Matabar

Ardi breathed in the fragrance of grass just barely waking from its slumber. The blades of grass swayed, yawning toward the slow-moving, fluffy clouds that meandered lazily across the swiftly-brightening, blue expanse of a sky that suddenly seemed so much higher than before. The little hunter raised a hand over his head, shading his face from the piercing rays of the Eye of the Spirit of the Day.

A hand...

The little hunter still wasn't accustomed to this strange, faintly familiar word.

"What do you hear, Ardi?" A low, growling voice broke the silence.

But the little hunter wasn't frightened in the least. On the contrary, he merely squeezed his eyes shut, smiling, and almost purred like a forest cat. Nestling against the slightly coarse and yet pleasantly warm fur, he burrowed his hands and body into the she-wolf's pelt.

She was massive — larger than even Guta — and so the she-wolf carried him easily through the towering pines and firs that swayed in rhythm with the lively, carefree wind that brought with it tales from distant lands.

Ardi told her of the steppes, where blossoms unfurled and the tremulous wings of bees quivered in haste to reach their precious buds. Laughing, the wind brought with it the babbling songs of streams, which, overcome with their own joy, shattered the thinning ice. The crackling of breaking frost echoed over the forest, shaking off the final moments of winter's languor.

Beasts and birds, rodents and adders, beetles and gnats — all of them swarmed, chittered, buzzed, and darted about in an endless chorus.

Even the earth beneath their feet, heavy and silent, sighed in contentment, welcoming yet another turn of the eternal dance of the seasons, a cycle unbroken in the dream of the Sleeping Spirits.

Ardi Spoke the words he had heard in the sounds of budding spring, those tiny shards he'd caught from the whispers of the faint melody awakening in the Alcade.

"Good," rumbled Atta'nha. "Never forget, my dear friend, to Listen to everything around you. Never separate one thing from another."

"Of course, fluffy wolf!" The little hunter laughed.

Flipping himself over, he threw his arms around Atta'nha's mighty neck and, as Guta had taught him, yanked with all his weight. Of course, if the she-wolf hadn't allowed it, his efforts would have achieved nothing.

They tumbled together down the hillside. Ardi laughed, pushing off mounds of dirt and trees, and leaping over bushes that seemed eager to snag him with their prickles.

Nearby, Atta'nha's teeth clicked. Rolling in a funny ball, she snapped her jaws close to his sides and shoulders. Occasionally, when she caught him, her bites left shallow scratches on his flesh, making Ardi shriek with joy, and he cheered every time he managed to evade her fangs.

For Atta'nha, the greater challenge seemed to be not harming her little friend during their game, rather than catching him. But the little hunter didn't notice this in the least.

Finally, kicking up clouds of dust, they landed in a hollow. The she-wolf got there first, with Ardi flopping onto her soft belly. Atta'nha pinned him down with her paws, which swiftly began to shift into hands.

White fur grayed and receded into flesh that rippled faintly like the sky after a wild, white fire had passed.

And now Atta'nha embraced him in her second form. Beside her lay a staff carved from enchanted wood that had come from the gardens of the City on the Hill, a diadem rested on her brow, and a medallion shimmered faintly on her chest.

Ardi snuggled against her shoulder, as if trying to wrap himself tighter in her warm embrace.

The wolf-woman pulled him closer, resting her head atop his own. For some reason, the gesture felt familiar to Ardi. As though someone, somewhere, had done this to him before. It hurt, just a little.

"Atta'nha?"

"What is it, my little friend?" The wolf-woman whispered.

"Why can't you just tell me the names you ask me to hear?"

"Because it cannot be done," she replied thoughtfully.

"Why not?"

"Because if I tried to make you hear what I can hear, you would die, my little friend."

"Why?"

"Because your mind is too fragile to withstand it."

"How do I make it stronger?"

"Listen to the world around you. That will be enough."

Ardi always felt fortunate that, out of all his forest friends, at least Atta'nha could endure his endless stream of questions. Skusty would start joking at some point, Guta would climb a tree, Shali would hide in the grass, and Ergar…@@novelbin@@

The little hunter rubbed his ribs. Asking his Teacher questions was interesting, but it could also be quite painful. As for Lenos and Kaishas, he saw them far less often and never had enough time to properly chat with them.

"But it takes so long!" The little hunter grumbled.

"Yes," the wolf-woman nodded slightly, her chin fur tickling his forehead. "Many cycles will pass before you hear what will become part of your Name."

"Part of my Name?"

"Exactly." Atta'nha brushed her cheek against his, making him laugh at the tickling sensation. "The names you hear will become part of your own. Part of you."

"But that's so long…" Ardi pouted. "And Listening is hard… Can't it be done faster?"

"No," she replied a bit more sternly.

