The house on Holy Protectors Street, where Malk was brought by a carriage kindly provided by the gendarmerie and where, according to the guards, his friends had rented an apartment, didn't sit well with him from the start. Two-story, marble-clad, with pristine and nearly uncracked columns at the entrance, new shutters on the windows, and, Yorrokh take it, even a magical lantern above the door—it didn't look at all like a place poor students could afford. No, when he heard the address, he had already begun to suspect that things were bad—no poor people lived on such pretentiously named streets—but not this bad!

Damn it, what were they thinking?! Not everyone has parents ready to support their offspring with clinking drachmas! After all, they had an agreement, didn't they...

Already infuriated by all the events of the past few days, Malk crossed the threshold of the house as gloomy as a storm cloud. He mechanically bowed to the likeness of Archont on the wall, walked through the well-lit corridor past a series of identical doors, and resolutely knocked on the farthest one, which flaunted the number four. Inside, he was seething. He was ready to unleash all his pent-up anger on his friends, but... but the door opened, and a second later, a squealing Helavia was hanging around his neck, overjoyed.

"Malk!!! Finally!!!" she screamed, then locked his lips in a kiss.

The rage that had been swelling inside Malk somehow retreated to the background. Dropping the noticeably battered wooden suitcase that had suffered during his encounter with the gendarmes, he awkwardly embraced his girlfriend and returned the kiss.

"Greetings to the victims of tyranny and lawlessness!" Tolfan's voice broke the romantic moment as his thick but strong hand pulled the lovebirds into the room. "How are you? Alive? Healthy? Not lost weight?!"

The door slammed shut. Helavia finally let go of Malk, stepped back, and began to study him with a worried look. Only after making sure he was okay did she noticeably relax and smile.

"Sit down and tell us everything!" she said with such emotion that the grip of irritation around Malk's heart finally loosened.

"There's not much to tell," he muttered, kicking off his boots and walking to the table in the center of the room. "That business with our mentor came up again, so they dragged me through the wringer. Just pointless worry, nothing more..."

"Pointless or not, you missed the exams, and you definitely won't get into the School of the Three Saints this year. As for the reward for our train exploits, I won't even ask. It's clear there are plenty of others vying for it," the fatty chimed in, sitting down opposite Malk and pouring him some herbal brew from a pitcher on the table. Then he asked sympathetically, "At least you didn't get a new mark?"

"No... didn't get one," Malk shook his head, darkening again. Any reminder of the missed chance to get into a proper School and the lost money was still quite painful. As for the fact that things could have been even worse, he preferred not to think about it.

"Then why so gloomy?! As long as you haven't been blacklisted, you'll always have a chance to make something of your life!" Tolfan grinned, clapping Malk on the shoulder. "Come on, the whole world is ahead of you, brother! You can wait a year and apply to the Three Saints, try your luck at another School, or even get a job and ask for a recommendation to the city's best vocational school... Trust me, one day you'll be thanking those gendarmes for shaking up your life!"

Malk twitched the corner of his mouth but still chose to say nothing. Especially about the vocational school. If anyone benefited from his failure, it was Helavia. She was so eager to steer Malk onto the "right" path that she didn't hesitate to use even the current situation to pressure him. Moreover, she roped Tolfan in as an ally... And Malk wasn't particularly fond of this new practical Helavia.

"Enough about me, how are you guys doing? Did you get in?" Having lost his previous fervor, he didn't want to start a fight, so he tried to change the subject.

"Come on... How could such a handsome guy like me not get in?" Tolfan proudly declared, leaning back in his chair and patting his belly. "I can't say I was the best, but..."

Helavia didn't let him finish. With a barely noticeable yet unpleasant smile, she remarked:

"He barely made it as an outer disciple. There was an unexpectedly large influx of applicants this year, so they tightened the selection criteria... Candidates with weak Gifts were turned away at the door!"

Malk grimaced.

"You didn't have to say that, I already guessed," he said, gradually coming to terms with the fact that his golden dream had slipped from his grasp and flown away. "How about you?"

"The best of all!" Tolfan interjected, a bit miffed that he had been deprived of the chance to boast. "She got the highest scores among all who took the tests this year. And don't even get me started on the level of her Gift. The Sphere of Ka was still buzzing, but the Magisters were practically fighting already. They couldn't decide who would take this genius girl as a student."

