Matabar

“Hello, Mother.

I’m writing to you from my temporary quarters in the Palace of the Kings of the Past. Sounds like the start of one of Grandfather’s stories, doesn’t it?

In truth, it’s much grander in reputation than it is in reality. The place is so small that I doubt our own pantry would fit here — and by ‘our,’ I mean the one we built together with Grandfather and Father when I was a boy. I miss them.

I miss you, too...

Forgive me. My thoughts are getting muddled.

I have a table, a chair, a bed where my feet dangle over the edge, and a wardrobe. Following the instructions of that stranger — the one I mentioned in my last letter — from the Second Chancery, I don’t leave the room.

I’m sorry for writing so infrequently before. Things have been a bit chaotic. I met Grand Princess Anastasia. Don’t worry, I didn’t get into any trouble. We simply ran into each other in the basement, and… Yes, it does sound odd. But she’s a good child. A little lonely, a little sad, but kind. She reminds me of Erti in some ways.

How is he, by the way? How’s his health? What did Delpas’ doctors say? And tell me, please, my dearest Mother, how are you settling in? Is everything all right? Are they regularly paying you your pension? Did you get decent neighbors? Has Kelly settled into his new work? I’d love to hear any news or stories from home.

I miss you and my brother so much, Mother. I count the days until I can hold you both again.

Do you remember that line from Grandfather’s favorite poem, the one about the Knight, Marenir? It went, ‘The sun paints the sky with the colors of fading summer, kissing the stately autumn.’ Well, here in the Metropolis, the only colors the sun finds are all shades of gray.

I never imagined there could be so many variations of one color. And maybe that’s why whoever originally built this city decided to challenge the sky, using the hues of sunsets and sunrises in the facades of buildings. You wouldn’t believe how many vibrant and beautiful structures there are here: waterfronts, bridges, countless monuments and palaces. Not even in Grandfather’s wildest tales of Ectassus could I have imagined such sights.

And yet, despite all the beauty, I find much of it hollow and soulless. Not just the buildings, but the people, too. Not all of them, of course, but a majority. And the strangest part, my precious Mother, is that the taller the building or the greater the person, the less real they seem.

Don’t worry about me. I’m eating well, sleeping even more, and keeping out of trouble. For the most part, I’m just waiting for this journey of mine to come to an end so I can return to you.

Tomorrow morning is the ceremony where I’ll be admitted into the Imperial Magical University.

Delpas may be a large city, but it’s still far from the capital, so by the time this letter reaches you, you might see my photo in the paper next to the Emperor. He seems like a decent man, though a bit odd — but that’s none of our business.

I’m looking forward to New Year’s, Mother, and I promise that before midnight, I’ll hold you tight, and we’ll share stories until the morning.

With love, hugs and kisses,

Your son, Ardi.

Until we meet again.”

Ardan signed the letter, sealed the inkwell, and set the pen aside. He slipped the letter into an envelope and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, which hung on the back of a simple chair. ꞦἈƝǑ฿Ęš

He didn’t always tell Shaia the whole truth, but when it came to his palace quarters, he hadn’t lied. It was indeed a small room, nowhere near the grandeur of the one the duchess had given him.

The only light came from an oil lamp, cracks crawled along the walls in places, and the parquet floor creaked like an old man’s grumbling. But that was understandable, given how many rooms the palace had. If every guest chamber had looked like those of the Anorsky family, the treasury would have gone bankrupt within a few years.

Surely, somewhere in this seemingly endless residence of the Emperor, there were far grander rooms — likely ones that would put the entire Anorsky estate to shame — but Ardan had no business with such rooms.

Not that he would have wanted them.

The window in his small room overlooked the waterfront, and at night, Ardan could watch as the city came alive with bright lights, blossoming like shining petals across the dark sky. But not above his head, as he was used to, no — the lights would spread out below, reflected upon the surface of the roaring, black river, which would sometimes calmly caress the granite banks, and at other times crash against them like a furious serpent. The foam of gentle waves and the thick depths of the river reflected the lights of lanterns, car headlights, and the windows of houses and palaces, forming constellations that were mesmerizing, yet unfamiliar.

