Anadar

Foreword: At some point, I started writing a story for my wife at the time to give her as a birthday present. I don't think she ever read it, as I still don't have my art materials here with me, but I wanted to be creative, so I continued writing. It's that simple. Enjoy the first 13 (unedited) chapters.

1

Life in the village went on as it always did. It was summer, midday, and hot; there was little to do. Arl, the miller’s son, lay in the shade of a tree, chewing on a blade of grass and staring out at the withering landscape. Arl had grown up in Salbeen; only a single road ran through the rugged, rocky terrain in which the village lay, leading from the Fiery Fortress toward the Great Market with its constant bustle. But travelers rarely passed through—very rarely.

Who would want to go to that cursed fortress and its strange inhabitants anyway, Arl thought as he spotted the rider from far away. Instinctively, he knew that this traveler was not heading for Salbeen, but onward. A strange aura clung to the Black Rider on his horse—something distant, unsettling, unapproachable.

Doesn’t matter, Arl decided, sprang to his feet, and ran toward the road, timing it so that he arrived just as the rider was leaving the small village again. Out of breath, Arl stopped at the roadside and looked up into the gaunt face of the traveler. The rider did not slow his pace—why would he? The horse trotted on steadily.

“You’re not heading to the Fiery Fortress, are you?” Arl panted. “I warn you—there’s nothing good there.”

The horse snorted at him, as if trying to brush an annoying fly from its nostrils.

“And where else should my road lead, young friend?” came a gentle voice, one that did not quite fit the rider’s face or stature.

“Maybe you took the wrong turn at the Great Market,” Arl speculated. “Maybe you lost your way.”

A faint smile was the only answer.

“Tell me, boy—what do people say about the place that frightens you so?”

“Nothing specific, sir,” Arl replied. By now he was walking alongside the horse; the pace was not fast. “Only that the people who live there are very unsettling. They prefer to keep to themselves.”

“They will have their reasons, don’t you think?” said the rider. “Do you know them well?”

“No, sir. They don’t associate with us. When they pass through here, they don’t speak to us. Tell me—what do you want there?”

“Ha,” the rider laughed. “You are curious! Very well, I’ll tell you.”

The rider leaned down, close to Arl’s ear.

“To visit my family,” he whispered, then straightened up again in the saddle.

At once, as if responding to an invisible command, the horse picked up its pace—only slightly, but unmistakably too fast for Arl to keep up for long. Arl did not even try to follow. He stood there, frozen.

His family?!

Arl had never been to the Fiery Fortress. He knew only the stories. His grandfather’s tales of thunderous rumbling and lightning in the night, and of boys from Salbeen who vanished after dark, only to be found days later—disturbed, terrified. Arl had never spoken to anyone who came from there.

For the next nights, Arl slept poorly. Again and again he stared out his window, making sure that no one was standing outside.

Anadar was tired—and a little irritable as well. For days now he had been riding through the height of summer in his metal-studded black leather armor. His mount, Tordar, did most of the work, of course, but sitting in the blazing sun day after day was not pleasant in the long run, even for someone with his abilities. From time to time he helped himself with a small spell of cold—cooling his waterskin, or wrapping himself in a refreshing wind. But it never lasted long. So he was glad that he would soon reach his destination. It had been two years since he had last been at the Fiery Fortress; he had missed his brothers.

In the last two years Anadar had achieved what was granted to only a few—and what not everyone even aspired to. Still less did anyone attempt it. He had reached the sixth and final seal, mastered the sixth and thus last magical discipline. Fire was his elemental gift; then, as was customary for students of the Fiery Fortress, Earth, and shortly thereafter Wind. Only the rarest had the discipline to master further schools. Water, to complete the elements, had been next for Anadar. Life was his fifth—and by far his least beloved; it had taken him a total of four years, almost as long as the elemental school, and all that time he had been constantly tempted to give up. Such an intense period, he thought back; compared with that, the two years for Spirit had passed almost as if on wings.

“Fire, Earth, Air, Water, Life—and Spirit. All six I now command. Should I command them?”

Magic, like any skill, is a matter of practice; if one does not continually repeat the rituals and spells, one can unlearn them—or even forget them. If a spell is not performed correctly, it will, at best, not work; in the worse case it will not work as intended, or it will become unpredictable.

“Well—most of the time it simply doesn’t work.” Anadar smiled.

He looked forward to the practice hall. At last he would be able to unleash his full power again. That was rarely possible anywhere; the destruction could be immense. To fill a spell with energy down to the last nuance and then release it—to feel the primal force. The sense of power, and the mastery over that power. A shiver of joy ran through him. He could set himself new goals now.

He had been a student for twenty years, interrupted by periods in which he taught. Mages usually learn three disciplines—mostly those that best match their elemental aptitude. Then most are dispatched: to royal courts, or to the side of important persons, merchants, as protection—at least for those who could afford it—or to generals, to wage wars. Some remained at the schools to teach; others withdrew to towers, far from people, to study alone. Their paths in life differed, but very often they were dictated by their abilities.

One thing, however, was forbidden to mages: to seize power themselves. A codex by which all mages lived. If any one mage—or any school—should ever again strive for power, the others would know how to prevent it. Of course every school sought to exert influence on the course of events and to hold a certain role in history; but a direct seizure of power would inevitably lead to a mage war. However well some schools might get along with one another—the boundaries were clearly laid down in the codex.

“The codex… hmm.” Anadar grew pensive. “New goals.” Thoughtfully, he continued on his way. Toward sunset Anadar reached his destination. The sun sank, red, into the sea to the left of the Fiery Fortress. The fortress itself lay slightly elevated in a small valley; three of its mighty, black, defensive towers rose up beyond the valley’s rim, so that trouble could be spotted from far away. Behind the fortress a headland stretched deep into the horizon, enclosed by the sea on left and right. A massive shield-wall ran through the valley in front of the raised castle.

Before descending into the valley, Anadar had to pass through the guard fort. Here, students of the fourth year usually stood watch. As always, the gates were open, and two armored figures, armed with halberds, flanked the passage.

“A torment—to stand here in this heat in armor and stare into an unmoving landscape of rock,” the mage recalled, “a test of will, to train endurance; that is why this duty exists.”

Anadar knew the procedure. From the shadow of the passage a figure appeared, wrapped in a red robe. The two halberds crossed in front of the gate. Tordar stopped—he, too, remembered. His hooves scraped lightly, as if to suggest that he was ready at any moment to force his way through.

“Who seeks entry into the valley to the Fiery Fortress?”

“Anadar, Master of the Six Circles, and son of the Fiery Fortress.”

Anadar saw how the pairs of eyes of the two aspirants in armor fixed on him directly without their heads turning; they knew him, of course. In their first year they had been his students—he had taught them the development and mastery of fire. It had involved a great deal of pain, sweat, and overcoming oneself. Indispensable.

“Master Anadar,” the words were almost reverent, “can you prove it?”

Anadar pulled back his hood—his protection these past days from the scorching sun—smiled, and spoke the spell of recognition: an unmistakable signature, like a fingerprint. Both halberds lowered and made way; the red-robed aspirant also stepped aside.

Anadar did not yet set Tordar into motion; the horse lowered his head and looked at him impatiently.

I’m probably not the only one for whom it is too hot, Anadar thought.

“Tell me, Aspirant Sondas—what is there to report? I have not been home for a long time and have had little time to exchange news.”

“Master Anadar, little is new since you were last here,” Sondas replied, “and you likely have more news in your baggage, Master Anadar,” the aspirant added, a touch cheekily. “Perhaps one thing: we have a student of Life here—his third discipline. Morgut is his name.”

That is truly extraordinary, Anadar thought. Students of Life very gladly gave Fire—or other elemental schools—a wide berth.

“Truly extraordinary,” the master murmured.

“For a year now,” Sondas answered his question before Anadar could ask it. “Morgut, you said? Slender, almost gaunt; tall; a striking face?”

Sondas nodded. Anadar remembered the student; they had been students at the School of Life at the same time.

A truly good mage, Anadar thought—he himself had found the spells of Life very difficult to learn; he had had to struggle for them in earnest. No talent for it, he thought of himself.

“Thank you.” Anadar nodded and gave Tordar a light nudge in the flank. As he rode through, Sondas added, “Master Frantor has returned as well.”

But Anadar was already lost in thought—back in Gontar, the city where the School of Life stood; so many memories. The exertions of learning that magical language, its whole grammar and the logic behind it, entirely different from what he had learned before. The rituals—he shuddered; he felt even hotter. He had struggled greatly back then. For him it had been as if he had to learn to read anew—this time from right to left instead of left to right as he was used to. The signs were mostly the same, only their meaning was interpreted differently. Deeply sunk into the past, the rider continued on his way.

The sun had already set when he finally rode through the torchlit shield-wall. Tordar knew the way; Anadar did as well, which was why he was not very attentive. When he finally arrived in the castle courtyard, it was already a little cooler.

Anadar nodded to a lad. “Take care of the horse—give him enough water and hay. Don’t put him out to pasture for the next few days; keep him in the shade.”

“Yes, Master.” The lad reached for Anadar’s travel bag, but Anadar was quicker.

“I’ll take care of it myself, boy,” and he swung the sack up onto his shoulder. “You take care of the horse.”

In parting he gave Tordar a pat. “Well done, old boy. Thank you.”

The mage crossed the courtyard toward the small residential tower where his chamber was. Inwardly he considered whether he might pay his respects to the dean only tomorrow—but he knew that his arrival had already been reported, and that a delayed visit would likely be taken as discourtesy. He smiled; he did not need to make himself unpopular again on the very first day of his return.

Old men like to hear themselves talk, he thought, and resigned himself to his fate.

Once in his spartan chamber, he tossed his travel sack onto the bed and looked around. Unchanged—as if he had been here only yesterday. He opened the window and glanced briefly out into the torchlit night, then rid himself of the sword on his back and his metal-studded leather armor—and above all, his boots. He caught a strong smell of leather and sweat and knew that he would have to freshen up before mingling with people again.

Laying down the armor felt like relief. After a while one no longer noticed the weight of the gear one carried; only when it was gone did one feel feather-light and freed.

He washed with cold water and put on his black robe, the hood lined with blue velvet—the mark of the teachers—and girded his sword, this time at his hips. Under normal circumstances he would have refrained from carrying his sword within the Fiery Fortress, but his appearance today was of a more official nature: the report and debriefing to the dean and thus to the official head of the order, Rotach.

His Magnificence Rotach was old, and had been in office longer than Anadar could remember. Head of the order was not a lifetime position; ordinarily the dean was re-elected in a cycle—every six years—but since no one had any desire for those tedious duties, the office always remained with Rotach, who had little ambition for anything else. A win-win situation for the entire school and its adherents, so to speak.

Anadar was ready, and he left his chamber.

“There you are, Master Anadar.”

A voice he had not heard for a long time—but had missed dearly. Shara, the only sister of the order among brothers, leaned with her back against the wall opposite his chamber door. Clad in black, her dark hair braided into a strict plait, her green-gray almond-shaped eyes fixed on him expectantly.

“Dean Rotach requests your presence at his table,” she said. A brief pause followed. “So that you may tell him of the great wide world out there—and of course the latest gossip about how poorly organized the other schools truly are.”

An unspoken laughter carried in her words.

“I see you now wear the blue lining,” Anadar replied. “Did you earn it through merit—or through your insolence?”

“Through my sharp tongue, of course,” she answered, “against which no one can defend themselves—and which sends even the bravest brothers fleeing.” She added lightly, “If my fists are not enough.”

Anadar grinned fleetingly. Shara possessed a sharpness of wit for which she was infamous. Even in her first year she had rarely held back, even with her masters. Verbally she had been their equal—often their superior—and she seldom concealed her opinions. Over the years an affection had grown between them that went far beyond a mentor-student relationship. From the beginning she had shown not only her razor-sharp tongue, but also discipline, intelligence, talent, and will—both magical and martial. Qualities Anadar respected deeply.

“Then let us not keep the old man waiting any longer,” Anadar said and set off.

“Congratulations on the Sixth Circle,” she said.

Anadar counted inwardly. One, two—

“This time it didn’t take you four years to master it,” she continued. “I was already worried you might return even more decrepit.”

Not three seconds had passed before she finished her sentence with insolence.

“Thank you for the kind wishes,” he replied cheerfully. He knew his time would come—tomorrow at dawn. Tonight he would set the trap for her, and she would run into it unsuspecting. He smiled with anticipation.

“What’s amusing you so?” she asked, noticing his smile.

