In the office of the captain of the Third Gendarmerie Corps, responsible for Andalore and its surroundings, where Malk had been brought for questioning for the fourth time in three days, the air was stuffy, hot, and reeked terribly of paper dust. Yorrokh knows how the owner of the place could stand it—maybe he was used to it or had some special secret bureaucratic spell—but for Malk, each visit felt like torture. Even the holding cell, where he was taken immediately after the train arrived in the cultural capital, was better than this. At least there, he didn't have to squirm on a chair for hours, waiting for Captain Tyrhat to grace him with his attention and start the conversation.

Today, however, was less boring—Malk had found himself some "entertainment." A surprisingly large fly had flown into the room and began circling around a pot with a sundew, clearly the captain's favorite plant. The fly would get closer, almost landing on the leaves, then panic and fly away. The buzzing creature seemed both drawn to and repelled by the carnivorous plant. Watching it and guessing what choice it would ultimately make was quite interesting... Until the moment when one of the "flowers" suddenly shot towards the fly with an open "maw" and successfully devoured it.

And at that very moment, Malk felt he was exactly like that fly.

"So, lad. Let's go over it again..." Captain Tyrhat suddenly broke the silence, pushing aside all the other documents and leaving only the file on the bloodshed on the Colhaun railway in front of him. "You and your friends boarded the train to..." the gendarme started mumbling unpleasantly, but Malk cut him off.

"When is this going to end, huh?! This is the fourth interrogation already! You've squeezed everything out of me, every last drop, but you won't let up!!!" he exploded. "There are killers and terrorists, and there are people who helped stop them. What could possibly be unclear that you've been holding me here for three days?!"

The owner of the office, his expression unchanged and showing no sign of displeasure at the outburst, slowly lifted his gaze from the papers and looked intently at Malk.

"Young man, you ask when is this going to end? Seriously? After all the nonsense you've been dumping on me during the interrogations?!" He dropped the document and leaned back in his chair. "How about I tell you a version of events that seems much more realistic to me than yours?" Captain Tyrhat said insightfully, poking his finger contemptuously at the case file. "So, a very important person boards the train in Colhaun... The son of the Colhaun governor, to be precise... Minimal security, relying on secrecy. However, there's a leak somewhere, and the loyalists find out about the governor's relative... You know who they are from the newspapers..."

The captain's tone seamlessly switched to informal. He then paused, took out cigarettes and a lighter from his desk drawer, and enjoyed a deep drag.

"So, the loyalists can't pass up such a gift from the Saints and start planning an assassination. And not just some dumb bomb explosion, but something more elaborate, involving their demonic allies." The gendarme blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and smirked. "Yes, yes, the protective barrier of the armored train, which allowed the demon to get on the roof unnoticed, was damaged by them... Our experts determined that for sure. What they couldn't understand was why the horned guest from the Lower Realms suddenly stopped obeying his allies and went berserk. The creature was dumb as a rock, but smashing the roof and doing other nonsense was too much even for it!" The captain vigorously scratched his clean-shaven chin and casually asked, "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you? No?"

Malk, already having a rough idea of where his interlocutor was leading, gloomily shook his head.

"Alright... Back to our loyalists," Captain Tyrhat said compliantly and continued, "The demon dies, but that doesn't stop our assassins; they continue the operation... Frankly, I would've done the same in their place. They had weapons and trained people, and the fact that there was an Adept and a Bachelor instead of two Adepts in the guard was just bad luck... The problem lies elsewhere—in the death of the last surviving terrorists at the hands of a mere teenager. Who meddles where he shouldn't, and then bang, bang, and there's no one left to interrogate... It all seems a bit too convenient for the loyalist organization, don't you think?"

"I don't think so. If anyone had asked us, my friends and I would have gladly declined such 'luck'!" Malk replied harshly, his jaw clenched.

The captain only let out a short, malicious chuckle.

"They'd refuse... A demon tries to get into their compartment, loyalists wreak havoc nearby... And it's all pure coincidence!" Tyrhat took another deep drag of his cigarette. "I don't know, these youngsters heading to the capital nowadays seem odd to me. Way too suspicious"

"So you think we're in cahoots with the terrorists?!" Malk couldn't hold back, paling dramatically.

