To restore the apartment's protective contour, it took sixty obols—the exact amount needed to replace the crystal sand in the pouch and charge it with five ergs of Force. Although Malk had initially wanted to spend part of his own reserve on this, he quickly changed his mind. Money was money, but he also had the Gifted Tax payment coming up. And if he didn't plan on interrupting his training, he'd have to buy the missing energy anyway. So why not do it right away?
The thought of leaving everything as it was, without bothering with some mossy rituals, didn't even cross his mind. After the series of troubles he'd been through in the past sennights, Malk didn't consider any insurance excessive. Whoever that dwarf was—a demon, a ghost, a wandering spirit, or his personal hallucination—he had proven his ability to deliver truly nasty surprises. And even though this time no traces of him could be found, Malk had no doubt the disgusting runt had a hand in this too.
Moreover, for almost getting killed by Lamara in class, he also blamed the little pest. Screw any explanations or excuses. It was the dwarf all along, the same damn dwarf! Only now, he wasn't acting openly and boldly, but had chosen a tactic of ambush and covert sabotage. Malk could feel it in his gut—or whatever organ Adepts had for intuition!
Though, seriously, the whole situation scared Malk. He even considered turning to the gendarmerie for help, but... Yorrokh take it, he ditched that idea. Besides him, no one else had seen or heard the dwarf. Captain Tyrhat said so openly, and it was indirectly evident from the Junior Magister's statement about some mythical "residual demonic emanations." So why give others a reason to call him crazy? Damn, he hadn't even mentioned the nasty freak to Helavia and Tolfan since the train incident!
So it turned out Malk could only rely on himself here. Then again... just like always.
However, not everything was as bleak as one might think. There was a silver lining to his recent troubles. The failed attempt on his life had unexpectedly reignited the fading flame in his relationship with Helavia. It happened by chance: Malk hadn't planned on telling anything, but his girlfriend noticed bloodstains on his shirt collar, demanded an explanation, then one word led to another, and the frost between them somehow just melted away. Or maybe the rift wasn't as big as Malk had thought?
Anyway, the reconciliation visibly lifted Helavia's spirits. The very next morning, she, in a quite unladylike manner, told Tolfan to shove off when he tried approaching them and dragged Malk out for a walk. It was their first stroll together in Andalore, so no matter how much Malk wanted to work on his notes, he couldn't refuse her. And half an hour later, after a short ride on a steam omnibus, they were strolling through the Heroes of the Uprising City Park.
"I always dreamed of coming to Andalore. To feel the atmosphere of the old capital, walk the streets where the disciples of the Saints might have walked, admire buildings that remember the first empire... And now the dream has come true! I still can't believe it," Helavia said, gazing thoughtfully into the distance. "And you?"
"Had to believe it," Malk smirked. "Back home, despite everything, life was a bit different."
Helavia caught the unspoken thought and grimaced in frustration.
"Malk, how can you be so callous? Not a drop of romance! I'm talking about the finer things, and you're on about problems and difficulties. Let them go, just this once. Forget everything!" she said in one breath, squeezing Malk's fingers tightly. "Enjoy what you've got... You did get what you wanted, right?"
Distracted by their conversation, they didn't realize they'd turned off the main path onto a narrow, gravel-covered trail that led to a small lake or pond. The body of water didn't look like a swamp: no cattail or reeds, no duckweed or muddy silt. Clearly, this place was well-maintained, which made it all the more strange that such an essential element for Colhaun was missing on the shore...
"Look, such a big pond, and no chapel for the Nine!" Helavia was the first to point out the oddity, and Malk could only nod.
Indeed, in Colhaun, this was unimaginable. In the north, they remembered well what sometimes crawled out of even well-explored waters during the Second Wave and immediately after. They remembered and protected themselves as best they could.
"Cultural capital, Yorrokh take me! The unstoppable march of progress!" Malk muttered gloomily, having learned firsthand that not all the rituals back home were meaningless superstitions. "Not surprised that loyalists here hold rallies in the squares and take over trains. Not surprised at all."
Saints be the judges of progress and development, but some traditions should always have been upheld. At least for survival. And that was what Colhaun stood for!
The romantic mood was ruined. Malk and Helavia hurried away from the pond that had so disappointed them. They wandered through a maze of bushes before finally reaching a small square with a beautiful flowerbed in the center and about ten benches around. One of them was occupied.
