To the Andalore Society of Mages, Malk set off four days after being released from the gendarmerie. He would have gone earlier, but applications for admission were reviewed on strictly designated days, so he had to wait. Fortunately, he found ways to occupy himself. While Helavia and Tolfan were busy within the walls of the School of the Three Saints, handling paperwork, paying tuition, acquiring textbooks, and undergoing rituals incomprehensible to outsiders, Malk was pounding the pavement at the Andalorian labor exchange. Forty drachmas were too insignificant a sum to last long. The future student of the Society of Mages needed a job. Preferably one that didn't require full-time commitment and paid a bit more than just a few obols a day.
Alas, quickly finding something suitable proved impossible. Malk, though he understood that a recent graduate from a provincial boarding school without special skills and work experience wasn't someone magnates and guild masters would chase after, still... Yorrokh take it, there had to be at least something decent. His situation wasn't yet so dire that he had to grab at vacancies for a night-soil man, water carrier, or cleaner in a two-star brothel.
The last suggestion from the clerk he spoke with at the exchange, delivered with a nasty smirk, simply infuriated Malk. Sure, he knew that under the Regents, brothels had been legalized, but those changes hadn't made it to Colhaun. And thank the Saints for that! Because the backwoods provincials might have burned such a blatant nest of vice. Though Malk wasn't prone to such extremes, the phrase "work in a brothel" sounded like an insult to him.
In short, the labor exchange was a bust. And when it was time to go to the Society of Mages, Malk wasn't worried about the upcoming conversation with the admissions committee but was trying to calculate how long his money would last. Especially considering that two drachmas for rent and one more for groceries had been collected by Tolfan already. And all of this even before he had been admitted anywhere!
From his gloomy thoughts, Malk snapped out only when he arrived at the address specified in the recommendation letter and opened the massive oak door adorned with bronze inlays. He asked the bored guard where the admissions committee was and headed deeper into the building of the Andalore Society of Mages. First, he passed through a long corridor with many closed doors, then found himself in a winter garden that resembled a real jungle, where he nearly got lost. Finally, he spent a long time searching for the right office in the three-story building adjacent to the garden.
Perhaps others might have found such wandering frustrating, but for Malk, it was an opportunity to see the true face of the Society. To see what lay behind the dry phrases of the "Educational Institutions Bulletin"—he still had found time to visit the public library and read about this mysterious organization of magicians—and how it aligned with his own goals.
So far, everything was within his expectations. His worst expectations.
Modest, if not poor, interior decor, small classrooms, and almost no areas off-limits to outsiders. The latter especially shocked him. Two spellcasting ranges, the entrance to a gallery leading to a separate building with a magical source, and a library—those were the only places outsiders couldn't go. And this was in contrast to the tales of the School of the Three Saints, where, not having a student badge, you couldn't get past the lobby unescorted! Then, what could be said about a mage organization that had nothing to protect?
Malk's mood turned completely sour. A fourth-degree magical source at minimum, three large buildings, a campus for teachers and senior students, a dedicated craft workshop with a steam engine, an extensive library, and a decent collection of Arcane Arts—this was just a fraction of what Helavia and Tolfan had gained access to as students of a three-star School. Not to mention the authoritative and powerful mages as teachers.
And what did Malk get? A second-degree energy source barely sufficient for the initiation ritual? Bachelors as teachers? Textbooks worn to shreds, shabby desks, and no lab resources?! Was this really the very place that required a recommendation from someone like Madam Leara for admission?! Seriously?!
Finding the right office, Malk even paused for a moment before entering, standing by the door, trying to calm himself. Besides, there were no other applicants or even regular visitors in sight anyway.
Once he was in the right mindset, he turned the handle and resolutely pulled the door open.
"Well, finally. Thought you were going to stand there forever!" he heard as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
In the office—which, it must be said, was quite large and bright—behind a desk covered with green baize sat a bored mage of indeterminate age. Short-haired, with a scruffy mustache and beard, he wore a white shirt with an open collar and a dark green vest instead of the expected club jacket. A gold chain of a watch stretched from his breast pocket somewhere to his waist. On the table, on a bronze stand, rested an outdated by two hundred years magical crystal, inside which one could see the section of the corridor in front of the entrance door.
"My apologies. I was gathering my thoughts!" Malk responded, trying to speak and behave as politely as possible.