"I haven't decided yet. But there are suspicions..." the gendarme nodded. "Think about it, why wouldn't you be a clean-up group? And how well you handled your task..."

Malk, who had considered his detention a mere formality and was only worried about the already started entrance exams at the School of the Three Saints, abruptly felt as if a chasm was opening beneath his feet. All of a sudden, his entire future was in the hands of the man sitting across from him. A man who had the power not only to shatter Malk's dreams but to throw him in prison.

"Wait, what nonsense is this?! How could we be a clean-up group, what accomplices of loyalists?!" he yelled in panic. "We're heading to enroll in the Magic School!"

The captain suddenly slammed his palm on the table forcefully, making Malk almost jump in his seat.

"Quiet!!!" the gendarme growled, instantly shedding the veneer of politeness he had shown Malk until then. "Then who are you? Heroes? Maybe you should be rewarded, huh?" Tyrhat took a deep breath, calming down, and said, now without shouting, "Especially you, some hero you are! With a mark of unreliability and compromising connections... Did you think I'd be too lazy to send someone to the archives? You're wrong. As soon as I saw that black star in your passport, I sent a request. Got the answer today..."

Malk lowered his head and stared at the floor. There was no point in listening further. His mentor, having taught the boarding school boy almost everything he knew, had also significantly tarnished his biography. Participation in a conspiracy against the Regents, an attempt to restore the monarchy, armed rebellion, use of forbidden spells, escape from custody—Reslan Skom had done too much for the authorities to ignore even his relatives and students.

"Although, you know, I was wrong to call you a loyalist. That was a bit much, I admit," the captain continued. "A true monarchist wouldn't be caught dead with demon-lovers, let alone cooperate with them... It's more like direct competition... Which, by the way, isn't any better. For you, it's not better!" He suddenly leaned over the desk and asked confidentially, "I don't get it, how did you end up with that mark? Your fat friend and that pretty girl are clean. Yorrokh wouldn't find a trace! But you stand out, why?"

What he heard made Malk flinch and stare at the captain in surprise. He knew that Tolfan's father had planned to buy his son a "clean" biography, but he had never heard that Helavia had the same luxury. But asking the gendarme about it wasn't an option! Malk lowered his head again.

"Silent? Well, stay silent..." Tyrhat nodded encouragingly. "In the meantime, I'll prepare some papers..."

The pause that followed was so meaningful that even an idiot would have guessed that it was all for a reason.

"Alright, I get it. No more of these insinuations and beating around the bush," Malk said wearily. "Tell me straight, what documents do I need to sign and what do I need to retract so you'd release me and my friends."

Tyrhat's face lit up with a smile at what he heard.

"There! Now we're talking! I knew from the start you were a smart young man. I like that!" He rolled his eyes in feigned admiration before staring at Malk again, now with a wolfish, hungry gaze devoid of any warmth. "Take the sheet and rewrite your testimony. Specifically, mention how you were sitting in the dining car, shaking like a leaf, and didn't even think of any heroics. And don't forget to highlight the bravery of the soldiers serving in the Colhaun Railway Company. Who fought off the terrorists in a hand-to-hand fight right in front of your eyes."

"But..." Malk began, but was immediately interrupted by the captain's commanding gesture.

"Write! Your friends signed the necessary papers on the first day and went about their business... You would've gone with them if it weren't for that damned mark of yours." Suddenly, as if remembering something, Tyrhat rummaged in a desk drawer and retrieved a filled-out form. "And then you sign this..."

"What's that?" Malk asked suspiciously.

"Permission for the use of a second-circle mental spell on you," the captain said indifferently, as if he were talking about something boring and insignificant rather than mind reading. "I want to make sure you're truly not connected to the terrorists... But you can refuse! I won't insist... Though, then you won't get out of the cell earlier than the legally required two sennights. Your choice!"

"Wait, what do you mean two sennights?! I have entrance exams! I've already paid the School a deposit through the bank... I can't go back to the cell!" Malk openly panicked, finding himself utterly unprepared to face the unfamiliar reality of modern Boreas.