"You got taken as a personal student right away?!" Malk voiced his amazement, turning to his girlfriend.

"Listen to this windbag more. I've only been admitted into the inner circle for now," the girl replied proudly, blushing a little. And then she added, "But with a personal curator!"

"What's the difference... That's..." Malk couldn't find the words and jumped up to hug Helavia tightly.

Naturally, his heart did twinge a bit, knowing his girlfriend had achieved so much while he was left with nothing, but that was all. Malk didn't know how to be envious, especially not of someone he loved. And he was truly happy for her success.

The girl responded with a passionate kiss, locking her lips onto her lover's. Then she suddenly pulled away—as if she was about to say something, but changed her mind and buried her nose in his neck. They froze like that.

Yorrokh knows what his girlfriend felt at that moment; Malk felt nothing but tenderness and... a kind of calm. All the piled-up troubles and misfortunes suddenly seemed insignificant, and he found faith that he would cope with everything and overcome it all... It might seem foolish and naive to some, but that's exactly what Malk thought at that moment.

Of course, Tolfan tried to ruin the moment with his usual flat jokes, but this time neither Malk nor Helavia reacted. The fatty had no choice but to sulk and back off. He stayed in the room with the lovebirds for a while but eventually got bored and went to his own bedroom.

Malk and Helavia were left alone. And then everything suddenly started to spin, whirl. Malk didn't even realize when and, most importantly, how they left the kitchen and moved to Helavia's room. How they closed the door, how they fell onto the bed and began tearing off each other's clothes. At that moment, everything seemed astonishingly unfamiliar, shockingly new. Later, no matter how much Malk tried, he couldn't figure out what made that burst of passion so different from all the previous ones. The strongest explosion of feelings, animalistic, almost demonic insatiability, the mad desire to dissolve into the loved one—any epithets and comparisons were and would be something bland and incomplete. But do words really matter? What matters is that the experience was forever etched in both their memories, becoming a cherished and treasured recollection.

Who cares what the true cause of the lovers' madness was. Separation, the trials they had endured, or the external threat—the result was what mattered, and it was wonderful!

"Do you remember how we met?" Helavia asked when the heat of passion had subsided, and they both lay utterly exhausted on the rumpled bed. To better see Malk's face as he lay on his back, she propped herself up on her elbow.

"Hard to forget. Life at the boarding school never seemed sweet to me, but until that day, I had never had to fight with knives. Especially over a girl," Malk grimly smirked.

He glanced at his left side, where a diagonal scar ran across his ribs. Another one adorned his left thigh, and one more on his right forearm. They looked rough and ugly—the surgeon who stitched them up was the cheapest the boarding school could afford—but Malk didn't hold a grudge. At least they saved his life and didn't cripple him; the rest didn't matter.

Damn it, he had just gone to the market square to watch a bout between a visiting duelist and an instructor from the local fencing hall, and what in the end?! In the end, he witnessed two scumbags harassing a new pretty girl from the boarding school in a nameless alley. And he couldn't make himself turn away.

But instead of arming himself first or at least raising an alarm, he foolishly charged at the bastards with his fists. He punched one in the gut, then spun around and struck the second one in the cheek, and... got a knife in the thigh from the first one. His opponents didn't adhere to any laws or rules and readily brought their blades into play. Though not particularly skillful, there were two of them! And even drawing his own dagger didn't improve the situation much. Before he managed to inflict a serious wound on one of his opponents' stomachs, Malk himself was covered in blood. His prospects were bleak. If a patrol hadn't suddenly appeared on the street and busted the fighters, Malk wouldn't have seen the next dawn.

However, he didn't complain about his fate either. If not for that fight, Malk probably wouldn't have gotten close to Helavia—the girl he saved from the clutches of street scum—and wouldn't have discovered the limits of his determination to go all the way. The very determination that helped him emerge victorious from the train terrorist attack and withstand the pressure from the gendarmes.

"At that moment, you seemed like a mythical hero to me. Maybe not the First Saint, but someone from those times for sure," Helavia said, pressing herself against his chest.

"Only at that moment? What about after?" Malk laughed, hugging his girlfriend with one arm and kissing the top of her head. "That day, I thought I had met the most beautiful girl, and I haven't changed my mind from then on."