And it wasn't merely about his desire to be admitted. In front of him was a mage, more so, not just an Adept or Apprentice. Being cheeky to a Bachelor or Junior Magister—higher-ranked mages had no business in the Society—was dangerous even in their enlightened age. Laws protected commoners, but even that protection had its limits. So it was better not to provoke trouble...
The office's owner took the recommendation letter from Malk's outstretched hand and unfolded it. He skimmed through it, pausing briefly at the signature, then sharply looked at his guest and decisively stored the letter in a drawer.
"Got your report card?" he asked in a slightly warmer tone.
But after receiving the document, the mage barely glanced at it and handed it back.
"Did you drink yesterday? Had fun with women?" he suddenly asked in a sharp, unpleasant voice. "Are you ready for the Gift-awakening ritual?"
"I know the rules. I'm ready," Malk nodded.
His heart skipped a barely noticeable beat. Only now did he realize that his dream of breaking free from the shell of a "dud" was about to come true. And controlling his emotions became a hundred times harder.
"Well, if you're ready, let's go!" the mage snorted and, leaning his palms on the table, stood up energetically.
Out from his collar immediately slipped a personal medallion —a silver plate with three gold stars in the center. They shimmered mysteriously, in sync with the heartbeat of the owner. It was the sign of a Junior Magister, which meant there was hope that at least Malk's initiation would be at the level of a good school. The news couldn't help but bring joy, and the gloom that had gripped him receded a bit.
The Junior Magister, who hadn't bothered to introduce himself, guided Malk into the next room, which was the size of a decent gymnasium. But instead of sports equipment, the walls were lined with crazy mechanisms—like multi-jointed limbs with clocks and colorful lenses at the ends, concave mirrors with runes around the edges and hourglasses in the center, copper tubes puffing out cold steam and writhing like snakes, or sealed transparent flasks filled with bubbling alchemical potions. There were also racks holding arrays of crystals and prisms, pistons of unknown purpose sticking out from technological niches were moving rhythmically, and copper chains quietly jingled as they disappeared into the ceiling. It all felt like a unified system, the logic of which eluded Malk.
In the center of the room was a low platform with copper, bronze, and silver rings rotating in different directions. The core of the structure was a chair with armrests and leather straps for the arms and legs. And only by this part was Malk able to recognize the already familiar to him Ka Sphere. But whereas a rather primitive version of the device had been used for the initial Gift test during his time at the boarding school, the Society employed for initiation something far more monstrous.
"Your place is inside the Sphere. You don't need to undress; just sit as you are." The Junior Magister pointed to the chair and turned away from Malk.
The mage himself stepped toward a tilted pedestal in the far corner, flicking switches on one of its sides. Each action resonated in the room with a growing hum and flickering light in the racks with crystals. Considering there was no way to start a magical device through mechanical actions, the Junior Magister was actively casting spells. And he did so without any noticeable gestures, incantations, or artifacts-activators.
Which was impressive.
Finally, Malk stopped gawking and climbed into the Sphere. Within moments, he was inside, trying to get comfortable in the blasted chair. It wasn't going well. Malk's only hope was that he wouldn't have to endure it for too long.
Beside him suddenly appeared the mage and swiftly secured his limbs. Then, in silence, he first wiped Malk's forehead and temples with a cloth soaked in something slimy and smelly, after which he placed a contraption resembling a torture device—a "crown" made of iron wire and semi-precious stones—on his head.
"Alright, we can start!" the Junior Magister announced in an unexpectedly cheerful voice, stepping back a few paces and looking at his subject with satisfaction.
However, for Malk, this had the opposite effect. It didn't calm him; on the contrary, it made him anxious.
"Maybe you should look at the previous Ka Sphere tests and the results of the blood essence analysis?" he finally couldn't resist asking the question that was bothering him.
In his opinion, the Magister approached the initiation process far too recklessly. Relying not on the language of calculations but solely on intuition. It was unsettling.
"What kind of tests could you possibly show me?! I can see what's necessary myself, and as for what's unnecessary... your papers are full of nothing but that 'unnecessary' stuff!" the Junior Magister grimaced in response. "I know how provincial School inspectors work. And who works there, I know too! So shut up and don't interfere!"
Silencing Malk, the mage still drew some conclusions. Instead of starting the ritual, he seemed to mentally calculate something, judging by the expression in his eyes, then twisted his face in anger and... began walking across the hall, pulling out toward his subject some of the mechanical "arms" that had initially surprised Malk.
