Despite his age, Malk had been in dangerous situations plenty of times and had gotten used to thinking his spirit and heart were tempered enough that various upheavals wouldn't disrupt his usual flow of life. Fights, injuries, run-ins with authorities—sure, they didn't leave him indifferent, but they didn't hold him back either. One of the Saints said, "For the weak—an insurmountable obstacle; for the strong—a bothersome hindrance!" And Malk put all his effort into making that idea the cornerstone of his worldview.

However, the encounter with the dwarf almost knocked him off track. He hadn't expected his personal hallucination, a precursor to any serious incident, to be not only a demonic creature—even if intangible—but also to declare a claim on his soul. Not the most pleasant situation! It was one thing to know that real demons, hungry for human lives, roamed around, but quite another when such a bloodthirsty, incorporeal creature targeted you specifically. People got terrified by much less!

Adding fuel to the fire was the complete uncertainty about the outcome of their invisible clash. Sure, the dwarf had exploded quite spectacularly, but Malk didn't believe he was truly dead. It was too easy to be true. Not with his luck and skills. Moreover, he wouldn't be surprised if that twist was part of the freak's plan all along. With his tendency to create any possible trouble for Malk, a fake death could easily be the start of another vile scheme.

Still, the phrase "your soul is mine" bothered Malk the most. What did it really mean, what was behind it?! Why the Yorrokh did some demonic freak consider Malk's soul his?! And the worst part was, there were plenty of possible explanations. Maybe it was his father's relatives, who got too into forbidden rituals and ended up "paying off" some otherworldly beings with the soul of a "dud" outcast. Or, even worse, it was his own mother's fault—Malk had no illusions about her: for her ambitions, she could go to great lengths. No wonder she treated him so differently than his sisters... Besides, he couldn't rule out the possibility that the reason lay in something else entirely unknown to him.

Though, he still preferred to think his father's relatives were to blame. Magical aristocracy was rarely encumbered by compassion or kindness; their priority was always their House. To slightly increase its wealth, power, or influence, those with a high Lineage would do a lot. At any rate, they'd certainly get rid of a giftless bastard without regret...

However, it was once those ancient noble mages, led by the Nine Holy Demonslayers, who had thrown off the yoke of Hell's demons' rule from humanity. And in the bloody Second Wave, when those creatures returned for revenge, it was the mighty sorcerers who bore the main burdens of the war... But ages passed, and morals changed. The aristocracy got bogged down in intrigues and squabbles, forgetting their true purpose. Heck, if ideas about lifting bans on demonic magic were openly discussed in Schools, and newspapers printed interviews with prominent loyalists... what else was there to say?! Moreover, even Yorrokh's Nights didn't bother anyone much—it was unbecoming for the Houses to fear local breaches of otherworldly creatures into Mritlok; rather, the demons were supposed to dread clans and Families paying a "return visit" with hunting expeditions. As for the fate of regular Gifted and ordinary mortals—nobody cared at all.

No, Malk harbored no illusions about the upper classes anymore. And that made the dwarf's visit bother him even more. Especially because of the suspicion that the freak's influence on reality was becoming more noticeable with each appearance. First, attracting terrorists' attention on the train, then simply breaking Colhaunian folk "protection," and now a direct attack. What's next, dragging Malk to Hell?!

The grim prospects made him urgently seek ways to avoid such an unenviable fate. And while the most obvious option—asking the authorities for help—was off the table for now, there were other ways. Maybe not reliable, but still worth a shot... So, Malk headed to the nearest market, where, as he knew, was a tent of a priestess of Dorana.

Colhaun's priests always stood alongside mages and soldiers in battles against Heimdarch raiders. Experts in half-forgotten practices, formidable litanies, and ancient rituals, loyal servants of their heavenly patrons, they sometimes fought more effectively against demons than traditional sorcerers. Carefully preserving the Legacy of the Nine, they were considered Mritlok's last bastion against the forces of Hell... and the main spiritual support for ordinary mortals praying for salvation during Yorrokh's Nights.