“The prospect of an evening full of wonderful entertainment,” he answered dryly. “Endless stories I’ve already heard a hundred times. Everything one could wish for after riding through the scorching wasteland for days.”

They descended the stairs of the residential tower at a brisk pace, crossed the courtyard—the smell of horses drifting to their noses—then climbed eight broad steps and walked along the torchlit colonnade toward the great hall, past statues of long-dead mages, down again into the forecourt of the grand hall, past the library, the council chamber, and the refectory, and instead of continuing straight into the Great Assembly Hall, turned right and climbed the stairs leading to the dean’s tower.

As usual, the small door to the tower stood open. A single figure sat on a chair on the small square before it, keeping watch.

Sitting? Anadar thought and glanced at Shara. She understood at once and shrugged.

“Halt! Who seeks entry?” the guard attempted to stop them as he laboriously rose from his seat.

Anadar did not even slow his pace, passing the sorry figure without a glance. Shara followed.

“Oh—it’s you! You are expected, Master—you are late!” the guard called after them.

Anadar took two steps at a time until he reached the top. Shara followed close behind up the spiral staircase to the highest floor. At the door, Anadar knocked briefly and stepped inside without waiting.

The circular uppermost chamber was divided into several sections. The door opened into the center of the room; at the table before him sat two figures. Anadar knew that the area behind him served the servants for preparing the food. Another door led out onto the parapet surrounding the tower, from which one could admire the night sky on warm summer evenings.

Anadar knew both men.

Dean Rotach sat upright at the head of the table—a tall, gaunt figure save for his belly. His gray hair was cropped short; on his shoulders rested the violet-lined robe of the head of the order. His hands lay on the tabletop; deep folds on his fingers betrayed the man’s true age.

“Magnificence,” Anadar inclined his head.

“Master Anadar, Mage of the Sixth Circle—what a particular honor to welcome you at my table.” Rotach slowly raised his left hand, long white fingernails pointing toward his guest. “You know Frantor, of course—you were of the same year, if I recall correctly.”

“Brother,” said the addressed man, rising somewhat awkwardly. His belly bumped the table and the glass of red wine before him sloshed over. He grasped at it clumsily. “Heh—how clumsy of me.”

He looked up again, his eyes fixing on Anadar, a smile lighting his fleshy face. “How wonderful to see you again. It has been a long time.”

“Brother,” Anadar nodded to Frantor, thinking, I remember you thinner.

“Please, sit,” Rotach gestured to the empty places along the long table.

They sat, and a servant slipped past behind them.

“Just water, please, Saltor—with a sprig of mint,” Anadar said, nodding politely to the old servant. Saltor knew the mage’s preferences and already held a jug of chilled water garnished with fresh mint.

“And now, Master Anadar,” Rotach began, “tell us—what news is there from the world? And from the School of Spirit? Does Dean Sandas still guide its fortunes? I have not spoken with her in a long time. She rarely attends the Conclave—or when she does, I can never speak with her undisturbed.”

Anadar knew that Sandas attended every Conclave; that the other deans did not always remember her presence was perhaps intentional. Dean Sandas preferred to keep the School of Spirit out of matters that did not concern it directly—or to obscure the influence it wielded. She had the means to do so; her interests were not always immediately comprehensible. Mages of Spirit rarely lived in perceivable reality. They viewed things differently, as Anadar had learned.

“The Mother’s actions are not always easy to grasp,” Anadar said truthfully, using the name customary in Zoordak, where the school stood.

“I have spent two years there now. I still cannot fully understand much of what happened there. They like to sit over their hot springs, breathing in the steam—it clouds the mind, and time grows vague.”

The truth was that Anadar and the Mother had spent much time together. She had taken him under her personal tutelage and taught him much; the two had understood one another very well. Sandas had taught him, for example, that it was better to strengthen people in what they already believed—teaching them the opposite was too exhausting.

“Heh.” A dry laugh escaped the old man’s throat. “Forsooth—abstract babble and feeble spells they cast there. Nothing that could rival the power of fire.”

“Forsooth,” Frantor agreed. “Nothing is as powerful as the magic of fire.”

Anadar knew Frantor well—or had, once. The man before him displeased him somehow; something was amiss. Much had happened since they last met.

“How have you fared, my friend?” Anadar asked directly, also to change the subject. “What brings you back here? Were you not at the court of Sontor—far in the north? Did the cold drive you away?”

“Well…” Frantor sighed and took a drink. “It turned grim. Slowly at first—only a few came, then more and more. Over the years they displaced us. Barbarians from the deep northern forests—uncivilized. There was much strife. They became too many. The inhabitants left Sontor little by little. No one resisted—no one could resist. In the end they overran the city. It was terrible. Only exile remained. King Kranzor is old and without heirs; he fled south with the treasury. Sontor fell entirely to the barbarians.”

He sighed again, then smiled faintly and drained his glass. “Saltor?”

The servant refilled it and discreetly left the wine decanter on the table. Anadar noticed the faint disapproving shake of Saltor’s head. Clearly, this had become habit.

“Well,” Rotach continued after a while, “I have heard of several such events by now. A great migration from the north seems to be underway. It is said to be caused by unusually cold summers. The High North Sea is now ice-covered year-round, which drives the polar tribes southward—not merely to raid as before, but to settle and displace if possible. Nothing that should concern us overly. The balance of the order is not disturbed.”

The evening drifted on—talk of politics, successions, wars; of students and masters, their talents and whereabouts. Anadar knew that in the coming months he would be summoned to many such dinners. Dean Rotach saw it as his duty to gather masters and students in varying constellations at his table. Anadar was called upon disproportionately often—he had become a rarity, perhaps even a singularity; at the very least, a curiosity. This would not change, especially now that he would resume teaching.

Eventually the conversation turned to the student Morgut. Both Dean Rotach and Shara spoke highly of him—the student whose elemental school was Life, whose second was Spirit, and who showed remarkable aptitude in Fire. They agreed that they had never encountered a student who could memorize rituals and spells with such extraordinary ease—even compared to students of Fire.

Anadar thought back to his time in Gontar and to the help Morgut had been to him. During their shared time in Zoordak they had rarely seen each other—such was the nature of the school—but they had always remained connected in thought, though seldom alone. Anadar had known early on that Morgut was immensely gifted.

The evening waned. Anadar excused himself as soon as he reasonably could, citing the hardships of travel. Shara left the table with him; Frantor did not seem close to being finished. They departed the tower in silence.

2

Before the sun rose above the horizon, Anadar made his way to the platform atop the highest tower of the Fiery Fortress. It was the tower that jutted visibly from the fortress from afar, built from the same black stone as the entire stronghold. The diameter of the uncovered platform at the top spanned several meters; below, the tower widened steadily, descending deep into the basement vaults—vaults of enormous dimensions in their own right.

Inside the tower, the various classrooms occupied the individual floors. Down in the vaults, well secured and deep beneath the earth, were the additional training chambers. At times the powerful spells slipped out of control—not only within the alcoves. In such moments it was quite fortunate to be protected behind ceilings meters thick and stones weighing tons when unbridled energy forced itself room to exist. In the open air, such wild discharges could mean destruction stretching for kilometers. The tower’s strong walls were not merely protection; there were arcane safeguards as well, and non-magical protective mechanisms too.

There were, finally, two spiral staircases: one in the inner core of the tower, and one along the outside. The inner ascent also served as a conduit, channeling energies upward into the sky, and for safety it was routinely kept inaccessible. The outer stairway served as the usual route up and down.

Anadar sat cross-legged, facing the rising sun, and spoke the necessary spells to renew the arcane warding—along with those he needed in preparation for the duel to come. His sword rested across both knees while he charged it with enchantments he might need today. Shara sat beside him and did the same. Both were immersed in meditation and concentration.

The first rays of sunlight struck Anadar’s face and warmed it. He was already finished, yet he lingered in the quiet and the heat. He was perfectly balanced. He heard Shara rise. He kept his eyes closed; he knew it would irritate her.

When he judged the moment right, he opened his eyes and looked steadily into the green-gray eyes of the woman standing over him.

“Go,” he whispered.

She watched him stand, and he smiled at her. In silence they descended the outer stairwell—both, no doubt, running their strategies through again and again. On the ground floor they locked the central ascent; both assumed the duel would be violent. Then they continued down into the largest of all the vaults.

The floor was laid with white marble; the walls were built from black stone. Every few stones, a phosphorescent panel had been set, casting a greenish light. The ceiling was vaulted and black as well, supported by six pillars—three on each side. A sootless torch burned on each side of every pillar. Phosphorescent panels were also set into the ceiling. Overall it was fairly dim. But light—or bright illumination—was unnecessary here. Both were prepared for darkness.

Shara stopped at the entrance. Anadar walked, without hesitation or faltering, to the far end of the chamber. They still did not speak.

When he reached the end of the room, Anadar turned slowly on his axis—and it began at once.

A blinding, searing wall of fire rushed toward him. He could feel the brutal heat on his face. If he had not been protected by a skin of stone, he would have melted on the spot. So that was the opening.

He was ready. With a casual movement of his hand, he let his will flow free, and the fire-wave split and streamed around him on both sides.

At the last moment he saw them—and only a reflexive dive to the floor saved him from the tree-long, needle-sharp spears of ice that came screaming toward him.

“You didn’t see that coming?” her voice rang out from the other side, as the ice missiles shattered against the wall behind him with a thunderous crash.

“No—that was unexpected. Nice trick!” he called back.

He rose and, with exaggerated gestures, brushed the dirt from his clothes. With the final sweep of his hands, flame-whips burst from both palms and snapped forward at Shara in a blur. One struck toward her throat; she threw up a force field and deflected it quickly. The second found its mark and coiled around both her legs.

He jerked. She fell.

He released the whip and charged. In the center of the hall he leapt—lifted by a wind spell—rose into the air, and as he plunged down toward her he materialized an ice dagger in his hand.

She was still fighting the bindings when he was nearly upon her. With difficulty she sprang up, still not fully free. He thrust at her—only to strike emptiness.

Suddenly several copies of Shara stood around him. He had stabbed the wrong one.

“That was very close,” the copies said in unison.

She had now freed herself completely.

“That is new,” Anadar thought. He knew he was in grave danger—and dissolved.

Where he had just stood, her sword cut through the air.

“That too,” the copies said, surprised.

Carefully he edged out of the center of danger. He was not truly invisible—she would have checked for that immediately. Rather, he had matched himself to the background; in the darkness, with an even backdrop, it worked well enough.

She apparently suspected as much and cast a cold spell, drawing the heat from the surroundings. It worked too well—his breath betrayed him.

“A refined solution,” he said, standing several meters away. His breath condensed in the frigid air, and he detached from the background.

“Not bad,” she said. “But you didn’t make yourself invisible.”

Invisibility spells did not work against mages; they could all shift to another mode of sight, instinctively and without effort. For ordinary people, invisibility sufficed. Not here.

He smiled.

“Creating images—where did you get that? That surprised me. But that was your last line of defense, wasn’t it?” he asked with a smile. “I nearly had you—if I’d been a little faster, yes?”

“Pah.” A yellow wave of pure energy slammed toward him.

He drew his sword in a flash and cleaved through the energy so that the wave roiled past him on left and right. His black blade glowed darkly and hummed as it absorbed the force.

Time to leave the defensive, he thought.

He stamped his foot, and a shockwave raced toward the copies. The marble slabs lifted and sank; some cracked under the pressure. Only one of the images fell—exactly what he needed.

A fireball darted from his left hand toward the fallen one and exploded on impact in a bright burst.

But what followed was not what he expected.

From the point of impact a whirlwind formed—made of fire—spinning rapidly as it surged toward him. Lightning flickered within it, and the closer it came, the faster it turned and the larger it grew. Sweat ran down Anadar’s brow as he focused.

The fiery funnel struck him. He could feel its destructive force as it tore and wrenched at him—yet his protection held. The assault raged and roared around him; he had to stand still, all his concentration devoted to enduring it.

After what felt like an eternity, the attack’s strength ebbed. He panted and looked around.

And there she was—some distance away—concentrating on a black sphere before her. She looked at him and smiled with certainty as she released her final move.

A huge black maw surged toward him.

“Dragonfire.”

He was still bound by the fire-whirl. He knew what it meant.

The black energy-dragon hit him hard, with full force, driving him to the ground. He had barely recovered from the funnel. He could hear her loud laughter. She came closer while he still fought his hopeless struggle against the dragon. She stepped over him and lowered her sword toward his throat.

“Do you yield, old man—Master of the Sixth School?” she asked, amused.

Anadar said nothing.

“Very well.” She drew back and struck.

Only to fall.

