," Ardan blurted out, louder than necessary.

"If you put down your food, my kind friend," Anastasia laughed, "I will lead the dance. All you need to do is watch your feet carefully and try not to step on mine."

Ardi’s heart pounded wildly. Truth be told, he’d felt far safer in the company of a mountain troll, a Wanderer, or bandits than in this current situation.

Agreeing to this dance, considering everything he’d learned tonight, seemed like a terrible idea. Refusing the future Empress in public, though… Well, that was nothing short of a poetic attempt at self-destruction.

Swallowing loudly, Ardan set down his half-eaten bruschetta on what he’d thought was a tray, but which turned out to be the epaulet of some officer of not insignificant rank. Anastasia stifled a laugh, and before he could apologize, she grabbed his wrist with unexpectedly strong, warm, childlike fingers and pulled him into the center of the hall.

The other dancers gradually and gracefully drifted away, leaving the Emperor’s daughter and the great-grandson of the Dark Lord’s right-hand man practically alone.

"Hold your left hand out as if you’re hugging a tree," Anastasia whispered, and Ardan complied at once.

The girl looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth, and added, "Lower — I’m not a mobile skyscraper like you."

Ardi jerkily nodded, noticing his elbow was above the child’s head, and lowered his arm. In an instant, Anastasia rested her forearm on his.

"And now stretch your right arm forward and take my hand." Of course, she wouldn’t have been able to reach it otherwise.

Once the starting position was set, Anastasia looked him in the eye again. There was no fear, no disdain, no arrogance in her gaze, only cheerful amusement and a touch of mischief.

"We’ll move to a three count," she said, taking the first step and leading him. "Listen to the music and follow the rhythm. One-two-three. One-two-three."

Listen to the music? Ardan, who was so focused on not stepping on the Grand Princess’ feet (whose shoes probably cost an obscene amount), couldn’t hear anything beyond his own persistent inner voice: "You already owe a small fortune for the suit… Don’t step on her… Don’t step on her…"

And all around them, there were onlookers who were either pleased by this unexpected performance or, on the contrary, furious and practically grinding their teeth in anger. Or perhaps it was just one of them. Someone his own age. It was a young man of average height for a human, dressed in a white suit reminiscent of a naval officer’s dress uniform. His belt bore a buckle engraved with a badger, whose elongated snout oddly resembled the sharp face of this nobleman’s offspring. Not to mention his black hair streaked with white and his unnaturally long fingers.

"That’s the son of Great Prince Arkady, my second uncle," Anastasia whispered, still gliding gracefully in time with the music. "The twelfth in line for the throne."

"And why is he looking at me so… kindly?"

"He asked me to dance, but I refused," Anastasia said, without a hint of irony.

"Oh," Ardan exhaled. "I apologize, Grand Princess, for depriving you of a dance with your brother."

"He’s not my brother," Anastasia replied coldly. "Besides, he didn’t ask me to dance just for the sake of it, but for…"

She glanced at Ardi with a look that explained everything without words.

"But… you’re just a child," Ardan nearly exclaimed but caught himself just in time.

Unfortunately, that lapse in focus caused him to stumble, nearly stepping on Anastasia’s foot, which elicited quiet chuckles from the nobles as he barely avoided a disaster thanks to the princess’ quick reflexes. She deftly shifted her weight, rescuing both of them from an embarrassing fall.

"It’s alright," she whispered, gracefully compensating for Ardan’s misstep with a subtle movement. She was not just a good dancer, she was exceptional. "To him, it doesn’t matter that I’m a child or a kin. All that matters is the chair my father currently sits on."

If not for Anastasia’s skill, Ardan would have either fallen over or stepped on her shoes. Instead, he barely managed to stay upright, but his mind was spinning.

"The music will end soon," Anastasia spoke softly, her voice now trembling slightly, like that of a lost, lonely kitten. "Thank you, Ard, for being my friend, even if only for a little while."

She looked down, and in that moment, Ardan felt a sharp pang in his chest, as if unseen claws were scraping at the inside of his ribcage. He could vividly picture someone standing in a crowd of people, yet surrounded by a void of isolation, much like Anastasia was now.

"Ardi," the young man said quietly, almost instinctively. "My friends call me Ardi, but… I’m not sure you really want to be my friend. Besides, we’re unlikely to ever meet again."

Anastasia didn’t seem to hear those last few words. The moment she’d heard the first part, her face had lit up, and she’d squeezed his hand tightly, smiling the way he’d once smiled when visiting Guta, Shali, and Skusty or gazing at the stars with Ergar. It was the look of someone suddenly realizing they weren’t alone in the world.

"Even if we don’t meet again… Ardi," she said it shyly, as though testing his nickname’s taste, "I’ll know that somewhere in this world, I have a good friend."

As the music faded, Anastasia released his hands and, as light as a spring bird, flitted away toward her parents. The nobles parted before her like waves retreating from a resolute stone jetty, and Ardan stood there in the center of the hall, feeling utterly out of place.