At any rate, that's how it was back home. How things were in the cultural capital, Malk didn't know. At least, the absence of temples near suspicious bodies of water and the dominance of loyalists made him think the locals were starting to forget their faith in the Nine...

Anyway, that wasn't his problem. The main thing for him was that the priestess be at her tent and still have charms against dark forces, which the temples of the sternest among the Nine, the warrior woman, were famous for. On regular days, the followers of the patroness of demon hunters weren't popular—people preferred to seek help in military matters from Achont, beg Yelya for healing, or ask Rzavian to soften a bureaucrat's heart. But Yorrokh's Night was approaching, and scared mortals were turning to, in their view, more reliable protectors. So, there was a big risk of finding an empty stall, with all the charms and amulets gone...

However, Malk got lucky, as the young priestess who greeted him had just started laying out the temple's goods. And the selection was quite varied.

"My respects to the servant of Great Dorana!" Malk rushed out. Despite being pretty conservative, he still wasn't much of a good believer. So, after a barely noticeable nod to the priestess, he immediately leaned over the stall: "Do you have..."

"The Holy Huntress doesn't like haste! And values respect!" the priestess snapped angrily, cutting him off. Malk straightened up quickly, mentally cursing himself for rushing.

Of all things, getting on the bad side of the maiden from Dorana's retinue—that's what they called themselves—over something so trivial was certainly not in his best interest. Just his "luck" to run into a young acolyte, full of religious zeal and eager to spread the Saint's word.

Wondering how to smooth things over, he gave her a questioning look... meanwhile noting that she had a pretty nice figure and a cute face.

Instead of answering, the maiden pointed with her eyes to a metal chest with a slot in the lid, where people were supposed to drop donations for the temple. And judging by her expression, a couple of obols wouldn't cut it.

The threat of parting with his coins almost made Malk say screw it and head to priests of some other Saint—Achont or Murrtash, for instance. Even though both were known more as masters of battle, they still left their priests some skills in making amulets as their Legacy. And he gave up on leaving only out of fear of earning the priestess's curse. Far from all temple servants had the necessary skills—especially at such a young age—but risking getting into new trouble, more so for no good reason, still wasn't to his liking.

So, with a pained sigh, Malk pulled a half-drachma coin from his pocket and, feeling his heart bleed, dropped it into the chest's slot.

"The temple of the Great Saint is grateful for your gift, Adept!" The silver barely had time to clink against the coins filling the chest as the priestess switched from wrath to mercy and beamed at Malk. "What kind of help does the donor want from the Huntress?"

"I need an amulet protecting against dark forces," he replied, somewhat embarrassed and slightly annoyed by the maiden's sudden metamorphosis. "Do you have one?"

"I do. But I'd recommend getting a Defender against spiritual parasites. A ward against darkness is good for the Night, but that's not what you need now," the priestess replied politely.

"How do you know?" Malk asked suspiciously.

"It just seems to me that someone with signs of damage from a ghost attack should worry less about threats from Hell—may the Saints turn it into dust!—and more about the danger of another assault by a bodiless creature. Or am I wrong?" the priestess said with that same smile that was starting to irritate Malk.

He had a question on the tip of his tongue about how the maiden knew about the ghost, but he held back. The Saints' servants had their own ways, and their Arcane Arts were special too—often useless in everyday life yet very handy during demon invasions. Breaking written and unwritten laws of mages while knowing the answer you'd get was stupid.

"You're right. So, what do you suggest?" he asked.

In just five minutes, having parted with sixty obols, he got a bracelet of leather braid with nine glass beads. Eight small, dull ones and one—the fourth in the string—large, steadily pulsating with glow in sync with Malk's heartbeat. Compared to modern mages' creations, the Defender against spiritual parasites looked plain, yet he trusted it way more.

