Matabar Chapter 33 - Palace

Ardi lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, where a small ice replica of Kaishas glided lazily through the air. It traced pirouettes around the ever-changing clouds, which at tis transford into the familiar peaks of the Alcade.

The stern, sowhat nacing cliffs hanging over the abyss, carpeted by the tops of firs and pines, now seed so desirable. They represented a place where everything was clear and known.

Ho...

A four-winged eagle soared among the peaks, occasionally dipping toward the mirror-like surfaces of vast lakes that were so clear that, even in their deepest parts, one could still observe the small fish scurrying about the sandy bottom.

It had been three days since Ardan had spoken with the Cloak. And in all that ti, an intrusive question had refused to leave his mind, buzzing in his consciousness like an annoying mosquito on a rainy morning, giving him no peace.

Why?

That was the question.

Why all of this? What was the point? What did Ardi want from his life? In the mountains, it had all been so simple: hunting, gas, friends, but here...

Sure, his cooperation with the crown was ensuring his family’s well-being, but it would be foolish to deceive himself with such justifications.

The crown hadn’t arranged a better life for Shaia, Erti, Kena, and Kelly out of so desire to please the great-grandson of Aror Egobar or the son of Hec Abar (Hector Egobar). No, not at all.

If the Emperor truly intended to show the Firstborn races that a new chapter was beginning under his rule, he needed a vivid example.

Sothing told Ardan that, in the newspapers that would co out right after the coronation, he would not only see his face next to that of the future Emperor Pavel IV, but also a picture of a certain house in Delpas and its happy residents. And it would perfectly illustrate the new opportunities for families like the Egobars.

But what then...

Back when Ardi was little, he loved studying the many scrolls of Atta’nha and the art of the Aean’Hane because they reminded him of his great-grandfather’s stories and fairy tales, which had captured his imagination from an early age with words like "magic" and "wonder."

Now...

Ardan raised his hand, and the ice copy of Kaishas folded its wings, descending onto his palm.

Now he was spending hours in a training hall on the other side of the continent, trying to hone spells designed for only one purpose — combat.

What was beautiful about that? What was magical about it, even? And... why and against whom was he supposed to fight?

And so, he kept returning to that sa question.

Why?

And he found no answer. If before, Ardi simply hadn’t understood who he was — a mountain hunter or a budding human mage — now there was another question as well. Where was he going, and to what end?

What had been the purpose of his grandfather, whom he had thought to be kind and funny, but who’d turned out to be his great-grandfather who had spilled rivers of blood? And not just the blood of Imperial soldiers, but also of innocent civilians as well?

What had been the purpose of his father, once a simple ranger, who first beca a bandit of the Shanti’Ra, bloodthirsty and ruthless, then a hero of the ongoing conflict on the Fatian border, fighting for those he had once hated, and later falling in love with a human woman?

What goals had they been pursuing? What paths had they chosen for themselves, and why had they given their lives for them? And most importantly: why hadn’t they shared their thoughts with Ardan?

All his father had left him was the advice to be strong for his family and for himself. But for so reason, he’d never explained where and how to apply that strength... Strength that, for now, he didn’t even possess.

Ardi sighed and severed his connection to the shard of the Na of Ice. In that sa instant, the replica of Kaishas vanished.

It dissolved into a cloud of steam, and the young man, pulling a silver spoon from his shirt sleeve, hurled the makeshift projectile toward the doorway.

"Ouch!" A cry rang out as the spoon hit its mark, seemingly striking a forehead, though Ardi had been aiming for the person’s stomach.

And as he had suspected, the intruder had been standing too close to the barrier that absorbed magic, and the Shield they had intended to deflect his strange projectile with was absorbed along with the clever spell that had previously concealed this uninvited guest from Ardan’s senses.

Propping himself up on his elbow, the young man glanced toward the entrance. He’d expected to see anyone from Urnosov to Tatiana’s younger brother (he had finally figured out who that boy was), but certainly not the person who now stood before him, rubbing her bruised forehead.

Holding a slender, white staff in her delicate fingers, she stared at him with bright blue eyes — eyes that reminded him of the last icicles of early spring. They were not as cold as that, but definitely clear and sharp, like the frozen droplets of a playful brook waking from winter’s slumber.