Ardi fell silent. Nearly ten visits from the Spirit of the Night ago, the little hunter had stumbled upon an old scroll in Atta'nha's lair, hidden in a far corner inside a small box. How had he found it? Oh, that story could have been one of the greatest legends of the Alcade if not for the fact that Ardi had simply run out of paper and, while looking for more, had knocked over the entire collection of books and scrolls onto himself.

So, in truth, there was nothing legendary about it, but Ardi liked to think otherwise.

The scroll hadn't been written on paper, but on a strange hide that reminded him of his own skin, but somehow dry and peculiar. And it had been written in blood.

From it, the little hunter had learned about other names. Dark Names. These were easier to discern than the names of the world around them. The world would hide itself from the Speaker, using the veil of what the eyes see, the ears hear, and the body feels. Both the world and the Speaker had to overcome much to connect their hearts, for it was the heart of the Speaker that truly Listened.

But Dark Names… These names were entirely different. They had resided in the heart since birth: rage, envy, greed. And many others. If one didn't listen to them, nothing terrible would happen.

"Ardan!"

The wolf-woman's sudden, stern cry jolted the little hunter out of his thoughts.

Her powerful hand-paws seized his shoulders, lifted him to his feet, and spun him around in mid-air, planting him firmly on the ground. Atta'nha turned him toward her, and in her once-soft and caring eyes burned something Ardi had never seen before — not even in Ergar's gaze when he had battled other hunters for the trails.

"Did you read it?" The wolf-woman's growl silenced the sounds of the forest. "Did you read that scroll, Ardan?!"

Animals stilled, birds folded their wings, and even insects hid among the branches and grass.

"I…"

"Answer me!" The winds swirled around Ardi, their claws reaching for him, the grass, turning to sharp fangs, brushed his legs menacingly, and the tall trees bent, bristling their branches like hunters' tails.

"I did," the little hunter whispered quietly.

For a moment, he thought that Atta'nha would transform into a massive, snow-white wolf and tear him apart. Icy mist escaped her maw but dissipated before touching him, settling down as droplets of morning dew instead.

The she-wolf calmed down and unexpectedly held him close, clutching him tightly — not out of fear for herself, but for her friend. It was as if she feared something terrible, something irreversible, would happen if she let go.

Once more, Ardi felt as though someone had held him like this long ago.

"Never, do you hear me, my dear friend? Never recall what is written on that scroll," she whispered in his ear.

"Why?" The little hunter couldn't resist his favorite question.

Atta'nha pulled back slightly and, effortlessly turning him around in the air, set him down with his back against her chest.

"Long ago, when the Matabar packs were countless, Ardi, I would come for those who could Speak to lead them to the Queens."

"To the Queens of the Fae?"

Atta'nha nodded gently, treating the little hunter as though he might shatter at her touch.

"And there, on the Day of Darkness in winter, or the Day of Light in summer, among the Aean'Hane, the Speaker would slowly forget their trails," the wolf-woman continued. "And become one of us. One of the Fae."

"But you're not a Fae, are you?" The little hunter was surprised. "I thought you were a wolf."

"I can be whatever I wish to be," she stroked his hair with her paw, "as can you, my dear friend. But whatever I choose to be, it does not change the fact that I was born from the winds of cold winters and moonless nights. Born as the daughter of our Winter Queen. My song began in the magnificent City on the Hill and, one day, it will end there, too."

"I… I don't understand," Ardi sighed, defeated.

At last, Atta'nha smiled, though it was faint and tinged with sadness. But even that was enough to make the little hunter happy. The important thing was that she seemed to feel lighter. Otherwise, why would her eyes have glistened and her heart creaked like the awakening streams? Her heart was big and warm — not wintery at all. Ardi knew that much for sure!

"Don't recall what's written on the scroll, my dear friend, or you'll walk different paths. Paths taken by the Homeless who wander too long in the darkness," she whispered while stroking his hair. His thoughts quieted, and his mind began sinking into the abyss of the Sleeping Spirits. "I won't lock away what you've read, as Ergar has already sealed what's hidden from you now. I won't take away your free will, my little friend. Just… don't listen to them. The Dark Names. Don't listen to them, so you can never turn into a shadow. The world wouldn't survive if you were to wear the darkness, my dear friend. Not you…"

***

Ardi struggled to open his eyes. It was as if he were lifting entire glaciers rather than just his eyelids. He was lying on a table in a closed room within "Bruce's." The very same table where, last year, Tess had stitched up Lisa.

And now…

With a faint cough, Ardan turned his head to the side. Among crumpled, blood-stained bandages, smelling sharply of alcohol, lay Tess, still clutching surgical scissors in her hands. Her fiery red hair had fanned out across the scattered gauze, and she breathed softly in her sleep.