Helavia nudged Malk with her elbow and subtly nodded toward the couple on the bench. The guy, about twenty years old, was clearly rich—his wool coat alone probably cost as much as Malk's entire wardrobe, not to mention the massive gold signet on his right hand—and his girlfriend was equally extravagant. Dress, cloak, boots made from sea demon leather, and a matching bag—Malk didn't even want to know how many drachmas it all cost. The only thing the girl lacked was manners and the poise that distinguished a true lady. But she probably couldn't even see that flaw in herself.
This couple wouldn't have deserved Malk's and Helavia's attention if not for the looks they started throwing their way. Something about the young Adepts on a stroll really irritated these rich kids. So much so that the disdain they radiated was almost palpable.
"Relax, I've dealt with this before. Just typical city snobbery," Malk said in a low voice, deliberately adjusting the knife on his belt—not as a threat, but as a sign of belonging to the northern province. He'd encountered this attitude in the courses, even with Serge, so it was nothing new to him.
And as if to prove his point, the signet guy's girlfriend sneered, "Colhaun yokels!" Helavia tensed up immediately, ready to cause a scene, and Malk had to pat her hand soothingly. But he wasn't going to let the insult slide either.
"Ignore them. Words are worthless, and wasting nerves on the ungifted is self-disrespect!" Malk said, not bothering to lower his voice, and stared openly at the snob who thought too highly of himself. At the same time, he hooked the chain and pulled out the iron Adept badge from under his collar.
Sure, his rank was low, and the wealthy kid could make his life miserable, but... Malk wasn't just some poor provincial lad anymore. While sitting in the library, waiting for the books he needed for his search for his father to be delivered from the archive, he had thoroughly gone through the laws about mages and now had a solid understanding of his rights. So, if the rich snob wanted to escalate, he'd face a duel challenge. And he couldn't refuse or send a substitute due to the opponent's low rank. As for Malk... he wasn't afraid of a duel with an ungifted.
His jab hit the mark. The overly mouthy girl immediately flared up, took a sharp breath, clearly about to snap back, but didn't get the chance. Her boyfriend stopped her. Apparently, he had read the section on mage and non-mage relations in the law, too, hence deciding not to escalate the situation, and, albeit with a disdainful smirk, gestured an apology.
"Oh, so that's what you've always aimed for. To rise above ordinary mortals?" Helavia asked with a strange tone when the bench with the haters of "visitors to the capital" was far behind. "So, how does it feel?"
"You're wrong. I never judged people by their innate abilities. What matters more to me is what a person achieves on their own, not what they get by birthright. So you won't get any disdain for the ungifted from me, especially since, considering my Gift, I can't fancy myself a future Archmage... But I couldn't pass up the chance to put that insolent prick in his place," Malk explained patiently, suddenly feeling uneasy at the comparison to highborn jerks.
Helavia, however, didn't support the tone.
"And I liked how you did it... Especially that you didn't go in fists swinging like you used to in Colhaun," she said conciliatorily. After a pause, she added, "But we need to change our style. Especially you. Since we're part of the mage world now, we should dress accordingly. Otherwise, we'll keep running into more and more idiots like that."
There was nothing to argue against that. You could be a brilliant philosopher, a great engineer, or a skilled mage, but if society didn't like how you looked, you'd face gossip behind your back. And you'd be lucky if it was just gossip. A person's future depends largely on the connections they can make. But what connections could you make if you looked like a scarecrow to others? Clothes make the man—that saying wasn't Malk's invention, so it wasn't up to him to refute it... But Yorrokh take it! Where would he get the money for a new wardrobe?!
However, he chose not to tell this to Helavia, and they walked in silence for a while.
"By the way, I didn't get how you figured that fool was an ungifted right away. Didn't you say you hadn't finished the last layer of your Arcane Art?" Helavia suddenly asked, as if forgetting the fuss she'd made about Malk trying to learn more about her magic practice.
"I didn't finish it. But I breezed through the first layer, and my Authority is somewhere in the middle of the red rank, so my Spirit is developed enough to 'read' the surface layers of auras of ordinary mortals," Malk replied, not bothering to feign offense or invoke "magic secrets." Besides, he didn't consider this knowledge a secret. "You should have enough Authority for something similar too... You're not Tolfan; you've been practicing Rain of Pain for a while."
At this point, however, Malk couldn't help but smirk. After all, his girlfriend had long denied practicing their mentor's technique, even convincing the fatty. But not him.
