The Laska passed through the tall, ornate gates of the Lyuteakh estate, poetically named Hawk’s Nest. From that point on, vehicles were required to travel strictly on the ground, so the Laska gently descended and rolled along the driveway. Low-hanging trees formed a shaded, dense corridor overhead. At the end of the path, the inner courtyard came into view.

In the center stood a circular fountain featuring a figure of a nymph riding atop a massive wolf. Well-maintained, blooming trees framed the majestic Gothic-style mansion built of dark stone. Above the main entrance, supported by intricate columns, was a triangular pediment adorned with an image of a wolf and two hawks. Their interlaced wings formed a frame around the snarling face of the wolf.

The estate had two symmetrical wings separated from the main entrance by two towers with sharp, tiled roofs that pierced the sky with spires. Tall, pointed windows were crowned with round, rose-patterned designs, their panes set with stained glass. A gallery of columns adorned with carvings of fantastical beasts led deeper into the estate, connecting to the wings where the servants' quarters were located.

The estate left a heavy impression, likely due to the muted gray of the ancient stone. The masterfully sculpted figures decorating the facade, familiar to Morveyn since childhood, seemed to gaze at him with sorrow and reproach.

During the two-hour journey, he had managed to collect himself and reflect on the situation he found himself in. First, of course, he would have to face his father’s wrath in the study. By the time he reached the estate on the western outskirts of Teak-An—the capital metropolis occupying the vast territory of the biggest region—news of the incident had undoubtedly reached his father.

The old man would predictably be furious. Despite the "fortunate" resolution of the situation, Morveyn knew he would have to explain his actions to the Council of Elders, where the Protectorium’s supreme commander’s voice would be just one among many, albeit a highly influential one. The elders of the seven branches of the Great Tree, overseeing various aspects of the empire, would certainly demand to know the justification for sealing the Potern.

They wouldn’t miss the opportunity to scrutinize Morveyn’s already tarnished reputation, which could also threaten Menno’s standing.

Fortunately for him, the laws and punishments for the aristocracy and the common people differed as starkly as a stale crust of bread differs from a refined dessert served in the capital. Aristocrats, heirs of the old world, were descendants of ruling dynasties whose influence stretched back to the time when the world was united, and the territories now fractured into fragmented regions once belonged to the Great Empire of Nerul.

For centuries, these ancient families safeguarded their "blue blood," cultivating their lineage through alliances that strengthened their power and preserved the purity of their heritage. They lived in a reality where their rights, status, and lives were considered sacred.

“Noblesse oblige”—that was their unspoken motto, but only insofar as it upheld their exclusivity. In truth, their noble blood allowed them to exist in a separate realm, where even their gravest offenses were viewed as minor indiscretions requiring correction, rather than crimes deserving severe punishment.

For commoners, the law of force reigned: stealing food could lead to imprisonment, debts could result in enslavement, and challenging authority often meant public execution. Aristocrats, on the other hand, had the privilege of paying their way out, undergoing symbolic penance, or shifting the blame onto their subordinates entirely.

Morveyn could despise the impunity enjoyed by the heirs of wealthy families he often encountered in his line of work. But now, he had to admit, with some shame, that he was deeply grateful to be a descendant of noble blood himself.

Ritual excision—a drastic form of punishment an aristocrat could choose to fully cleanse themselves of the shame of a dishonorable act—might have suited Morveyn just fine, but his father would fight tooth and nail to make sure it never happened.

What then? Removal from the position of falconet? That thought stung his pride, though such an outcome would also cast a shadow on the Lyuteakh name. It seemed unlikely that the Council would insist on it. Imprisonment? That too, he could endure—while irritating, serving a sentence was considered a way for noblemen to restore their honor. After a few months in prison, he could return to his duties, and no one would dare say a word against him. This seemed the most probable outcome.

Hawk’s Nest greeted him with its usual silence. The driver politely bowed and opened the car door for him. An elderly butler met him at the threshold, immediately instructing the maids to prepare a bath in the young master’s chambers. Everyone avoided meeting his gaze, a gesture that seemed less like polite respect and more like a desire to distance themselves as quickly as possible. This no longer bothered Morveyn—over the years, he had grown used to the servants fearing him.

Those who had worked here since his childhood seemed to instill this fear in new employees, so within days, newcomers began diligently avoiding eye contact and behaving quieter than mice in his presence.

As he walked down the corridor toward the west wing, where his father’s study was located, he paused briefly at the slightly ajar door to the turquoise drawing room.

By the tall window, he caught sight of a delicate figure of a woman in a somber dark dress. She sat in an armchair, flipping through the pages of a book, her pale, beautiful face bearing traces of approaching autumn and lingering sorrow. It was softly illuminated by the light.

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Her fine features, so similar to his own, carried an unbearable shadow of long-buried grief in the corners of her mouth. For a moment, Morveyn admired her. How long it had been since he’d seen her so calm and thoughtful, as she had been in better days. It almost seemed as if her face might soon light up with a gentle, fleeting smile—the kind he secretly missed deeply.

The woman appeared to sense his gaze and froze, her eyes fixed on the pages of her book. Like a child avoiding the dark shadows in a closet, believing they wouldn’t emerge if ignored, her body tensed and stilled. Her thin fingers turned pale as they gripped the book tightly.

Not wanting to disturb her, Morveyn stepped back and quietly closed the door. In some way, he was grateful that she hadn’t looked at him.