Ardi, trying not to wake her, rasped as he raised a hand to touch his chest. His fingers encountered the tight binding of bandages wound securely over his ribs. Above them hung pendants: a totem shaped like an oak tree, which was now marked by a semicircular dent and several cracks along its trunk. Next to it dangled Ergar's fang, also cracked and partially broken.

"If someone had told me that trinkets could stop a bullet," came a familiar voice from the corner, "I'd have thought they were spinning me… telling me, I mean, a tall tale."

Arkar, nursing a nearly-empty bottle of not-so-cheap whiskey, smirked crookedly, his shirt stained with blood.

"My head… it's pounding," Ardi rasped.

"No anesthetics on hand, so we had to make do with this," the half-orc gestured with the bottle. "Hope you don't mind."

Ardan leaned back onto the rolled-up pants serving as his makeshift pillow. Breathing was a struggle, and every inhale sent a sharp pain through not just his bones and muscles, but somewhere deeper inside him as well.

"Ard?" Tess stirred, blinking as she focused on him.

"Thank you," he croaked again.

She smiled faintly, just the corners of her lips lifting. Then, without warning, she swung her arm and stabbed the scissors into the table mere centimeters from his ear.

"Hey, don't ruin the furniture!" Arkar shouted.

"Next time, you can stitch yourself up!" Tess snapped, her green eyes blazing like fire. She leaped to her feet, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind her with enough force to make the walls shake.

Ardi watched her go, his expression a mixture of confusion and resignation.

"Women," Arkar shrugged, bottle in one hand. "But you, Matabar, better make sure there isn't a next time. Your hole… I mean, your ass, won't survive it."

"The first time wasn't planned either, orc," Ardan shot back, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

They fell silent. Outside the door, the typical nighttime noise of the city filtered in: voices, laughter, clinking glasses. People were eating, talking, drinking, and celebrating. The normalcy of it all felt strange — knowing what lay behind the glittering surface of the Metropolis and its proud citizens, and also seeing how oblivious they were to the fragility of their "tomorrow." It was as delicate as the porcelain plates they heaped their meals on.

"How long have I been out?"

"Not long," Arkar informed him. He glanced at his wristwatch. "It's half past ten now."

They'd left Peter's place around six, so about four and a half hours had passed. The inherent flaw of Star Healing was its demand for proportional energy — the longer the delay after an injury, the greater the power required for a full recovery. Not to mention the fact that the severity of the damage itself mattered. For a full restoration, Ardi would have needed a Five-Star healer at least, and around sixty rays of energy.

Yes, his day had been turbulent, to say the least.

First, he'd had an encounter with a Homeless One. Then there was the visit to Oglanov, who'd turned out to be an old acquaintance and who'd informed them about the missing children. And finally…

"Speaker..."

In his mind, Ardi heard the marksman's voice. They had spoken the Fae language, though they'd done so in a manner akin to how Ardan might speak Selkado: mimicked from hearing it somewhere, but with an accent so thick it was barely intelligible.

No, the shooter — or shooteress, which was probably not a word — had not been Fae. Nor were they Factionless or a demon. This had been a human. Or perhaps a Firstborn.

"The shooter-"

"When the shot rang out," Arkar interrupted him, "me and the lads craped out… dashed out, I mean, onto the street. You were bleeding, gasping, and the bastard was already in their automobile. By the time the boys reached their wheels… cars, I mean, they'd already gotten away."

So, no capture, then. If they'd caught the shooter, this whole incident could have been dismissed as a run-of-the-mill cowboy story, the kind told over drinks in some saloon.

"Breathing… hurts," Ardi rasped.

"Not surprising, Matabar," Arkar set the bottle aside, approached the table, and helped Ardan down to the floor.

Every movement sent sharp stabs of pain through his chest, as if a bear had clawed at it. Ardi knew this sensation well from his childhood — it was like lying under a heavy stone, unable to draw breath no matter how hard he tried. And when he finally did manage it, the air burned through his lungs like molten sand, coarse and searing.

"The lead… the bullet, I mean, shattered on impact," Arkar explained, settling Ardan — sweaty and wearing only his underclothes and socks — onto a small couch. "Tess spent all this time pulling the fragments out of you. But the impact also messed up your chest pretty bad. You're in rough shape, but at least your lung didn't collapse. Otherwise, you'd already be walking the hunting trails with your ancestors."

"That's… reassuring," Ardi closed his eyes, trying to relax.

"Here's the thing, hunter," Arkar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Everyone knows this is our territory. Everyone knows you live under our roof. So whoever this was, Matabar, they-"

"It wasn't gangsters," Ardi interrupted. "Or anyone tied to the underworld, for that matter."

Judging by the sounds he heard after saying that, Arkar had turned sharply toward him.