"Should... But it only lets me get through the layers of the Four Thunders at the level of some Family heir. And it pisses me off!" Helavia suddenly dropped her prickliness and replied wearily. She noticed Malk's raised eyebrows and added somewhat irritably, "Yeah, yeah, my Arcane Art has six layers. And I must finish the last one before the first year after initiation ends. Otherwise, everything will go to crap, and I can forget about becoming the great Mistress of Lightning and Four Thunders."
Her last words were clearly mimicking someone, but she didn't explain who.
"Then what's the problem? You're called a genius for a reason, right? You'll manage!" Malk said encouragingly, but his girlfriend wasn't as optimistic.
"Genius... Without support and necessary resources, talent alone won't cut it, you know. My Art seriously affects the body and Spirit, so if I don't want to mess up my practice or fall behind, I need expensive decoctions, properly chosen elixirs, and potions. And let's not forget about training at a Force source..." she said sadly. "Drachmas, Malk, all Adepts need drachmas. The more, the better."
"Hold on. But you got into the inner circle of the School's disciples! That usually means big discounts on buying the necessary supplies and free access to a source. The allowance allotted by your father should be more than enough to cover your training needs," Malk was surprised.
Helavia winced.
"Let's say, my access to the source isn't free, just twice a sennight. If I want more, I have to pay. But that's not the most expensive part... My Art is very demanding on potions. So even with all the discounts and benefits of an inner disciple, I still need to spend at least twelve drachmas a month on alchemical supplies. And that's not the expense my father expected when he sent me here to study!" she replied gloomily. "I have to scrimp on everything..."
"After hearing your story, I'm starting to feel glad I didn't get into the Three Saints. I had a somewhat... rosier picture of studying there," Malk grimaced.
"Better be happy for Tolfan... Even though he's in the outer circle, with his father's support, he's already climbed to the middle of the first-year rankings!" his girlfriend snorted.
At some point, Malk thought he'd hear Helavia's worn-out tune about his wrong choice and lack of prospects again, but he was wrong. The topic of magic studies had apparently bored her, and she went quiet. They walked on in silence, holding hands and glancing around.
Yorrokh knows what Helavia was thinking, but Malk's thoughts revolved around his own training problems. The talk about decoctions and elixirs further reinforced his belief that his chosen path in magic was wrong. Poverty was one thing, but sometimes, for the sake of the future, you had to tighten your belt even more. And it seemed this was one of those times. If Malk wanted to break through the second, final layer of Crystal Heart anytime soon, there was no getting around using alchemical potions.
But he'd have to think it all over later, when the time was right. For now... he was out with his girlfriend, and so, she was the one who needed his attention.
Malk quickly glanced around, making sure no one was watching, pulled the gloomy Helavia close, and kissed her deeply. Then, not giving her a chance to react, he grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the restaurant peeking through the greenery. Today, his wallet was in for another knockout blow, but he wasn't going to regret this expense. After all, a couple of cups of coffy[1] and pastries wouldn't save his situation, but they'd make Helavia happy. Which was already something. And maybe, just maybe, he could salvage this date that had gone sideways...
To the idea of buying potions recommended by the Society, Малк returned a couple of days later—when Helavia started some kind of closed training at the School and moved to the student campus for a sennight. Without the distraction in the form of his girlfriend craving social interaction, it was much easier to think, so after weighing all the pros and cons, Malk made a decision pretty quickly. Having chosen what he hoped was the only right path.
He gathered his savings and headed to the alchemy shop at the Andalorian Society of Mages. Fortunately, it was in the same building as the Society itself, and Malk would just about manage to drop by before his classes... More precisely, he thought he would. Still, just in case, he arrived a couple of hours before his first lecture and didn't regret it. As it turned out, the store entrance wasn't where the building plan indicated, and finding the right door took quite some time. At one point, Malk even considered looking for the potions elsewhere—Andalore had plenty of pharmacies and alchemy shops—but he remembered the discounts students of the Society got and forced himself to quell his irritation.
Finally, his wandering through the corridors ended, and Malk stood before the entrance to "Zachariah's Alchemical Potions," as the sign above it read. He yanked the door open, stepped inside without looking, and... almost bumped into Serge nose to nose. His classmate, who always whined about being broke, barely managed to jump back with a strangled yelp, miraculously not dropping the paper bag filled with something clinking.
"Malk, Yorrokh's your dad! Watch it!" he hissed like a snake, almost spitting venom. "I emptied my stash for these bottles, and you nearly smashed them."