Finally completing the preparations, the Junior Magister returned to his original spot and froze for a long three minutes. He didn't move, say anything, or look around—just stood like a statue, his gaze turned inward. And only when a time known to him alone arrived did he grin predatorily and start chanting an unpleasant-sounding incantation. Each word caused a fiery flash in the crystals, created a movement of colorful sparks along previously invisible lines on the floor, and awakened magical patterns on the ceiling.
Slowly at first, then faster and faster, the rings around Malk's chair began to spin. The Ka Sphere activated. Now, if his mentor was to be believed, it was up to Malk whether he would become a real mage or not.
There was a sensation that his heart was beating several times faster. How real that was, Malk couldn't tell, but so far, it hadn't caused any pain. However, his eyes started to fail him. Everything around him suddenly began to blur rapidly, blending into a stream of flickering colorful spots. New scents and sounds appeared. Moreover, it seemed as if he wasn't smelling these scents, but perceiving them as melodies. The sounds, conversely, appeared as a palette of indescribable aromas.
The changes were slowly morphing into a different vision of the world until, at some point, the transformation reached its peak and was replaced by a pain as intoxicating as wine. It felt like dozens of red-hot needles were stabbing into Malk's body, each time choosing a new place to strike. Feet, calves, areas under the knees, groin, lower abdomen, and entire chains of stings along the spine up to the crown of his head. Then, as if lightning struck between his eyebrows, followed by a wave of searing heat rolling down to the very tips of his toes.
And again, calm, a state without pain, lasting only moments but more blissful than the peak of passion… And then pain again.
The waves of transformations were eroding Malk's will, making him forget why he was there and what he needed to do. He wanted to relax and endure, submitting to the attacks of the Sphere that shattered the bounds of his Spirit.
But he couldn't do that. The cage that trapped the essence of a "dud" was too strong. No soulless machine would break it unless efforts were made from within. The right efforts, at the right time, in the right place, and in the right way.
And Malk began to fight. Not with his hands and feet, not with muscle strength, but with the power of his Spirit. Using that invisible force that mages called Authority. Authority that allowed a magician to command the energies of the Elements and perform magic. Authority that Malk had so carefully nurtured and tempered through years of training.
When a red-hot needle pierced his body again, Malk as if grabbed it with an invisible hand and… held it inside. The pain instantly increased tenfold, making it hard even for Malk, as a practitioner of Rain of Pain, to bear. But he still endured, holding on with all his might. And within moments, the pain noticeably weakened, the jerking of the "needle" stopped, and it remained in its ritual-prescribed place. It was time for the next invisible rapier… And then another, and another, until Malk felt like a giant porcupine, with no spot left on his body where the next thrust of the Ka Sphere could land.
The ritual paused again. But it didn't last long, soon giving way to a burning so intense that Malk nearly went mad, and his still-weak Spirit almost lost its connection to his body…
Had the ritual continued even a little longer, Malk wouldn't have held on. He had already walked a fine line, almost peering beyond the threshold where life ends and the Gray Realms begin. However, the surge of agony was the final part of the initiation. While the sweat-drenched Malk was trying to catch his breath and bring his tormented mind back to some semblance of normalcy, the flashing of the spots before his eyes ceased, and the sensory chaos disappeared. He could once again observe the hall with the Sphere, the slowly decelerating rings, and the fading magical figures on the floor and ceiling. And at last, he could see the Junior Magister again… Only, for some reason, the mage's expression was no longer calm and satisfied.
"Get out of the Sphere and into my office!"
This was the first phrase Malk heard from the Junior Magister right after the ritual ended. It sounded sharp, irritated, and quite insulting. The Junior Magister didn't give Malk a chance to react. He hadn't even had time to open his mouth before the mage unlocked the restraints with a spell, yanked him out of the chair, and practically shoved him out of the hall. He treated Malk as if he were not a person but a soulless puppet.
The attitude didn't improve in the office, where the Junior Magister appeared a few minutes after Malk. Although his tone became calmer, the mage who had conducted the Gift's awakening continued to pressure Malk.
And how he pressured him!
"So, here's the deal: according to the Society's rules, you owe five drachmas as the standard fee for the ritual," the Junior Magister announced with a loud sigh. "And fifteen drachmas as compensation for my losses due to the unexpectedly increased complexity of the process."
"Complexity?" Malk repeated, utterly confused. This wasn't how he had envisioned his initiation. And what definitely hadn't crossed his mind was being extorted for money.