He continued on his way, feeling his heart sink into its familiar cold darkness.

A young Wolf standing guard at the door to Menno Lyuteakh’s study announced his son’s arrival.

Morveyn began by reporting on the results of his trip to Te-Algeize.

Countess Ubor, who had been sharply critical of the Protectorium’s methods at public gatherings, had signed all the necessary papers. She was now prepared to provide funding for several educational institutions under the Crimson Branch and give an interview to the press about her change of heart.

Her newfound support for the Protectorium had emerged after the young falconet spent a week at her estate and held several private discussions with her. The countess planned to give her interview after recovering from a sudden illness that had struck her just before his departure.

The doctors in Te-Algeize had already assured everyone that her condition wasn’t life-threatening, and with some rest, she would be ready to meet with journalists.

Menno frowned at the mention of the countess’s illness, recalling her rather unpleasant appearance, and gave his son a sharp look.

“Well done, son,” he said with a smirk. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“For the good of the Confederation,” Morveyn replied formally, feeling his ears burn red with embarrassment.

What would you do if I weren’t good-looking? he thought bitterly. Let me work alongside Ayzel in peace?

He was sick to death of dealing with the advances of perfumed old toads in outrageously expensive clothes. Still, not using his looks as a trump card would have been foolish.

Next came the most unpleasant part—Menno steamrolled through every mistake and lapse in judgment Morveyn had made at the gates of Ao-Teien. Avoid attracting unnecessary attention, don’t provoke representatives of other branches, and never act without Ayzel’s presence, as he could later frame events properly in his reports.

“Don’t breathe, don’t look at anyone, and walk on tiptoes!” Morveyn snapped, his patience finally giving out. “They missed twenty people! Twenty! Of course, we couldn’t send them with the rest just to avoid hurting the Salamanders’ feelings!”

“And the gates?!” Menno roared in response. “Why didn’t you tell Volt immediately? Do you realize there’s no way to explain this now? The sensors recorded the rupture after the console order had already been issued! How am I supposed to convince the council when the timestamps are already logged in the system?!”

“There wasn’t time, Father! You didn’t see what was coming through!”

For a moment, an uneasy silence settled between them. Morveyn could hear his own labored breathing, followed by a long, heavy sigh from his father.

“So it wasn’t just a surge?” Menno asked, his voice subdued.

“No, someone was there... I didn’t get a clear look, but it was something massive. I barely managed to close the gate before it could get through because the rupture was right at the portal... There was no other choice, you must understand.”

Menno shook his head grimly. In cases of spontaneous ruptures, there was usually hope that the Schism would eventually dissipate, allowing the contaminated region to be cleared and reclaimed. But if something from the other side managed to slip through...

Such occurrences were extremely rare due to the nature of the Schism, which, though it bursts forth spontaneously, is inherently a part of that otherworldly realm and inevitably seeks to seep back into it over time. Visitors from the other side, after wandering the desolate land, usually returned as well. However, they often took with them the very fabric of space, dissolving everything around them. Another area on the map would be marked black.

If the regions weren’t fragmented pieces of space loosely stitched together by transition tunnels, such destruction could have spread across the entire Confederation. Fortunately, cutting off all communication with a contaminated fragment was usually enough to keep the other regions safe.

This typically happened to smaller regions beyond the 500th number, but Region 078—so large, so stable, and seemingly protected from everything...

“If word of this gets out, there will be unrest. The cities are already overflowing with refugees from the periphery. Don’t say anything to the council yet—I’ll explain the situation myself once we have data from the sensors and the results of the calculations. The equipment is still functional, so we still have a connection with 078 for now. Prepare yourself for questioning; the meeting is scheduled for tomorrow morning as soon as Volt provides a detailed report.”

Menno’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion, but a moment later, he regained his composure and pressed the selector button on his desk.

“Summon the curators for a meeting this evening. Have Volt and Saags sent to the Protectorium Palace. Bring my car in five minutes.”

He released the button and turned to his son.

“You may go. You’ve done well, Mori. Rest now.”

Morveyn Drael Lyuteakh bowed respectfully and left his father’s study. Feeling weak in every limb, he made his way to his room, where a hot bath scented with aromatic oils awaited him.

Before finally relaxing, he quickly flipped through the accumulated correspondence on his desk from his week-long absence. At last, among the crested envelopes and perfumed parcels, he found a small embossed card. Smirking with satisfaction, he set it aside. Excellent. This meant he would still have time to handle a little personal matter before the wrath of the public came crashing down on him.

He summoned a young servant boy assigned to him. The lad, around seventeen, was already as tall as his master, but his face still retained a childlike timidity, and his eyes remained clear and slightly naive.

“What can I do for you, Mylord?” the boy asked, bowing his head. Morveyn was pleased to note no fear or hesitation in his brief glance. The boy had been working for him for several months but, unlike the other servants, had not yet turned into a frightened shadow.

“Send a message to Baronet Loran of Acrass from me. Tell him I accept his invitation for tonight and expect an especially warm reception.”

The boy nodded eagerly and dashed off to carry out the task without asking any unnecessary questions.

Finally able to exhale, Morveyn collapsed onto the bed as if felled by an invisible blow. He needed to gather his strength; there wouldn’t be another chance to sleep until morning.

He could have undressed himself but was too tired and decided to call for a maid instead. Pulling the twisted cord of the call bell near his headboard, he listened as a soft chime rang somewhere deep within the sleeping house.