"What makes you say that?" The half-orc demanded. "No, this was an amateur move. They didn't even aim for the noggin… head, I mean. Sure, they ditched the iron, but that doesn't mean squat."

Ardi tried to smile, but winced instead from the pain in his chest.

"It's just a hunch… I'll need to visit Boris and the library to confirm it."

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"Ard, I'm not the best adviser," Arkar said, rising to his feet and heading for the door. "But you might want to think twice before sticking your neck out again for whatever it is you're tangled up in with the Cloaks."

Ardi opened his eyes with immense effort. Arkar grabbed the bottle, gave it a shake, and drained the last of it.

"You-"

"Sleep here," Arkar cut him off. "I'll leave some of the boys at the door — no one will bother you till morning, hunter. Consider it compensation for getting hurt on our turf."

The overseer of the Orcish Jackets left with the empty bottle, heading back to the main room. Ardi closed his eyes once more. Grinding his teeth, wheezing, and growling under his breath, he managed to situate himself on the couch. He pulled his clothes off the table, rolled them into a makeshift pillow, and placed them under his head.

By morning, the pain would ease, but it would take at least a week for his Matabar blood to heal his fractures and mend his wounds. And if Ardi's suspicions were correct, he might not even have that much time.

Tomorrow would mark the twenty-first day of the New Month. The day of the Winter Solstice. The longest night of the year. A time when the Spirit of the Night reigns, and in its steps of darkness, paths are erased.

Or so the Firstborn believed.

The Star Mages knew otherwise. The fact of the matter was that during this time, Ley Line radiation, which was tied to the seasons, surged significantly, amplifying its influence.

What did all these recent events have to do with the rapidly-approaching 21st?

Ardi had his suspicions. But to know for sure, he still needed to talk to Boris and read… a book on history. The history of demonology, to be precise. But it was amusing, in a way, that in his hour of need, what he required wasn't some obscure arcane treatise, but a straightforward — though not publicly accessible — archival record.

As he pondered this, he tried not to move unnecessarily. Soon enough, Ardi closed his eyes and fell into an almost immediate sleep.

***

Waking up in the morning proved scarcely easier than recovering from the injury itself. While his chest no longer burned and breathing came more easily, every awkward movement — every twist of his torso or too-deep inhale — sent waves of aching pain surging through his body.

Groaning like an old man, Ardi pulled on his pants, socks, shoes, and… that was it. The rest of his clothes hadn't survived. And that stung the most. His body would heal, his bones would knit, and the massive bruise spreading across his neck and shoulder would fade. But the clothes — those were gone forever.

Exiting the room into the main area, Ardi squinted briefly, not from any random bright light, but because Arkar was shining a flashlight directly in his face.

The half-orc, dressed in his usual attire — a shirt and jacket sans vest — was rummaging around under the bar. When Ardan had opened the door, Arkar had flinched at the noise and pointed the beam straight at him.

"And good morning to you, too," Ardi muttered.

Without waiting for permission, he approached the wooden levers, grabbed a glass, and pulled one of them down, letting a stream of cool water fill the cup.

Even swallowing caused him as much pain as breathing.

"You'll owe me for that-"

"By law, drinking water must be provided for free in public establishments," Ardi preempted the orc.

"For free? Last night you slept for free on the flat ones… the couches, I mean," Arkar shot back.

Instead of replying, Ardi set the glass down on the counter and shuffled toward the stairs, his steps slow and deliberate.

"Hey, Matabar," Arkar called out while still rummaging under the counter. "You know anything about Ley cables?"

"Only that they transmit Ley energy with variable intensity."

"Uh, what?"

"I don't know either," Ardi admitted, shrugging slightly and instantly regretting the motion. The pain in his chest flared up like an ember. "Why do you ask?"

"Bloody Winter Solstice! Demons take it!" Arkar growled, fumbling with the cables and tools under the bar. "The wiring's either fried, or the accumulator crystals have cracked… The stove in the kitchen's out, and the transformer in the basement's busted. Look!" A clawed hand appeared above the counter, pointing toward the light fixtures. "We've had no power since the middle of the night. And Tess has a concert tonight. The place will be packed…"

Lately, Tess' performances at "Bruce's" had drawn increasingly large crowds. At her last show, the main bar area — designed to accommodate a maximum of seventy patrons — had held upwards of one hundred and twenty. And that didn't count those who'd braved the cold to gather outside the doors.

"Can you help?" The half-orc's tone turned almost pleading.

"I have other matters to attend to," Ardi rasped. "Send for an engineer."

"Really, Matabar? Send for an engineer? How could I have not thought of that with my 'bright' mind…" Arkar grumbled, fiddling with cables, flashlight, and pliers in hand. "And what kind of business do you have with a hole in your chest… wound, I mean?"