Before Malk, upset by his expenses, departed, the priestess bestowed a blessing upon him, which washed over his Spirit in a warm wave. But if she expected gratitude for that, she was mistaken. Ever since a while back, Malk had really come to dislike it when streams of foreign Force invaded his body. So, as soon as he was far enough from Dorana's priestess's tent, he immediately sat on a bench and, following his now-habitual routine, started removing the foreign energy. Lately, he'd actually been doing this whenever possible, simultaneously training his Authority manipulation skills and achieving complete control over the processes inside. Otherwise, with his poisoning by one of the Pneuma aspects, the clash with the dwarf, and talent limitations, dreaming of a long life was out of the question...

Two sennights after getting the bracelet passed completely peacefully. Surprisingly so. No one attacked Malk, set traps, or dragged him into trouble—he lived the typical life of a regular student. Except that he had no free time at all, but then, not everyone got lucky like Tolfan. A decently well-off family, not the worst Gift—if Malk had those conditions, he'd move mountains! However, the fatty, being an outer disciple of the School of Three Saints, didn't aim for the top and preferred hanging out with other young, rich good-for-nothings.

Malk couldn't afford that sort of thing. Training in the morning, work in the infirmary, then studies during the day, and already towards evening, transforming into a train station loader—where was there time to think about entertainment?! Still, he didn't complain. The workload might have seemed unbearable to someone, but he, on the contrary, felt relief. And how could it be otherwise, if his mind and Spirit had already adapted to the pressure, and his body... his body generally began to perceive any physical labor almost as a great blessing. And although the former madness, when the thirst for hard work drove him crazy, did not return, Malk could not completely get rid of a slight euphoria in his thoughts and a weak languor in his muscles and suppressed them with physical exertion.

Anyway, with such an approach to the daily routine, the main thing was to get into the rhythm. If it worked out, the body quickly adapted, stopped perceiving what was happening as something extreme, and allowed one to do something else; if not, well, it meant that someone had taken on too much and needed to dial it back!

Malk managed to get into the rhythm, and then he found time to think about the future. About the very future that previously seemed unattainable but was now visible on the horizon. For the first time, Malk tried to assess his prospects and understand what the newly minted Adept would do after completing his studies.

Actually, back when he was still a "dud" and counting on a diploma from the School of Three Saints, he was a bit more optimistic about a mage's life. But harsh reality opened his eyes to a lot, and he realized the importance of certain decisions.

After all, what's the main problem for mages in the modern world? It's finding ways to use their talents! Sure, it's great to throw lightning bolts, create shields, and curse enemies, but that's only useful in wartime. What about peacetime? Which of those spells would help make an honest living? The reality is, not everyone is needed in the army or House troops; some face much calmer lives. And in those cases, you can't get by with occasional small earnings—you need a stable income. At least because the profession of a sorcerer is a money drain for the Gifted. Experiments, resources for practice, new knowledge—it all requires gold. Even if some mage wants to retreat to a tower, cut off from worldly worries, and dive into research, they can't do it without strong support. There's always a need for someone to help develop the Gift and push forward, whether it's a School, a House, or a powerful teacher-Archmage playing patron doesn't matter.

After all, what was the main problem of mages in the modern world? It was the difficulty of applying their talents! Of course, it was great to be able to hurl lightning, create shields, and inflict curses on enemies, but all this was only suitable for wartime. What about peacetime? Which of these spells would help to earn money honestly? The reality was that not everyone was expected in the army or the troops of the Houses; there were also those who had a much calmer life ahead. And here, one-time petty earnings wouldn't cut it; a stable income was needed. If only simply because the profession of a sorcerer, like a pump, sucked money out of the Gifted. Experiments, resources for practice, new knowledge—everything required gold. Even if some sorcerer wanted to retire to a tower, isolate themselves from the bustle of the world, and fully immerse themselves in research, they simply would not be able to realize their desire without strong support. There always had to be someone who would help develop the Gift and push forward, and whether it was a School, a House, or a powerful Archmage-mentor who had decided to play the role of a patron, did not matter.

Malk certainly had no such backing behind him, and the need to earn a living through his own skills weighed on him more heavily than ever. Thank the Saints, he found a use for his very first spell: regularly copying someone else's "Healer" greatly helped in mastering his own version, and next month, Malk already planned to start sealing the latter in single-use vessels instead. And if he could follow through on his plans to study medical books, he might even requalify as, albeit low-ranked, a real healer.