And sometimes, amid these reflections, boats and ferries glided through like mythical creatures, and occasionally, even ships passed by. Ardan had even seen one. It had been a metal giant, without any sails, with massive, bulbous smokestacks belching black, acrid smoke. From his textbooks, he knew this was what civilian steamships looked like, but to see such a titan, a rival to the Wanderer itself, was an indescribable experience.

This was how Ardan spent his days, sitting by the window, watching the city, and occasionally opening the Stranger’s textbook. Four times a day, a knock came at his door, and the same valet would enter with a tray of simple but filling food. He would leave it on the table and return an hour later to collect the dishes.

And throughout all of this, not once did they bring Ardi a dish made from poultry or livestock, which spoke volumes.

“By now, the Alcade is probably buried under snow,” Ardan whispered, fiddling with the pendant shaped like an oak tree in his hands.

Outside, the rain continued. It hadn’t stopped since yesterday morning. At times, it was a drizzle, at others, a downpour, and sometimes, it was just a sparse, slanted rain — the worst kind. The kind that always found its way under your collar or stung your eyes. Truly strange weather.

“I regret to inform you, my good sir, that there will be no snow in this city until the White Month.”

Before the unfamiliar, slightly hissing voice finished speaking, Ardan grabbed a knife from the table and spun around. He was definitely shocked by what he saw.

At first, he’d even thought he had imagined the voice entirely.

“I’m down here, good sir. A little lower.”

Ardi slowly lowered his gaze, and there, near the wardrobe, standing tall with impeccable military posture, was… a cat.

Ardan even rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. In his room, in the heart of the Empire, within the Palace of the Kings of the Past, stood a cat in an amusing green uniform adorned with a few obviously handmade tin medals and belted with a wide strap, wearing flamboyant red boots decorated with olhma (an old Galessian pattern his mother had shown him as a child), and a slender, elegant saber at his waist.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the cat, clicking his heels together and flicking his long, fluffy tail in a graceful bow. “My name is Poplar, a drengr from the valiant Warband of Tail and Paws, at your service, my good sir.”

A drengr from a warband... If Ardi remembered his history lessons correctly, “drengrs” were once warriors who served the kings and princes of Gales. His mother had sometimes sung songs about them. They were also called dirges. But they’d never had a name for the warbands…

“Hello, Mr. Poplar,” Ardi replied, realizing with sudden clarity that the strange cat was speaking not in the language of beasts, but in flawless Galessian, without the slightest trace of an accent.

And that was only possible if the cat had been born and raised in the Metropolis or its immediate surroundings.

The cat bowed again and began to pace around the room, studying it with great interest. Ardi, in turn, studied the cat.

At first glance, he looked like an ordinary forest cat. He had thick, gray fur with black stripes, clearly freshly shed, and now serving as a perfect coat. He also had long, white whiskers, perked up ears, a slightly pointed snout, and paws with tufts of stiff fur between the claws, which were meant to help him walk across the snow without getting cold.

A typical cat, one might say. Except for the fact that he was larger, heavier, and — by the Sleeping Spirits! — talking in the human language.

Ardi, as Skusty had taught him, allowed his eyes to see a little further, his nose to smell a little more. Immediately, his mind was flooded with colors, shapes, and scents beyond human comprehension, but he endured it, and after a few moments, he saw a familiar shimmer in the cat’s shadow, and his nose was hit by the scent of decaying pine needles and moss.

Shaking his head, Ardi dispelled the vision and returned his senses to their “normal” state.

“You’re the son of a Vila,” he exhaled, instantly regretting that he didn’t have any silver dust or lovage on him. The scrolls of Atta’nha had said that these two things worked best against Vilas.

The cat spun sharply and regarded Ardi with slightly more curiosity than before.

“A Vila…” Poplar repeated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that word. But you, good sir, are quite right in your guess. My mother was indeed a Vila. My father, in his youth and foolishness, stole her wings and made her a mortal cat. She bore me along with my brothers and sisters, but the hunters…” The cat hesitated and turned away, “of the entire litter, I’m the only one left.”

Ardan pulled a chair over for the cat to sit beside him, and Poplar, amusingly enough, stretched out his front paws, grasped the backrest like a human, and climbed into the seat, his booted paws dangling over the edge.