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"Exactly!" the Junior Magister nodded, gradually calming down. "Usually, an initiation takes no more than a quarter of an hour, and the Ka Sphere uses no more than ten to fifteen ergs to awaken a Gift. In your case, the process took over an hour, and it consumed about forty ergs. And these are not things that can be overlooked!"
Malk wiped his sweaty forehead.
"Alright, I get it about the money… But what about the ritual itself? Am I an Adept, Gifted, or did I remain as I was?!" he asked, struggling to control his emotions.
Contrary to expectations, the mage didn't delay his answer.
"See for yourself…" The Junior Magister pulled out a perforated card from somewhere and read: "Reserve—nine ergs, reserve replenishment—three-tenths of an erg per hour, affinity—with Pneuma." Then, he simply dropped the card with the records on the table and leaned back in his chair. "So much effort, so many expenses, and you barely met the minimum requirements for the rank…"
He continued talking, but the stunned Malk hardly heard him.
Nine ergs, no affinity with any Element… The worst start to a mage's career one could imagine! Sure, he understood the "dud" label wasn't placed on him for nothing, but after so many efforts in training with Rain of Pain, he had hoped to get at least ten or even eleven ergs. Then, considering the high chances of doubling his reserve within the first year or two after initiation, he could reasonably hope to reach the peak of Adept. But now what? The best period in a mage's development would allow Malk to reach eighteen ergs at best. Clearly insufficient for an attempt to break into the next rank.
But the delay in development was only half the trouble; the low reserve was somewhat compensated by a relatively fast replenishment rate. Why wasn't there any affinity with the Elements?! How could a mage's path exist without the Elements?!
Suddenly, Malk realized that his interlocutor had been asking him something for a while.
"Sorry, what?" he asked absentmindedly.
"Yorrokh take you! Hand over the blood tests and the examination results!" barked the office owner.
Malk hurriedly extended the necessary papers. The Junior Magister immediately began to scrutinize them.
"Well, it's clear. A 'dud'!" he said disdainfully after a few minutes. "Just as I thought." The mage glanced at Malk and smirked crookedly. "Consider yourself lucky. I have no idea how you managed to impress Madam Leara, but under normal circumstances, without her recommendation, no one would have performed the ritual for you."
"Why?" Malk decided to ask, even though he knew the approximate answer.
"Because the amount of resources required for a successful initiation is insane, and the result is an Adept without any particular prospects or hopes for the future. I'm surprised that to break through the shackles of a 'dud,' the Sphere gobbled up only forty ergs. Textbooks usually mention about a hundred and fifty," the Junior Magister said in a condescending tone. "Though, why am I even surprised... You probably used some Forbidden Technique; otherwise, you couldn't even dream of the current results. Throughout the history of the Schools and Houses, many things have been invented. You might have dug up something useful for developing the Gift in your hotbed of freethinkers and heretics. Sky Mirror, Azure Dust, Demon Heart—these are just the most common things mentioned in chronicles, and who knows what else we don't know about? Though... judging by the results, it seems more like practice in a specific Arcane Technique than training in a full Arcane Art. Moreover, a Technique of Authority with a tilt toward the negative spectrum. Am I right?"
Malk rubbed his forehead, not knowing what to say. Forbidden Techniques were called Forbidden for a reason—speaking of them to outsiders was not advisable. Who knew what dangers such an admission could bring him?!
"If we assume that's the case, can you tell me what the consequences of such practice might be?" Malk finally decided to speak.
The Junior Magister laughed again:
"You're interested in the consequences? Isn't it a bit late to think about that?! Alright... The positives: you became an Adept. And not just any Adept, but one with Authority slightly below the middle of the red rank, something some failures can't achieve even after becoming Apprentices. Actually, without developed Authority, you wouldn't have been able to accumulate the energy needed to break through the Howard's Boundary during the awakening ritual."
"And the negatives?" Malk asked gloomily.
"The negatives... Techniques of Authority can't be trained while being ungifted, without the supply of magical energy or taking special potions. It's a law that can't be bypassed without consequences. In your case, they are particularly severe. First, you completely lost the ability to operate with the Elements. And second, your Gift now has a strong inclination toward the negative spectrum. This means that in practicing such branches of Pneuma magic as Life and Death, Death will come easier to you," the office owner explained in a mentor-like tone.
Malk sighed gloomily:
"Well, at least I've got some luck... At least something will come easier!"
The Junior Magister did not share his optimism.