Ideally, his second spell should've been from the same field. There were plenty of them on Malk's list. Blood Cleansing, Body Nourishment, Banish Disease...you name it! But the circumstances were such that, as his second spell, he was forced to pick Dispersion. And Malk had no idea how to make money off it. At least not yet. Sure, one could imagine that it might work well against curses or, let's say, manifestations of malefics' displeasure, but that sort of thing required special knowledge. It wasn't just about removing foreign energy from the body; you had to understand at least a bit of the underlying issue. And who'd let Malk, with his black star in the mage passport, near the blatantly dangerous books that required serious clearance?

Thus, it turned out that all his hopes for progressing in the thoroughly peaceful profession of a healer had to be tied to his third spell. And that would have been fine, but... Malk got into trouble in Andalore far too often. The terrorist attack on the train, the scuffle with street thugs, the loyalist assault, the pursuit by a demonic dwarf... Yorrokh's Seed, he even managed to witness an assassination attempt on a Magister!!!

Under such conditions, focusing solely on developing peaceful skills was downright stupid. The Colhaunian upbringing already taught him to keep his powder dry, and now his personal experiences piled on top of that. So, Malk saw no alternative to a combat spell for his third choice. Granted, with his status, he couldn't count on anything serious, but he hoped to make up for the spell's weakness with his Authority, which was pretty decent for his rank.

He picked Spark—the weakest spell he'd ever heard of and the only combat one available to an Adept with his background. But as his mentor said, there are no bad tools, only bad users. Even with Spark, you could achieve a lot. Especially if you didn't just learn it at the bare minimum level but honed the skill to its peak… and, who knows, maybe even pushed it beyond!

The only hassle with choosing Spark had to do with the scope of its application. To get permission to study any combat spell, the Society's bureaucrats demanded a pile of paperwork, which had to be filled out flawlessly, by the rules, and on time. No excuses were accepted. After hearing his classmates' stories of bureaucratic ordeals, Malk didn't even try to fill out the forms on the spot and headed home with them. With his status, he couldn't rely on luck; everything had to be done so no one would have any complaints.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

And it was while filling out the forms that Tolfan, who had suddenly returned from School, caught him.

"Decided to study combat magic?" the fatty asked, peeking over Malk's shoulder.

"Sort of," Malk grumbled, already bracing for snarky remarks and tensing up inside.

He was wrong, as Tolfan wasn't planning to mock his choice. Though he still couldn't resist a jab.

"Since you decided to become a mage, this is your first sensible decision," Tolfan said with a serious face. "Zero-circle spells are crap for protection, but better with than without."

"You know, fatty, you've really surprised me just now," Malk said. "It's more your style to say something like, 'The main thing is for a gentleman to have gold and a good pistol, and he can always buy an avalonch if he needs one,' rather than advocating for learning combat skills. Where did this sudden foresight come from?"

Tolfan noisily cleared his nose and gave Malk a condescending look.

"What makes you think an avalonch, a pistol, and, I'll add, a couple of guards would be superfluous, even for a battle mage? The world's more complicated than we once thought. And getting out of Colhaun hasn't exactly brought us to a land of peace and prosperity." He ruffled his hair and let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yorrokh!.. I'm even thinking of signing up for a combat mastery elective at School! That's how far it's gotten..."

"Did something happen?" Malk asked, suddenly on edge. For the fatty to cast aside his laziness and cowardice and take up something dangerous and hard to master... No way!

"Maybe it did, maybe it didn't... or maybe I just woke up and saw what a snake nest I'm studying in," Tolfan muttered. "Got a buddy at School. Decent guy, from my circle, knows how to have fun... His dad's from the West Coast, owns a small fishing fleet... And yesterday, he ticked off some aristocrat. A senior from House Leinir..."

"House of the Thunder Bird, I've heard," Malk nodded. "Big friends with House Charingar! If there's such a thing as friendship between aristocratic Houses at all."