Her youthful, chubby cheeks were tinted with a natural blush, and her long eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a startled butterfly. She wore a black floor-length dress and a corset that sowhat comically emphasized the developing curves of her young but still childlike body.

She also had a low forehead, an oval face, and as-yet-unford cheekbones. She was beautiful.

So beautiful that her future attractiveness was evident even though the girl was no more than thirteen years old.

And she had strange hair. She wore it loose, unbound by ribbons or pins. It was straight, went down almost to her waist, and was blacker than a raven’s wing — but in the center of it, a reddish mark stood out. It was almost like a birthmark, if such things could appear in hair. It was in the shape of a flower.

Ardan noticed it when the girl turned on her heel, about to leave the room.

"Wait!" He called out.

Her hand froze, barely touching the door handle.

"I’m sorry," Ardan apologized sincerely. "I didn’t realize a child was spying on ."

"I’m not a child!" She almost growled, which, for so reason, made Ardan smile lightly. "And I wasn’t spying on you!"

"Then what were you doing?" He asked.

"I was studying!" She stated proudly, her voice almost indignant. "I’ve never seen the art of the Aean’Hane before, and I was curious, so I-"

"Spied on ," Ardan concluded.

The girl huffed, flinging the door open wide, and Ardi, shrugging, lay back down on the floor. He didn’t have the ti, desire, nor need to figure out who this girl was.

At least she wasn’t Urnosov.

For several seconds, Ardi lay with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he saw her round face peering down at him, so close to his own that their noses almost touched.

"What are you doing now?" She asked.

"Studying," he replied.

Indeed, her gaze held a lively curiosity and interest that was so pure and simple that, for a mont, Ardi felt like a captured animal being led this way and that, as she tried to figure out exactly what she had caught.

"You look human," she said after a few seconds. "Only your eyes and fangs aren’t human. And your height. I think the only person I’ve ever seen who was close to your height was the General-Governor of Shamtur Town, but he’s probably shorter."

"By much?" Ardi asked.

The girl pondered, then held her fingers apart, indicating a couple of centiters of difference.

"I see," Ardi murmured and closed his eyes again, briefly returning to his thoughts.

"Why are you lying on the floor?" She suddenly asked.

Ardan reluctantly opened his eyes. The girl was still crouched next to him, her staff lying beside her.

"It helps think better," Ardan answered honestly. "A habit from childhood. My teacher always said that if you lie on stones and look at the stars, your thoughts will have more room to wander."

"And who was your teacher?"

"An old snow leopard."

She laughed.

"But snow leopards can’t teach humans!" She exclaid, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh... you’re not a human."

Ardi smiled.

She was odd. And she slled strange. She bore that sa flowery scent he himself carried, which clearly indicated that they used the sa kind of soap. And yet, her hair held a faint aroma of smoldering embers and river stones.

She reminded him of a curious, young fawn that was afraid of its strict parents who’d forbidden it from leaving the grove. But when no one was watching, the fawn would slip away for secret adventures.

Ardi had done sothing similar in his childhood.

The girl looked up at the ceiling.

"But there aren’t any stars here," she pointed out reasonably.

"Nor in all of tropolis," Ardan agreed.

Indeed, over the past few days, he hadn’t seen a single star in the evening sky.

"That’s due to light pollution and the low cloud cover," the girl promptly reported, as if she were taking an exam. "The city emits too much light."

"I see," Ardi nodded. "Thank you. That’s good to know."

She tilted her head and studied his face.

"You’re not mocking ," she stated, not asking.

Ardan had indeed thanked her sincerely and seriously. He had spent so ti searching the library for information on the starless sky of tropolis, but in the overwhelming abundance of books and sections, it wasn’t easy to find an answer to such a specific question.

Unexpectedly, the girl then lay down next to him, her legs in opposite direction, head to head, so close their ears nearly touched.

"I’ve never seen stars," she suddenly said. "No, wait. That’s a lie. A few years ago, my father took to an estate in the King’s Forest, and there were stars there, but I fell asleep almost imdiately and don’t rember much."

And for so reason, her voice sounded so sad and strained, like a violin weeping without comfort. Though clearly, her sadness was not because of the stars...

"Would you like to see them?"

"See what?" She asked, surprised.

Ardan smiled.

"The stars."

She frowned.