Both fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. After a while, Malk even thought Helavia had fallen asleep. He was about to get up quietly when the girl suddenly broke the silence and spoke again, but now without a trace of playfulness or tenderness.

"Malk, you know... You still haven't said what you're going to do next. What are your plans now that the School of the Three Saints didn't work out..."

Guessing where this was heading, Malk sighed loudly. Here we go again?! He was ready for another round of pointless arguments, but the girl didn't continue her thought. Because of this, Malk answered much more calmly than he initially wanted to.

"Well, when we talked about your initiation and the Sphere of Ka, you didn't exactly go into details either!!" he snorted, glancing at his girlfriend.

"Oh, are you interested in specific numbers from the metrics?" Helavia snapped, clearly starting to get angry. "Sorry, but I didn't mean any harm. I just decided not to hurt your pride... or whatever it is that prevents you men from seeing things as they are!"

Then, in a deliberately bored tone, she began listing:

"Reserve just over fifteen ergs, energy replenishment rate—two-tenths of an erg per hour, a strong affinity for the Elements of Fire and Air. Is that enough?"

"More than enough, Helavia. More than enough..." Malk replied slowly. He barely resisted the urge to whistle enviously.

He knew, of course, that his girlfriend had talent, but there were limits to everything. She wasn't the daughter of some ancient House where a great Gift had long become part of the Lineage, nor was she supported by a powerful and wealthy organization nurturing talents. No, she was the daughter of a minor noble—and suddenly, such a vivid manifestation of affinity with the world of subtle energies!

The magical system of Mritlok, in contrast to other worlds, if the Guild of Dreamers was to be believed, was characterized by a profound elaboration of basic principles and concepts. And even though when senior mages got involved, it wasn't always clear at what point the science of sorcery turned into art, the foundation of the tower of magical knowledge had a scientific appearance.

Every spell required energy, which was universally measured in ergs. One erg was enough to power an average three-room city apartment for four days. Five ergs were enough to create a small Fire Pulsar, and with a hundred, given some skills and knowledge, a sorcerer could level a village or destroy a small town.

The reserve of an ordinary person who had undergone initiation but hadn't earned the right to be called a mage ranged from two to six, in rare cases up to eight ergs. Such failures weren't admitted to Schools—no matter how much you train them or what resources you invest, most were doomed to languish at the rank of Adept for their entire lives. And the fact that such pseudo-mages were still called Gifted was almost a mockery.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The minimum reserve required for someone to be considered a potential mage was nine ergs. The maximum... the maximum was nineteen ergs, and in the entire history of the civilized world, it had been recorded only once for a newly initiated Adept. And that result belonged to Achont himself—the First Saint and humanity's savior. So, Helavia's reserve of fifteen ergs was a claim to a very promising future.

No less important than the size of one's magical reservoir for a mage was the rate of energy replenishment. Everywhere Malk had read, it was written that in conditions close to places with a high natural magical background and without using Arcane Arts, the reserve of an average novice sorcerer should replenish at a rate no less than one or two-tenths of an erg per hour. And the higher this rate, the better. Helavia's result wasn't brilliant in this regard, but it was still decent.

And finally, the third parameter defining a sorcerer's potential was their affinity with magic, which type of magical energy they were most attuned to specifically. There weren't many options—Fire, Water, Air, or Earth. Pneuma, considered the fifth—or first, depending on how you counted—basic element of the magical system of Mritlok, was usually not considered in analyzing the Gift. All mages could work with it, so special attention was only given to the Elements. And by this metric, Helavia certainly was, if not a genius, at least a decent talent. Her chances of acquiring a good Arcane Art were significantly higher than those of an average Adept...

In short, no matter how you look at it, Helavia's potential was enormous. And it became clear now why Tolfan's eyes occasionally flared with envy during their conversation about the entrance exams. Yorrokh take it, Malk was a bit envious himself!

"Why the silence? What do you have to say?" Helavia broke the hanging pause, poking Malk in the ribs with her elbow.

"If you mean your achievements, I never doubted you. You're amazing! But if you mean my immediate future," Malk sighed heavily, "I have a recommendation letter to the Andalore Society of Mages. And I want to go see what that place is like."