Reading lineage books had paid off, and he had at least a passable grasp of Boreas Houses and Families.

"Exactly!" Tolfan grimaced. "So, my buddy mocked this petty noble from House Leinir. Not an heir or even part of the main family... otherwise, he wouldn't have been sent to my School! But the guy got offended. And challenged the joker in the dueling ring."

Tolfan fell silent.

"And?" Malk urged.

"And today, my buddy ended up in the School infirmary. With severe burns and multiple gashes all over his body. Before the judge stopped the fight, Leinir literally shredded him with a simple Lightning. First-circle spell, nothing much, really, but in that scumbag's hands... it turned into something deadly!" Tolfan said, staring blankly into the distance.

"They allow fights without protective amulets in your School?" Malk frowned.

Tolfan slowly turned to him.

"You don't get it. Thanks to his dad, my buddy was practically covered in those amulets, but it didn't help. 'Cause you gotta know how to use any toys, and he didn't. And he didn't have any of his own combat spells either," the fatty said, dropping his words heavily. "Unlike Leinir, who didn't even activate his own defense and didn't use any other spells besides Lightning."

"Well, then I understand you. Cases like that really do motivate one to study," Malk said, spreading his hands.

"Study..." Tolfan snorted. "They motivate you to stay alive! I was planning to specialize in elemental blessings, picked the Arcane Art of Two Shrouds for that... But then I imagined myself in Leinir's opponent's place, and it got me uneasy."

"Relax. But next time you feel like cracking jokes at someone, remember this case. And, trust me, it'll save you a ton of trouble." Malk winked at the fatty with feigned enthusiasm and patted him on the shoulder. "Besides... The newspapers say Yorrokh's Night might come earlier this year than expected, and that's what's getting to you."

Malk had known since almost the first day they met how Yorrokh's Night made the fatty anxious, so he didn't deny himself the pleasure of poking fun at his friend about it. Which always infuriated Tolfan.

"Ah, shove your jokes about the Night to..." the fatty snapped instantly, then caught Malk's laughing gaze and added more calmly, "To our neighbor! He came back last night from a trip with some pretty guest and took her to the garden for some 'cultural entertainment.' And almost croaked there..."

"What?" Malk asked, not expecting such a sharp turn in the conversation and feeling growing unease.

Images started surfacing in his mind: first catching the mutant caterpillar, then taking it to the next street, and tossing it into the garden. Saints screw it, the thing didn't die?!

"What's unclear... A demonic chimera popped up in the neighbor's garden. While he was traveling around the country, the pest grew to the size of a forty-bucket barrel, ate all the greenery, killed the trees, dug up the soil, and, satisfied, greeted the owner," Tolfan reported, not noticing Malk's reaction and getting more amused. "What's more, when he, scared out of his wits, blasted it with a Fire Arrow from a one-time amulet, it didn't die like a decent creature should but burst like an overinflated bubble. And splattered everything around with some kind of liquid muck—not dangerous, but stinky as Hell's belch..."

"So, how did it all end?" Malk urged his friend, who had paused.

"How, how... The garden turned into a revolting mud lake, the lady had a fit, and the fellow had a meltdown over his ruined weekend suit that cost two dozen drachmas," Tolfan laughed after a dramatic pause. "But the gendarmes suffered the most, since they had to go door to door looking for the source of the demonic emission that spawned the monster... They already stopped by here, by the way, when you were off to the infirmary. Mad as Yorrokh himself!"

And Tolfan burst out laughing again. Malk, meanwhile, discreetly let out a breath of relief: it seemed his stupid stunt hadn't led to anything bad. Even though he'd been under the euphoric influence of his body cleansing at the time, it did nothing to excuse his behavior.

"Alright... You distracted me with your Spark, but I didn't come home early for nothing. Helavia asked me!" Tolfan suddenly interrupted Malk's self-flagellation.

"Her intense sessions on the training ground... or wherever she trains... are finally over, and she's coming back home?" Malk perked up.