"I’m not even allowed to leave my room without permission, and you’re talking about stars. Where would I-"

Ardi ran a pin, which he hadn’t used to prick his finger this ti, along the stone floor, striking sparks. He caught them in his hand, feeling them burn against his skin, and then brought them to his lips and blew, directing them upwards.

At the sa ti, he listened to their cheerful laughter and constant chatter. They were like joyful girls before a date. He felt their heat, which was so wild that, compared to it, even the fastest mustang seed like a ta foal. And he also sensed how brief their lives were. Born in a mont, and destined to disappear in that sa mont.

But Ardan didn’t let them.

He caught the echo of sounds that weren’t even fragnts of their nas, drew in their lody, beca part of their whispers, and Spoke the words — not with his tongue or lips, but with his soul and mind.

These words lifted the sparks higher and higher until they reached the ceiling. Then the tiny flas flared, multiplying until they covered the entire ceiling with countless sisters of theirs, which twinkled like stars.

They shone and sparkled, forming constellations so familiar and dear to Ardan.

This was what the sky over the Alcade looked like in his mory.

"Beautiful," the girl whispered in awe, reaching toward the ceiling. "Oh, look! There’s a shape like-"

"That’s the Soaring Phoenix constellation," Ardan explained. "Its beak always points to the central peak of the Alcade Mountains, and its wings to the north and south."

"And what’s that?" She moved her hand lower.

"The Cavalry constellation," Ardi answered. "They gallop across the Swallow Ocean, their horses’ heads turned toward the islands."

"And this one?"

And so they lay there, perhaps for almost an hour. The girl asked him about constellations, and he told her everything he rembered from the scrolls of Atta’nha. Sohow, it brought him a sense of peace.

"Amazing," the girl whispered at one point. "Such beautiful magic."

"Magic?" Ardan asked, surprised. "This isn’t magic."

"Then what is it?"

Ardi gazed at the starry sky above, and letting the sparks drift freely, he shrugged. He didn’t know how to explain the art of the Aean’Hane to the girl. It was like trying to describe how you rember to breathe or think or...

It was simply part of him, like a hand or a leg.

"Your na is Ard, isn’t it?" She asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes," the young man admitted.

"What does it an in your language?"

Ardan pulled a cord out of his shirt, from which hung a talisman shaped like an oak tree.

"Strong roots," he replied with a lump in his throat.

"That’s beautiful," she said dreamily.

"And what’s your na, young lady?"

"I’m not young!" She snapped, springing to her feet with the grace and agility of a cat, and heading for the door.

Ardi turned to look at her, suddenly realizing what had unsettled him during the first few monts of their encounter. Her hair, which was so smooth it could easily be mistaken for silk, was concealing traces of breakage and paint in certain places — especially where her fiery red "birthmark" blood in the shape of a flower. It had clearly been hidden. And dyed over.

Ardan lay back down and looked up at the ceiling. He knew what kind of flower it was. He recognized the scent.

"You know, young lady," Ardan began, his throat tight with emotion, "in my father’s holand, there’s a legend. My grandfather used to tell it to when I was a child. It’s about a master who lived on a mountain." He paused as he heard the door creak open slightly. "When he was old and gray, the Fae kidnapped him to make him their servant — they were so enamored with how the master worked with stone."

"Where are you going with this?"

"The Fae, in order to ensure that the master wouldn’t grow hosick, decided to deceive him. They did not lie, for the Fae cannot lie, but they tricked him, because even without lying, they are the best at deception. And so, the master returned ho, but no one loved him anymore. His elderly parents didn’t recognize him, his wife was in another’s arms, and his own children were afraid of him. So, the master thought that his entire past life had been a dream and left with the Fae to their kingdom. And when, decades later, he realized that he had been tricked, it was already too late. His children were old and had grandchildren of their own, and his parents and wife had long since beco grass and trees."

"But how did he live for so long? Even Matabar don’t live that long."

Ardi didn’t bother pointing out that he hadn’t ntioned that he was a Matabar. She knew who he was. And he had guessed who she was.

"The Fae made him live longer," Ardan answered. "But the master found a loophole and began to age, little by little. Before his death, he carved a flower from mountain crystal. The Altane’Mare. The Crystal Mountain Flower. In the Fae language, it ans ’Night Heart.’ And this flower beca his greatest creation, for though it was born from stone, it was alive. And whoever drinks a healing brew made from it will be cured of any ailnt of the heart and freed from the bonds of any enchantnt that makes the heart hard and unyielding."