"Luck?" he echoed. "In what?! Yes, your Spirit has some inclination towards the negative spectrum, but that's only your Spirit! Your body has no affinity with Death. I don't even want to imagine what this practice will do to it."
"Just great..." Malk shook his head, refusing to believe what was happening. "Nine Saints! So that means I'm... a crippled Adept?!"
Malk's interlocutor grinned widely:
"I'd put it this way... You're an Adept whose future is shrouded in fog!"
The Junior Magister's response was openly mocking, but Malk chose to ignore it. The conversation was too important to be distracted by silly feelings.
"In fog, even if I'll get a good Arcane Art?" he asked, looking intently at his interlocutor's face.
However, he saw nothing but poorly concealed mockery.
"Kid, where would you get a good Art from? Or are you counting on the Society?! We're not a five-star School, and you're not the son of some Archmage. All you can count on is a one-star yellow rank Art. Yes, with it, you'll build a solid foundation before breaking through to Apprentice, but that's it. Understand?" The Junior Magister waited for Malk's nod, then suddenly asked in a sly voice: "Although... if you have two hundred drachmas, we could think about better options..."
It took Malk a moment to realize he was being asked for a bribe. And not a small amount, but an astronomical two hundred drachmas. Such an amount Malk couldn't gather even if he sold himself into slavery to demons.
"If I had that much, I would have offered it to you myself. Though if payment in installments is possible, then I..." he said cautiously.
It immediately became clear that this wasn't the answer his interlocutor wanted to hear.
"Well, if that's a no, so be it!" declared the Junior Magister with a bureaucratic smile. "Then pay twenty drachmas, and you can go. A contract for learning a yellow rank Arcane Art, taking basic educational courses, and studying three spells of your choice we'll sign in a sennight, when the groups of students at the Society are formed."
The mage fell silent, looking expectantly at Malk. The latter had no choice but to fulfill the voiced demands. Only when two stacks of coins, ten gold each, appeared on the desk in front of the office owner, did he grin again and speak.
"Alright, congratulations on becoming an Adept!" He then handed Malk a Gifted's iron token, pulled from Yorrokh knows where, and added: "Good luck on the paths of power, colleague!"
* * *
Malk made his way back as if in a dream. One moment he was still standing in front of the admissions committee door—though what kind of committee was it, with just one person?—then suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit him, and he was already home, sitting at the table, staring blankly at a glass of wine.
The dream had come true; he had become a mage. The talentless boy who had firmly decided many years ago to develop the Gift of a mage had finally achieved his goal. The path pointed out to him by the fugitive Bachelor from a School that had fallen out of favor with the authorities had led exactly where it was promised.
Adept Malk—that definitely sounded better than "dud" Malk! The results obtained were significantly worse than expected, but no one promised that his life would be easy. As long as you're not broken and your will is strong, you can overcome any adversity and power through any barriers. The main thing is to set reasonable goals and carefully plan the paths to achieve them.
Malk shook himself, downed the wine in one gulp, then pulled his work journal towards him and began to leaf through it thoughtfully. It was the quintessence of his thoughts about the future, plans, calculations, and unfinished ideas. Unfortunately, a significant part of these notes could already be thrown into the trash. His start was too low, and the window of opportunities too small. The thought was laughable now, but he seriously hoped to gain an affinity with some Element. Maybe not two like Helavia, but at least one! Alas, as they say, if you want to make the Saints laugh, tell them your plans. And the Nine were clearly having a good laugh at his expense.
Shaking his head in frustration, Malk began tearing out the finely written pages from the notebook and mercilessly ripping them apart. Into the fire, into the fire with it!
After a few minutes of this barbaric destruction of his own notes, Malk looked at the significantly thinned journal with grim satisfaction. Now, it contained only what might really come in handy soon. After all, being an Adept was just the beginning of an infinitely long path!
Malk viewed things realistically and was not inclined to set the bar too high. His immediate goal was to reach the peak of the Adept rank. If his reserve were higher, if his energy absorption rate were better, and if his chances of obtaining a high-class Arcane Art were not so slim, he could dream of something more ambitious. But... when there's no fancy paper, you write on napkins! With nine ergs of reserve and a paltry Gift, Malk had to think not of a fantastic career takeoff, but of slowly climbing upward...
Suddenly, a pigeon landed on the outer windowsill and began tapping on the glass brazenly. The sound was rattling and unbearably annoying. Considering that Malk had recently seen the demonic dwarf here, his irritation was quite understandable. Tossing aside his fountain pen, he rushed to the window and flung it open. But while he was fumbling with the latch, the insolent bird managed to fly away, leaving droppings on the sill as a parting gift.