"Just a minor errand," Ardi replied dismissively, his words whistling through clenched teeth. Speaking meant breathing, and breathing still felt like being shot again with every word. "I need to catch a demonologist before midnight."

"Ha-ha," Arkar deadpanned. "Very funny, Matabar. If you don't want to help with the stove, just say so. Demonologists…"

It took Ardi nearly fifteen minutes to climb the stairs to his apartment. Once there, he regretted that he couldn't wash properly. He was flushed and drenched with his own sweat.

Instead of a proper wash, Ardan, out of habit, cracked the window open and scooped up a handful of snow to rub over his body, taking care to avoid the bandages. He then dried himself with a rough, patched towel.

Breaking through the ice in the basin with his knife, he rinsed his face, brushed his teeth, and shaved. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to collapse onto his bed and pretend none of this concerned him.

"You can't just leave things as they are," he said to his reflection in the mirror. "And don't talk about how much you hate adventures. I already know that."

His reflection remained silent, as it always did. Maybe that's why Ardi sometimes liked talking to it.

Buttoning up a knitted vest, throwing on his last remaining woolen jacket, and wrapping a scarf around his neck, Ardan, gritting his teeth and groaning softly, pushed his arms into the sleeves of his autumn coat. It wasn't suitable for the season, but unfortunately, it was all he had left.

If the frost struck again, he'd have to spend money on new clothes…

Grabbing his staff, he slung his grimoire on its chain over his shoulder (it had most likely been brought here by Arkar, who had spare keys to all the apartments). Ardi slid his knife into its sheath, tucked a few rounds of ammunition into his right pocket, and a second accumulator into the left. On his finger, he wore the ring.

There likely wouldn't be time to visit the Black House if his suspicions proved correct.

But Ergar had always taught his pupil that a snow leopard could rely only on itself while out on the hunt, unlike other predators that thrived in packs.

"And he also taught me never to hunt prey stronger than myself," Ardi reminded himself, but he still stepped out the door.

Through the small, murky window, the dim gray of dawn gradually gave way to morning light. Winter nights in the Metropolis truly lingered longer than summer days. And now, despite the clock nearing ten, the sun in the southeast was only just beginning its lazy, unhurried ascent through the factory haze and smudged clouds.

Today, the capital would see the shortest day and the longest night. Five hours and fifty-two minutes of light, and eighteen hours and eight minutes of darkness.

Why "darkness" instead of night, considering how the New City and Baliero served as colossal lamps? Because the problem afflicting Arkar's bar was unlikely to be isolated. By nighttime, Ley cables and transformers would begin to fail not just across the Metropolis, but across the entire continent.

Ardi checked his watch and set the small secondary dial for a countdown. Fourteen hours remained.

What would happen when time ran out? Ardan didn't know.

But he sure didn't like what the Homeless Fae had called it: a "harvest."

"Ard?"

The young man looked up and saw Tess. Still wrapped in the same fur coat from before and wearing her well-repaired and carefully polished boots, she looked at him with a mix of surprise and concern.

"Why are you…?"

"Madam Okladov let me leave early so I could rehearse," she explained, holding a simple bag in her mitten-covered hands. Her ears and hair were hidden beneath a slightly worn but warm fur hat.

Ardi was certain that many of Tess' admirers — not just fans of her talent but also of her beauty — had offered her everything from gifts to help of various kinds. Even so, Tess rarely agreed to dates and never accepted assistance. In this, she reminded him of a swift, darting swallow: no matter how far she flew, she always returned to her nest.

"May I pass?" She asked, as had become their little tradition.

"Oh, yes, sorry," he replied, equally in line with their established custom.

He stepped aside as she ascended the stairs. Pausing beside him, she looked into his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I wrestled a bear," Ardi admitted honestly, remembering how, as a child, he'd once had a run-in with a young bear on a hunting trail. The aftermath had left him bedridden in the cave for nearly two weeks, forcing him to endure Ergar's lamenting about having such a weak and useless student.

Of course, later on, he had taught him a clever trick for overcoming foes larger and stronger than himself.

Tess first offered a faint smile, then furrowed her brow, seemingly unsure about whether he was joking or not.

"Ard, I'm not anyone to you — not a friend, not a sister, and certainly, thank the Eternal Angels, not your mother. But take some unsolicited advice all the same: exes aren't worth getting involved with the Orcish Jackets."

She turned and started up the stairs.

"I haven't worked with Arkar since that night," Ardi blurted out, unsure of why he felt the need to explain himself. Perhaps because the idea of Tess being disappointed in him was deeply unpleasant.

The girl froze mid-step and glanced back at him over her shoulder.

"Then… why did someone shoot you?"

And then it hit him. She didn't know. Tess had no idea that Lisa was dead. Nor that Ardi had been cooperating with the Second Chancery. Arkar, who clearly knew about the latter at the very least, hadn't said a word to his prized singer, whose performances brought "Bruce's" two weeks' worth of earnings in a single evening.