The girl remained standing at the threshold, holding the door ajar but saying nothing. Finally, she whispered softly, her voice trembling slightly:

"I’ve always wanted to thank you," she said, her words barely audible. "And… your great-grandfather… If I could…"

"Such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits," Ardan replied quietly.

She left.

This was the little girl whose life had been saved several years ago by a foolish boy, setting into motion an entire chain of tragic events.

The Grand Princess Anastasia, daughter of the future Emperor.

***

"My lady," Tatiana knocked softly on the bathroom door before stepping inside.

She was carrying a tray laden with bottles and jars, as always. Placing these "treasures" on a side table next to the tub, Tatiana began opening them while Anastasia gazed out of the window. Outside, the streetlights glead, and every now and then, car headlights flashed as they passed by.

Almost like stars.

Only not in the sky, but on the ground.

"Tatiana."

"Yes, my lady?"

"Have you ever had a friend?"

The maid was clearly surprised by the question but quickly composed herself.

"A friend?" She repeated.

"Yes, a friend," Anastasia nodded. "And don’t try to twist the aning. I’m thirteen, not six. I know what favorites and lovers are, but I’m asking about a friend."

Tatiana flushed slightly, but after taking a calming breath, she sat on the edge of the tub, not caring that her apron and dress might get wet.

She dipped her hand into the water, wetting her fingers, and gently ran them through the young princess’ hair.

The girl in the tub… was the sa girl who’d used to dash through the mansion, peering into every corner. Ard with a broom, she had bravely fought off rats to help her beloved cats. She’d explored the farthest nooks, imagining herself a heroine of many adventures and journeys.

She had once argued fiercely with anyone who’d claid that such activities were beneath the dignity of a Grand Princess, threatening to run away and travel across the Empire.

And then... Then she had fallen gravely ill. The best healers of the land, including elven healers and Grand Magisters from the Grand University, had been unable to cure her ailnt.

No one could heal her until one day, her mother disappeared. When she returned, she brought with her a crystal flower — alive, though it was made of crystal. She told them how to prepare the healing brew, and the princess was saved.

But everyone had been so terrified of her getting hurt or sick again, including the heir to the throne, that the girl was stripped of any freedom from then on. Tatiana could count on one hand the number of tis Anastasia had been allowed to leave the mansion since then. And even those outings were brief, strictly monitored by trusted operatives of the Second Chancery, and had never lasted more than an hour.

As for balls, receptions, and other formal gatherings, Anastasia had outright refused to attend those, going so far as to throw tantrums. In her youthful ignorance, she’d believed she could change her parents’ minds, but they had simply resigned themselves to her refusal and had found the perfect excuse to offer to high society: the lingering aftereffects of her illness.

And that had instantly silenced all rumors and questions. Perhaps the Cloaks had had a hand in that as well...

And as for her education, the finest tutors in the land would co to the mansion to instruct the girl, who had shown a remarkable aptitude for learning... and an equally remarkable talent for driving her tutors to the brink of a nervous breakdown.

Only Urnosov had remained her steadfast, permanent teacher, likely because Anastasia found solace in the Star Magic he taught her.

Tatiana had always pitied this sincere and kind child, trapped like a swallow in a gilded cage. She was ant for the sky, not...

"A long ti ago," Tatiana replied, stroking the girl’s hair gently, "I had a friend."

"What was his na?"

"Stepan. We lived in neighboring apartnts in a tenent building. We went to the sa school."

"How did you beco friends?"

Tatiana thought about it for a mont.

"I don’t really know, my lady," she shrugged. "I never really thought about it. We were just friends, and that was that. I felt comfortable with him, and he didn’t ask anything of or try to... well. Perhaps we should leave that part out."

"I’m not a child."

Tatiana scooped up a handful of foam and playfully flicked it at Anastasia’s nose, causing the princess to frown and puff out her cheeks.

"Of course not, my lady," the maid replied with a warm smile.

The Grand Princess turned back to the window.

"I’ve always dread of having friends," she whispered softly. "When my mother told about the boy she t in the mountains and how he led her to the Fae Kingdom, I felt like a heroine from a book. I got this feeling that sowhere far away, I had a friend."

Tatiana remained silent. Who better than her, the one who had raised the princess while her parents had been occupied with the affairs of the Empire, would understand how the girl, after her illness and confinent, had lost herself in books, wandering through the legends, myths, and novels that had filled her days?