Vilas were one of the peoples of the Fae. In different kingdoms and principalities, they were called different things: fairies, dryads, nymphs, but Ardi had always preferred the Galessian term — “Vilas.” It sounded… nicer, somehow.

Overall, these beings, despite their rather capricious nature, weren’t known for cruelty or treachery, though they could certainly cause trouble. They usually lived within a ten-kilometer radius of any area where no mortal settlements existed — whether they were human, elf, dwarf, orc, or otherwise, it didn’t matter.

Vilas could reside in rivers, trees, flower buds, or even in the wind. And only a few times a year did they take on a physical form, appearing to those who saw them in whatever form the observer most desired.

The Firstborn and humans saw them as beautiful men and women with wings, while animals saw them as their own kind, but also winged. On the days when Vilas took on flesh, if someone stole their wings (the scrolls hadn’t specified how, exactly, but it wasn’t hard to guess), the Vilas would become mortal and marry their captor.

But such unions were doomed to sorrowful ends, for once a Vila lost the ability to return to their kind, they lived solely for the purpose of regaining their wings and walking again on the paths invisible to mortals.

Atta’nha had always warned Ardi, when he was still young and unfamiliar with the spring rut, to not be like so many other young Speakers, thinking they could bind a Vila’s essence with the power of Words and then hunt for their wings, no matter how beautiful they might be.

“The hunters, may their names be forgotten for their dishonor, brought me here to the capital and planned to sell me at an illegal auction,” Poplar continued. “But I managed to escape. Mother, though she didn’t truly love us, shared a few secret songs with us before she stole back her wings. Mine didn’t work as well as my sister’s, but I managed something.” The cat sniffed and twitched his ears, casting his green-eyed gaze out the window. “I wandered the streets, small and weak, and thought that I might end up treading the paths of the Sleeping Spirits, but then the Little Mistress found me. She took me into her house, hid me from her family, nursed me, fed me, cared for me, and even made me a drengr.”

At these words, the cat puffed out his chest, making his homemade medals jingle.

“And now…” Poplar suddenly cut himself off, hissed, and leaped to his feet, drawing his saber. Astonishingly, he held it comfortably in his right paw, and his claws, after lengthening, began to resemble tiny fingers.

“Good sir, how dare you! The Witch’s Gaze?! You made me pour out my soul to you like some witless fool! This is a disgrace and an insult! I am compelled to challenge you to a duel to the death!”

With a flourish of his saber, the cat pulled off one of his gloves from his belt and tossed it onto the table in front of Ardi. For a moment, Ardi struggled to keep from laughing, both from the absurdity of the whole situation and from the sight of the tiny, white glove made for cat paws sitting on the table. He slowly rose and bowed his head.

“Noble Poplar, drengr of the Warband of Tail and Paws, I beg your forgiveness for what happened. Unfortunately, I do not yet have control over my Witch’s Gaze, and sometimes, those who speak with me experience what just happened to you. I offer you my sincere and deepest apologies, but I cannot yet influence what has occurred.”

The cat stared at him for a moment.

“At first, it felt to me like you were trying to make excuses, biped who smells of a mountain cat,” Poplar hissed, baring his fangs. “And I began to think that the Little Mistress had made a poor choice, but the instinct I inherited from my father tells me that’s not the case… Will you swear on your honor and the names of your ancestors that you had no intention of prying into my soul?”

“I swear it,” Ardan replied calmly.

The cat scrutinized him a bit longer, then sheathed his saber and, hopping onto the table, picked up the glove with the tip of his boot, returning it to its twin. He then perched on the windowsill and… for a moment, licked his tail.

“Forgive me, good sir,” he said a little sheepishly after he finished cleaning himself. “I always do that when I get too worked up.”

“No harm done,” Ardi muttered, grateful to the Sleeping Spirits that he didn’t burst out laughing.

“And yet, my good sir,” Poplar frowned, “the fact that you cannot control your power does not absolve you of responsibility. Such incidents are dishonorable and unworthy of a righteous man. One day, if you don’t learn to control your Witch’s Gaze, you may well be killed.”