They were back atop the tower—or rather, they had never gone down at all. Barely a second had passed when Anadar was standing beside her again. Now he stood over her, his sword directly at her throat, smiling down at her. She was almost completely immobilized, no matter how she tried. Her sword had slipped from her hand when she fell.

“Do you yield, student?” he asked.

“How—?”

“That was not the question here, young lady.”

“Yes,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Let me go!”

Anadar laughed, deeply amused; pure delight shone in his eyes.

“I’ve been looking forward to that for a year,” he said, laughing, and held out his hand to help her up. She could move again—without restriction. The paralysis was gone.

“How…? What happened?” she stammered, thoroughly shaken. “That wasn’t real? But it felt real. Did you change time? Not a second has passed.”

She had not considered that possibility before.

“Time?” he murmured. “I know no one who could manipulate time. How would one even do that? One would have to…” He tried to imagine it. “That’s impossible,” he concluded, fascinated by the thought.

“So tell me—how did you do it?” she demanded again, curiosity overriding her anger.

Anadar smiled.

“I entered your spirit.”

She heard his voice, but did not see his lips move.

“Like now. Then I let you act. You moved within your own mental reality—so I had to do very little. Above all, I did not have to convince you of anything. You believed it was real. If I had pulled you into my construct, it likely would not have worked. You’re too… mm—clever.”

Now he switched back to speaking aloud.

“Small tricks one learns in the School of Spirit,” he said, and winked.

“Do you see everything in my mind? Do you know all my secrets?” she asked.

He laughed. “No—not like that. I perceive the thoughts you are thinking now—not what you know, or what you’ve lived through. It’s a little as though you were speaking with me, only we do not think visually in words, do we? At least not always.”

It was hard to put into words and make her understand—especially because everyone approached thinking differently, and the two of them were truly not the same person.

“But tell me,” he asked, “where did you get the phantoms? I don’t know where you learned that—or from whom. That spell is not taught here.”

“Morgut,” she answered.

“Again that name.” Anadar made a mental note to pay the young man a visit today—formally, and without delay.

3

Time passed quickly. Several weeks had already gone by since his return, and he was once again caught in routine—teaching and training mages, research, and his own continuing education. It was interrupted by dinner three times a week at Dean Rotsch’s table, and of course by Frantor, who was always there.

By now Anadar had taken up residence in a tower of his own and had brought Morgut to stay with him. The young magus was extraordinarily talented when it came to spells—fire spells as well. Above all, it allowed Anadar to repeat the spells of Life under guidance. Practice, practice, practice.

Shara was always there and rarely left his side. He suspected she had by now claimed a chamber in his tower; he kept forgetting to ask her. Nor did it bother him that she was there—on the contrary: if he did not know where she was, he grew irritated, as Morgut had already remarked pointedly.

The three of them were often bent over books and writings on the top floor, experimenting.

“Look, Master Anadar—here.” Morgut pointed to a passage in a Life textbook. “Look at these two passages.”

Anadar examined the places. “And then here—the incantation for forgetting, this passage in Sandas’s book.”

“Yes. The passages are almost identical. You think a combination is possible at this point?”

“Yes!” Morgut said.

He is right, Anadar thought. Spells of Life had never come easily to him; the logic—rather, the grammar behind it—had always been difficult. The various arcane languages and schools surely had the same origin. After all, putting it into script was only a form of preserving; the basis beneath it was the magical will. The word was merely the guided realization of thought.

“What happens if I do it?” Anadar asked.

“If you combine the two passages for healing of the spirit with this passage of forgetting, you can remember exactly what you insert here.” Morgut tapped a line of text. “How do you think I can memorize most texts so well?”

“When did you stumble on it?” Anadar asked.

Morgut laughed. “A long time ago. It still took time before I understood it—the effect is invasive, and you have to apply the spell at precisely the right moment.”

Anadar sat down and began copying the passages in the proper order.

Shara laughed.

“Stop it,” he hissed.

When he was finished, he went to another manuscript, then back again to check the spell on his parchment. He held it up.

“Is that a five, or an S?” Shara asked.

“That is—wait…” His handwriting. “That’s a five, here.” He pointed at the manuscript. “This is the corner—clearly visible. Stop trying to unsettle me.”

The other two snickered. They enjoyed teasing the great magus, Master of the Six Circles.

Anadar carried the parchment to another writing desk—or rather, he swept whatever lay on it off without asking.

“That was yours, Shara? Sorry,” he said, and set the parchment down.

Then he leaned over it and smiled when he heard her loud protest.

“What are you even doing here? Don’t you have a study of your own where you can dump your clutter?”

There was a knock at the door. Anadar frowned.

“Yes? Come in.”

A figure entered, panting heavily.

“Master Anadar.”

“Yes?”

“Master Anadar, sir?”

“Yes, student Kandit—that is me. What do you want?”

The addressed boy drew himself up to his full, rather small height. “Sir, we—uh—we are waiting for you!” he said, indignant. “We have class.”

“Oh?” Anadar blinked. “What day is it today?”

He had lost track of time. That happened rarely—practically never.

He turned away from the parchment, regretfully, and strode out without waiting for Kandit—down his tower, across to the teaching tower, and into the classroom.

He found his students on the second level, each seated at his own desk: some absorbed in a text, others talking to their neighbors. Twelve of them—the third year. He glanced at the clock. He was only a few minutes late.

Kandit is a little… Anadar thought. Ah, he’ll become a fine counter of peas one day. Then: It is time to challenge these young gentlemen.

“My gentlemen,” he said, letting his gaze travel across the room.

Kandit entered as well; Anadar had left him behind on the stairs.

The boy should move faster. Does he do his physical exercises conscientiously? he wondered.

“My gentlemen,” he began again, “today I will place you before a challenge.”

Anadar started weaving the spell.

“The challenge is as follows: the room will be sealed by a force field, with you locked inside. To breach it requires skill and endurance. Cooperation is not forbidden. Whoever gets out has the rest of the time off and may use it for personal matters.”

He backed toward the door as he completed the spell.

“I wish you success.”

He left astonished faces behind and wondered how many of the students would still be there when he returned in the evening. The task was, without question, tricky. He was curious to see the solutions.

He had bought himself peace.

Sometimes it can be that simple.

He returned to his study chamber and found the two of them still there, looking at him with mild confusion. He shrugged.

“Force-field penetration by self-study. The students rely far too much on what they’ve memorized and had pre-chewed for them. Anyone can parrot; they’re all excellent at that. Time to push them a little.”

He turned back to his parchment. He wanted to try it—now.

He focused and began learning the spell.

The words formed the channel through which arcane energy would flow, supported by certain gestures. And it worked: he impressed the spell into his mind.

Most spells were so complex that, without a written template, they were almost impossible to remember. Of course there were standard incantations every student repeated so often that he could use them at any time—but not all.

Anadar chose a relatively complex Life spell he would never have been able to cast without a written reference.

When he was finished, he rolled the parchment up—and indeed: it was there, in his awareness, complete, retrievable, present—like his own name.

He met Morgut’s eyes. Morgut smiled back.

“That is… that is… wow!” Anadar said. “Can I vary it further?” he asked the talented student—then answered himself at once: “Yes, I can.”

A short pause.

“Incredible.”

Morgut smiled. “Yes. Incredible, isn’t it?”

Anadar had already turned away and copied the memory spell out again—this time inserting the memory spell itself into the structure.

Morgut laughed. “It took me a year before I thought of that.”

Anadar looked at him again.

“Are you telling me you are intelligent enough to construct a memory spell from two different schools, one that works and makes everything vastly easier—yet you don’t think to… to…” He searched for the right verb. “…engrave it into your own mind?”

“Well—yes,” Morgut began. “How should I put it? Well—mm—no,” he admitted, embarrassed. “I didn’t think of it, and I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it would work. And it’s a bit cumbersome…”

“Not as cumbersome as writing the whole thing out again and again, is it?” Anadar cut him off, laughing.

Now both of them laughed.

Shara, meanwhile, had bent over the first parchment. Her brow was deeply furrowed as she studied it.

“I can’t read this,” she admitted unwillingly. “I don’t understand it.”

“Understandable,” Anadar grunted. “You lack the basic training of the School of Life. This language is very complicated and differs greatly from the elemental schools. Training in Spirit would help as well—though you learned the phantoms too, didn’t you?”

He remembered the duel, when Shara had created duplicates of herself to his surprise.

She hissed an assent and was already lost in thought, deep in the manuscript again.

He knew her well enough to know she was ambitious enough to master the spell. If she got stuck, she would ask for help—perhaps not from him first, but from Morgut, or another graduate of the relevant school. Most likely, he thought, she would try to conquer it alone before seeking advice.

That evening, after he had engraved a number of complex spells into his mind—spells that normally required careful preparation—he made his way back to the teaching tower.

His mood was excellent, and it did not change when he reached the classroom. He looked in briefly.

Of the thirteen students, only ten were still inside. Frustration and fatigue—up to resignation—were written on their faces.

He considered for a moment extending the experiment until morning, but he was certain that none of those still present would get out now.

The three students who had managed to leave the room were sitting in the corridor outside, slumped in on themselves, nearly exhausted to the limit.

“You have tomorrow off,” he told them. “Recover from the exertion. But the day after, I want a summary of how you overcame the force field—presented before your class. Good evening.”

He walked into the room and dispelled the force field.

“And now to you,” he said. “As I interpret it, you did not exert yourselves enough, my gentlemen. You must still have plenty of energy. I propose that we meet tomorrow morning at sunrise down at the headland—for a full day of physical conditioning.”

He heard indignant gasps; he did not need to look to know where they came from.

“It is time you learned greater discipline. Good evening to you as well.”

Anadar walked away, cheerful and thoroughly satisfied.

He would now be able to devote a little more time to his students. They would not like it—but one day, they would thank him.

Today had been a good day. He had found a way to save himself a great deal of time.

4

Time passed. Even his third-year students had by now become competent mages. Even Kandit had lost weight and gained in performance and commitment. Anadar took visible pleasure in observing their progress, well aware that he himself bore a large share of responsibility for it.

Summer was now in full swing, and the Magi Conclave—the important gathering of the schools—was approaching. It was the occasion on which all six deans met to exchange knowledge and counsel. For weeks, little else had been discussed at the evening meals in the dean’s tower. As always, Frantor was present, and often one of the other masters as well.

Reluctantly, Anadar had to admit that this gave him an overview of nearly everything happening within the faculty—every rumor, every development. Naturally, his handling of the third-year students was also a topic. At first there had been indignation, but the steady progress soon earned him recognition from the others.

At one such dinner—attended only by Dean Rotsch, Frantor, and Anadar himself—the upcoming Conclave was once again under discussion. Frantor was in the midst of one of his long-winded, convoluted monologues when he was almost abruptly interrupted by Dean Rotsch.

“Master Anadar, the other schools have already sent me the lists of elemental students who wish to study Fire. As expected, there are not very many again this year.”

Fire was unpopular among most mages and schools, as its study required physical hardship and pain.

“One thing is new, however,” Rotsch continued. “We are receiving ten students from the School of Spirit. That is as many as in the last fifty years combined. Do you have anything to do with this? Or do you know what lies behind it? You were the last of us to be in Zoordak.”

The number surprised Anadar himself.

“Ten?” he said. “That is a great many—just as many as from all the elemental schools combined.”And, he thought with quiet astonishment, probably the entire current student body of Spirit.

“Well,” Dean Rotsch went on, “in total we will be receiving twenty-five new students. In recent years, the number has usually been between eight and twelve. I would like to ask you, Master Anadar—since you have mastered the schools of Life and Spirit and are familiar with their instruction—would you be willing to take charge of their training?”

It sounded like a request, but it was not one.

“In total, there will be thirteen students.”

Frantor said nothing. He watched Anadar, arms folded over his thick belly, wearing a smug, approving grin.

“Of course, I will gladly take this on,” Anadar replied. After a brief pause, he added, “And what of the training of my own students? I would like to continue it, Dean Rotsch.”

He felt a small sting, as though something were being taken from him.

“Of course, Master Anadar. Your contribution is invaluable,” Rotsch reassured him, smiling a little awkwardly. “To be honest, the quality of instruction had declined somewhat, and you have tightened the reins again.”

“I would, however, welcome assistance,” Anadar said. “Master Shara and student Morgut—if I may choose.”

Dean Rotsch nodded with a pleased smile as Saltor brought the dessert. The evening was warm, a welcome relief after yet another scorching day at the Fiery Fortress. A light breeze even drifted in from the sea.

Dinner ended. Saltor was already clearing the table, and the conversation lapsed into silence.

Anadar stepped out onto the balcony and gazed into the night.