For a brief moment, he looked up and accidentally met the eyes of Emperor Pavel IV. What he saw in those eyes was… nothing. It was like staring into a void, a dark, inky sea threatening to pull him in. Ardan quickly looked away, struggling to shake off the unease.

What had they told him about learning to control the Witch’s Gaze?

"Let’s go," someone gently tugged at his arm, but Ardi felt drained, both physically and mentally. His recent encounter with that bottomless void had nearly emptied him completely, reminding him painfully of Cassara.

Not that the Emperor was a vampire, but he definitely possessed a power that Ardan had no desire to understand, let alone challenge. As it was, he had no energy to think about anything related to the people in the hall.

Catching his breath, Ardan found himself back by the buffet, absentmindedly devouring another bruschetta, this time made from wild goose pâté. Fortunately, it wasn’t domestic…

"Congratulations," Atura hissed. She stood before him with Davenport, both of them shielding him from the diminishing crowd of nobles who were slowly filtering out of the hall. "You’ve just made a mortal enemy out of one of the Great Princes."

"And did I have a choice?" Ardan asked wearily, his voice flat and dry.

"You did," Davenport nodded. "You could have claimed to be suffering from an old injury, feigned that you’d misunderstood her Galessian, or… well, anything, really."

"If I had refused the Grand Princess, it would’ve been-"

"-reasonable and understandable," Atura interrupted. "Yes, Anastasia wouldn’t have been pleased, but-"

"But she’s also one of the Great whatevers," Ardan cut in this time, swallowing the rest of his food. "And she’s hardly the twelfth, or whatever number in line, for the throne."

"Except she’ll be living in the palace," Davenport reminded him. "As far away from you as possible."

"And this boy-"

"Great Prince Iolai," Atura corrected firmly.

Ardan waved a hand dismissively. In the last few hours, he had learned so many new and entirely useless names that it felt like he’d need to dedicate an entire section of his grimoire to them. Maybe even more than one…

"And your Great Prince Iolai will be living on some enormous estate, in a massive mansion, somewhere off in-"

"Somewhere in the Metropolis," Atura interjected again, "and far closer than you think."

Ardan looked from her to Davenport, then back again, rubbing his temples in frustration. Why? Why was it that every time he took a break from his books, scrolls, and, at worst, a delicious meal — preferably involving blackberry pie — something like this had to happen?

"He’s a Star Mage, isn’t he?"

"Exactly," Atura nodded.

"And he’s enrolling in his first year at the Grand this year?"

"All correct," Davenport confirmed.

"And he has friends, who are all fellow aristocratic offspring, all notorious for their terrible temperaments and antics, which, had they been ordinary citizens, would’ve landed them in prison, or at least court."

Atura and Davenport exchanged puzzled glances.

"Did Anastasia tell you all this?" Atura asked.

"I figured it out myself," Ardan sighed.

He had always thought that such details in his great-grandfather’s stories had been embellishments, meant to add drama to the legends and myths. The idea that the main characters had had not only grand, existential problems but also mundane, personal conflicts with disagreeable people had seemed like a storytelling device to him.

Ardan had never imagined that he would find himself in such a situation. It was absurd! What did he care about Great Princes and Princesses, and why should they care about him, the son of a seamstress and…

Oh, right.

His great-grandfather.

And Anastasia, who’d chosen him for a dance…

Sleeping Spirits help him…

"You know what’s funny," Ardan said, his voice laced with irony.

"Funny?" Davenport repeated. "You find something amusing in all of this?"

"Oh yes," Ardan nodded. "The funny part is that I’ve fulfilled my part of the deal. The Emperor got everything he needed from me. So, why keep me at the Grand for another four months? Why not just let me go? Why keep me around for an extra season or so?"

Davenport and Atura said nothing. They didn’t have to. The answer was obvious.

"Because now, his loyal subjects have a perfect opportunity to settle scores with me for my great-grandfather’s sins. And in the process, the crown will find out whose hands are long enough and whose courage is great enough to defy it."

Davenport chuckled and patted him on the shoulder.

"Yonatan wasn’t exaggerating when he said you’re a sharp lad."

Ardan wasn’t surprised to hear that Atura’s husband had read the dossier prepared by the officer of the Second Chancery, nor that he was referring to him by first name, as if they were acquaintances.

"May I escort Master Egobar to his quarters?" The chamberlain appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

He hadn’t addressed Ardan, or even Davenport, but rather Atura.

"Of course," she nodded curtly, then turned to Ardan and, for a moment, touched his hand. "I will always be grateful to you, Ard, for helping save Anastasia. And I’m truly sorry for the price you paid for it. I hope that in four months, you’ll be reunited with your family. If you ever feel like it, I would love to receive a photo of you with your brother, mother, sister, and stepfather so I can place it over the fireplace and, from time to time, remind myself that there are still good people in this world."

With those parting words, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. Davenport gave Ardan a silent pat on the shoulder before hurrying after her.

Ardan, after grabbing a tray of snacks from the table, followed the chamberlain. His only desire at that moment was to crawl into bed and sleep for a day, preferably without any dreams.