"Then all the more reason to sign," the gendarme nodded sympathetically, then with feigned concern suddenly advised, "And, listen... lad... when you describe the heroics of your saviors, not a word about the dwarf or whatever he was. It'd be one thing if someone else saw him, but you're the only witness. And since that's the case, there's no need to mar the paper with your fantasies. You've had stress-induced hallucinations, and then people will have to investigate. Let's avoid that."

"What hallucinations, Captain?!?" Malk almost shouted. Not only had they taken his victory away and forced him into a farce, but now they were nearly accusing him of madness. How could he accept that?! "I..."

His objections, however, were of no interest to anyone. After getting all the necessary signatures and ignoring Malk's words, Tyrhat cleared the desk and placed a glass parallelepiped emitting rainbow hues on it. The device's innards were filled with countless rotating gears, shifting levers, and magical crystals moving along intricate trajectories, with two handprints glowing red at the very center on the "lid" of the box.

"Well, shall we begin?" the captain asked with a nasty smile and lit another cigarette with his finger.

The gendarme was in a great mood and didn't hesitate to show it to his "guest."

Scum! May the Saints grace him with leprosy! Malk was shaking with rage inside, struggling to keep from unleashing his fury on the one who had wronged him. He imagined himself lunging at the captain, knocking that smug grin off his face, making him take back all his previous words, but... Oh, that blasted "but"! Even if he forgot about the difference in combat experience and abilities—the Council medal on Tyrhat's uniform was definitely not for long service, and his knowledge of magic certainly wasn't limited to harmless tricks—Malk was still no match for the captain. Because Tyrhat represented the authority of the Regents, and Malk couldn't compete with the shadow of the state machine of Boreas looming behind him.

A boarding school boy without the support of an influential Family or House against the entire gendarmerie corps?! It even sounded ridiculous...

Well, the taste of the first real victory in Malk's life turned out to be surprisingly nauseating. He even suspected that the accursed by all the Saints dwarf was lurking around somewhere. The very one who didn't exist and couldn't possibly exist, but who was still trying his hardest to harm one specific Colhaunian.

Malk couldn't help but glance around quickly, but he saw no trace of the shorty. Maybe he really had gone mad and imagined it all?

"How long do I have to wait?!" The captain's angry roar interrupted Malk's prolonged thoughts.

He flinched and placed his open palms on the designated spots of the magical device. Indeed, it really wasn't worth dragging this out any longer. If life had dunked you in manure, you should at least try not to thrash around too much—less filth to swallow.

And with that thought, Malk's consciousness was engulfed by the hungry darkness of the spell...

What mental magic was in general and how his memory would be read, Malk had no idea. Such knowledge was always kept sealed with nine seals and controlled by the state. And the Bachelor-level influences were certainly not among the sections of magic that a guy like Malk could read about in a public library.

So, the most his imagination could conjure was a picture of him being forcibly put into a magical trance and asked tricky questions. However, it was much more complicated, scarier, and... incomprehensible.

The moments of darkness that flooded Malk's mind as the magical device activated were replaced by a series of bright, painful flashes. They ended as abruptly as they had started. After a brief adjustment to the once again stable world, Malk realized he was floating in the center of a giant semi-translucent sphere, divided into four equal segments of red, blue, yellow, and white.

Moreover, the sphere wasn't empty—it was filled with all sorts of objects. Mirrors of various shapes and sizes, strange-looking mechanisms, pieces of metal, mysterious tools, big and small gears, fragments of instructions that looked like torn posters, whose purpose was unclear, and sometimes even clusters of what appeared to be drops of liquid silver stuck together. All of this slowly rotated around Malk, creating the impression of either a giant junkyard under the spell of a mad Archmage or the feverish delirium of a mechanic obsessed with gadgets. Occasionally, lightning bolts would shoot out from one group of strange objects or another, but they seemed unreal. They didn't cause convulsions or pain, while the slight tingling all over his body Malk simply refused to regard as anything worth noticing. After the torment—there was no other word for it—he endured during the training of the Authority technique inherited from his mentor, he could withstand much more serious effects.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

In the end, the memory check, which—let's face it—scared him a bit, turned out to be something incomprehensible and utterly senseless. Even though, before placing his palms on the device, Malk had diligently repressed the desire to "cover up" certain fragments of his past that should not be shown to others, especially representatives of authority. Now, what was there to defend against? The almost gentle caresses of foreign magic? The broken steam boiler that had flown past him a second ago? Or maybe the cracked gear that fell apart under his gaze? What was there to fight against, flur take it?!