He sensed her presence at once. She let a moment pass before making herself known. A shimmering shape moved into his peripheral vision.

“Mother!”

He was genuinely glad to feel her presence; a comforting warmth washed over him, and he was immediately transported back to his time in Zoordak. Of course, he knew she was manipulating him—that was her nature, and she was so adept at it that no one could truly resist. She had a lifetime of experience, and daily practice.

A brightly shimmering silhouette of a young, slender woman with golden hair appeared beside him. He knew she existed only in his mind; no one else could see her.

“Anadar,” she said, smiling at him. “I miss you.”

His heart nearly leapt from his chest. He wanted to melt—but he forced himself to remain composed.

“Stop that,” he said. “It’s terrible. You want to tell me something specific, don’t you? Not twist my head like that of a lovesick youth.”

She laughed, bell-like and clear. The butterflies in his stomach vanished, and his thoughts sharpened again.

“One cannot defend against it, Mother, can one?” he said. “It is so brutal when you enter the mind and take control of the emotions.”

“Not when the other is as skilled as you, my friend,” she replied. “With a little more practice, I would have no chance against you. You have become very good at recognizing influence.”

She now stood directly before him—or rather, floated there, since he was leaning against the tower’s parapet.

“You wonder why ten of my students will soon be on their way. A moment—of course, they are all female students.”

He laughed as the realization struck him; that alone would cause quite a stir.

“Anadar, my friend,” she said softly, “we live in interesting times. It is better to be prepared.”

  5

 Late summer weighed heavily over the Fiery Fortress—not with the merciless blaze of high summer, but with that deceptive warmth that brings fatigue and dulls the senses. From the sea came a faint wind, just strong enough to carry the scent of salt across the peninsula and make the banner at its farthest tip flutter visibly, yet far too weak to offer any real relief.

Between the fortress and the peninsula lay the mustering ground: a broad, largely level expanse of trampled stone and earth, devoid of vegetation and almost entirely without cover. From there the route did not lead into open, easily surveyed terrain, but into a wide, restless mosaic of rocky ridges, depressions, scrub, scree fields, and patches of woodland. The peninsula itself was gently rolling; it repeatedly broke lines of sight so that one could rarely see more than a few dozen paces ahead. Anyone marching here felt as though they were constantly turning corners—even when walking straight ahead.

At the end of this peninsula, where the rock fell away in jagged teeth into the sea, lay the outlying island rock. It was accessible only by a narrow natural stone bridge that remained dry in calm weather. Upon the island rock stood the banner mount, and from it flew the flag—dark red, heavy, almost motionless in the warm air. A target that seemed simple when viewed from afar. And precisely for that reason, it was well chosen.

Anadar stood at the edge of the mustering ground, his arms loosely folded across his chest. Beside him was Shara, upright and attentive, her gaze already fixed on the terrain as if she were reading its lines and edges like written characters. Morgut stood a little apart, as quiet as ever, his hands clasped behind his back, observing the assembled attackers not so much with his eyes as with an expression that suggested listening. Students of the first, second, and fourth levels gathered in orderly ranks. Manador—Master of the Fourth Rank and instructor of the fourth level—small, wiry, and filled with that arrogant energy so often mistaken for discipline, stepped forward first. Master Loon stood beside him, more personable, more relaxed, a faint smile never leaving his face—a man who always seemed as though he could step out of any situation, even while standing squarely within it.

Before the maneuver began, Anadar walked once more along his own group. Not to inspect, but to honor the ritual. What they were about to do was not a real battle—and yet it was more than a game. One of the third-level students murmured the words of a spell that granted a kind of stone-skin as Anadar passed by. The words did not sound like an invocation so much as an inward grasp for stability. Anadar nodded. He himself had already laid the protective spell upon himself—not visible, but unmistakable, like a second, firm skin that tightened the body and at the same time calmed it. A certainty that stone would take a blow the flesh should not.

Shara drew her blade and let it hover in the air for a moment. Anadar watched as the spirit enchantment settled over the weapon. There was no glow, no effect meant to impress. Rather, it was an absence. The blade suddenly seemed less real, as though it had slipped slightly out of the world.

“I always find it fascinating,” Shara said quietly, so that only he could hear her, “how much these weapons look like power—and how harmless they truly are.”

“Harmless,” Anadar repeated, glancing at her. “They are not harmless. They are still the same weapons—only on another level.”

Shara raised an eyebrow. “And yet one is still struck.”

“Precisely,” Anadar said. “That is the point. To be struck. To be removed.”

He paused while the final preparations unfolded across the field. “And the prohibition,” Shara added, as if finishing his thought.

Anadar nodded. “No spells.”

She drew her mouth into a thin line, as though she wanted to object, but did not. “You know why,” he said calmly. “If they were allowed to cast, they would cast. Always. Out of reflex. Out of fear. Out of pride. Then this would become a contest between schools—and not a maneuver.”

“And you want them to fight like soldiers,” Shara said, “not like mages.”

“I want them to learn how to lead,” Anadar replied. “You cannot lead if you cover every uncertainty with magic.”

Morgut, who had stepped closer, said softly, “Magic is often the most convenient shortcut.”

Anadar looked at him and nodded. “And shortcuts rarely take you where you actually need to go.”

The attack began shortly after sunrise.

Some sixty attackers moved out: students of the first, second, and fourth levels, led by Manador and Loon. The formation was clear, the roles assigned. Fourth-level students led and issued commands; the lower levels followed. It looked clean, efficient, controlled. The first contacts did not take long to occur.

Small skirmishes, seemingly uncoordinated. Individual defenders emerged from the woods, struck, withdrew. Brief clashes, quick blades, cold currents passing through bodies. Again and again that characteristic sensation when a spirit-bound blade passed through someone: no pain, no cut—only a sudden, unpleasant chill, followed by the moment when muscles no longer obeyed, as though the internal wires had briefly come loose. Those who were struck did not fall bleeding. They froze—and were removed from the engagement when the blade struck deep enough.

The eliminated students were bypassed by the others, as dictated by the maneuver code. There were no attempts to “rescue” them, no heroic gestures. That was harder than it sounded. Especially the younger levels often had the instinct to stop, to help, to turn back. Today they scarcely did—and that was precisely what gave them the deceptive sense of security Anadar intended. For the skirmishes always ended in the attackers’ favor. The defenders yielded, gave ground, allowed themselves to be pushed back.

Manador noted this with satisfaction. Loon as well, though with greater attentiveness. The advance grew faster, more decisive, less cautious. It was the moment when movement turned into overconfidence. Anadar watched from a distance.

“Exactly so,” he murmured. “Let them believe they control the path.”

Shara said nothing, but her gaze showed that she understood the point: there were few quicker ways to lead people into a trap than by first showing them they were winning.

Sondas was convinced they had passed the worst of it when he reached the crossing to the outlying rock island. The earlier engagements had been brief, manageable. The defenders had yielded, withdrawn, offered no solid resistance. To Sondas, the picture made sense: a hard core now breaking. He had moved quickly, as his level demanded, and as a fourth-level student it was his duty to lead, not hesitate.

He was among the first to leap across the narrow stone bridge. He tore the banner from its mount and held it aloft for a moment. The wind caught the fabric and made it billow. For a heartbeat it felt like triumph, like the end of a path one had earned.

Then he turned.

The sound was barely audible—a faint hiss, almost like air moving through cracks in the stone. The arrow slid through his throat without pain, without resistance, leaving only cold. His steps faltered, as though the world around him had shifted slightly out of alignment. Beside him, the first fellow fourth-level student froze, then the second, then the third.

The arrows came from the forest, from rocky outcrops, from angles that had not existed before—or that he had failed to see. There was no wild barrage, no chaos. These were deliberate shots. Every hit landed, and every hit was followed by a brief paralysis, turning motion abruptly into stillness. Sondas tried to give orders, to react, to rally the others—but his body no longer obeyed him. He watched as more fourth-level students fell, rigid, eliminated—not wounded, not destroyed, but simply… taken out of the fight.

The banner slipped from his fingers and fell into the shallow water. In that moment, he understood. The earlier skirmishes had not been weakness. They had been camouflage.

Then he, too, sank to the ground, his eyes still fixed on the banner as the wind slowly carried it back toward the rock from which it had been taken.

With the elimination of the fourth level, the attackers’ structure collapsed. Anadar now let the true plan take hold.

Targeted strikes, again and again, from shifting directions. No attempt to hold the banner permanently, no grand clash that would have looked heroic. Instead, systematic removal of individual groups, constant pressure on the banner bearer, disruption of every withdrawal. Spirit-bound blades slid through bodies, leaving cold, paralysis, elimination—and that was far worse for morale than any pain. Those who were hit were out, and everyone saw it. Numbers no longer helped. Movement became uncertainty; initiative vanished.

The maneuver stretched over half a day. When the sun stood lower, the banner once again flew on the rock at the end of the peninsula. It had moved scarcely a few hundred meters in total. The attackers were nearly completely neutralized. The defenders had suffered only minimal losses.

Anadar gathered his thirteen students in the shelter of a rocky ridge. They stood dusty and weary, but upright, and on their faces lay something that was not triumph, but clarity.

He let them rest first. Then he spoke, his voice calm, almost warm.

“I thank you,” he said. “Not for the victory.” He looked around the circle. “But for being disciplined enough to carry out the plan. Without haste. Without acting on your own authority. Without the need to prove anything to anyone.”

Some lowered their gaze. Others nodded curtly. One could feel that this praise meant more to them than any loud acclaim.

“Why did we win?” Anadar asked at last.

Silence.

Then one said, “Preparation.”Another: “Because we used the terrain.”A third: “Because we held together.”

Anadar nodded slowly. “And because a plan,” he said quietly, “that is understood and supported will defeat any numerical superiority.”

The wind from the sea swept across the peninsula, and for a moment there was only that sound—the deep, steady breathing of the surf. Anadar looked once more at the banner.

A good maneuver, he thought.

And a lesson that would endure.

6

The Dean’s tower lay that evening in the kind of pleasant lethargy that only a long, successful day could produce. The late-summer heat had collected in the thick walls, and although the windows to the parapet stood open, little more than a tepid draft found its way inside. Torches cast calm, steady shadows along the stone, adding their share of warmth, and on the heavy table of dark wood stood pitchers of water and wine, and a bowl of bread and salt.

Rotar sat at the head of the table, sunk deep into his chair, his hands folded over his belly, a satisfied expression on his face. Frantor had settled comfortably to his right, his wine goblet already refilled for the second time. Manador and Loon sat side by side, Anadar across from them, Shara slightly reclined at the side with her arms loosely crossed. Saltor moved quietly in the background, setting down pitchers and taking away the empty ones again, like a man who heard everything but rarely said anything.

“A successful maneuver,” Rotar began at last, his voice warm and measured. “Very successful. I have not seen an exercise carried out with such… clarity in a long time.” He looked to Anadar. “You prepared your students well.”

Anadar dipped his head slightly. “They worked well.”

Manador gave a low snort—not mocking, more resigned. “Worked well is putting it mildly. You put on a show at our expense, Anadar.”

Loon smiled crookedly. “And with frighteningly little effort.”

Anadar raised a placating hand. “The effort was not in the maneuver itself.” He took a sip of water, let his gaze pass briefly over the group as if to ensure he was understood. “I used the entire late summer,” he continued, calm and matter-of-fact, “to train my students in bow and crossbow shooting. Daily. Not as an auxiliary drill, but as a fixed part of their education.”

Shara allowed herself a small smile.

“And on the night before the maneuver,” Anadar went on, “we deliberately placed crossbows in the terrain. Hidden. Secured. Not to cause harm—but to exert control.”

Rotar nodded slowly. “So you did not react. You directed.”

“Exactly,” Anadar said. “The skirmishes on the approach were set deliberately. Distraction. Confirmation. They were meant to believe they were breaking the resistance.”

Manador pulled a face. “And we believed it.”

“Because you wanted to lead,” Anadar said evenly. “Not read.”

Loon gave a soft laugh. “A fine line. Bitter, but fine.”

The mood remained relaxed. No one felt attacked. It was the kind of conversation possible only when everyone involved knew they were part of the same structure, even when they argued within it. Rotar leaned back and sighed in satisfaction.

“That is what training should look like. No fireworks. No vanity. Preparation defeats numbers. Some houses would do well to remember that.” He waved a hand when Frantor seemed about to reply.

“Speaking of remembering,” the dean continued, “in a few days it is the Great Conclave. And we will have more to discuss than training questions alone.”

The atmosphere shifted, almost imperceptibly—not abruptly, rather like a shadow slowly lengthening.