"I'm trying to find out," he said, not lying, but not telling the whole truth, either.

"Maybe it has something to do with Boris?" Tess frowned. "Are you heading to see them? To see Boris and Elena? Do you want me to come with you? Just in case. You look like… Well, like you really did wrestle a bear."

She smiled — it was a hesitant, restrained smile — while fiddling with the handles of her bag.

"What about your rehearsal?"

"To hell with it," Tess shrugged without hesitation. "I'll rehearse in the evening, before the performance."

For a few seconds longer than was necessary, Ardi hesitated over how to answer. He genuinely considered saying yes.

"I'll need to head to the Grand later," he finally said, scratching the back of his head with the tip of his staff out of habit.

Once again, he hadn't lied, but neither had he shared the full truth.

"Oh… all right," Tess murmured, nodding with a hint of hesitation before turning back toward the stairs.

And then, as though losing control of his own tongue, Ardi called out: "Wait!"

She stopped and looked back at him.

Sleeping Spirits, why had he stopped her? What was he even going to say?

"Did you want something?" She asked quietly.

A fair question. If only he had an answer for her.

"Let's… Let's go somewhere together on the fifth day and-"

He was fumbling, trying to think of where he could possibly invite a girl like Tess, someone likely unimpressed by conventional outings, given her many admirers.

"Sure," she interrupted before he could finish his awkward invitation.

"What?"

"I'd love to go there, Ard," her eyes gleamed slightly, and her smile widened.

"But I haven't even said where we'd go yet."

"As long as no one will be shooting at us there," she teased.

"Probably not."

"Your lack of certainty is a bit unsettling," Tess giggled softly, covering her mouth with her mittened hand. "But I like surprises… My shift ends at seven on fifth day. Will you pick me up from the atelier?"

"Sure," he agreed.

"Then see you on fifth day, Ard."

She ascended the stairs, her boots clicking against the concrete. Ardi felt both foolishly elated — like the time he'd bested Shali at hide-and-seek — and more terrified than when he had first encountered a mountain troll.

"Thoughts for another day…" Ardi muttered under his breath. "But what did she mean by 'pick me up?'"

Had Tess simply assumed he would arrive in an automobile, as most of her suitors likely did? Wait. Hold on. One second. Did he just… ask her out on a date?

Sleeping Spirits.

Suddenly, the looming confrontation with Boris' abductors, the Homeless Fae, and even potential conflicts with demonologists didn't seem nearly as nerve-racking.

***

The tram screeched along its tracks and came to a halt at the stop near the hospital on Mirinsky Street. The street, of course, was named after a historical figure — someone who had apparently discovered a special type of mold that could cure infectious diseases. Or something like that.

The New City greeted Ardi, as always, with its towering buildings. They were not as ornate and pompous as those in Old Town, but still undeniably impressive.

Carefully descending the icy steps and holding onto the equally-frosty handrail, Ardi silently prayed to the Sleeping Spirits and Eternal Angels to help him avoid slipping and crashing onto the pavement. Such a fall would surely end his day's journey; his body simply wouldn't cooperate after such carelessness.

His chest ached fiercely. He checked his watch.

Time until midnight: 13 hours, 6 minutes.

There was no time to gawk at his surroundings: the skyscrapers, high-rise buildings, cars, or pedestrians. Ardi barely registered the imposing five-story hospital building that occupied an entire city block.

Leaning on his staff, he stepped beneath the massive awning and entered through the revolving doors, which reminded him of a hotel. And indeed, considering the vast lobby, with its leather couches, elegant rugs atop marble floors, a cloakroom, and a long information desk, one might have been skeptical about whether this was a medical facility at all.

Approaching the receptionist — a pleasant young woman dressed in white with a black cap and cuffs — Ardi spoke curtly:

"I'm headed to the third ward, the post-trauma rehabilitation department."

"One moment," the nurse said, her fingers running over the spines of several folders. She retrieved one, opened it midway, and asked, "Your name?"

"Ard Egobar."

She scanned the list of authorized visitors with her finger.

"All right, I can see that you're listed. Please sign here," she said, handing him a form. Ardi scrawled his wide, sweeping signature there, just as his mother had taught him. "Shoe covers are by the cloakroom. You'll also need to put on a coat there."

"Thank you," Ardi replied.

Moving cautiously to avoid unnecessary strain, he changed into the required attire, collected a numbered aluminum token stamped with a design, and donned the sturdy, waterproof shoe covers over his boots. Then he pulled a white coat over his jacket and headed for the stairs.

Today, he would have gladly endured his fear of confined spaces to ride the elevator, but hospital policy restricted elevator use to doctors, critically-ill patients and emergencies.