Feeling like a clown in a cheap show, Malk tried moving for the first time since being in the sphere. He jerked his body once, twice, three times, and then suddenly, very naturally, started floating through the air... Only to almost crash into the nearest full-length mirror within a few heartbeats—the sole calm spot amidst the surrounding chaos. It hung motionless between the working parts of some mechanism and the twisted remnants of something like a steam pipe, with the other debris never touching it.

He managed to stop, froze at arm's length, looked into its murky surface and... and nothing unusual happened. No lightning struck from all sides, no demonic voice thundered, and Malk's consciousness wasn't turned inside out. He simply saw his own reflection. And nothing else.

The mirror image showed the same stunned expression as the original wore, furrowed its brow, scratched its head, and judging by the movements of its lips, muttered the same curses. Everything was as it should be in a normal mirror.

But it wasn't normal, Saints damn it!!!

Malk had a strong urge to break, smash, or shatter something here. To do anything that would allow him to vent the irritation that had built up inside. And if he were sure that any outburst wouldn't harm him personally, he wouldn't have held back.

But alas, he wasn't confident in his safety, so he had to endure.

Malk hovered a bit more in front of the mirror, then was about to return to his previous spot to wait for the memory reading to end when his gaze caught a dark spot on the border of the white and blue segments of the sphere that trapped him. And as he watched, the spot took on a definite shape and began to resemble a human figure. Someone was pressing against the surface of Malk's prison from the outside, striving, if not to break through the boundary, then at least to peer inside.

Malk's heart gave a treacherous pang. For the first time, he felt something akin to fear. Because he was in a place where no curious soul should be. At all!

If he had a choice, he would have immediately tried to get away from all these mysteries as far as possible. However, he didn't have one. So, gathering his will, Malk decisively headed toward the nameless observer. If someone wanted to look at him so badly, Malk had to see that person's face. Just to know for the future and to keep his distance. Just in case...

It only took a few moments to reach the sphere's boundary. Then, Malk suddenly saw that the inner surface of his prison, or testing ground, was covered with a gray film. Not cold and not at all like frost, but melting from breath and the warmth of his palms. In several energetic sweeps of his sleeve, he cleared the area around the unknown person's face and... was met with the shark-like grin of the dwarf.

"Nine boils on my ass!!! What is this bastard doing here?!" Malk didn't even realize how he flew a few fathoms away from the sphere's boundary.

The dwarf's grin widened—if that was even possible—and he said something in response. What exactly, Malk didn't hear—no sound reached him. However, he managed to read some words from the dwarf's lip movements. The fragment of the last phrase, something like "greets you," was quite recognizable.

"And a good day to you, son of Yorrokh!" Malk muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Why don't you just get lost, huh?"

But the dwarf had no intention of leaving. On the contrary, it felt like, having captured Malk's attention, he was gradually gaining some density and weight. As if he had been here only partially, as a weak projection, a reflection of his true self, and now he was starting to cross over fully. In all his formidable might.

The dwarf's figure itself remained unchanged, but a dense black shadow seemed to envelop it. Growing upward and outward, acquiring truly colossal proportions and a decidedly non-humanoid shape. And the stronger the presence of this Yorrokh's spawn, the louder the alarm sirens blared in Malk's head—this couldn't possibly end well.

A sudden thunderous crack and a fracture running along the boundary of the blue and white sectors of the sphere confirmed Malk's fears...