“Disturbing reports reach us from the North,” Rotar said, folding his hands again over his belly. “The summer was unusually cold. In some regions it scarcely thawed. The northern territories seem to be… becoming uninhabitable.”

“Barbarians,” Frantor threw in, loud and contemptuous. “They come, they plunder, they move on.”

Rotar raised a hand. “This time it is more than that.” He looked around the table. “Several cities in the North have been overrun. Not merely plundered—taken. There were fights, movements of flight. Whole populations seem to have been set in motion.”

Shara frowned. “A migration of peoples.”

“That is what the chroniclers call it,” Rotar confirmed. “And they are uneasy.”

Loon tilted his head. “This is not a local problem.”

“No,” Rotar said. “And that is precisely why it will be a matter for the Conclave. We must understand what is happening there—and decide whether we intervene.”

Frantor waved it off. “The North has always been harsh. They will sort it out among themselves.”

Anadar said nothing at first. His gaze had lowered, as though weighing each word. “If whole cities fall,” he said at last, quiet and steady, “it is no longer a fringe matter. Were you not driven out as well, Frantor?”

Rotar nodded.

“Besides,” the dean continued, as if steering the conversation back into calmer channels, “the student exchanges are at hand. Who goes where. Which school takes whom.” He looked at Anadar. “Your brother, Slonda—brother of Earth… they say he has risen.”

Something indefinable crossed Anadar’s face. Not a smile. Not a frown. “Are you pleased to see him again?” Rotar asked, curious.

Anadar hesitated a moment. “I am… curious,” he said at last. “Slonda and I see the world differently.”

“That is putting it mildly,” Shara murmured.

A quiet laugh moved around the table.

Saltor had already turned back to the table again, refilling Rotar’s cup, setting a fresh pitcher before Frantor without seeking his gaze. The soft clink of ceramic on wood mingled with the muted murmur of voices drifting in from outside through the open windows.

“Forgive me, Magnificence,” Saltor said as he did so, eyes lowered, the motion routine, almost casual. “There was another request. From Salbeen.”

Anadar had just broken off a piece of bread. He froze, the bread still between his fingers, not lifting it to his mouth.

“Salbeen?” Rotar repeated slowly and reached for his cutlery. He chewed his piece of meat with deliberation, as though he first had to place the name. Saltor nodded.

“The miller was found dead. This morning. They say there were… no visible injuries, but that he had not a drop of blood left.”

Frantor gave a soft snort and raised his goblet to his lips. “Peasants,” he said after a deep swallow. “When someone drops dead, it is immediately a wonder or a curse.”

He laughed while sliding another piece of meat onto his fork. “No blood. As if they would know how much blood a man even carries.”

Rotar pulled his mouth to one side but said nothing. He continued cutting, chewing, nodding slowly, as though listening more to the rhythm of the conversation than to the words themselves. Anadar finally did lift the bread to his mouth—but only after a moment did he speak.

“Not a drop,” he said quietly. Not as a question. Not as an objection. More like someone testing a word.

Saltor nodded again. “That is the statement. The village elder asked whether one might… well… contribute to clarifying the matter.” He cleared his throat. “In very simple words.”

Frantor waved it off before Anadar could answer. “Of course he asked. When an ox goes lame, they call the smith; when a man dies, the mage. Both with the same understanding.”

Shara, who had been silent, took a sip of water, set the cup down, and looked at Anadar from the side. Her gaze was calm, but attentive.

“Salbeen lies before the fortress,” she said at last. “Not exactly at the end of the world.”

“Precisely,” Frantor replied. “All the more reason not to chase every superstition.”

Anadar placed his hands slowly on the table. He had finished eating without consciously noticing.

“Who asked?” he said.

“The village elder himself,” Saltor answered. “He was… very insistent. And very unsettled.”

Frantor laughed again, shorter this time. “Unsettled peasants are nothing new.”

Anadar looked at him. Not sharply, not openly contradicting—just long enough for Frantor’s laughter to die away without him being quite able to say why.

“Salbeen is small,” Anadar said at last. “And remote enough to be overlooked. But close enough not to be ignored.”

Rotar had finished as well. He leaned back, set his hands on his belly, and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and looked around the table.

“It seems,” he said, “that things are moving which have stood still for a long time.”

No one contradicted him.

Outside, a stronger gust of wind came up from the sea, and the torches flickered briefly. For an instant, one of the open windows gave a light rattle in its frame.

Anadar rose slowly. “I will look into Salbeen,” he said calmly.

Rotar nodded. Frantor shrugged. Shara rose as well, without a word. Saltor stepped aside as Anadar passed and bowed his head respectfully.

When Anadar left the tower, the evening was still warm. But the air had changed.

And somewhere—between sea, forest, and stone—something waited to be noticed.

7

The sun had only just risen above the battlements of the Fiery Fortress, and the courtyard still lay in cool half-shadow—that brief pause between night and day in which even stone seemed to rest. The air was clear, almost mild, promising a calm late-summer day. It would grow warm, but not oppressive. Not a day for haste.

Anadar was already in the stables when Morgut and Shara entered. The leather tack hung neatly on its hooks, the saddles were prepared, the straps checked. Two packhorses stood quietly tethered, loaded with empty crates, sacks, and rolled blankets—a visible assurance that they were officially bound for the Great Market. A little apart stood Zintra and Konsdor, both students of the third circle whom Anadar had chosen to accompany them. They had been pulled from their beds before sunrise with the good news. There was more excitement than resentment in them.

Zintra was small and lean, almost sinewy in build, with a long, narrow nose and alert brown eyes that rarely missed anything. He wore his brown hair cut short, practical, and he moved with that quiet self-assurance common to people who had learned not to draw attention. He spoke little, listened much, and usually asked questions only when he already suspected the answer. Konsdor was his exact opposite. Considerably taller, broad-built, with powerful shoulders and arms that looked more like those of a laborer than a student. His black beard was thick, his hair the same, and when he spoke he had a slight lisp—something others often underestimated, but which had long since ceased to trouble him.

Saltor joined them, his cloak thrown loosely over his shoulders. As castellan, he kept track of everything that concerned the fortress—and much that left it.“To the Great Market, then,” he said loudly enough for the stablehands to hear. “Time to stock up. Grain prices are rising, they say.”“Salt and spices,” Shara added, tightening her gloves. “And cloth. The stores are miserable.”“Tools,” Morgut said dryly. “Always too few. Do you have the list for us, Saltor?”

Anadar slipped the handed list into his saddlebag and straightened. “And books.”Saltor laughed. “If you return with books, at least I’ll know you truly went there.”

As the words were exchanged, Saltor, Anadar, Shara, and Morgut leaned closer together. Their voices dropped, casual and unobtrusive, the way one spoke when one did not wish to be overheard.“Salbeen first,” Shara murmured.“Inconspicuously,” Morgut added.Anadar nodded.

The official story was set. The unofficial one as well.

Shortly thereafter they left the courtyard. Five riders, two packhorses, a quiet late-summer morning. The Fiery Fortress receded behind them as the road drew gently southward, past fields, low hills, and scattered homesteads. The steady rhythm of hooves was calming, almost meditative.

Salbeen lay off the main road, small and compact, surrounded by fields soon ready for harvest. When they reached the village, they halted first. Anadar dismounted, led his horse a few steps, and stopped.“He’s not moving quite right,” he said aloud, bending to the hoof. “I think he’s picked up a stone.”Morgut nodded as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. Shara remained still, letting her gaze roam over the yards and houses.

“Send the students ahead,” Anadar continued. “With the packhorses. We’ll meet this evening at the inn on the main road, halfway to the market. Settle in there.”Zintra nodded at once, Konsdor as well. No questions, no hesitation. Moments later they were on their way again, leading the packhorses behind them. Anadar, Shara, and Morgut turned toward the village.

The village elder received them with visible relief. His words came hurriedly, almost apologetically, as though he felt compelled to justify why they had been summoned at all. The miller, Kohm, had been found dead in his bed that morning. Twisted, he said, strangely contorted. No blood. No sound in the night. Hesitantly, he led them to the cool, windowless cellar where the body lay. Two men stood guard at the door, faces tense, eyes reddened by sleepless nights. The sight was disturbing.

The miller’s body was unnaturally twisted, the limbs bent at angles no sleep could produce. The skin was unbroken, yet gaunt, almost leathery. The face was frozen in pain. Dark marks marred the body—large, irregular shapes, like impressions. Too large for human hands, too formless for animal claws. A wooden stake protruded from his chest.

“The… protection,” the elder said hastily, making a sign with his hand. An old, useless sign, as Anadar noted cynically to Shara. “One does not want… such things to spread.”“Who drove in the stake?” Morgut asked calmly.“We did,” the old man replied softly, embarrassed. “One never knows.”

They asked to examine the body alone. Reluctantly, the elder withdrew. They worked thoroughly, almost in silence. No blood. No recognizable natural cause of death. No smell of decay. The body felt strangely dry, nearly mummified, as though something essential had been taken from it.“Finger marks,” Shara murmured, studying the dark stains. “But… wrong.”Anadar nodded slowly. “Too large. And yet deliberate.”

They found no explanation. At last they stepped back outside.

Anadar spoke calmly to the villagers. He said the death had been natural—rare, but known—a failure of the body in which the blood seemed to dry to dust. Death was death. There was no danger from the corpse. It should be buried or burned. Relief spread visibly among them.

When they left Salbeen and returned to the road, silence did not last long.“That was not a natural death,” Shara said at last.“No,” Morgut agreed.Anadar nodded. “Something—or someone—killed him that way.”

He looked ahead, where the road vanished. “We should ask whether this has happened before in the region. Perhaps in Tandor. The library of the Earth School. The healers.”“Five hard days’ ride from the Great Market,” Morgut said.“I can make it there and back before the Conclave,” Anadar replied calmly. “If necessary, I’ll attend from there.”Shara looked at him. “I’ll go with you.”“So will I,” said Morgut.

Anadar shook his head slightly. “One of you must handle the purchases and escort the students back to the fortress.” He looked from one to the other. “Decide among yourselves.”

Morgut sighed; he knew how the decision would fall.

That evening they reached the agreed-upon inn on the main road. Zintra and Konsdor were already waiting, the horses tended, quarters secured. The day ended quietly.

The next morning they would ride on.

To the Great Market.

And perhaps beyond.

8

The Great Market lay in a long valley that cut through the land like a vast gash—as if some forgotten hand had torn open the ground and then decided to fill that rift with trade. Approaching from the south, one came in from higher ground over gentle hills, and only shortly before the descent did the view open wide enough to grasp its full scale: a broad plain of tents, paddocks, smoke plumes, pack animals, and shifting color, framed by slopes that gathered the murmur of voices like a cauldron.

Four great roads fed into the valley like veins into a heart.

The southern road—by which Anadar and his group arrived—continued farther south toward Ashambrat, the great city that housed the School of Wind. Twenty days’ ride, they said, if one made good progress; less, if one was willing to ruin the horses. Anadar had never liked Ashambrat, though he rarely said so aloud. It was too light, too loud, too convinced of itself.

The northern road led toward Sontor: twenty-five days, a hard route that changed noticeably in the cooler months. Along that road, in these days, more people came than the market could comfortably hold.

To the east, the road wound toward Gontar—fifteen days’ travel—then drew near the sea again and followed it for a stretch before it reached the city that sheltered the School of Life. On maps, that road often looked harmless, as though it were only a line; in truth, it was a journey of dust, rain, and patience, dotted with small settlements that lived off the market and were squeezed by it all the same.

And finally the northwestern road climbed toward Tandor, to the Earth School, and from there on to Zoordak. Tandor was the nearer station, one that could be counted in days; Zoordak lay ten days beyond Tandor—a name that sounded like a boundary to many merchants. And yet it was precisely that road that Anadar kept in the back of his mind since Salbeen.

In addition, a broad river flowed down from the mountains in the northwest, cut through the valley, and ran east toward the sea. It was slow enough to carry freight barges and wide enough that an entire world had formed along its banks: jetties, embankments, rollers, ropes, voices, and the constant groan of wood as loads were shifted.

When, on the third day, they crossed the last ridgeline, Shara remained seated in the saddle for a moment, as if her body had forgotten that motion also meant dismounting.

“This is… more than I expected,” she said.

“It is always more,” Anadar replied evenly. “The market is like fire. It consumes every notion you have of it.”

Morgut said nothing, but his eyes were already moving over the plain the way a trader’s eyes moved—not curious in a childlike sense, but searching: for patterns, for origins, for affiliations.