"And now, I’ve t that boy," Anastasia continued. "But I think he’ll never want to be my friend."

Tatiana recalled the scene from just over a week ago when sir Egobar had declined the royal gifts and had left the dinner hall with his head held high.

Yes, they were alike.

"Life, my lady, is always more complicated than it is in books."

Anastasia sank lower into the bath, hiding under the foam until only her nose and eyes peeked out.

Tatiana ran her fingers through the princess’ hair again, then stood and approached the tray of bottles.

"Don’t," ca a soft plea from behind her.

"My lady, you-"

"This Crystal Mountain Flower," Anastasia brought her hair forward and stared at the pattern she had once loathed, the mark that had beco the symbol of her cage, an impenetrable lock and the strongest of bars. The mark that had turned her once fiery red hair into a black as dark as night. "It’s called Altane’Mare. The Night Heart. It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?"

"It does," Tatiana nodded.

"I won’t dye it," Anastasia said, crossing her arms defiantly.

"But my lady-"

"If my mother wants it dyed so badly, she can do it herself, however she likes!" Anastasia declared. "I won’t! And you can tell her that."

The Grand Princess turned her back to the maid, her posture radiating finality. She stared out the window at the lanterns that looked like stars.

Maybe if she had a friend, those lights wouldn’t seem so cold.

***

Ardan stood before the mirror, gazing at a stranger’s reflection. He was clean-shaven, without dark circles under his eyes or sunken cheeks, and with clear skin free of blackheads and blemishes. No more greasy hair matted in places from dust and gri, either.

And, most unsettling of all, the stranger was dressed in a suit. He wore a black woolen jacket, cut in a military style (Tatiana had told him it was the latest fashion), with gleaming lapels and a high collar. There was also a white shirt paired with a peculiar bowtie, which had been tied in the shape of a butterfly. Without Tatiana’s help, Ardi would never have managed such a noose.

A narrow leather belt, fashioned from the hide of an unfamiliar reptile — he’d identified that it had been made from an amphibian by its scaly pattern — with a broad buckle embossed with the Empire’s crest, held up tailored pants with sharp creases. The ensemble was completed by polished shoes with thin, impractical soles that would be shredded after the first few hundred ters of road.

But, as Tatiana had assured him, these shoes were "not for the streets."

"Not for the streets," Ardi repeated, adjusting his shirt cuffs, held together by gleaming cufflinks adorned with small eralds.

To him, the concept of "shoes that were not for the streets" sounded absurd.

He glanced once more at the mirror. Yes, the suit looked outrageously expensive, and had surely been crafted from the finest of materials, but could it really cost a hundred exes? Had everyone in tropolis gone mad?

Sighing and grumbling about his future stipend — or rather, the fact that he wouldn’t see it anyti soon — Ardan moved away from the mirror toward his sparse belongings.

A knapsack that held the clothes sewn by his mother and the textbook of the Stranger, a satchel filled with Gleb Davos’ books and artifacts (no one had co looking for them, so his stained pillowcase seed to have been unnecessary), and a case containing his everyday clothes. That was all.

He tucked his father’s knife into the belt at the back, hung his grimoire at his side, and held his staff firmly.

Technically, he should have been wearing the Star Mage epaulettes on his jacket, but the future Emperor had decreed that, on the day of his coronation, the rule requiring mages to wear their regalia was suspended until the end of the festivities.

Recalling Mart’s tale of Theia Ergold’s rebellion, Ardan figured it was a pretty shrewd political move.

"And since when did you start caring about politics?" Ardi muttered to himself.

He picked up his sack and satchel, gave a final look around the room that had been his sanctuary for the past two weeks, and bade it farewell as he stepped into the hallway.

Davenport was already there, waiting to take his bags. As Ardan had suspected, Atura’s husband was indeed a military man. Today, he was dressed in a green formal uniform. dals glead on his left breast, while ribbons decorated his right, and his epaulettes bore the golden insignia of a general. No wonder he had such an easy rapport with Urnosov.

After all, as a general — perhaps a retired one, given how much ti Davenport spent at the Anorsky estate, but it was more likely that he was one of the Grand Princess’ tutors — he was high up in the social pecking order as well. Incidentally, after their brief encounter in the training hall, Ardan hadn’t seen the future heir to the throne again.