The moment when the world around him spun into a colorful kaleidoscope, and he was pulled somewhere outside, away from the sphere and the demonic monstrosity breaking into it, Malk missed and thus didn't have time to prepare for it. If one could even prepare for the mad whirling of colorful spots, erratic jerks and flips, intense overloads, and the inexplicable howling in his ears.

Thus, it was no surprise that, when he again felt himself in his body, sitting in front of the damn memory reader box, Malk lurched forward and emptied his stomach contents right onto Captain Tyrhat's table.

'I'm done for!' the panicked thought flashed like lightning.

Malk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked cautiously at the office's owner, mentally running through possible apologies, and... expelled everything that remained after the first bout.

Now it was definitely the end! Such disrespect the captain would surely not forgive. Malk had already subconsciously braced himself for a furious yell and a beating, but... Yorrokh take it, nothing of the sort happened. The office was filled with a ringing silence, and the pale, almost trembling with fear Tyrhat looked nothing like a man who cared about a ruined desk.

Another visitor, or rather a visitoress, had come to see the office owner, and this encounter seemed to be of the sorts that brought no joy, not just to the gendarmes who thrived on their impunity, but to any free person.

"Captain Tyrhat, I see with each passing day you sink deeper and deeper into the abyss of arbitrariness, cruelty, and lawlessness. Last week you harassed a sweet blue-eyed girl... seems you even hit her several times with a shock whip... and today you've taken on this handsome young man." The speaker stood behind Malk, so he couldn't see her, but there was no need. There was something wild, untamed, and spine-chilling in her voice that made every hair on his body stand on end. "And tomorrow, what will happen tomorrow? Will you dare to interrogate me?"

The questions demanded answers. And the flushed captain, yanking open the button on his collar, began to justify himself in a hoarse voice.

"Madam Leara, this 'handsome young man' has a black star in his passport and is involved in a terrorism case. Moreover, no one 'took him on.' He is undergoing a voluntary memory reading procedure, which you, by the way, interrupted!" Starting to speak, the captain seemed to gather some courage from somewhere and continued more and more assertively: "And the girl you mentioned is accused of blood sacrifices in the name of Yorrokh. So, I ask you..."

"Captain, don't you piss me off! Otherwise, I might feel like peeking inside the 'reader' and seeing how much you've tampered with the control screws and where the limiters are now set. And then I might really want to delve into those papers you'll soon try to pass off as the results of the investigation into the attempt on the life of the Colhaun governer's son." The unknown Madam Leara spoke calmly, without raising her voice, but the once seemingly almighty Tyrhat wilted again and even seemed to shrink. "So clear the office and let me talk to this young man alone..."

She hadn't even finished speaking when the gendarme sprang into action. Without any reminders, he used a brush that sparkled with magic to clean the table, sprayed some floral water from a device resembling a small tube with a pistol grip, and, clutching the "reader" tightly to his chest, actually left the room. Almost with a look of relief on his face.

"A scoundrel, but such a useful scoundrel... So many cases he has solved, so many villains he has caught... If only he didn't chase after bonuses for capturing especially dangerous criminals—he'd be priceless! But who doesn't have a skeleton in the closet, right... Malk?" Madam Leara addressed Malk in a conspiratorial whisper, just as the door hadn't even slammed shut behind the fleeing Tyrhat.

With fantastic grace and indescribable femininity, she circled the desk and took the captain's seat.

Only now could Malk see his protector. And she looked so stunning—there were no other words a simple Colhaun lad could find—that just one glance in her direction muddled his thoughts, made his heart beat faster, and filled him with a yearning he hadn't felt since adolescence.

Yorrokh take it!!! With each passing moment, it was even getting worse and worse. He realized that soon, nothing else would exist for him but Leara's captivating eyes, perfect facial features, the arch of her eyebrows, aristocratic poise, the scent of skin, hair, and the whiteness of her shoulders accentuated by the cut and color of her dress... Damn, Malk was simply dissolving in thoughts about the woman sitting before him, losing himself to those deep instincts that simultaneously drove him mad with passion and desire and forced him to sit, barely breathing, sensing some unfathomable danger...

Malk didn't even realize when he had started performing all the steps of the Rain of Pain technique. And he immediately felt relief. Clarity of thought returned, carnal desires became bearable, and his heart no longer threatened to leap out of his chest. Something, of course, still remained, but it was manageable.