Konsdor whistled softly between his teeth, as if he were looking at an arena. Zintra looked as though he were drawing a map in his mind.

Down in the valley, at the center, lay a complex of stone warehouses—old, broad, heavy. Around it ran a wall, not high like a fortress wall, but solid enough to pretend at order: gates, guards, a few flags marking the most important merchant houses. Those warehouses were the core, the memory, the permanence.

Beyond them stood newer storehouses, scattered across the field like mushrooms after rain. Some of wood, some half stone—makeshift, quickly built, with signs that promised more than they could deliver.

And between it all: tents. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Small, crookedly pitched cloth beside large, well-run tents that looked almost like houses. Pens and paddocks, stalls thrown together from rough beams, improvised forges where sparks flew. Smoke rose. The smell of roasted meat, of manure, of river water, of foreign spices.

Along the river lay freight barges being unloaded, loaded, cast off again. Men and women in sweat and linen rolled barrels over planks, hauled sacks up on ropes, shouted instructions. Carts rattled along the paths, and every wheel seemed to have its own sound: dry wood, wet mud, stone, metal.

“If you want to lose something here,” Shara murmured, “you only have to drop it.”

Anadar smiled. “And if you want to find something, you have to know whom to ask.”

They reached the market in the early evening, when the light already slanted and the shadows of the tents crept longer over the ground. The group paused at the edge before throwing themselves into the bustle. Here, at the threshold between road and market, inns stood like sentries: buildings of stone and wood, some old, some new, all hungry for guests. Anadar had them dismount. They led the horses into the yard of an inn that was neither grand nor shabby, and whose sign—a simply painted tankard—seemed more trustworthy than many a more elaborate emblem.

Upstairs, by a flickering candle and the sound of the world seeping through thin walls, they made a decision that required no debate because it was obvious to all of them. No armor worn openly. No large weapons visible. When they came down again later, they looked like other people: white habits, plain, without any insignia. Beneath them, light cloth garments, unfamiliar in their looseness—and Shara paused, tugging at the fabric as if to confirm it truly offered as little protection as it felt.

“This is… absurdly light,” she muttered, and her voice carried both distaste and a trace of relief. “You almost forget how heavy you usually are.”“That is the point,” Anadar said. “Weight makes you important. Lightness makes you invisible.”

The swords remained in their rooms. At the belt each carried only a dagger and a small pouch that rustled softly with every step: money, coins, a few pieces of silver—enough to buy, too little to draw attention.

In the common room the innkeeper received them with the practiced friendliness that did not have to be warm in order to be reliable. He brought food—bread, stew, a jug of thin beer—and remained when Anadar asked him to.

“We need an overview,” Anadar said. “Where do you find what, without riding the entire market three times?”

The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and began to talk as if he had answered that question a hundred times. He described not only places, but routes, smells, and sounds: where the smiths worked, where cloth was traded, where spices lay, where salt could be had, where tools, where crates, where animals. He explained which warehouses were “honest” and which were “creative,” and which alleys one would do better to avoid at night.

“And watch your pouches,” he added, looking at Shara as if she were the one most likely to forget how quick a hand could be. “Pickpockets are like flies. You only notice them once you’ve killed them.”

Shara gave him a thin smile. “I don’t like killing.”

“Then remember it,” the innkeeper said dryly, “and there are many newcomers from the north.” He added it as if in passing.

The next morning they split up. Zintra and Konsdor received a clear assignment: return transport. Not as a possibility, but as a problem that had to be solved. Anadar deliberately left open how they should solve it. He wanted to see who found structures, who found people, and who simply reached for the easiest path.

“Come back with a solution,” he said. “Not with an excuse.”

Zintra nodded as if he had been waiting for precisely that. Konsdor grinned and lisped, “W-we’ll do it.”

Morgut intended to seek out merchants from his home region, to listen, to find contacts, to gather rumors without seeming to gather them. He disappeared early, as if he had never been part of the group at all.

Anadar and Shara drifted through the market. They moved not with purpose, but to gain orientation—letting themselves be carried along, because one only truly saw the Great Market when one did not try to see everything. They bargained without seeming hurried and bought some of the items on their list—salt, preserved food, cloth, small tools, glass, twine, nails, things no one bothered to write down and yet which were missing every day.

A merchant tried to sell Shara a fabric as “wind silk.” She touched it, drew it between two fingers, looked at the man and said only, “That’s cotton.” The merchant smiled as though he had expected to be caught and lowered the price.

They had goods delivered to the inn, piece by piece, and watched how quickly the market responded—how carts appeared, how porters offered themselves, how there were people everywhere who sought work, needed work, nearly begged for work.

Between the stalls they heard conversations they did not seek and yet found.

The north was everywhere.

Refugees had settled on the market’s outskirts, in tents packed tighter than was healthy. One saw hollow faces, exhausted children, men too proud to beg, and women who had to beg precisely because the men would not. Merchants and locals murmured that crime had risen, that wages were being pushed down, that foreigners were “destroying order.” There was resentment, not yet turned into violence, but already smelling of it.

“They talk as if people are weather,” Shara said quietly.

“For many, people are only people,” Anadar replied evenly, “when they are standing in their own parlor.”

They asked, offhandedly, about strange deaths—about bloodlessness, about odd illnesses or accidents. They did not ask directly, but the way one asked when one supposedly wanted only entertainment. Yet no one had heard anything. No tale fit. No rumor sounded like Salbeen.

The day vanished quickly. The market devoured time. One passed five things and had already seen ten more before one truly remembered the first. In the evening they met again at the inn.

In the small storage room the innkeeper had cleared for them in exchange for coin, crates, sacks, and bundles were already stacked. It smelled of wood, of cloth, of salt, of foreign goods. Anadar pictured the two packhorses and knew his old skepticism had been justified.

“That will never be enough,” Shara said flatly.

“Yes,” Anadar replied with a short nod, without triumph—only statement.

Zintra and Konsdor arrived later, dusty and tired but with an energy that betrayed success.

“W-we found peo-people,” Konsdor said, and this time his lisp sounded almost like pride. “Lots.”

Zintra added calmly, “Work-seekers. Drivers. Traders. Some offer transport. For a fee that changes depending on how desperate you look.”

“And we do not look desperate,” Shara said.

“No,” Zintra confirmed. “That’s why they listen.”

They reported men who begged for work—not metaphorically, but literally. Traders willing to take goods south if paid. And that a wagon—a proper wagon—might be the better solution: buy or rent one, together with horses.

Anadar listened without deciding at once. He let the information settle, studied the stack in the storage room, the list in his mind, the distances on the map. The Great Market was a place where one could obtain anything. And where one paid for everything—not only with money.

Later, when voices in the inn softened and outside carts still rolled, Anadar sat at the table and thought of the north, of Salbeen, and of Tandor—and it felt to him as though all these lines—roads, rivers, people—were not merely crossing, but converging. Toward something that had no name yet. A premonition, and a slight shiver ran down his back.

The next day began gray. Not because the sky was clouded—on the contrary, the sun stood clear and high—but because the market had taken on another color. In the morning it always seemed more sober, less loud, less playful. The merchants set up, the wagons rolled again, but the din of voices had gained a sharpness, as if every word had been cut a little too short.

Anadar stood in the inn’s yard. “Is Morgut back?” he asked, more casually than expectantly.

Shara, at the well washing her hands, shook her head. “Not yet.”

Anadar nodded slowly. Then he looked out beyond the market’s edge, toward where the tents stood tighter and the ground was darker.

“I want to ask around,” he said. “With the refugees.”

Shara dried her hands and pulled on her gloves. “I’ll protect you,” she said with a hint of a smile.

Zintra and Konsdor stepped up, lists in hand, already in the middle of the next task.

“Just get the remaining goods,” Anadar told them. “Blankets. Pots. Rope. Everything—don’t go too cheap; it vanishes too fast.”

Zintra nodded and was already turning away.

The market’s edge smelled different.

Not of spices or manure, but of wet wood, cold smoke, and earth that had been trampled too often. The ground was soft, in places muddy, though it had not rained for days. Water gathered in hollows where ash had settled. Each step made a quiet sucking sound.

The tents were low, poorly pitched, patched from scraps of cloth, tarps, old sails. Many were stitched together from mismatched pieces; some were made from rough animal hides. Between them hung clothes to dry, stiff with grime, and everywhere lay objects no one threw away because one did not know whether one might need them tomorrow.

The people looked hollowed out.

Faces sunken, eyes too large for their skulls; hair matted, greasy, or simply cut off. Clothing that might once have been colorful now hung limp on bodies that had lost weight too quickly. Children sat in the dirt, played with stones, splinters, with nothing. Their hands were black with soil, their knees crusted over, their gaze watchful in a way children’s eyes should not be.

When Anadar and Shara drew near, they felt it at once: distrust. Conversations died. Eyes turned away. Shoulders angled aside.

Anadar asked questions—calmly, unobtrusively. Where they were from. How long they had been here. What they had heard.

The answers were short. One-word. Often only a shake of the head.“Seen nothing.”“Heard nothing.”“Leave us.”

They avoided them, slid aside, vanished into tents. No one wanted to talk to them. No one wanted to stand out.

Shara felt it: a faint tug at the full pouch on her belt. Too light to be an adult. Too deft to be accident. She did not look down—not immediately. Then the pouch was gone.

A shadow peeled away, then two. Small figures sprinted off, barefoot and fast, slipping between tents. Children.

Shara and Anadar looked at each other for a brief moment—no word, no nod. The plan took hold. Both moved, seemingly uncoordinated, seemingly hurried—exactly as was expected. And precisely because of that, they were already too late for the pursuers’ first instinct.

A man stepped in front of them. Tall. Broad. Skin filthy, hair gray and stringy. In his hand he held a wooden fighting staff, crudely carved, heavy. Without a word he swung at Anadar.

The blow rebounded—not from a visible barrier, but from the fact that Anadar did not even bother to dodge. The staff struck his shoulder and slid off as though it had hit stone.

Anadar seized it. He caught the end of the staff, hauled the man toward him, and struck. One blow—dry, precise. The man crumpled without a sound, without drama.

Shara had kept running. The children knew the game. They split, vanished in different directions, slipped under tarps, sprang over crates. Shara slowed, chose her target, let the others go.

A trace of mind-magic. A barely perceptible impulse. The world folded for an instant, and Shara suddenly stood in front of the boy she had chosen. He nearly collided with her, tried to slip past—she caught him by the collar.

He fought like a wild thing. Hit. Bit. Found nothing but cloth and air.

Anadar came up. The boy spat at him, kicked at him, shouted words that made no sense. Around them, a circle began to close—people stepping nearer. Too near. Faces hard. Eyes full of hunger, fear, rage.

Shara held the boy fast. Anadar eased the pouch from the child’s hand. They did not let him go. The circle tightened.

Anadar slowly raised his hand.

A fireball formed between his fingers. Not a great one. Not elegant. A raw, hissing lump of heat that burned loudly, as if it were breathing. The air around it shimmered. The smell of scorched dust rose beneath the smoke.

Anadar turned slowly so that all could see him. The circle withdrew. Then the crowd parted.

An old woman stepped forward. Small. Bent. Wrapped in furs that looked older than the market itself. Her face was a map of wrinkles; her eyes, however, were clear and sharp.

“You have questions?” she hissed in broken speech. “Then follow me.”

Anadar and Shara looked at each other. Both smiled. It had worked.

Shara released the boy and let her now-emptied pouch drop.

They followed the woman into a tent larger than the others, made of thick hides crudely stitched together. In the center burned a small fire. Smoke drifted out only slowly. The smell was heavy: fur, ash, old grease, herbs, something bitter.

The woman muttered to herself—cursing or praying, it was impossible to tell. She sat on the ground and gestured for them to do the same.

Anadar began a question. She hissed at him. “No talking. Look.”

She stared into the fire, murmuring in an unfamiliar tongue, and threw something into it. It hissed and cracked; the smoke darkened.

Anadar knew there was more than the schools of mages—knowledge not written in books. Magic passed on by word of mouth: shamans, witches, old men and women who had never entered a tower and yet saw what others did not.

The fire changed. Not truly. And yet.

In the shadows, shapes began to stir. Not clear images—more impressions. Movement. Cold. Small beings crawling from holes, from cracks, from ice caves. Gathering. Hunting flesh—animals, people, anything that lived.

There was no shelter except flight.

What began small grew larger. Villages emptied. Roads fell silent. Peoples were displaced. Death. Fighting. Flight. The stench of fear. Of cold blood. Of something that did not rot, but drained.

It was not a picture. It was a sensation.

“When did it begin?” Anadar asked softly.