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"Sorry, sorry..." Malk said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I just didn't expect anyone to be here."
"Didn't expect, huh," Serge grumbled. "Half the course has practice deviations, yet he didn't expect... I'm surprised people aren't crowding here day and night!" His abrupt movement made his shirt collar open, revealing the edge of a tattoo-like pattern of magical channels on his neck, formed during his training. The former peasant caught Malk's gaze and adjusted his clothes. "Anyway, I'm off. Enjoy the prices and the wealth of choice."
He dashed out of the shop, leaving Malk alone with the seller. Whether this was the Zachariah after whom the shop was named or just a hired hand was unknown, but she clearly didn't care about customers. Otherwise, she wouldn't be just sitting, nose buried in what, judging by the gaudy cover illustration, looked like a romance novel, ignoring everything happening in the store.
Not that Malk needed anyone's attention right now. All he wanted was to look around and check the prices. And he could handle that without helpers. Besides, he already knew the name of the elixir necessary to break through the second layer of Crystal Heart. Mr. Lok had answered that question without any caveats.
After a leisurely glance around, Malk spotted a glass cabinet filled to the brim with bottles of all shapes and sizes. He approached it decisively and began studying the labels.
"Got a potion list?" the seller suddenly asked, making Malk flinch. She still hadn't looked up from her book.
"I only need the Phantom Root Elixir. Nothing else!" Malk replied, trying to be as polite as possible. "But I can find it myself..."
What he didn't expect was her sharp reaction to his words. The seller, who had been completely indifferent until then, snapped her head up and gave Malk a piercing look. And the suddenly arisen invisible pressure suggested he was dealing with at least an Apprentice-level mage, if not a Bachelor.
"Medallion!" the shopkeeper, probably the owner, demanded. She then forced a wide drawer out of the metal box in front of her and nodded toward it. "Put it here."
Malk didn't really understand what was happening, but he didn't argue and obeyed. The drawer clanged as it was pushed back, and Zachariah placed her hands on it, whispering spells Malk didn't recognize. The device responded instantly, lights running along the lid's edge with a faint hum, but all external effects quickly ceased. The shopkeeper nodded in satisfaction and returned the medallion to Malk, simultaneously lifting the invisible pressure.
"Check the third shelf from the bottom, far right corner. There should be a green bottle..." she said in a neutral tone, then added much more harshly, "And get six drachmas ready. The elixir's worth its price, and I won't lower it by a single obol!"
Malk just barely held back a snort. He had imagined the buying process somewhat differently. Without the unidentifiable magic, the seller's mood swings, and clumsy attempts to hide all the oddities behind talks about money. The only thing that fit any kind of normal behavior was checking the medallion. But wasn't that procedure excessive for buying an ordinary elixir intended to support the practice of an equally ordinary Arcane Art?!
Ah, to the Saints with all this! Malk shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then grabbed the needed bottle from the shelf, hid it in his inner pocket, and only then slowly counted out six gold rounds onto the counter. The wish for Zachariah to burst from greed, even though it flashed through his mind, he chose not to voice. But oh, how he wanted to!
Probably, on any other day, nothing could have distracted Malk from thoughts about the elixir and the upcoming breakthrough, if not for yet another change in the class schedule. Instead of a lecture on general magic theory, their course got a brand new subject—Magical Language. And it was the kind of topic that even the worst students couldn't ignore. At least because without the Runeglyph—that's what this language was officially called—it was basically impossible to create spells. Those very things that turned a Gifted into a real mage.
Apparently, due to the subject's importance, it was entrusted not to Apprentice Lamara, but to the much more authoritative, even at first glance, Bachelor Hordol. He had a dignified bearing, was stout, with a black, bushy beard that made him look like a priest. Sort of a smug, giant dumpling. And only the piercing gaze of someone who'd seen both the depths of Hell and the heights of Heaven gave away that he was a mage. Moreover, a talented and knowledgeable mage.
"I know him. He dropped by our village a couple of years back. Some demonic horror settled in the neighboring gully after Yorrokh's Night, started chomping on folks and livestock, so it was him who sent it to the Saints for judgment," Serge muttered to Malk while the Bachelor was talking to a Junior Magister who had popped into the classroom.
"Alone?" Malk couldn't help but ask. "Though if it was a Demonic Warrior..."