"Not bad," Madam Leara smiled, apparently well aware of the impression she made on men, and thus watching Malk's reactions with the interest of an entomologist. "Fairly impressive, even by the standards of those from good Families."

Not that Malk instantly bought into her words, but the compliment was pleasant. He cautiously nodded and, after a pause, asked:

"Madam, are you also going to start by accusing me of all imaginable and unimaginable crimes and then make me sign some papers where I renounce something?"

Malk was deeply afraid that his words would anger such a powerful lady—and he had no doubt that the woman sitting in front of him, who had almost turned him into a mindless animal with just her presence, was powerful—but she only laughed. And then the last remnants of the pressure on his mind dissipated.

"I have no need to accuse or demand anything from you, Malk. Captain Tyrhat, on the other hand, desperately needed to prepare a document proving that his department dealt with the loyalists. I don't play such games and don't chase rewards," Madam Leara explained, placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "I just wanted to see that 'practically a kid' who managed to send several militants to the demons. Though they were rather miserable and worthless, still... still... It's intriguing!"

"And what did you see?" Malk asked, his expression darkening.

"A lucky one," Madam Leara replied, flashing her teeth. "The lower demon didn't get to you, the loyalist terrorists didn't shoot you, the old memory reader almost broke down but didn't fry your brains... The Saints love you!"

If Tolfan had been in Malk's place, he would have surely taken advantage of the lady's slip and tried to get some compensation for his "lost health." But Malk was different. All he wanted was to get away as far as possible.

"If they loved me, I wouldn't have spent three nights in the slammer!" he muttered gloomily. "How am I supposed to get to the entrance exams now..."

He probably subconsciously hoped for some sympathy, but Madam Leara had no intention of sparing his feelings.

"You won't. They're already over. The intake of new students was small this time, and the mage examiners finished quickly," she reported indifferently. "And yes, if you listen to me, you'll save a lot of time... Don't even think about demanding your advance back: no one will return it to you... Forget it!"

"Then, Maybe there's something else I should forget about?" Malk asked angrily. And that was just the tip of the emotions slowly rising in his heart. He hadn't yet grasped the full scale of the catastrophe, which is why he could still be sarcastic and rude.

"Of course. For example, forget about getting compensation from the gendarmerie, the railroad administration, or the relatives of the loyalists you killed. Particularly about the latter—I'm warning you specially, you have no idea how big a hornet's nest you've kicked. And it's best not to remind them of yourself," Madam Leara said, her voice now nearly normal.

"As you know, I wasn't the only one kicking that 'nest'..." Malk muttered but was abruptly interrupted:

"If you mean your friends, you're greatly mistaken. They were so kind that in the initial versions of their testimonies, they made you out to be the hero-savior. And despite Captain Tyrhat's efforts, it won't be possible to hush this up. Unfortunately..."

"Unfortunately?" Malk asked, puzzled, noticeably disappointing Madam Leara.

"What, you thought the story was over? Kid, the most interesting part is just beginning," she said with a captivating smile. "Even the most despicable loyalists have relatives, and not all of them are willing to accept their kin's death. And from there, it's just a step to blood vengeance..." Madam Leara suddenly decided to change the subject and spoke about something else entirely: "However, it's too early to look that far ahead. For now, we need to handle what's within our capacity. For instance... help you get into a School."

And she handed Malk an invitation written on stamped paper from the Andalore Society of Mages.

"But that's not..." he started in confusion, but was interrupted.

"Not a School? Yes, I won't argue with that. But they will, albeit poorly, help develop your Gift, give you an Arcane Art, teach basic spells... And the most important thing! The most! They accept people with even a speck of talent like you, and this... this is the best a lad like you can get in this situation," Madam Leara said and then more sharply asked: "So, what do you say, agreed?"

"Do I have a choice?" Malk replied gloomily, hesitated, but couldn't hold back his emotions and added sarcastically, "Where do I sign?"

Madam Leara's ringing, blood-stirring laughter he studiously ignored.