"Society?!" Helavia reacted as if stung, jumping up. "Not even a School?!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... Not a proper, reputable School, just some local mage association, guild, or who knows what else," Malk snapped. "Don't say anything, I know it all. About the lack of prospects, the scarce resources, and limited access to spells and Arcane Arts. But I might not get another chance to become a mage. So..."

"A mage? How about becoming just an ordinary Gifted instead, without skills and abilities but with a lifelong obligation to pay eight ergs of monthly tax?! You certainly don't have my talent!" Helavia unexpectedly shouted with anger and irritation. "Holy Protectors, how many times do I have to repeat that the mage's path is not for you, not for you!" She abruptly fell silent, turned her back to Malk, and then added, "Although, you know, do whatever you want. Even the Saints can't fix a fool!"

At that, Helavia finally quieted down, seemingly exhausted from attempting to steer her lover towards the "right" life path. Malk didn't respond either, having grown used to such arguments. So, after lying for a while, he simply got up and went to the kitchen. After all, he still had one more thing to do before bed, a routine that had become a daily habit over the last few years. And he didn't intend to break the tradition. Especially not because of yet another wearisome quarrel with his girlfriend...

The full moon bathed the room in a ghostly light, but it was still too dark for what Malk had in mind. He spent a few minutes searching for candles. Having found a few stubs, he placed them on the table and lit them all. Of course, he could have turned to Tolfan or Helavia to activate the magical lantern hanging from the ceiling, but he didn't want to ask for favors. If luck was on Malk's side, very soon he would become a Gifted or even an Adept, and activating artifacts would no longer be a problem for him. For now, he could endure.

He brought the wooden suitcase he had left by the door, struggled briefly with the ever-jamming lock, and finally pulled out a heavy-looking, angular box without inscriptions or heraldic emblems. He set it before him on the table and ran his fingers over it with feeling. Then, he found two buttons that blended with the body and pressed them simultaneously. With a loud click, a pair of copper eyepieces slid out from one side of the box, and on the other side, a panel with six miniature verniers opened.

Malk exhaled with relief. Until the last moment, he feared that the fragile device hadn't survived the hands of the gendarmerie investigators, but it seemed to be intact. He certainly wouldn't have found a hundred gold drachmas to buy a new Druzal's Mirror. Heck, he hadn't even bought this one; it was a gift from his mentor. Although it was an old, used model, others could only dream of such a thing!

Numbers he had meticulously memorized surfaced in his mind, and Malk started adjusting the verniers, setting the necessary parameters of the device. The box responded with a barely audible hum—the focusing prisms inside began to rotate. Fine-tuning the optical mechanisms was the only thing Malk could influence at the moment. The ungifted couldn't control the magical figure hidden beneath the opaque casing, powered by a force stone and auxiliary alchemical blocks.

Finally, the artifact was ready for use, and Malk began the final stage of preparation for training. He sat comfortably, habitually cleared his mind of superficial thoughts, then started breathing in the manner prescribed by Rain of Pain, simultaneously focusing on a sequence of changing images. This continued for some time—maybe five minutes, maybe ten—until he reached the desired state and stabilized in it. Only then did Malk slowly, without interrupting the practice, bring his eyes to the eyepieces and peer inside...

As soon as Malk saw the image of several nested magical circles with a rotating cloud of silvery-blue mist at the center, his entire body was pierced by sharp pain. It felt as though a lightning bolt struck the top of his head and, like a burning thread, extended all the way down to his heels. And it would be hard to find a person who could remain completely calm in such a situation.

But Malk managed it. Not only was the required state for training not disrupted, but his body barely even flinched. And this wasn't due to some extraordinary willpower, but merely a side effect of practicing the Arcane Technique passed down by mentor Skom. As he promised, Rain practitioners had a special relationship with pain.

The effects of the magical discharge quickly passed, and Malk proceeded to execute the next step of the Arcane Technique. The same visual images he had concentrated on at the beginning, he began to mentally transfer from the depths of his mind to the center of the silver cloud inside the Mirror. Despite long practice and the unreal nature of these actions, each such transfer caused almost physical strain that, growing and growing, threatened to reach Malk's limits at any moment.

