"Are you saying I have no willpower at all?!" I asked Harry after dissecting my conversation with Kate.

"More like this is a side effect of removing the seal from your third eye. Your 24/7 magical vision bonus has to come with a trade-off."

"Why do I feel like this 'bonus' just turns every advantage into one massive disadvantage? It really makes you wonder if opening the other seals is worth it. What other side effects are waiting? Open the spiritual heart, and bam – you die because your real heart gives out."

"It's worth it!" Harry declared firmly. "The spiritual heart means better health and an extra ten years of life. And the elemental source? That increases your overall reservoir and gives you access to one of the elemental powers."

"There are wizards who get by just fine without them," I countered, though not with much enthusiasm. "Still, I know I need to get rid of the legacy of Ferrish in my spiritual body. Especially the Hunter’s Mark. It used to give me some protection, scaring off weaker predators, but now my life’s too full of vampires, wizards, and sorcerers. It doesn’t intimidate them – it intrigues them. It’s more of a liability than a defense. But I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I need to focus on breaking the compulsion."

"I’ll come up with something," Harry promised. "We’ll start with the classic option – a protective amulet and then…"

"Harry, go to bed," I advised. "There’s another battle waiting for us tonight. Sleep first. Then, if there’s time, you can work on the amulet. Make something that’ll last for the evening, and we’ll figure out the rest later."

No solution is as permanent as a temporary one: a wooden wedge under a short table leg can stay there for ten years; a bent nail can replace a door latch; and Harry’s new amulet had every chance of staying glued to my chest as long as the brick had made itself at home in my satchel of potions. The problem was, Harry had slept until six and rushed to finish the amulet in a hurry. He’d used an unpolished, rough citrine as the core. Its sharp edges dug into my skin, and the leather cord pressing it against my body only made it worse, biting into my neck whenever I moved. It was irritating – almost as much as Harry’s lack of guarantees.

Harry himself wasn’t exactly a specialist in mental magic. He relied on sheer willpower for protection from compulsions. But he did have books in the right field. Experiments revealed that I could be hypnotized into barking like a dog with a simple charm. I did have willpower, but the trauma to my third eye made me hypersensitive to even the faintest magical fluctuations. It was like staring at the sun without blinking. Over time, that sensitivity was supposed to fade, but for now, I had to wear a standard anti-compulsion amulet. Hopefully, no one at the reception would try to tempt me into something I’d regret.

We decided not to bring Cap to the reception. He was still too young for the terrarium we were walking into – a labyrinth that even Harry and I barely understood. Fairburn could’ve easily manipulated him. But me? That was a different story. My mask of a titled rural bumpkin was an excellent shield.

Knuckles drove us to the mayor’s office, dropping us off at the servants' entrance an hour before the reception began. A wiry secretary immediately escorted us to the boss. Technically, de Camp was the mayor, but Farnell’s status as a city of national importance put it on par with the counties. The money flowing through its ports and docks dwarfed that of most counties, making the power struggles here far more vicious and the politicians more ruthless. At forty-five, Lionel had already been elected to this position twice, with a four-year break in between, so underestimating him was not an option.

The secretary led us into His Worship’s office but didn’t follow us inside. De Camp greeted us from behind an ornate desk. Its polished surface was meticulously tidy: a telephone, a family photograph, two fountain pens in a stand, and no paperwork – save for a single sheet covered in fine handwriting that looked like a diagram or a plan of some sort.

De Camp himself was a slim, fair-haired man who looked just over forty. His face was clean-shaven, his hair gleamed with styling product, and a white bow tie complemented his sleek black suit perfectly. The suit had been tailored so well it not only fit like a glove but probably enhanced his natural proportions.

The mayor rose as we entered, smiling broadly, spreading his arms, and stepping out from behind his desk.

"Harry, Duncan," he said warmly.

"We haven’t been introduced yet, my dear sir," I said before I could think better of it. A series of emotions – offense, then surprise – flickered across de Camp’s face.