Ardan sighed. If only Poplar knew how many times he had heard that exact warning in the past few months…

“My name is Ard Egobar,” the young man introduced himself. “But I suspect you already knew that, noble Poplar. I suspect Anastasia sent you-”

“The Grand Princess Anastasia,” the cat corrected, once again placing his paw on the hilt of his saber. “And yes, I knew your name, Ard, but since you hadn’t introduced yourself to me personally yet, I had no right to address you directly. That would have been beneath me and dishonorable!”

Ardan hadn’t heard so much talk about honor, nobility, and righteousness even in Grandfather’s stories of knights from the past.

“Now that we’ve been introduced, Poplar, might you tell me why you’ve come here?”

“Certainly,” the cat nodded, rising to his feet, licking his paw-hand a couple of times, smoothing the fur between his ears, and finally clearing his throat. “The Grand Princess regrets that she cannot spend time with you personally, but since you agreed to be her friend, she offers to correspond with you by letter.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Ardi glanced out the window, then back at the cat, and again out the window.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Poplar, but how will you deliver my letters to the palace and back again if I don’t even know…”

Ardi trailed off, but there was no need to finish that sentence. It was easy to understand that the young man had no idea where he might be in the next hour, let alone what potential fixed address he might acquire soon.

Yes, Mart had mentioned that letters could be sent to the dormitory, but something told Ardi that a talking cat in a military uniform and red boots would hardly go unnoticed by the dormitory’s inhabitants.

“Don’t worry about that,” Poplar smiled, kicking his legs a little. “These boots… I made them myself. They hold the songs of my mother. So…”

The cat clicked his heels together, and in an instant, he disappeared. It was as if he had never been there at all.

“... I can always find you, Ard, no matter where you are,” came the voice behind him.

Ardi turned around and saw Poplar sitting atop the wardrobe, his tail swaying back and forth.

Of course. Fae magic. The Fae not only possessed remarkable skill in the art of the Aean’Hane, but also their inherent magic. It was like the wings on birds, the tails on fish, or the quills of porcupines — something intrinsic to the Fae, part of their very essence.

Vilas, for instance, could traverse vast distances along their paths in mere moments. It was their Aean’Hane that had built those special roads, the ones that could cross the Alcade in just a few hours or days. But after the war between Ectassus and Gales, most of those paths had been destroyed, sealed, or forgotten.

Ardan suspected that when he’d encountered the mountain troll, he had unwittingly walked one of those forgotten paths.

“If you agree to the Little Mistress’ proposal,” the cat said, jumping down from the wardrobe and landing silently, “I’ll visit you twice a month — on the tenth and the twenty-fifth.”

He approached Ardi and extended his right paw-hand. And since Ardan had indeed promised to be the Princess’ friend, he had little choice in the matter.

All those who had raised him — his father, mother, great-grandfather, Ergar, Atta’nha, and his forest friends — had all agreed on one thing: a person’s word was their most valuable possession.

Ardi bent slightly and extended his hand to shake the paw, but instead, Poplar flicked his claw, scratching Ardi’s palm and instantly licking away the drop of blood.

“Now I can always find you,” the cat said, bowing again and clicking his heels. “Until we meet again, friend of the Little Mistress.”

Those last words were spoken by seemingly empty air. The cat was gone.

Ardan shrugged, about to return to his desk in order to resume studying the Stranger’s work, when he caught a faint scent. It hovered on the edge of his awareness, sly and insidious, like a mosquito that buzzed around, waiting to feed on the blood of an exhausted traveler trying to sleep.

A familiar scent.

It was the smell of a swamp after rain and landslides, where the stench of decaying unfortunates trapped in the mire mingled with the blooms of lilies — a mixture of something repulsive to the point of nausea, yet equally alluring and captivating.

It was the smell of a Fae who had not sworn allegiance to either Summer or Winter. Ardi had caught this scent a few times while hunting in the forest swamps, but due to Atta’nha’s lessons, each time he had smelled something like this on the horizon, he had immediately left the path and run as fast as his legs could carry him.

Homeless Fae didn’t follow the “code of Sidhe honor,” and their essence was ever-changing. Many eventually transformed into beings that people referred to as demons.