"Hah! Would I bother telling you if it was? There was a Flesh Hunter holed up. And Hordol took it out. There was a glow across half the sky, everything boomed and howled, but he did it!" Serge shot back passionately.
He clearly wanted to add more, but Hordol announced to the students they were moving to a more suitable classroom, so they had to drop the conversation. Everyone rushed to the next hall.
But it soon turned out they hurried for nothing. The hall was a large room without furniture, with mats spread on the floor. There simply weren't any good spots worth rushing for.
The uncomfortable seating was offset by an intriguing topic. To the students' surprise, learning Runeglyph was nothing like the usual recitations. It was more comparable to the ability development lessons. Only now, instead of studying the secrets of their Arcane Art and working with Druzal's Mirror, the Adepts were taught magical runes. And not the bookish wisdom of signs and strokes that could be read and memorized from a textbook, but the true spiritual form that could only be received directly—from the Spirit of another mage to your own Spirit[2].
"Unfortunately, your training program doesn't allow you to fully grasp the language of magical images and spiritual concepts. You can read the descriptive part in the textbook, but I'll try to pass on at least a few dozen of the most commonly used runes. As many as I can. So, try to get as much from me as possible," Mr. Hordol announced as soon as they moved to the new classroom and immediately, barely giving them a chance to gather and prepare, got down to business.
He handed each student a crystal sphere and then instructed them to pour one erg of energy into the artifacts and focus on the shapes appearing inside. They were of the simplest kind—circle, triangle, square—but flashed faster and faster, pulling the temporary owners' minds into unknown depths. This practice was somewhat similar to working with the Spirit Palace, but only a bit. Instead of fine-tuning to a mage's personal inner world, which everyone had to master on their own, it involved something much cruder, touching only the very edge of their subtle body.
Despite Hordol's words about the need to cooperate, Malk couldn't fully give in to the foreign magic right away and resisted for a while, balancing on the edge of a trance. Only when Hordol sat on a mat and picked up a similar sphere did Malk let his consciousness yield... only to, as it seemed to him, regain his clarity a moment later. But now, in the company of his equally confused classmates.
"Uh... did it not work?" Serge was the first to voice the general confusion.
And, in response, got a booming, satisfied laugh from Hordol.
"I've been teaching these classes for years, and I still can't get used to it. It's so funny!" the Bachelor said after calming down. Then added seriously, "It all worked. And there's nothing wrong with not remembering the process of image transfer. You're too weak for that. But if you enter the Spirit Palace now, you'll spot certain changes, working on which is highly advisable... How exactly, you'll figure out on your own."
"Enter the Palace without a Mirror?" asked one of the noble girls whom Malk hadn't encountered in ability development classes yet.
"Actually, yes. It's better to do it on your own for the first time. But if you find it difficult, there's a room down the hall where you can work with a Society's Mirror for twenty obols an hour. Anyone interested?" the Bachelor asked, and when more than half the students raised their hands, he waved towards the door. "You're free to go then!"
Those who preferred the easy way immediately dashed for the door, making a terrible noise. Malk, though, had expected some brave soul to bring up the previously free Druzal's Mirrors, yet no one did, and a scandal didn't happen. The boundaries of what was allowed and forbidden in the Society, everyone had gradually started to sense at an intuitive level.
Malk wasn't too concerned about all this. Mainly because he no longer needed crutches to enter the Spirit Palace. All he had to do was sit, detach from his senses and thoughts, feel himself as something more than just a body of flesh and bones, catch the right mood and... slip like a weightless shadow into the mental desert of his inner world. A desert that was filling with the breath of life more and more each day and now acquired something truly new.
On top of the nearest dune, Malk discovered an actual flower. Scraggly, with thick fleshy leaves and a prickly stem, but with a delicate, cloud-like purple bloom. And even though the plant looked ghostly and weightless, as if ready to dissolve into thin air at any moment, Malk was as happy as if it were real. Because its presence meant that, first, he did get the knowledge from Hordol, and second, he had no issues with his Spirit Palace.
And that was wonderful!
Malk leaned over the flower and sniffed its faint aroma, focusing on the sensations and trying not to miss a single nuance... And was instantly swept away by a torrent of new images and feelings—the very extract of knowledge about several basic runes that the teacher had promised to impart and which required such extravagant methods to study.
How to describe what he experienced? Malk didn't know. There were no words or terms in mundane language to convey the mix of alien emotions, unfamiliar feelings, and indescribable concepts that rushed through him like a swift current. The song of stones, the scent of flame, the taste of shadows... Strange principles, mysterious images—all of it subtly changed Malk. It didn't turn him inside out, didn't transform him into something new, but it did change him. At the very least, his perception of the world and reality itself.