"If you forgot sothing, just send a letter, and we’ll have a courier bring it to you," Davenport reminded him as they descended the stairs.

For once, the typically taciturn, maybe-retired general felt chatty.

"At the ball, try not to engage in conversation with anyone," Davenport continued, his words as asured as his steps in his high black boots. "And certainly don’t get into any debates, especially about politics or religion. If soone offers you a dance — refuse imdiately."

Ardan couldn’t resist blurting out, "Why?"

Davenport stopped, turning to look at him as if Ardan had suffered a childhood head injury. Then again, considering how many tis Ardan had tumbled down cliffs onto rocks…

"Because you’re the great-grandson of Aror Egobar," Davenport said calmly. "And though the Dark Lord has been dead for centuries, that doesn’t an there aren’t still those among the children and grandchildren of those who served under his banner who hold to his ideals. Believe , you don’t want to get caught up in their web. Just as you don’t want those who suffered by the Lord’s hand to associate you with those who spilled their families’ blood at the fortress of Pashar."

"I have no interest in the Dark Lord, politics, or the nobility," Ardan replied honestly.

It was all, frankly, irrelevant to him.

"I believe you, Ardi," Davenport nodded. "But you’re a new piece on the board for these bloodthirsty fools. So…"

He left the sentence unfinished.

"You don’t like the nobility," Ardan realized suddenly.

"Not all of them, kid," Davenport didn’t deny it. "I’ve served alongside the sons of dukes, great princes, and high-ranking noble families. Many of them are honorable patriots, willing to give their lives and their fortunes for the good of the Empire. But I’ve also t such vile creatures and sycophants that I regret the ban on executing the heirs of noble bloodlines."

Ardan still recalled that aspect of the criminal code from his civics lessons. Dukes, princes, and their heirs were exempt from the death penalty or hard labor.

"You’d be right to say that this applies to many people and Firstborn as well," Davenport added as they reached the front door, "but they don’t have the sa resources as…" Davenport trailed off, turning slowly to look Ardan in the eye. "Ardi, for the love of all the Eternal Angels and Saints, you’ve got to do sothing about this. I’m literally pouring my heart out to you like I’m in front of a priest in a confessional. Soone is going to kill you for it one day."

Ardan smiled awkwardly, while Davenport shook his head grimly and stepped out onto the front steps. A cold wind, brought by the ocean’s autumn gales, slapped Ardan in the face. The first shy snowflakes fell on his skin, lting into cold droplets. Here in tropolis, winter laid its claim to autumn far earlier than it did in the Alcade.

The truth was, Ardan didn’t even understand how his Witch’s Gaze worked on ordinary people. Skusty, during their training, had taught him how to peer into another’s soul through their eyes, but now people seed to be telling Ardi everything even during simple conversations.

Ardan had no idea how to control this gift, but one thing was clear: if he didn’t address this issue, he could find himself in a dangerous situation one day.

But that was a concern for tomorrow.

Climbing into the familiar automobile, Ardan placed his staff on the floor and gazed out the window. Atura sat beside him once again, resplendent in a shimring gown, her hair styled in a complex updo; she also wore a fur wrap over her shoulders and held a small purse in her hands.

Up front, beside the chauffeur, Davenport checked sothing in the glove compartnt, and they set off.

As they drove through the twilight, Ardan listened to the hum of the engine, which seed like a distant rumble against the backdrop of the city’s living, pulsing rhythm. The scenery outside the window, winding through alleys and wide boulevards, revealing the granite embanknts, unfolded like the pages of an enchanted to.

The world beyond the window had wrapped itself in a shroud of brilliant light, a kaleidoscope of glowing hues born from a myriad of different sources. The glowing windows whispered softly of the quiet lives within, of the joys, concerns, and troubles brewing behind each glowing light.

Street lamps topped with the emblem of the two-headed phoenix stood tall over the sidewalks and roads, casting golden beams upon the cobblestone streets and the joyous people bustling below. Every corner, every alley of the city seed alive tonight, harboring its own secrets.

Leaning against the misted window, Ardan watched the figures strolling along the pavents. Their faces were bathed in the soft glow of the lanterns, their voices providing a lodic accompanint to the city’s heartbeat.