And it was one thing for his sharp nose to pick up that scent in the Alcade, but another thing entirely for it to happen here. “I’m in the heart of the Metropolis,” Ardi whispered, turning once again toward the door.

Atta’nha had always taught him that when he became a fully-fledged hunter, if he truly considered himself a Speaker walking the righteous paths, his duty upon encountering the Homeless Fae would be to scare them away from his home territory.

“I’ve been told several times not to leave this room,” Ardi reminded himself, adding after a pause, “and besides, this isn’t my home territory.”

Nodding at his own reasoning and wiping away the cold sweat that had formed on his brow, the young man returned to the table and…

“But then why did you grab your staff?” He asked himself after realizing that his right hand was gripping the warm, slightly rough surface of his oak staff.

He stood still for a few moments in confusion, then turned back toward the door. “You’re definitely going to regret this,” he whispered quietly.

And of that, the young man was certain. But he was equally certain that if he left things as they were, he would spend at least the next few months, if not an entire year, recalling this moment and berating himself for his cowardice.

“Damn adventures,” Ardi hissed. “Why can’t I just spend a few dozen evenings in a good library instead of this…?”

His mind made up, he approached… No, not the door. He approached the darkest corner of the room, where even the midday sun and lit oil lamps never cast any light.

There, the darkness lurked, undefeated and unquestioned in its reign since it had first settled on its now lawfully-claimed territory.

In simpler terms: Ardi approached the wall and, bending down, pressed his cheek to the floor, peering into the space beneath the wardrobe.

He reached out with his hand, extending it as far as he could, and when he touched the spot that even the maids’ mops and brooms had never reached, he froze and, following Skusty’s teachings, opened his mind to the surrounding world.

He could feel a sticky, slightly cold, frightened substance, like a timid kitten trying to move away from the foreign warmth of his fingers. Ardi whispered words he had learned from the scrolls of the she-wolf.

In those words, there were no sounds — only images. Ones of calm, tranquility, and the promise of oblivion. This was exactly what the impartial darkness carried with it, the kind of thing that no one ever feared or longed for. It was a different kind of darkness, not the one used to scare children.

And the small, frightened streak of darkness responded to Ardi’s call, wrapping around his fingers like a cold, barely-perceptible silk veil.

Carefully, the young man lifted his hand, raised the darkness before him, and cloaked himself in it like a mantle. The world around him instantly dulled and dimmed, and Ardi coughed, nearly losing focus.

He had never used the art of the Aean’Hane as often as he had in the past few months. He hadn’t needed it on the hunters’ trails, and in Evergale, there hadn’t been much opportunity for him to employ it.

“Calm down,” he whispered to himself.

Breathing more steadily, Ardan stood tall, feeling the shroud of darkness draped over his shoulders, and approached the door. He couldn’t close his eyes, and he tried not to blink too often so as to avoid losing sight of the true world beneath the veil of what the untrained eye could perceive. Luckily, after the exercises he’d done in the Anorsky manor, he had learned how to separate the “crucial details” from the “big picture.”

Back when he’d played those games with Skusty, Ardi had only been able to hold this kind of vision for a few minutes. He could only hope that his training with Star Magic had indeed improved his Aean’Hane skills because if he lost focus and stopped seeing the world as it truly was, the Cloak of Darkness (or, as Star Mages called it, the “Eye-averting Cloak”) would instantly dissipate.

Reaching the door, Ardi carefully pulled the handle down and, muttering a prayer to the Sleeping Spirits, stepped into the corridor. In its true form, it was no different from what others saw. But that was not surprising, given how often it was cleaned and how rarely anything out of the ordinary happened here.

Stepping carefully along the edge of the carpet and avoiding it with his shoes while also making sure not to step on the parquet with his heels, Ardi headed to where the scent of the Factionless Fae was beckoning him.

And every time he saw people passing by — be they servants engaged in endless cleaning, polishing the suits of armor until they gleamed and scrubbing the gossamer tapestries, or patrolling guards, the only ones in the palace carrying weapons — Ardan froze.

While the Cloak of Darkness diverted attention from him, that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t notice footprints suddenly appearing on the carpet — which was why he avoided stepping on anything but the edges of the deep pile carpet — or hear the clacking of heels — hence his avoidance of the parquet with them — or even hear his breathing.