Malk didn't even realize when he left the Spirit Palace and found himself sitting in the classroom again. Just suddenly, bam—and he was flooded with a sense of indescribable clarity, what people usually call enlightenment. Then, snap—the meditative state was lost, and Malk instinctively checked the size of his reserve.
"I gather it all worked out," the Bachelor addressed him, seeing the student stir after the trance. "How much did you spend?"
"About an erg," Malk replied, not believing his own words.
He was so used to the Crystal Heart practice draining all his strength every time he visited the Palace that such a modest result seemed miraculous.
"Not bad, not bad," Hordol nodded and pointed to the door. "You're free to go."
However, Malk wasn't in a hurry to take the offer. Instead of following the teacher's instruction, he sat more comfortably and asked:
"Excuse me, can I use this classroom for a bit longer? I won't bother anyone."
And without waiting for an answer, he placed the Phantom Root Elixir bottle in front of him. The state of unimaginable clarity he was in after learning Runeglyph helped him see many aspects of his Arcane Art practice differently. Missing the chance to reach new heights would've been stupid.
It seemed the Bachelor was familiar with his state.
"Ah, I see, my lesson opened your eyes to some mistakes, and now you want to ride the wave of emotions and try to complete your Art? Well, you're not the first, and you won't be the last. I won't say that everyone who tried this path succeeded, but there are lucky ones. And quite a few of them. So go for it!"
Malk nodded gratefully and couldn't resist explaining:
"It's just that I've been struggling for so long with the last layer of my Art, trying to form the Heart. I tried every idea, but it was useless. And then I suddenly realized the mistake... The Heart had to be perceived not as an organ, but as a spiritual quality. As the embodiment of that facet of a mage's Authority, which is commonly called intention. After all, isn't the heart responsible for the firmness of our intentions?"
His fervor made Hordol smile.
"Oh, so you practice Crystal Heart? Well, then get to it. I'll make sure you're not disturbed..."
Malk didn't need to be asked twice. Deftly pulling the cork, he tipped the flask into his mouth and downed it in one big gulp. His throat burned instantly, cutting off his breath. Once, Malk had tasted undiluted wormwood tincture, and that experience was way easier to handle. At least back then, his stomach wasn't tortured like it was being slowly filled with poison, and his blood didn't ignite like a wildfire.
Yet even such an explosion of sensations didn't stop Malk from detaching from reality and diving back into the Spirit Palace. However, this time, he wasn't scanning the mental desert for changes but rather hovering in the air and preparing for the next step in the Art. He worked not so much on his consciousness as on his will and intent, gathering from the darkest corners of his memory everything that fueled his determination and drive to reach his goal. When he felt ready, he started creating the Crystal Heart again. Only this time, instead of trying to draw the heart symbol with the power of his imagination, he formed it from his will and resolve, binding them with Force and cementing with Authority.
Whether it was due to Malk's insight or the Phantom Root Elixir, he lost track of time, completely absorbed in his practice. When he came to, he suddenly realized that he was almost out of energy again, his consciousness barely hanging on the edge of exiting the Palace, and in the sky above the spiritual desert... in the sky pulsed, drawing in golden sparks of light, the translucent sphere of the Crystal Heart.
He... did it?! Damn, he did it! A wave of impossible joy, as bright as a fireworks explosion, swept over Malk, and he was instantly knocked out of the Spirit Palace into the real world. The world, where the first words he heard were Bachelor Hordol's:
"Congratulations, Adept! You now truly deserve this title..."
But it wasn't until much later that Malk grasped this.
[1] Translator's note: basically, it is a rural illiterate version of "coffee," serving as another hint at the fact that they come from Colhaun, a backwater region (or maybe they just call the drink in such a way, but like my explanation more). In the original, it's [kofe] (grammatically correct) vs. [kofiy] (as my grandmother from a village would call it). As far as I was able to find, the only well-known English variation is "cawfee," but it belongs to the NY/Boston dialect, which isn't suitable here.
[2] Author's note: In modern esoteric arts (internal styles of wushu, meditative practices, internal alchemy, prayer practices), this method of working with students is called "direct transmission" or "heart-to-heart transmission" (naturally, it refers to the transfer of certain internal attunements, not knowledge or images.).