Every now and then, the sky would be filled with the bright flashes of fireworks, their light reflected in the eyes of the many spectators making their way toward the Kings’ Square. Each new explosion in the night sky resounded with the joy of an entire city, serving as a prelude to the coming event. The emblem of the two-headed phoenix fluttered upon the flags being waved by the crowd. It was as if it were wrapping its broad, fiery wings around all the people and making no distinction between rich or poor, commoner or noble, human or Firstborn.

And the closer they drew to their destination, the more people there were. Many overflowed from the sidewalks onto the streets, blending with the cars, whose drivers didn’t honk or shout at the pedestrians. Instead, they moved slowly, allowing the people to walk alongside them.

The masses surged toward the heart of tropolis to witness firsthand the ascension of their new ruler.

He was the heir to the Agrov na, the family that had ruled the Empire since Gales’ rebellion against Ectassus — Grand Prince Pavel. He was the future Emperor of the New Monarchy, Pavel IV. From the newspapers in the Anorsky library, Ardan had learned that the people loved him far more than his two younger brothers, his older sister (while she’d still been alive and the heir to the throne), and nurous cousins.

Pavel, who’d been sent to the Imperial Cadet Academy in his youth, had risen from the rank of private to beco a Colonel of the cavalry corps. He had sustained several injuries on the Fatian border, including one that had left him unable to walk or run properly, so he now relied on a cane to move. But even so, he hadn’t left the service until his honorable discharge.

After retiring from the military at the age of thirty-seven, Pavel had dedicated himself to public service. He’d built a coalition in all three Chambers of Parliant, using it to push for social reforms and legislation.

Thanks to him, even in small towns like Evergale, schools had received new textbooks, teachers now earned a decent salary, and students could expect a reasonably competitive education.

After fifteen years, Pavel’s efforts had increased literacy in the Empire by nearly sixteen percent, had cut child mortality in half, and had even led to the opening of nearly a hundred new rural hospitals and schools each year.

Not to ntion his introduction of state health insurance for the most vulnerable segnts of the population, including Firstborn, and new benefits for factory and plant workers.

So, it was no surprise that the entire capital was celebrating the ascension of its beloved heir to the throne.

A never-ending stream of people and Firstborn flooded into the city’s heart, chatting and laughing as they moved toward the festivities.

Ardi observed it all through the car window as they turned off Niewa Avenue and down an unassuming side street, where other equally expensive and grand cars were lined up. They approached a checkpoint where several n in red and black uniforms stood, along with a pair of mages carrying staves.

The guards from the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Second Chancery were working together tonight.

"I’m Corporal Norsky," the young man in uniform, who was also wearing a warm coat, introduced himself. A rifle with a bayonet hung on a strap over his shoulder.

The driver handed over a paper, and Norsky saluted Davenport before waving them through.

Along with other fortunate guests, they drove into the square. The oval-shaped building of the Army’s General Headquarters flanked the square from the city’s side, its center marked by a tall arch with beautiful, wrought-iron gates, its bars forming the symbol of the two-headed phoenix. Right now, the gates were closed, keeping the citizens out, and several companies of soldiers, along with a platoon of cavalry and mages, stood guard.

But on the river side...

At the very heart of tropolis, spanning almost six hectares, lay the Kings’ Square. Paved with cobblestones, it was now dotted with puddles from lting snow, but even those added to its grandeur by reflecting the celestial lights and street lamps.

And there, on a slight elevation, with broad stairs leading up to it from the square, stood the Palace of the Kings of the Past.

An architectural fusion of grandeur and elegance, it seed to hover above the ground. Its walls, bathed in an otherworldly glow, radiated a magical aura, as if the essence of moonlight had been captured by skillful hands and etched into stone. Every cornice and every corner seed alive — not only in the reflection of gilded details, but in the warm embrace of this indescribable, mystical light, which was emanating not from floodlights, but seed to be coming from within the palace itself.

Cylindrical pillars soared upwards, their white surfaces adorned with intricate golden reliefs telling the story of the vast Empire’s past. Every thread of fine carvings shimred, catching and complenting the nuances of the golden light playing upon them.

The do of gold and platinum reached toward the sky, crowned by a proud spire, yet it did not appear overbearing or haughty. On the contrary, it seed to offer reassurance, inviting all to co inside, promising to make no distinction between those who had just entered and those who had once lived here in the heart of the Empire.