“Last Midwinter turning,” the woman replied.

Half a year.

The fire crackled.

And outside, the market kept rolling on, as if it knew nothing.

9

The way back from the edge of the refugee camp did not lead them straight into the market’s center. Anadar chose a flatter arc, past storage yards still only half erected, past fire pits where wet wood smoked without properly burning. The odor hung heavy in the air—sweetish and bitter at once—and clung to clothing and hair. For a while, neither of them spoke. Shara walked half a step behind him, not out of deference but out of habit when she was thinking. Her eyes slid over people, tents, children who had learned too early how to be quiet.

“They don’t fit together,” she said at last.

Anadar knew immediately what she meant. “No.”

“Not only origin,” she continued. “Behavior, too. Some are organized, others completely disoriented. Some guard their tents like fortresses; others leave everything lying open. This isn’t a flight from one region.”

Anadar nodded slowly. “It’s an overlap.”

They paused briefly to let a wagon pass, its wheels sinking deep into the soft ground.

“The woman in the tent,” Shara said then, “she knew we wanted to see images.”

“And she knew we mustn’t trust them,” Anadar added. He stopped and turned slightly toward her. “She said something else after we stood up. Very quietly.”

Shara looked at him.

“That visions rarely lie,” Anadar said, “but almost never tell the truth. They don’t show what is, but what is believed. And that it’s dangerous to confuse the two.”

Shara drew her mouth into a thoughtful line. “Then what we saw…”

“…may not be the origin,” Anadar finished. “But the echo.”

They set off again, deeper into the market’s din, where smells overlapped and noises grew louder.

“If that’s true,” Shara said softly, “then we aren’t hunting creatures.”

“Then we’re hunting an idea,” Anadar replied. “Or something that produces ideas.”

He was about to continue when a voice stopped them.

“Master Anadar of the Fiery Fortress.”

The tone was calm. Certain. Not loud, but unmistakable. Both halted.

Before them stood a woman who set herself apart from the crowd without appearing ostentatious. Tall, muscular, with a posture that neither threatened nor yielded. Her skin had a warm bronze tone; her dark hair was bound back severely. High cheekbones, narrow almond-shaped eyes, a face that explained nothing and concealed nothing.

“And Shara,” she went on. “Mistress of the Fiery Fortress.” There was respect in it.

Shara raised an eyebrow. “Then we know each other.”

“Not yet,” the woman said. “My name is Xian.”

She did not bow. She did not ask. She waited.

“You want us to accompany you,” Anadar said.

Xian nodded. “Yes.”

She did not lead them by the direct way. She turned into narrower alleys, left the busy paths behind, until they stood before a tent that looked inconspicuous at first glance—too inconspicuous for its size. No marks. No flags.

Inside, several people sat at low tables. Parchments lay spread out, weighted with stones: maps, notes, columns of numbers. No one looked up when they entered—except a young man who rose to his feet. He was slim, neatly dressed, with an alert face and narrow spectacles that he nudged into place with an offhand motion.

“Nigk,” he said, and inclined his head slightly. “Thank you for accepting our invitation.”

Anadar stepped in, let his gaze sweep over the maps, and knew. He leaned toward Shara. “His Majesty Flonas’ intelligence service. King of Gronsar.”

Shara did not answer immediately. “The kingdom north of the market.”

The Great Market was a free city. But freedom here did not mean neutrality—it meant layering. Trade and information flowed together, and where both flowed, many eyes sat.

Nigk offered them seats. No wine. No food. Only water.

“We’ve been trying for months,” Nigk began calmly, “to gain access to the refugee groups. Without success.” He spoke matter-of-factly, almost clinically. “They change camps. They recognize outsiders. They close themselves off. Even our people don’t get far.”

“What are they afraid of?” Shara asked.

Nigk smiled thinly. “If we knew that, we’d be further along.”

He explained that no one named a trigger. No name. No place. But everywhere the same words: cold. emptiness. Something that comes without coming.

“Like a collective agitation,” Shara said.

“Or like a rumor with legs,” Nigk replied.

He spoke of scouts sent north. Some did not return. Others made it back only as far as the last city before the mountains.

“This city,” Nigk said, tapping the map, “was taken by barbarians half a year ago. King Kranzor fled to Gustant.”

Anadar nodded. “And now?”

“The barbarians have moved on,” Nigk said. “It became too cold there as well.”

Cold. Or something else.

A long conversation followed—refugee numbers, bottlenecks, friction. A running risk assessment that kept expanding and yet found no direction.

“We are concerned,” Nigk said at last. “Not because of the people. But because of the cause.” He looked Anadar directly in the eye. “We ask you to carry these concerns to the Fiery Fortress. And to the Conclave.”

Anadar did not answer at once. Then he said, “I will go to Tandor.”

Nigk exchanged a brief glance with Xian. “Then we will accompany you,” he said. “Xian and I.”

Shara nodded before Anadar could respond.

“One last question,” Anadar said. “Have you heard of dead men without blood?”

Nigk shook his head. “No. But I have not had anyone look for it. If it is important, I will pass it on.”

Xian remained silent. Yet her gaze lingered a moment too long on emptiness—as though she had recognized something.

When they left the tent later, Morgut was already waiting at the inn. He looked relaxed—almost cheerful. He talked a great deal, told them he had met people of his tribe—from the far desert beyond Ashambrat. That he had spoken their language, laughed with them. He had no new information—only the message that his tribe would depart south the next morning, and was willing to take the goods to the Fiery Fortress.

Anadar and Shara said little. They let him have that moment. They rarely saw Morgut so carefree.

The next morning they said their farewells. A small, colorful caravan of camels took Morgut, Zintra, and Konsdor with it. Dust rose; there were voices and laughter.

Anadar and Shara, however, rode—once more fully armored beneath white cloaks—back to the intelligence tent, where Nigk and Xian were already waiting. Together they turned northwest, toward Tandor.

And behind them, the Great Market remained: still loud, still alive, still oblivious.

10

They rode hard.

Not hurried, not frantic, but with that determined steadiness one chooses when the goal is fixed and one knows that every unnecessary detour will be missed later. The horses were good—enduring, accustomed to long distances—and Anadar rarely gave them loose rein, kept the pace high but not cruel.

They spoke little.

The wind stole words, and the rhythmic hammer of hooves was a better companion than any conversation. Only when they stopped—to spare the horses, to find water, or to make camp—did the silence loosen.

The road northwest led them away from the soft country around the Great Market and into a landscape that changed by degrees. The hills grew stonier, the forests denser, the paths narrower. The river that fed the market accompanied them for a while, glittering between trees, splitting and joining again, until at last it vanished into a side valley.

On the first evening they made camp on a low rise. The grass was short, the ground firm. A small stream burbled nearby, clear and cold.

It was Xian who built the fire. Not with magic, but with practiced hands, tinder, and patience. Shara watched her. “You’ve done that often,” she observed.

Xian’s smile was thin. “Fire is the same everywhere.”

Later they sat in a circle, eating simple bread and dried meat. The horses grazed calmly.

“You’re not from Gronsar,” Anadar said at last. It was not a question.

Xian stared into the fire. “No.”

She fell silent for a moment, then began to speak as if she were telling something she had already told many times—and that still never became easy.

“I come from far to the east. Beyond the great sea. Where the land is dry and people own one another.”

Shara lifted her gaze.

“Slavery,” Xian said evenly. “I was a child. I was sold.”

No one interrupted.

“It was Prince Tson,” she continued, “back then still young, not yet master of his house. He had an assignment—to learn the languages of foreign lands, to understand their customs, to scout their routes.”

She glanced briefly at Nigk, then back into the fire.

“He bought me to learn the language. To have someone at his side who wasn’t foreign.”

She paused, as if searching for the right words.

“Of course he set me free as soon as it was possible. Not out of pity—out of certainty. I was never property. Not to him.”

Nigk nodded slowly. “She stayed.”

Xian’s mouth barely curved. “And we grew up together. Brother and sister—not by blood, but by time.”

Nigk smiled. “And she beat me in every practice bout.”

“Only at first,” Xian replied dryly.

The fire crackled. The wind carried the scent of resin and damp earth.

Anadar asked, “And now you serve the king.”

“I serve Gronsar,” Xian said. “Flonas is… a good king.”

Nigk nodded. “He’s no great speaker. No field commander. But he listens. More than most.”

They spoke of the court in Gronsar, of Dweli, the capital—of broad halls of pale stone, of gardens that stayed green even in winter. Of Queen Elmera: clever, reserved. Of the king’s children, rarely seen, because they were meant to be protected—from intrigue, from expectation.

“The court is a place of closeness,” Nigk said, “and distance at the same time.”

Anadar listened, asked few questions, and stored away much.

The following days resembled one another, and yet each was different. They rode through forests where light reached the ground only filtered and thin; across open highlands where wind moved without restraint. They crossed old stone bridges, rested at forgotten waymarks, saw hardly any other travelers. At night they sat by the fire and talked more.

Shara spoke of the Fiery Fortress, of training, of the Code. Xian listened closely, asked intelligent questions. Nigk told them about his first assignment—how he had been more afraid than he had ever admitted. There was laughter. Quiet. Honest.

The group found its rhythm.

On the fifth day the landscape changed again. The hills steepened, the ground grew harder. In the distance the first outliers of the mountains took shape.

“Tandor,” Anadar said softly.

The Earth School was waiting. And none of them still believed this journey would bring only an answer. Each of them understood that it would bring more questions.

11

…between the past and what had not yet been given a name.

Slonda stopped again, this time abruptly, as if he had walked into an invisible wall. His staff clacked against the stone. He picked it up, studied the wood as though checking whether it was hiding something from him.

“You don’t know either,” he concluded. “Good. Then that makes two of us.”

A gust of wind swept across the square, rustling loose parchments, carrying dust and the scent of damp earth. Slonda wrinkled his nose.

“Visitors,” he muttered. “Or a message. Or both.”

He started walking again, more purposefully now, though from the outside it scarcely looked any different. His feet carried him deeper into Tandor’s inner quarters, to where the library was no longer public, where knowledge was not lent out but guarded.

The catacombs of the Earth School lay beneath the city like a second body. Cool. Silent. Bearing weight. Slonda knew every descent, every step, every place where the stone yielded slightly underfoot. He went down without lighting a torch. He did not need one. Not here.

Below, the air was heavier, infused with the dry sweetness of ancient paper and the mineral scent of rock. Shelves stood in endless rows, in niches, in halls so old that no one remembered who had first carved them. Here were stored texts from times before the Codex, before the schools, before order itself.

Slonda passed them, trailing his fingers over spines, over engraved symbols, over seals.

“Not you,” he murmured again and again. “Not you either. Too loud. Too young. Too proud.”

He stopped, tilted his head.

“Ah.”

A narrow smile crossed his face.

“You hid yourself.”

He pulled a book from the shelf—unremarkable, bound in grey leather, without a title. When he opened it, the binding creaked softly, almost offended. Slonda leafed through it quickly, practiced, then paused. His brow furrowed.

“Missing,” he stated. No anger. No surprise. Just fact. “Of course it’s missing.”

He closed the book, returned it to its place, and sighed.

“Then it will have to be this way.”

He turned, gazing into the depth of the hall as though listening for footsteps that had not yet arrived.

“They are coming,” he said quietly. “And they are bringing questions. And trouble. And pain.”

He grimaced.

“A great deal of pain.”

Slonda straightened, smoothed his robe—an entirely futile gesture—and planted his staff firmly on the ground.

“Good,” he said. “Then I will be awake.”

Above Tandor, the bells began to ring.

And deep beneath the city, between stone and memory, Slonda waited—not calm, not serene, but ready..

12

The walls of Tandor did not rise threateningly, but calmly.

Grey stone, old and well set, with watchtowers that observed more than they defended. The road led gently upward toward the city gate, flanked by low walls behind which gardens lay—winter-hardy, tended, practical. No splendor, no attempt to impress. Tandor had not been built to rule, but to endure.

They were stopped at the gate.

Nigk rode a step ahead and raised his hand before anyone asked him to. His tone was polite but unambiguous, his words concise. He gave his name, his title, the purpose of the journey. No voice was raised, no seal demanded; it was unnecessary. The name alone was sufficient.

“Official mission,” he said calmly. “To the court and to the Earth School.”

The captain studied him, then Xian, then the two magi beneath the white cloaks. He nodded and stepped aside.

Anadar had said nothing.And no one had asked him.

They rode in.

The city was lively, but not loud. Wagons rolled slowly over stone, people went about their business, merchants did not shout prices but waited to be asked. It smelled of dust, of paper, of earth. Books were everywhere—in hands, under arms, on carts, in crates. Tandor lived from knowledge, and it carried it openly.