However, this sensation was illusory. Success in the technique required only not giving up or retreating in the face of difficulties, something he had no problem with. And then, the practice entered its final, most challenging phase. As soon as the last image disappeared inside the Mirror, Malk was struck by yet another bolt of pain, followed by a wave of scorching heat, until finally... finally, his spirit responded to the energy manipulations. In his mind's eye appeared a vision of an endless sea of sand, scorched by the sun and devoid of even the most primitive life. And, like a promise of rebirth, storm clouds gathered high in the sky. The image was nothing more than a mirage, a reaction of the mind to magic, but it looked absolutely real. Just as real as the rain that poured from the clouds onto the desert. Only it wasn't made of water droplets but countless clumps of pain.

The agonizing sensations flooded Malk's entire being. They pierced him, with each fallen "drop" bringing something new and washing away the unnecessary, all the while causing immense suffering. And to endure this, a steel will was indispensable.

When Malk first managed to complete this technique in its entirety—still being under his mentor's supervision then—the sensations were much weaker. Successfully completing the training required only a bit of patience. But the transformation of the Spirit, essentially its tempering according to the patterns set by the Arcane Technique, started small, and the further Malk progressed in the practice, the harder it became. And although Reslan Skom had warned about this beforehand, no one could truly grasp the scale of the consequences of such training. It was no surprise that Tolfan took the first opportunity to quit, and even the much more resilient Helavia gave up systematic practice. Enduring this was simply unbearable. Heck, Malk himself would have happily forgotten about that blasted Rain like a bad dream if... if his mentor hadn't promised that with this technique he could become a mage. Rain of Pain was supposed to break the shackles of mediocrity for the boarding school's "dud," and for that, Malk was ready to endure any torment...

When it was all over, Malk found himself drenched in sweat, slumped over the table, with his fingers gripping Druzal's Mirror tightly. His jaw, as usual, hurt a bit—despite the inevitable loss of control in such a situation, he always remembered that he couldn't scream and held back with all his might. After what he had just been through, everything inside him trembled, phantom pains roamed somewhere within—his body reacting to the tortures endured by his Spirit—but Malk diligently ignored the discomfort, focusing on putting away the device. He would be able to use it again in no less than four days.

"Ten to fifteen minutes, you spend, right?" Helavia's sarcastic voice from behind made Malk flinch. "Go ahead, say it depends on your mood…"

He quickly turned and saw his girlfriend in a nightgown, leaning against the doorframe.

"Something like that," Malk replied hoarsely, awkwardly shrugging. Then he asked wearily, "What else is left for a 'dud' like me?"

"Anything but ruining yourself with clearly Forbidden Techniques!" the girl replied coldly and, quickly turning, headed back to the bedroom. From there, Malk heard, "I wish you'd hurry up and visit that Society of yours. Maybe then you'd finally calm down!"

Right after training, Malk always found it hard to control his emotions, and all sorts of things were on the tip of his tongue. About snooty rich relatives and influential protectors, about the black star that somehow appeared only in his passport, about Helavia's overly calculating behavior... yet none of it was voiced. Not out of a desire to end the quarrel, but simply because an entirely new thought came to his mind. For the first time in their relationship, Malk suddenly realized he couldn't tolerate certain aspects of his girlfriend's character. Love or not, there was a limit to everything. And Helavia was rapidly approaching that limit.

This unexpected realization didn't sit well in his mind; he needed to digest it properly. Not that he wanted to break up with Helavia, but... Yorrokh take it, he definitely needed to consider this perspective.

However, he didn't get a chance to sit quietly and weigh all the pros and cons. Out of the corner of his eye, Malk suddenly caught some movement in the window, causing him to turn sharply. For a moment, it seemed like an image of the accursed by the Saints dwarf appeared on the moonlight-illuminated glass. And Malk immediately, without thinking, lunged at the enemy. After all, what was there to think about after everything related to that damn freak?!

He had already raised his fist to smash the phantom spy, but stopped at the last moment. There was neither dwarf outside the window, nor his ghostly figure on the surface. What he had mistaken for his nemesis turned out to be smudges on poorly cleaned glass. Just in case, Malk opened the window and looked out into the dark yard, listening in. But predictably, he found no one. The malicious freak was nothing more than a figment, a hallucination of a mind tormented and exhausted by training... And that was the best outcome Malk could hope for in this situation. The thought that he was slowly going insane, Malk decided not to take seriously.

"Demon's boils on your backside, who's not crazy these days? The whole world is crazy!" he muttered, slamming the window shut a bit louder than necessary.