"Tsk, pest! What a day, everything's going wrong!" Malk exclaimed and slammed the window shut again.
He returned to the table, picked up the pen, but didn't start writing. He couldn't focus. The appearance of the bird, often referred to as a city rat, seemed to turn some wheel in his head, and rational thoughts were immediately buried under a flood of the darkest Colhaun superstitions. Especially those about spirits inhabiting unclean animals, about invisible guests from demonic worlds, hungry for the life force of children, the elderly, and newly initiated mage students just starting to grasp the unknown, about evil ghosts and the possessed... A lot could be found in the memory of a resident of the most benighted province of Boreas. And what was most unsettling, not all of it was made up. Alas, in a world where regular breaches from the domains of demons were the norm, even the wildest imagination sometimes was no match for reality.
On the other hand, Malk was now not in Colhaun but in one of the most protected cities in the country. He lived in a district where the tax for maintaining protective magical formations was included in the rent. And lastly, he rented an apartment in a house where the owners did not forget to renew the wards that weakened over time... Only the shelters had better protection!
On a rational level, Malk understood perfectly well that the emotions suddenly overwhelming him were nothing more than the aftermath of the recently performed ritual. His Spirit, previously cut off from the world of magical energies, was suddenly freed from its shell and was now trying to adapt to the changes. And the unexpected emotions were echoes of the ongoing transformations. In a couple of days, everything would calm down, and Malk's inner world would return to normal. He just had to endure.
But... he didn't want to endure! Even if such behavior would be considered a disgraceful weakness of a backward Colhaun hick in the eyes of Andalorian mages, Malk was ready to go to great lengths for his peace of mind. Even if it wasn't scientific, even if it was superstition! No one could see that Yorrokh's dwarf, yet the trouble he caused was through the roof...
So, dropping everything and taking some of the remaining money, Malk headed to the market. And two hours later, he was already walking around the house, hammering nails the size of his pinky into every doorframe and window frame, muttering charms so ancient that he didn't understand the meaning of most of the words. However, it wasn't understanding that gave them power. Malk was infusing the village "magic" with real magical Authority. The power that came to the Gifted with years of practice and which he had managed to touch only thanks to the Forbidden Technique.
And it was a rather strange experience. Before, when he tortured himself with Rain of Pain time and again, he always felt some kind of void. As though there was something he should have had, but it constantly eluded him. And now, after the initiation, the void was rapidly filling, acquiring features and properties like a new limb. Not an invisible hand or foot, but some new part of the body with much greater potential. Something that was, for instance, capable of giving words real power. Perhaps very weak, barely noticeable, but power nonetheless!
And this alone convinced Malk that he wasn't wasting his time.
Finally, the enchanted nails appeared in all the right places, and it was time for the final part of the protective ritual. With all the possible reverence, Malk took out two bundles from his bag. One contained a small pouch of charged crystal sand, the other—a bear's fang covered with intricate carvings. These were the most expensive "ingredients" in the ancient rite. If the nails cost less than ten obols, the fang and sand cost two drachmas. And no matter how hard Malk tried, he couldn't haggle the price down.
Dignifiedly bowing to the four cardinal directions, Malk slowly lowered the bear's fang into the pouch, then tightly tied the opening and placed it all together in the corner under the board with the likeness of Archont. Then he sighed and, with the utmost effort, recited a prayer to the First and Sixth Saints.
The ritual was complete. It was time to curse himself for his superstitions and regret the spent gold...
That he would have to explain his actions to his friends, Malk only thought about much later, when the students of the School of the Three Saints had returned home. Mentally, he prepared for a scandal and mockery—both Tolfan and Helavia were trying their best to fit into the new society, a the same time distancing themselves from their former lives—but... but, as it turned out, Colhaun was deeply ingrained in their souls too.
Each of them, barely crossing the threshold and noticing the characteristic pouch in its proper place, immediately bowed their heads and whispered a brief greeting chant. As if none of them had left for the splendid Andalore, preferring to stay in their small hometown. Tolfan even declared with unusual seriousness:
"Well, now it really feels like home! I couldn't settle down before, something felt off."
Helavia supported him with an energetic nod.
Yorrokh only knows if the protection was worth it, but one thing was certain—thanks to the old tradition, all three of them felt the bonds that tied them together.