The Earth School did not lie at the highest point of the city, but where several roads converged. A sprawling complex of halls, courtyards, and adjoining buildings, which had grown rather than been planned. Walls had been built over, corridors extended, staircases added. A school that had adapted itself to thought.

They rode through the outer courtyard and dismounted.

Anadar had just set his foot in the stirrup when a voice sounded.

“You still sit too stiffly.”

He looked up.

Slonda came waddling toward them, barefoot, staff in hand, robe—as always—frayed, beard unkempt. He smiled broadly, as though he had been expecting precisely this moment. Perhaps he had.

“And you,” Slonda continued, “still have that look, as if you were trying to consider everything at once and then getting annoyed when it doesn’t work.”

Anadar blinked. Then smiled.

“You smell of old paper and cold stone,” he said. “And you’re still dressed too lightly.”

“Nonsense,” Slonda replied. “The stone is cold. Not me.”

They stood facing one another for a moment, measuring each other—two men of the same age, the same features, and yet scarcely more different. One upright, controlled, bearing the presence of a man who carried responsibility. The other scattered, waddling, bearing the presence of a man who carried knowledge.

Then they embraced.

Not long.Not tightly.But naturally.

“You rarely come without reason,” Slonda said as they parted.

“And you sleep poorly when something’s in the air,” Anadar replied.

Slonda grinned. “That’s unfair. That’s my gift.”

He turned away—and stopped abruptly when his gaze fell on Shara. He studied her from head to toe, slowly, attentively.

“Ah,” he said. “So after all.”

Shara raised an eyebrow. “After all what?”

“You’re a woman,” Slonda explained, satisfied.

Anadar sighed. “Slonda.”

“What?” Slonda grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re traveling with this woman because you just happened to share the same road.”

“I travel with him,” Shara said coolly, “because he rarely listens when he’s alone.”

Slonda laughed brightly. “Oh, I like her.”

He looked back at Anadar. “You know she’ll outlive you one day.”

“She is not—” Anadar began.

“Yes, yes,” Slonda waved him off. “Not yet.”

He leaned slightly toward Shara. “If you wish, you may stay here. Fourth Circle. Quiet. Much reading. Little drama.”

Anadar looked at her. “Would you like that?”

Shara did not answer immediately. Then she shook her head. “Not today.”

Slonda nodded approvingly. “Wise.”

Nigk and Xian stepped closer.

“We must go to the court,” Nigk said. “They’re expecting us.”

Slonda regarded them briefly. “Gronsar,” he murmured. “You carry worries far.”

Xian inclined her head slightly.

“We’ll meet later,” Nigk said to Anadar.

“Yes,” Anadar replied. “Later.”

They watched them head toward the keep. Then Slonda turned back.

“So,” he said, tapping his staff against the stone floor, “what really brings you here?”

They walked.

Through one of the inner courtyards, past fountains, past students debating in groups, past stacks of books waiting to be delivered. Into a hall whose walls consisted entirely of shelves.

Anadar spoke.

Of streams of refugees.Of visions.Of bloodless corpses.

Slonda listened. He did not interrupt. He asked only once.

“Bloodless,” he repeated at last. “Without decay?”

Anadar nodded.

Slonda stopped. Stared into nothing.

“I’ve read about that,” he said slowly. “Once. Or twice. Or…” He frowned. “Not here. Not in the common texts.”

Then he smiled suddenly.

“That’s good. That means we search.”

He turned.

“Come. I don’t know where it is. But I know where I would look.”

And somewhere deep within the library of Tandor, something began to stir.

13

Slonda no longer remembered where. Only that it existed.

He stood in one of the lower reading halls of the Great Library of Tandor, his staff resting loosely in his hand, his head tilted slightly to one side, as though he were listening for an echo that only he could hear. Before him stretched shelves of dark wood, packed tightly together, labeled, numbered, ordered—at least for those who sought order. Slonda did not.

“No, no,” he murmured. “Not here. That was further down. Or higher. Or… temporally.” He began to move.

Anadar and Shara followed him, at first attentive, then increasingly bewildered. Slonda rushed through the aisles like a gust of wind with legs, pulling books from shelves, flipping them open, reading three lines—sometimes only a single word—then snapping them shut and not returning them, but setting them down somewhere else: on the floor, atop other books, on window ledges. Scrolls were unrolled, skimmed, rolled back up—this time the other way around.

Behind them, young students appeared. Two, then three, then five. Without a word, they began restoring order. They picked up books, returned scrolls, sorted with a speed and calm that revealed this was routine.

Slonda did not notice them.

He spoke to himself. Or to someone who had stood here long ago.

“You wrote that down wrong,” he said accusingly into an empty corridor. “No, no, not wrong—shortened. That’s worse.”

They went deeper.

The air grew cooler, drier. The smell changed—less paper, more stone, more dust, something metallic. Sounds dulled, as if the library itself were holding its breath.

Then Slonda stopped abruptly.

He lifted his head.

“Ah.”

Anadar looked at him. “What?”

“This,” Slonda said. “Of course.”

And then he ran.

Not hastily, not in panic—but with a sudden clarity that allowed no doubt. He stormed up a staircase, then another, past reading desks, past astonished students, past open windows through which cold air cut sharply.

“I read it here,” he muttered. “Or above. Or below. That was…”

The staircases grew narrower, steeper. Stone gave way to stone until they stood in a tower—tall, narrow, spiraling. The bell tower of the library, from which one could overlook the city. Floor by floor upward.

Slonda spoke without pause. Fragments. Thoughts. Memories.

“It was winter. Or summer. No—winter. My hands were cold.”

At the top, he stopped.

Before them the view opened.

Tandor lay spread out below: grey roofs, narrow streets, courtyards, the Earth School like a grown organism. Beyond it, hills, forests, further out open land, and in the distance the dark lines of the mountains. The sky was clear, hard, blue.

Slonda took a deep breath.

Then he turned, walked to an inconspicuous niche, reached inside, and pulled out a heavy ring of keys.

“Ah,” he said contentedly. “I knew I left it here.”

Before Anadar could speak, Slonda was already moving again.

Downward.

Step by step.

Faster than before.

They chased after him, back through halls, past shelves, through doors Anadar had not noticed, down spiral staircases that grew narrower, colder.

Slonda unlocked a heavy door.

Then another.

He took a torch from the wall and lit it with a casual motion.

Further down.

The light changed.

The walls began to glow faintly—phosphorescent veins in the stone, ancient markings, runes no longer read. Scrolls lay in niches, on pedestals, almost floating, as if held by the stone itself.

A sound echoed.

A giggle? A scream?

Shara stopped for a moment.

“Did you—”

“Yes,” Anadar said quietly. “Keep going.”

Slonda spoke as they walked.

“This is where I came down for the first time,” he said, as though speaking of a garden. “Everything else was boring. Too tidy. Too safe.”

He laughed softly.

“I spent hours here. Days. I understood nothing. But it was… beautiful.”

They went deeper.

Then Slonda stopped.

“No.”

He turned in a circle. Walked back. Then forward.

He opened a book, flipped through it.

Nothing.

Another. Nothing again.

Then he froze.

The book he had opened had pages torn out. Empty spaces. Traces of violence.

Slonda closed it slowly.

“That’s new,” he murmured.

He moved one shelf over, pulled out a slim, unremarkable book.

He held it up.

“There.”

There was no triumph in his voice—only relief.

By torchlight, he opened it.

Slonda stopped before opening it fully.

“This,” he said, tapping the wooden shelf with his finger, “is not an archive. Not really.”

He lifted the torch slightly, letting the dull light pass over the surrounding niches, over unbound scrolls, over rolls whose edges were frayed and darkened.

“Down here we do not preserve teachings. We preserve remnants.”

Anadar looked around. The air felt heavier than above, denser, as though it had settled over centuries.

“These writings come from before the Codex,” Slonda continued, as if speaking of old acquaintances. “Some even from before that. Before the Great War. Before the unification of the schools.”

He took a few steps, brushed his free hand along a stone ledge.

“There were no clear divisions then. No clean terms. Spirit, Life, Earth, Fire—they were not schools. They were states.”

Shara shivered, without knowing why.

“They tried to preserve everything,” Slonda said quietly. “Even what they later did not want to understand anymore. Or were no longer allowed to.”

He gave a short, dry laugh.

“These scrolls have… peculiarities. Some react to proximity. Others to thought. Still others to nothing at all—and that is often the most dangerous.”

“Can they be cast?” Anadar asked.

Slonda shook his head.

“No. No one can read them. Not truly. The languages are dead. Or changed. And that is a good thing.”

He looked at them—serious, as rarely seen.

“What lies down here is bound. Pacified. Contained. Not because it is harmless, but because no one knows anymore how to use it.”

He raised the book.

“But describe,” he said. “Describe, they could do very well.”

The script was foreign. Older than anything Anadar knew. Shara leaned forward, tried to discern patterns—failed.

Slonda pointed to a passage.

“Here,” he said softly. “There it is.”

At that moment, the torch went out.

The light vanished.

And something moved in the darkness.

The light did not simply go out. It was taken.

The darkness did not fall like a curtain; it pressed in, forced itself into the space, as if it had waited a long time and noticed only this one signal.

The phosphorescent veins in the stone faded—first hesitantly, then completely—and with them vanished all orientation.

Shara gagged.

Not from fear alone, but from a sudden, overwhelming revulsion that clenched her stomach, as if invisible cold fingers had dug into her entrails.

Her balance collapsed. The floor was still there, but it felt wrong—tilted, alien.

Anadar reached for her.

His hand did not reach her.

Something held him.

No grip. No pressure.

A standstill.

It was as though time itself had decided to nail him in place. His limbs no longer obeyed. A dull pain crept slowly—agonizingly slowly—through his arms and legs, not stabbing, but dragging, as if nerves were being pulled apart and released again and again.

Slonda let out a sound somewhere between laughter and weeping.

“No, no,” he muttered. “This is… this does not belong…”

Then his voice broke.

Something touched them.

Not from outside—from within.

Pressure built inside Anadars skull, as if someone were trying to unfold his thoughts. Memories flared—unbidden, unordered: heat, fire, voices from long-past days, guilt, doubt. All at once. All wrongly arranged.

Shara collapsed to her knees.

She felt something latch onto her mind—probing, curious—and linger where she was most vulnerable. Images crowded in, not clear, not whole: fragments of fear, of hatred, of something that knew no joy, only hunger for perception.

She did not scream.

She could not.

Her body was there—but it no longer belonged to her.

Slonda gasped. His hands cramped around the staff. Tears ran down his face without him noticing.

“Too old,” he stammered. “Too… awake.”

The pain changed.

It became rhythmic.

Like blows.

Like lashings—not on skin, but on thought. Each impulse brought nausea, made muscles twitch, created the sensation that one would shatter at any moment without anything visible breaking.

Time lost meaning.

It could have been moments.

Or hours.

Anadar knew only one thing:

This would not stop.

And that was the moment when something inside him shifted.

Not anger.

Not courage.

A clarity without rage.

He let go.

Not of the pain—but of the attempt to resist it.

He opened his mind—not wide, not completely, but precisely, like a blade.

Where the darkness pressed, he pressed back.

No fire.

No image.

No name.

Only will.

The counter was not a strike.

It was insistence.

A mental refusal to move from a place where something did not want him to be.

Anadar held.

He forced the other to perceive him—not as prey, but as resistance.

The darkness reacted.

A final convulsion. A slicing pain so intense that Anadar thought his skull would split apart.

Then…

It receded.

Not explosively.

Not defeated.

It simply withdrew.

Like something that had taken what it sought—and now moved on.

The darkness ebbed.

The phosphorescent glow returned, faint, trembling.

Shara lay on her side, gasping, cold sweat on her forehead.

Slonda sat collapsed on the floor, his staff fallen, eyes wide open.

No one spoke.

No one could.

Only after a long, trembling while did Anadar slowly push himself upright.

“I did not win,” he said hoarsely.

Shara looked at him. “No.”

Slonda swallowed. “No… it took.”

They looked at the book.

With shaking hands, Slonda opened it again, flipped through it frantically, desperately. Pages rustled. His breath came in jerks.

“Here,” he murmured. “It was here. I know it.”

He flipped further.

The passage was gone.

Not damaged.

Not blurred.

Removed.

Cleanly.

Deliberately.

Slonda let the book sink.

“It did not want us to read,” he said quietly. “It wanted us to remember.”

And deep beneath the Great Library of Tandor, each of them knew:

This had not been an attack.

It had been a message.