"Almost. She's coming home next sennight. And she's bringing with her two invitation tickets to the theater," Tolfan informed in a mocking tone, cocking his eyebrows. "Get where this is going?"

"N-no," Malk said, puzzled.

"To spending, buddy! Spending!" the fatty burst into laughter, unable to hold back. "Our mutual friend asked me to make sure you go to a tailor and get some decent-looking clothes. Really insisted! Said she'd poke holes in my gut if you embarrass her with your 'boarding school rags.'" He got serious and added calmly, "By the way, Malk, no offense, but your clothes are really... way too old-fashioned. You won't make a career in the circle of senior mages looking like that!"

"Not like I'm dying to join that circle..." Malk snapped; though he understood both his girlfriend and Tolfan were right, he still had a strong dislike for the situation.

He would've even told these advisors to shove off, but... Yorrokh, he really did need to spruce up. Even Serge from the courses, as soon as he mastered the last layer of his Arcane Art, took care to purchase a new, much more respectable suit. So why was Malk any worse?!

"You're not, but Helavia is. Talented, pretty, and working herself to the bone like you. Plus, her Gift's good, and her Authority's almost the strongest among non-aristocrats in the course... Very influential people are already taking notice of her. So if you want to stay by her side, keep up! And start by not dressing like some kid from the working outskirts," Tolfan said earnestly.

And Malk couldn't find any comeback except to stand up, spread his hands, and say with mock tragedy in his voice:

"Alright, then lead me to where my spending awaits..."

However, they didn't go to a tailor or a ready-made clothes shop. Tolfan had urgent matters, and Malk still had to sort out the paperwork for Spark. Therefore, they postponed the shopping trip for two days. Postponed, but didn't cancel! So, by mid-sennight, Malk had a decent pair of leather shoes, wool trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt, an interesting vest with a blazer collar, and a pretty basic tie. Along with the new clothes came thin leather gloves, a silver pin, and a pair of cufflinks adorned with rock crystal.

By and large, nothing special, no fashionable frills or expensive materials. Just quality stuff that would fit in the wardrobe of a mid-level merchant or a Junior Apprentice or young Bachelor who cared about their appearance. But the price... Malk paid four drachmas for the whole set, and that was still a good deal. This specific outfit, thanks to Tolfan's suggestion, he bought from a tailor, and judging by the barely noticeable stitching, the previous owner had really bad luck catching a stiletto in the left side. Before, Malk would've seen that as a huge flaw, but by now, he had a good grasp of prices and kept quiet. A similar but new outfit from a ready-made shop cost three times more...

Sorting out the "decent clothes" matter seemed to trigger some other things to fall into place. The infirmary manager appreciated Malk's work quality and, on his own initiative, increased his pay for one "Healer" by ten obols. The gendarmes, having found nothing, stopped hanging around the house, looking for signs of demonic emanations. And finally, the Society's bureaucrats not only allowed Malk to study a combat spell but even arranged the schedule so he could master it as quickly as possible. All good news! And the absence of the dwarf was the final touch to the best sennight of the month. If Malk were a bit more religious, he'd probably have thought it was all thanks to getting a bracelet of Dorana. But he wasn't, for better or worse...

Helavia, as promised, returned on the first day of the next sennight. A bit thinner, with shadows under her eyes, but carrying herself in a new, unfamiliar way. It was as if the long, grueling training had allowed her to break through what seemed like an insurmountable barrier and reach a fundamentally new state of Spirit and body. And, it must be said, this noticeably added to her allure and sensuality.

Too bad her personality didn't get any better.

"Ready?" she asked from the doorway, as if they hadn't been apart at all.

Then, she gave Malk a critical once-over. And judging by her slight smile, she liked his new look. Malk shared her opinion on his appearance. If before he didn't care about how he dressed, now his look was too close to those childhood dreams of a mighty mage and a dashing gentleman for him to ignore.

"Almost. I'll finish up, and I'll be all yours," Malk said, first giving a mock bow, then laughing and kissing the girl who had slightly leaned toward him.