Ardan fell into none of these categories.

And so, gritting his teeth and feeling every step reverberate painfully through his fractured chest, he climbed to the fifth floor (naturally), then made his way to the farthest end of the eastern wing (because of course). Along the way, he caught sight of several doctors, including a pair of elven healers. One wore pink robes (indicating a Fifth-Star healer), and the other had donned black (a Sixth-Star healer) beneath their white coats with crimson collars and cuffs, which meant they were also surgeons.

Their elongated, delicate faces were almost feminine, their reflections faintly visible in the polished marble floor where it wasn't covered by plush carpets. The walls, painted in a blindingly-sterile white often favored by the wealthy, displayed photographs and paintings — all of them neutral landscapes.

The ceiling, which had been made from redwoods, held crystal Ley-lamps designed to resemble old chandeliers.

Amid all this grandeur, Ardi felt slightly out of place. He was almost relieved when he finally reached the door to the third ward.

The room inside was spacious, about four times the size of Ardan's own small apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with velvet curtains. Two lacquered cabinets stood against the walls, alongside a wardrobe large enough for several people's belongings. A table with four chairs sat to one side, along with a couple of small bedside tables — one of them covered in flowers. A plush, oversized armchair occupied the corner.

And, of course, there was the bed, which was far more of a luxurious, solid-frame affair than anything typically seen in a hospital.

Next to it stood another bedside table crowded with jars and vials. On the opposite side was an intravenous stand, and overhead, intricate systems of straps and supports hung from the ceiling. It resembled a slingshot, except instead of a pouch for stones, it held Boris' injured legs in place.

Boris Fahtov himself was swathed in bandages (some of which had yellowed from various salves), had his hands locked in casts, his legs braced with steel pins connected by wires tightened around wingnuts, and his face partially concealed beneath layers of gauze. Only his nostrils, lips, and eyes were visible. He looked more like a mummy from the ancient desert kingdoms of Al'Zafir than a living man.

Beside him, Elena Promyslov sat on a chair, reading aloud from a popular detective novel about a Second Chancery agent traveling the world, unraveling conspiracies, fighting serial killers, dark mages, and occasionally just finding himself in regular old scrapes.

"Mmm," Boris murmured.

He had noticed Ardi enter, though Elena, seated with her back to the door, hadn't heard him.

"What is it, dear?" She asked, closing the book and rising from her seat. "Do you need a drink?"

She picked up a glass of water from the bedside table, a glass straw clinking gently inside.

"Good afternoon," Ardan said softly, tapping his staff lightly on the floor.

Elena flinched and turned around. She looked haggard, her face drawn and shadowed with dark circles under her eyes, which were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

She hadn't left the hospital the entire time Boris had been there. She slept in the armchair, ate at the cafeteria, and washed in the sinks. Couriers delivered her clothes. She helped the nurses, changed his bandages, disposed of his bedpans, brought Boris drinks, she even measured out the doses of his painkillers.

Ardi had often wondered whether Elena had married Boris before or after he had been disinherited by his family. But now he knew without a shadow of a doubt that trivialities such as titles, ranks, or money didn't matter to either of them.

They loved each other. They were in love in a way that perhaps only existed in those ten-kso novels Elena would read aloud for Boris.

"Ah, Ardi," she greeted him with a weary but warm smile. "Is it already the seventh day? How quickly time flies…"

"It's the fifth," he corrected. "I'll come on the seventh, too, and bring the lecture notes I promised you."

"Ah, right, the fifth…" She murmured distractedly, sinking back into the chair. "You look tired, Ardi. And that coat… it's not for this season. Did something happen?"

"I slipped on the embankment," Ardi replied, neither lying nor telling the full truth. He disliked how often he'd been relying on Skusty's art lately, but what choice did he have? "Tore my clothes right up. This was all I had left to wear."

"Be more careful," Elena whispered.

All the while, Ardi kept his gaze locked on Boris' eyes, which were barely visible behind the bandages. He fully understood. He understood that Ardan wasn't being entirely truthful. But he said nothing. Even if he could have spoken, he likely wouldn't have.

"Thank you for visiting," Elena said, resting her cheek against her wrist, her smile never wavering. "We're always happy to see you, Ardi. Are you staying long?"

Ardi's heart ached as she spoke. He had visited only twice during this entire ordeal. Were they friends? Good acquaintances? He still didn't know how to define their relationship. But one thing was certain — he should visit them more often.

"No," Ardi shook his head. "I can't stay long. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Elena waved him off. "You have enough of your own things to deal with. Thank you for visiting at all. For finding the time. Truly, thank you."

At that moment, Ardan felt like the lowest, most insignificant creature imaginable. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to stay longer.