Unfortunately, not breathing was not an option, so he had to breathe very slowly and carefully.

Thus, weaving through the intricate corridors and hoping he could remember their twists and turns well enough not to get lost on the way back, Ardan spent nearly half an hour wandering the palace.

Sometimes, he had to freeze in place and, out of boredom, he began listening to the conversations of the servants and guards.

He wasn’t eavesdropping — just listening! Or so he told himself.

“What do you think? If the Emperor ordered the construction of new military shipyards, does that mean…” One of the maids glanced around nervously before whispering to her colleague, “…we’re preparing for war?”

“I don’t know, Maria,” her colleague shrugged, continuing to wipe down an already spotless dresser. “But if that’s the case, now’s the time to find yourself a handsome officer. One who drinks less than most and doesn’t itch for every skirt.”

Maria, the first maid, turned away and pursed her lips.

“My younger brother will soon reach conscription age.”

“Is he planning to be an officer?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not interested.”

“Oh, go to hell...”

The maids drifted off, and Ardan continued on his way. Soon, guards came into view, not straying far from the grand doors adorned with gold and the imperial crest. They seemed to mark a boundary between different wings of the palace.

“He pardoned them,” grumbled the older guard on the right — a tall, thin man in his forties, with a broken nose and a slightly crooked lower jaw. “But if you ask me, he shouldn’t have even lifted the restrictions for non-humans. They used to live up north, out of sight, and everyone was better off for it.”

“You shouldn’t use the term ‘non-humans’ anymore, Velislav,” the younger guard on the left said, shaking his head. He was much younger, but still bore the scars of war across his face: deep, jagged marks that crossed his cheeks and temple, ones that had clearly been stitched not with thread, but horsehair, if the stories of the Cloaks were to be believed.

“What do you mean I shouldn’t use that term anymore?” Velislav asked.

“It’s ‘Firstborn’ now,” the younger man reminded him.

“My elder brother was first borned,” Velislav snorted, “and he was trampled to death by the hooves of the Armondo cavalry. And I didn’t see any damn elves or bastard orcs there with him. And the dwarves sure weren’t smoking their cigars beside him. They were probably tossing coins at the cabaret stage while my first borned brother choked on his own blood with pierced lungs.”

“Dwarves and their riches…” The younger man shook his head. “You sound just like the Tavsers.”

“And so what if I find that their pamphlets have gotten some things right?” Velislav growled. “Our ancestors didn’t shed blood and sweat to shake off the yoke of Ectassus just so we could build… What do you call it again?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, by the Eternal Angels, that thing you young folk like to call it…”

“A just society?”

“That’s it!” Velislav snapped his fingers. “Exactly. A just, damn it all, society. That justice of yours smells like dung. There’s never been anything just in this world, except for maybe the fact that we’re all going to die.”

“Except for the elves?” The younger man smirked. “They live for centuries.”

“Ah, fuck them in their dainty throats,” Velislav waved him off.

“Hey, I’ve always wanted to ask: where did you pick up that phrase, ‘fuck them in the throat?’ And why do you use it for everything?”

“Have I not told you before? I had a sergeant in my company, and he…”

Realizing that their conversation might never end, Ardan carefully approached the cabinet and, trying not to make any unnecessary movements, knocked a candlestick off it.

“Damnation!”

“Face of Light’s shit!”

The guards, more out of surprise than fear, jumped where they stood and, exchanging a look, drew their sabers and moved toward the fallen silverware. Ardi, invisible to their eyes, slipped past them and, praying that the door hinges had been cared for as meticulously as everything else, cracked the door open.

There was no creak or squeak.

Praise the Sleeping Spirits...

Slipping inside, Ardan found himself in… another corridor. It was indistinguishable from the one he had just left and the ones he had been wandering through for the past while. Except here, there were no guards or servants, as evidenced by the absence of the characteristic smell of boot polish applied to military boots, and the powders and perfumes the maids used on their necks.

Still maintaining his earlier caution and doing his best not to blink more than necessary, Ardan continued moving toward the source of the scent. With every step, it drew closer, tightening around him like deep, suffocating tendrils.