“Forgive me, Lord Loxlin. I was just hoping we could become friends.”

I was definitely not seasoned enough to play these kinds of games. The only way to avoid playing was to snuff out the mayor’s enthusiasm right away. He was leaving a good impression on me, and that was unsettling. I couldn’t tell if the feeling was genuine or not. Either way, I wasn’t about to bare my neck just to make things easier for him.

“In that case, Lionel, we’re fine. Friends it is.”

“Friends indeed,” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “Just don’t call me that in public, and I’ll make sure not to cross any lines myself. Shall we sit?”

We took the chairs in front of his desk, while de Camp returned to his leather office chair.

“Harry, I know you want to destroy the Fairburns. Both of you do. And I sincerely wish you the best of luck. But…” He gave us a stern look. “Not tonight, gentlemen. Not here. This is your first public appearance, and if it ends in a brawl, public opinion will crucify you. You’ll be labeled savages who belong under lock and key.”

Harry shrugged nonchalantly.

“Isn’t that what people already say about me? That image has worked for me for years. Quite successfully, I might add.”

“Harry, the last time a Place of Power was established in Duthigh was ten years ago.”

“I remember,” the wizard replied. “The Marquis of Pulley’s work formed the foundation of my ritual.”

“But Pulley had a team of seventeen gifted practitioners for his ritual! In Duthigh’s Imperial Order, he was just a low-ranking officer. And yet, after that, he was promoted to Knight Grand Cross. Why don’t I see your knighthood insignia? I asked for it! Do you know how many strings I had to pull in the government to get that title for you? And in such a short time, no less.”

Harry grimaced, pulling a small, gilded medallion of a Knight Bachelor – a sword and spurs – from his pocket. He pinned it begrudgingly to the right lapel of his jacket. That little trinket gave him the right to be addressed as “Sir.”

“Which order are you in?” I asked, feigning casual interest.

Harry’s grimace deepened.

“None,” he snapped. “And it wasn’t the king who knighted me – it was a prince passing through Farnell.”

“Don’t be modest. You saved his life,” de Camp laughed.

Harry shot him a dark look, which only made Lionel laugh harder. Clearly, there was more to that story than either of them was letting on.

“Oh, lighten up!” de Camp said, still grinning. “Play along for a month, be a good boy, and you’ll rise higher. Maybe even to a baronetcy. Besides,” the lord-mayor’s tone shifted to something far more serious, “you wouldn’t want to please Vincent, would you?” He mentioned Baron Fairburn’s name with a grim expression.

“You think a good beating would please him?”

“Without a doubt. He’s hired a Maasai warlock as his bodyguard.”

“The Maasai… as in the tribe that slowed down the colonial armies in South Africa?” Harry asked.

“East Africa,” de Camp corrected. “I’ve looked into him. He’s less a bodyguard and more of an expensive assassin.”

“Interesting…” Harry said with a wicked grin.

“Don’t fall for his provocations,” de Camp pleaded. “This is one of those situations where a fight won’t help you. And Vincent will just keep spending money.”

“You said it yourself,” I pointed out, “a warlock’s combat potential is bigger.”

“I didn’t say it like that!” Harry protested indignantly.

“But it’s true,” Lionel cut in firmly. “Harry, be careful. The time to act isn’t here yet.”

De Camp and I chatted a little longer. He came across as caring, involved, and, overall, a decent person. But I didn’t know him well enough to judge his sincerity. And honestly, can a politician even be sincere? After some time, we made our way down to the reception hall. Light jazz music played in the background, the crowd was slowly gathering, and waiters weaved through the room with trays of champagne.

De Camp signaled one of the waiters by holding up three fingers.

“Remember this man’s face,” Lionel advised us. “He’ll be circling nearby. I’d suggest you take your champagne from his tray specifically.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

We each took a glass. I tried to decline, since I’d never been a fan of bubbly drinks, but His Worship insisted. The very first sip caught me off guard. Instead of champagne, the glass held sparkling apple juice.