And around the palace, trees of various species grew, each one glowing with a golden radiance.

Ardan’s breath caught.

It was one thing to see the Palace of the Kings of the Past in illustrations and grasp that it was truly massive, spanning from the square to the riverside. But standing here, near it — he could only see the main façade and the grand entrance for now — was entirely different. The palace defied imagination.

Their car, along with a procession of others, sliced through the puddles as they pulled up to the eastern steps. Doorn approached and, with a bow, opened the doors.

Davenport exited first, extending his hand to help Atura, and only then did Ardan step out. The cold air kissed his face, and after two weeks of being cooped up inside, he welcod the chance to take a deep breath.

"Don’t linger," Atura urged.

The three of them ascended the steps, and while the nobles chatted and murmured amongst themselves, Ardi couldn’t tear his gaze away from the palace. It could’ve made all of his grandfather’s stories and legends fade into the background with its beauty, surpassing even the grandest of myths.

He extended his hand, allowing it to bathe in the golden glow. It was warm, like the heat from a bonfire lit on a particularly cold night, and gentle, like a kitten.

It was only when he ca to the grand doors, which were massive and gilded with intricate patterns forming the ever-present symbol of the two-headed phoenix, that Ardan snapped out of his reverie.

Stepping onto the red carpet, they walked beneath the palace’s vaulted ceilings, heading into a place where a simple hunter and cowboy from the borderlands should never have found himself.

Here, in these vast halls, everything was steeped in a luxury that far surpassed anything Ardan had ever seen, even in the Anorsky mansion. Silver, gold, platinum, gemstones, rare kinds of wood, marble, and granite — everything his gaze landed on not only possessed unimaginable value, but had also been crafted with such elegance and mastery that Ardan montarily felt as if he were surely dreaming.

For a fleeting mont, he even felt slightly out of place, until the feel of his staff, carved from the wood of his holand’s foothills, restored his confidence.

Flanking them in what seed like an endless corridor of doorn and guards, and standing by nurous open doors, halls, mirrors, and galleries, moved the nobility. They were every possible kind of noble and, surprisingly, they were from different races as well. Ardan could have sworn that he spotted several nobles who weren’t just sturdy but almost too sturdy — barely reaching the waist of a normal human and yet with shoulders broad enough to rival any brawny man’s, and beards so thick they could be mistaken for armor.

He also saw tall — even taller than himself — statuesque figures whose faces were so perfect it was impossible to distinguish whether they were n or won — only their clothes and the slight differences in build offered any clues. Their silken hair was long, and their ears were longer still, sharp and pointed.

But the surprises didn’t stop there. Among them, Ardan recognized the familiar sight of steppe-dwellers. He saw massive orcs clad in suits and uniforms, accompanied by equally solid won in dresses. It was surreal enough that Ardan had to pinch himself.

And when they finally entered the grand hall, which was almost as large as the square outside, where couples danced to the music of an orchestra under the balconies and zzanines, and stayed in close-knit groups as they chatted, Ardan’s eyes were drawn to even stranger sights.

His great-grandfather had told him that, aside from humans, orcs, dwarves, and elves, other races had once inhabited the New Monarchy. But after the wars of Ectassus and Gales, followed by the Dark Lord’s rebellion, their numbers had dwindled.

And so, getting to see a group of giants — human in appearance, but standing an average of three ters tall — as well as several ogres, who instead of wielding clubs, carried massive walking sticks and were leaning on their wrinkled hands... it was overwhelming. Ardan wasn’t sure what to make of it, but even more unsettling was the sight of gaunt goblins, stooped and thin, who were holding crystal goblets.

Ardan shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the image of ogresses and goblin won in dresses, hoping they wouldn’t haunt his dreams.

He devoured the sights of the grand hall, intended for lavish celebrations, balls, and grand receptions. Three stories high and crowned with an oval do, it glittered with floating chandeliers, which were not suspended by ropes or chains, but seemingly hanging in mid-air. Countless rows of candles flickered, their light dancing across the stained-glass windows depicting rulers of the past.

Ardan felt the sa awe he’d experienced when he had first entered the humble ho of Atta’nha.

"The art of the Aean’Hane," he whispered.

"Indeed," confird Atura, who was standing beside him. "Several Speakers, in exchange for immunity from prosecution, enchanted this hall two hundred and fifty years ago, and it has remained unchanged ever since."