At some point, Ardi even felt as though he himself was the unfortunate one trapped in the mire, someone who was now futilely struggling and sinking deeper into it. And it was then that he realized that he’d found the right place.

Standing near a slightly ajar door, the young man froze for a moment.

“It’s too late to wonder if this was the right decision,” he reminded himself and peeked inside.

As soon as he did so, he knew it had been a terrible idea, and from now on, he would do well to heed Yonatan’s advice and not get involved where he didn’t belong.

The walls of this room were covered in dark, crackling roots. They writhed and intertwined like a nest of snakes, merging and tangling like the matted hair of a drowned woman. But upon closer inspection, it became clear that these weren’t roots — they were legs. Flexible and jointless, like earthworms or larvae, they covered everything they touched, converging somewhere near the ceiling in a haze of buzzing shadows, simultaneously resembling an owl, a spider, and a dead bush battered by winter hail.

The four bright eyes on the creature’s face glowed with an unnatural, golden light, staring down at a shriveled, small figure resembling a doll.

Ardi nearly squeezed his eyes shut at the sight, but he managed to maintain focus. The stench of swamp and rot struck his nose like a heavy fist. Ardi also felt a veil that prevented those unskilled in the art of Aean'Hane from getting close enough to hear or see anything.

“So, we’ve lost this battle.”

“Yes, my Master,” the doll-like figure bowed. “The Shanti’Ra betrayed us.”

“The steppe orcs and the Matabar have always had close ties, so that’s predictable and not surprising,” the Homeless Fae’s voice oozed like squelching, sucking mud, or like the snout of a scavenger rooting through the foul remains of long-dead prey. “And yet, I had hoped we could make a prick from this angle against the Emperor.”

That last word was spat out with such venom that it seemed like merely saying it was distasteful to the creature.

“You seem remarkably calm about this, my Master.”

“Do I have reason to be concerned?” The Homeless Fae chuckled. “The Matabar cub is just one pawn in a game with far more pieces than even you, my faithful servant, can imagine. That we failed to use him as planned changes nothing in the grand scheme of things. We’ll set him aside for now. Our loyal allies can keep an eye on him, but with no particular zeal.”

“But the report from the Second Chancery-”

“If I worried about every cowardly fledgling with some talent in the arts of the Aean’Hane and Star Magic, I’d have gone mad long ago.”

“But this fledgling is a descendant of Aror.”

“Aror,” the creature snorted. “Aror was blind, deaf, and dumb. He never saw beyond his ridiculous notions of honor and nobility. And now he’s dead. And I’m alive. What do I care about his whelp… I’m sure that after the New Year, he’ll tuck his tail between his legs and return home to his family.”

“And what should we do about them?”

“Nothing,” the creature hissed. “The Colonel suspects something… I don’t want to give him more reason to think about this. Leave everything related to the Egobars alone for now. Call off your people from Delpas today – it makes absolutely no sense for us to be there now. There’s no need to spread our resources too thin… Meanwhile, let’s focus on the other pieces on the board. How are our plans for…”

Suddenly, the Homeless Fae fell silent, its four eyes shifting toward the door. Ardi, who was still cloaked in darkness, stepped back, but as he did so, his little finger caught on the doorframe, and a sharp flash of pain, combined with everything he had just heard, caused him to lose focus.

“You didn’t close the door, servant,” a perfectly ordinary human voice stated.

“Yes, my Master,” responded a voice that was no longer doll-like.

Ardi, holding his breath, stood pressed against the wall, listening to the approaching footsteps of the man. And just before the door closed, Ardan caught a glimpse of the figure sitting at a massive, black piano. Outwardly, he was a simple man — except for the missing ring finger on his right hand.

Once the door shut, Ardan, still as carefully and silently as possible, removed his shoes and, lifting his staff, tiptoed toward the exit.

One single thought hammered within his mind:

“Why… Why did you do it…? You were told not to leave the room!”

And yet, he had left it, and as a result, he had witnessed proof of something he had only suspected before — someone had tried to prevent his arrival in the capital, but not for the reasons Ardan had assumed.

It had had nothing to do with his lineage, and everything to do with the fact that his death would have been a mere prick to the Emperor. Just a simple, thoughtless jab. And that was all his life was worth.