And then the routine began. De Camp introduced us to people. Names and faces blurred together in my mind, and the parade of important strangers eventually pushed my patience to its limits. Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, the stream of introductions finally slowed. But that wasn’t enough for de Camp. He started escorting us around the hall, introducing us to those who were far too important to initiate conversation themselves. Thankfully, there weren’t too many of those: a duke, an earl, a couple of foreign dignitaries, and a handful of members of parliament.

The hours flew by, and it was finally time for de Camp to take the microphone. He handed our safety over to his secretary and headed for the stage to talk about the bright future just around the corner. I could’ve stayed to listen, but my attention was snagged by a flash of bright red hair in the crowd.

Finella was wearing a long black dress and elbow-length gloves. She waved at me, then pointed at herself and a nearby column.

"Harry, I’m stepping out for a moment," I said.

"Don’t run into James," the wizard warned.

"He wouldn’t cause a scene here, would he?"

Ducking into the crowd, I made my way to the column and took a seat on a chair against the wall. A few minutes later, Fin appeared and plopped down beside me.

“Hey, Duncan.”

“Hey, Spark. I didn’t think James would let you out of his sight.”

“Who said he did? I barely managed to lose him in the crowd. I even had to use a concealment amulet.” She tapped a small pendant with a red stone hanging against her chest.

We sat in silence for a moment.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, just to fill the awkward pause.

“I’m fine,” Finella said with a dismissive wave. “Goat dealt with her issues, and I’ll deal with mine.”

“Your situations are a little different. No one kidnapped her.”

Maybe it was Finella’s kidnapping that had helped Ellie come to terms with what had happened. It had helped her accept that the vampire she’d shot had fully deserved his fate.

“I’m fine,” Spark repeated, brushing the topic off again. “It’s over.”

Silence fell once more, this time stretching even longer.

De Camp wrapped up his speech about the bright future waiting just around the corner and began singing Harry’s praises.

“They’re about to call him to the stage,” I said. “Shall we watch?”

“Let’s go.”

We left our little refuge by the column and returned to the main hall.

“Finella, my dear, it’s been ages!” called a lanky brunette with a loosened tie. He drained a full glass of champagne in one go, then waved down a passing waiter to grab two more. I thought he might offer the second to Finella, but no – he drained that one too, immediately setting the empty glass back on the tray.

“Simon,” Spark greeted him. “Isn’t it a little early to start? Meet…”

The stranger shook his head and cut her off. “How else am I supposed to tolerate these snobs?”

I studied him more closely. The new Simon bore a passing resemblance to the old one: tall, dark-haired, a dimpled chin. The difference was that this Simon had less arrogance in his eyes and more alcohol in his bloodstream. We’d only crossed paths a few times with an old one as adults, but I’d never seen him drunk before. Another thing that set this Simon apart – he was a sorcerer. At the subtle, energetic level, his elemental source glowed purple in his lower abdomen – a lightning core.

“You didn’t have to come,” Finella pointed out.

“Harold made me. He’s still trying to fulfill Mother’s last wish and turn me into a decent person. Probably the only one who still believes that’s possible. Anyway, I’ve done my duty – shown my face to the public. Now I can leave. To the club? We can take your friend here along. Coming with us, mate?”

Simon reached out, trying to clap me on the shoulder, but I stopped his hand.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, sir.”

“We’ve got a sensitive one here, haven’t we? Kid, I know places you’ve never even dreamed of. Want me to take you to the Golden Tear?”

What an insufferable man.

“My last visit to that club didn’t end well.”

“That’s because I wasn’t with you!” Simon declared, once again trying to slap his hand on my shoulder. “With me, no one would dare lay a finger on you!”

De Camp called Harry up to the stage, and I used the moment to rid myself of the drunkard who was already drawing side glances from the other guests.

“They’re about to give my mentor an award.”