When she showed up, he was standing by the open window in their room, methodically hurling the newly learned Spark at a metal plate in the middle of the yard. It was slow, with a crazy energy drain, but that's how real mage skills were honed. As if proving this, the last Spark not only hit the piece of metal but also left a considerable dent!

Helavia stood next to him unexpectedly. With an unreadable expression, she looked at Malk, then shifted her gaze to his target. Raising her right index finger, she... twisted energy flows around it, forming a spell. It took her less than three seconds to spark a blue flame at the tip of her finger, then take aim at the metal piece and shoot it with a tight cluster of discharges, just like firing a pistol.

Lightning Arrow! A spell Malk wouldn't get even if he thought of bribing the Society's academic department officials. To learn combat spells like that, you needed not only a clean record but also to be studying in the right place. Like, for example, the School of the Three Saints.

The Arrow lived up to its reputation this time too. The magical discharge, somewhat resembling a gunpowder rocket, pierced Malk's target. And, judging by the melted edges of the entry hole and the scorched grass around the piece of metal, the spell's strength wasn't just in its penetrating power.

"Now what? Now ready?" Helavia asked, not without a hint of challenge.

After such a dazzling display, it was embarrassing to show off his half-baked Sparks, but Malk managed to keep his composure and fired the last one at the target. Under his girlfriend's mocking gaze, he was terrified of missing, but it seemed his lucky sennight wasn't over yet. The Spark not only hit but also broke the already battered plate in half.

"Now I am!" he said and made an inviting gesture, suggesting that Helavia proceed to the exit first.

She snorted but headed toward the door anyway. Malk, meanwhile, suddenly realized with unusual clarity that this theater visit would stick with him for a long time...

They went by carriage—the same one Helavia had used to come to the rental apartment. On the way, Malk tried to ask his girlfriend something or other, but she kept brushing him off with meaningless phrases. Playing the chatterbird from the southern islands got old fast, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Yorrokh knew what Helavia was thinking, but Malk was trying to figure out how to take her aloofness. Sure, he knew their relationship was lacking a spark, but... neither of them were those fiery folk of Lira who, rumor had it, lived in a new melodrama each day! Still, this kind of coldness was unusual even for them.

Or maybe Tolfan was right, and it was the result of... how did he put it?... influential people taking notice of Helavia?

Deep down, something like jealousy stirred in Malk for the first time. Calm and controlled, but jealousy nonetheless!

Lost in heavy thoughts, he didn't even notice when the carriage arrived at the theater. Judging by the poster featuring a playwright even Malk had heard of, this wasn't a run-of-the-mill place. That was also obvious from the crowd coming to see the play. A dozen Bachelors in military uniforms, two Junior Magisters with the College of White Gloves insignia, loads of Apprentices... There were ungifted folks too, but the cost of their jewelry and amulets glowing with Force suggested they could probably hire some of the senior mages here as personal bodyguards, if not just as mere clerks.

Amid such company, no matter what he thought of himself, Malk was clearly out of his depth... Which couldn't be said about Helavia. She felt right at home. With some, she just exchanged greetings; with others, she traded elaborate bows; and with a few, she even exchanged jokes Malk barely understood. And even though she didn't approach the truly influential guests, the number of acquaintances she had was still astonishing. She belonged here.

When did she manage it?!

While Helavia was a true guest of this event, Malk, at some point, started feeling like he wasn't her boyfriend anymore, just a companion, a male escort without whom it would be improper for a lady to show up in society. And that was a pretty unpleasant feeling.

But soon, the whirlwind of outfits and fancy greetings ended. A bell rang, and the guests began taking their seats. Malk and Helavia didn't linger either and ended up in chairs almost in the very last row. The lights went out, the curtain rose, and the show began.

Malk wasn't a theatergoer, and in truth, he'd never had the chance to become one. Whether in the Colhaun boarding school or here in Andalore, life didn't spoil him with free time or cultural entertainment. So, it was doubly odd that the first play he saw grabbed him so much. Thoughts of his relationship with Helavia receded, the sense of difference and alienness of high society was forgotten for a while; he focused entirely on what was happening onstage.