Approaching Boris' bed, he found he couldn't look him in the eye. He had intended, as Skusty had taught him, to deliberately use the Witch's Gaze, but he refrained from that. Perhaps because he truly felt like something lower than a gnat right now?

Or maybe because, even as he gingerly perched on the edge of the bed, he could feel the rhythm of Boris' heart. That would be enough to know if the man was lying to him.

Ardan wanted to believe that he could act nobly out of a desire to be better, but he understood that, most likely, it was all because of the fact that he could feel the other man's heartbeat.

"Boris, I have a question for you," Ardi said slowly.

Elena turned to him, startled. Her voice carried a hint of indignation tinged with disbelief.

"Ardi, Boris isn't in a position to-"

"Mmm-mmm," Boris interrupted her with a deliberate hum, his gaze stern as he glanced at Elena before returning to Ardi.

"Your mother," Ardan began cautiously, avoiding Elena's wide, incredulous eyes, "was from the northwestern military aristocracy, correct? The same region as Lady Talia, the last demonologist of the Empire. Did you inherit anything from her?"

"Ard!" Elena exclaimed, leaping from her seat, though her exhaustion robbed the motion of its usual energy.

"Mmm," Boris grunted firmly, his eyes narrowing as he slowly blinked once, very deliberately.

Ardi cursed inwardly. He had hoped — desperately hoped — for a different answer. But his suspicions had been confirmed.

"Elena," Ardan said, turning to her.

"What?" She demanded, her tone sharp. She was almost bristling like an affronted cat.

"Iolai kept Orvilov close to him because their group… made fun of him, didn't they? Because Orvilov had only a few rays and wasn't particularly skilled in military magic?"

"Yes, they often mocked him and dismissed his opinions," she admitted after a moment, her irritation giving way to confusion.

"Did he have any relationships?" Ardi asked, pressing on.

"Ard! I'm not on trial, and you're not an investigator-"

"Mmm!" Boris' insistent hum cut her off.

Elena turned her gaze from her husband back to Ardi. Understanding dawned in her eyes, and with it, her earlier annoyance evaporated, replaced by wariness.

"Yes," she answered hesitantly after a pause. "He… yes, he did. He was involved with someone from our course. I don't know who, exactly, but there were rumors about it."

Ardan turned his gaze to Boris.

The man's eyes shifted briefly to the right, then to the left.

So, Boris didn't know either.

But it was enough. All that remained was to check the historical records. And if his theory ended up aligning with the facts… then what?

Ardi had no idea what he would do next.

"Elena," he said suddenly.

"What is it?" She asked, now genuinely concerned.

Reaching into his pocket, Ardi withdrew the second accumulator and slipped off the ring.

"Can you check how many rays these hold with your analyzer? Mine broke again."

"Of course." She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a small device strapped to her forearm. It was secured there with leather straps and looked well-worn but functional. She aimed it at the items.

After a moment, a message appeared on the device's screen:

[Bri-&-Man Accumulator. Data unavailable.]

Ardan sighed heavily. The result had ended up being exactly what he had feared. It was the same as when he had tried to analyze Gleb Davos' accumulator.

"Ardi," Elena exhaled his name, a mixture of surprise and unease creeping into her voice. "These are specialized military accumulators for Second Chancery mages… How did you get them?"

She held the ring closer, frowning as she examined it further.

"They always hold nine rays," she explained, her words coming out quick and clipped. "That's why they're compact enough to fit into a ring. Regular accumulators are much larger, made to fit into staff heads. These… you rarely see even in the military. Ardi, your questions… What are you involved in?"

Her concern was genuine. She was worried for him. And all he could do was offer her the faintest possible reassurance.

"Everything will be fine," he whispered before nodding to Boris, brushing Elena's shoulder lightly with his hand, and rising from the bed. He made his way toward the door, pausing just before stepping out.

"I'll come back on the seventh day," he said, this time more loudly. "And during the week as well. If you don't mind, that is…"

"Of course we don't mind!" Elena called after him.

"Mhm," Boris added with a soft grunt of agreement.

Warmth spread through Ardi's chest — but so did a gnawing guilt. Maybe the ache was just from his fractured sternum, but somehow, he doubted it.

He left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Your next chapter is on My Virtual Library Empire

***

Ardan reached the temporary cloakroom at the Grand and handed over his coat to the attendant, who accepted it with an expression of utter boredom, tossing it carelessly onto a rack. In return, the worker lazily slapped a wooden token onto the counter.

Snatching up the token, Ardi pushed through the atrium toward the staircases.

Time until midnight: 11 hours, 23 minutes.

The darkest hour of the year still seemed deceptively distant, because who knew how long he would spend sifting through old records.

He needed to hurry-

"Egobar!"

Ardi turned.

A moment later, all he could see was a massive fist hurtling directly toward his face.