Sleeping Spirits…

Reaching the doors leading out of the corridor, Ardan glanced at the guards, who were still discussing how the candlestick could have fallen over.

Putting his shoes back on and gripping his staff, Ardan sighed and shook his head. He didn’t even need to try — he knew he wouldn’t be able to weave the Cloak of Darkness again. He didn’t have the strength to use the art of the Aean’Hane so often in one day. And that meant only one thing:

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Ardan said, intentionally stumbling over his own feet and nearly tumbling into the corridor. “Oops… ah… um… excuse me… hic… Oh, I need… back… there… um…”

He could only hope his performance, which was mimicking the regulars at saloons who’d had too much whiskey or vodka, would be convincing.

“Another one,” Velislav grumbled. “He’s gotten so drunk he’s lost his regalia.”

“Reg… reg… regalia?” Ardan hiccupped, leaning against the wall and hiding his face in the folds of shadow. “What does… hic… regalia have to do… Oh… stones?”

“Tallit,” Velislav called out to the younger guard. “Help the good mage find his quarters.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re younger, and sober mages irritate me enough without adding drunk ones into the mix.”

“And who doesn’t irritate you, Velislav?”

The younger guard approached Ardan and hoisted the young man’s left arm over his shoulder.

“Hefty, aren’t you,” he grunted.

“You don’t irritate me, Tallit,” Velislav’s lips twitched. “When I can’t see your ugly face.”

“Go to hell,” Tallit snapped and turned to Ardan. “Do you remember where you’re going, sir mage?”

“Of course, hic…” Ardan nodded, still keeping his face hidden. “Over… hic… there.”

And he pointed his staff toward… the window.

“I see,” the younger guard sighed. “Let’s go then… We’ll find it.”

They were about to set off, wandering through the corridors. Just when Ardan had thought that the danger had passed, the older guard suddenly called out to his partner.

“Tallit!”

Time seemed to slow, and Ardan’s heart thundered so loudly it must have echoed throughout the Metropolis. Seconds stretched into what felt like years and…

“Call your relief if you’re going to take a while,” Velislav grumbled. “There should always be two of us on duty.”

“I know that without you telling me.”

With those parting words, they continued on their way, and after about ten minutes, they arrived — Ardan now knew that there were far shorter routes to the guest wing than the one he had taken.

When they reached the door to his room, Ardan “slid” off the guard’s shoulder and, patting him on the back, reached for the brass handle.

“Sir mage?”

“Hmm… hic?” Ardan mumbled, pressing his face against the doorframe.

He gripped his staff so tightly that… He had no idea why he did it. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if the guard had recognized him — perhaps he had seen him at the ball — or if he asked some unnecessary question or… A thousand other such “ors” came to mind.

“Until you sober up, it would be best for you not to go out again,” the guard spoke from behind him. “In this labyrinth, you can get lost even after years of service. And that’s while you’re sober.”

“Ah… yes… yes… hic… Mmm… yes…”

And with that, Ardan slipped into his room, shut the door, and slowly, nearly gasping for breath, slid down the wall, trying to calm his pounding heart.

Hundreds of thoughts swirled in his mind, but one rang louder than the others: the warnings he had been given were no exaggeration.

He couldn’t afford to stick his neck out, and not just from his room, but anywhere. And most importantly, next time, he might not get so lucky.

Ardan was fully aware that his acting skills weren’t enough to fool even the naivest and trusting of people. So, the only reason he had succeeded today was due to the fact that the palace was in the midst of celebrations that were being attended by guests of great importance, and the guards, having likely encountered more than one inebriated visitor over the past few nights, hadn’t paid him much attention.

And then…

That Homeless Fae. Or perhaps he wasn’t a Fae at all, because without the Sight, he looked like an ordinary man, albeit missing a finger. Which, according to Atta’nha’s scrolls, should have been impossible, and…

“This doesn’t concern me,” Ardi shook his head, then remembered what he had overheard. “Well… it doesn’t concern me anymore. And yet, he was talking about my mother and brother, but they’re under the crown’s protection… And the rest of it… Well, that’s a problem for tomorrow.”

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!