The play revolved around the Uprising of the Nine—an era when, among humans enslaved by Hell's demons, nine truly great leaders emerged. Powerful sorcerers who learned how to fight off the guests from beyond the world's borders and passed that knowledge on to other people. Talented generals who survived hundreds of battles and crushed every enemy they faced. Future Saints who bestowed upon humanity, first, hope—and later, the right to a future.

Admittedly, in this particular play, the Saints' fight against demons didn't get much focus. The playwright and director were more interested in the relationships among four specific Demonslayers. Achont, Yelya, Druzal, and Kehtot—the best of the best, the strongest of the strong, yet on stage, they suffered, struggled, lost, and found, just like ordinary mortals. In the finale, the trio of future Saints turned against Kehtot. According to the creators, the patron of mystical arts and arcane practices had simply chickened out before a crucial battle with demons and even prepared to defect to the enemy. The situation was saved only by the intervention of the other Demonslayers, who recognized the betrayal in time, subdued the traitor, and then persuaded him to return to the righteous path.

"It started off great and ended so poorly," Malk commented as the curtain fell and the audience slowly began to leave.

"Like you expected anything else!" Helavia snorted. "Read the 'Message to Descendants'—nothing ends well there!"

"Why? The Saints did achieve their goal. Yorrokh's rule was overthrown, and humanity gained freedom. Finding personal happiness just wasn't part of the path they chose," Malk disagreed.

"Then what are you upset about?" Helavia asked coolly.

"The lies. Kehtot never betrayed anyone. But he seriously messed with Archont and Druzal, as they tried to grab all the power... Not out of altruism, no! Great mages rarely get into that. More likely, he wanted the same thing for himself… But the fact remains, Kehtot did feud with some Saints, even getting into fights. And now, some are rewriting the history of the first war with Hell," Malk replied quite emotionally.

"Are you giving me those same tall tales Reslan Skom stuffed into you, is that it?" Helavia hissed. Since Malk's initiation, any mention of his mentor's personality started to get on her nerves. "Then I advise you to forget them before anything bad happens. Need a reminder of how our mentor ended up? Want to follow in his footsteps?"

"I don't. But I won't just stand by and watch our history get twisted to suit who knows what political trends!" Malk declared, leaving no room for debate.

And he ended the conversation there. Helavia, for her part, wasn't eager to continue the argument either. What was meant to be a pleasant evening out had clearly not worked out for either of them.

Already in the lobby, they saw two mages with their female companions—mages who were quite far apart in the rank hierarchy. One was a military man, a general with Junior Magister insignia, the other—a student in Three Saints School uniform with an Apprentice medallion. Given the gap in their statuses, there would have been nothing to discuss under normal circumstances, and yet there they stood, talking, which meant their connection went well beyond mere formalities.

Suddenly, Malk caught a quick glance from the Junior Magister's young interlocutor. A sharp, attentive gaze that barely brushed him but stuck to Helavia. And what was especially annoying, his girlfriend responded with a touch more than a polite nod.

"Who's that?" Malk asked calmly, though inside he was burning with anger.

"It's... my mentor's senior disciple in the School," Helavia replied, not very convincingly. "Nothing special. Just consider him a friend."

Malk was about to make a caustic remark—just barely holding himself from causing a scene—when suddenly, the general's female companion also looked their way. A stunning blue-eyed blonde in a sleeveless, backless blue dress first gave them a sidelong glance, then, almost openly, turned and studied Malk for a few moments. And finally, she even flashed him a charming smile.

"And who's that?" Helavia asked, now much less calmly.

For the first time, Malk found himself in a situation where he didn't know what to say. Answer honestly that he didn't know? But given the smile clearly meant for him, that would seem like a blatant lie. Make something up? That'd be even worse. He wasn't a smooth liar to constantly navigate between truth and fabrication. He'd definitely slip up and get caught. So what then?

And he couldn't think of anything better than to mutter thoughtlessly:

"Nothing special. Just consider her a friend."