“A mentor? Sledgehammer took on a student? Wait… I’ve heard of you,” Simon said, draining his glass and waving down a waiter for another round. He repeated the same trick as before, grabbing two glasses and draining both in quick succession. “You’re that… bumpkin Augustus was spitting on.”

“Simon!” Spark snapped, beating me to a reply. “Watch your language!”

“It’s not my words!” Simon exclaimed. “That’s Fairburn’s. And if that bastard’s spitting on someone, they must be a good person! Didn’t you also take down Lindemann’s youngest bloodsucker?”

“How are you so well-informed?” I didn’t bother clarifying that I’d actually taken down two.

“People were talking about it at the club. Fin, you could’ve introduced us by now. I feel like an idiot.”

Spark rolled her eyes in exasperation. Simon raised his glass to his lips but didn’t get the chance to drink; an older man with a bushy mustache grabbed him by the ear, yanking him down. The man was nearly a head shorter than Simon, but his grip was firm.

“Shaming the family again, are we?” the old man growled, thumping his cane against the marble floor. To my surprise, I recognized him – It was Professor Chapman, whom de Camp had introduced me to about an hour ago. I’d forgotten his first name, but his face stuck in my memory because he’d been presented alongside his son, Clive Chapman, a judge whose illegitimate son had recently been abducted by the Bowmaster.

“Ow! Ow!” Simon yelped, spilling half his champagne on his jacket. “Grandpa, you’ll tear it off!”

“I’d better not see you here in five minutes!” the old man barked. “Get to your club and drink yourself into a squealing mess there!”

“Father, let him go. You know it won’t help,” said the judge, who had followed closely behind the professor.

“Grandpa, listen to Dad. People are staring,” Simon added with a smirk.

The elder Chapmans bore little resemblance to Simon. They were shorter by a head but far broader in the shoulders and hips, with rounded chins and impressive mustaches. The judge’s hair even had a reddish tint, though that wasn’t as noticeable in the professor’s case, as his hair was almost entirely gray. Neither of them was gifted.

"Mr. Chapman," Finella greeted the professor politely. "Your Honor," she added, giving a slight bow to the judge. While he technically wasn’t part of the peerage, his position as Chief Justice made him far too important to ignore. In fact, people in government roles often held more power than the nobility. Still, nobles controlled most of the land and businesses that thrived on it—not to mention the Places of Power, which gave them even greater influence.

De Camp, for instance, might be the chief executive of Farnell, but only until his term ended. Meanwhile, the Duke of Farnell – with his castle, which held the Ice Place of Power, his share in the port and docks, and his land in Old City, the City, and Shiny – would remain in place until death.

“Good evening, young lady,” the professor said, releasing Simon’s ear. The judge inclined his head politely.

“Phew,” the drunken troublemaker exhaled, rubbing his ear furiously.

“And what the hell are you even doing here?” the professor demanded.

“Harold made me.”

“That man keeps sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong,” the professor grumbled.

“Wasn’t it Mother’s last wish?” Simon replied with a shrug, downing the last of his champagne. “The club?” he asked, turning to us.

Finella shook her head, and I excused myself by saying I had to wait for Harry. The wizard, meanwhile, had just received a certificate in a glass frame. He held it up for the audience to see, and the portion of the crowd not watching our little scene erupted in applause.

“Shame…” Simon muttered, pretending to move toward the exit. But then he froze, pointing a finger. “Is that scruffy beast headed this way?”

A towering giant of a man was cutting a direct path through the crowd, taller than Harry and broader in the shoulders than both elder Chapmans combined. His dark skin gleamed under the chandeliers, and his imposing presence turned heads as he moved. His shaggy appearance came from the hundreds of thin braids cascading down his head like a mane, but he was dressed sharply in an immaculate three-piece suit.

Tearing my gaze away from his face, I finally noticed that the giant was clearing the way for Lord Fairburn, his son, and another man.

“Ha,” Simon snorted. “Think they’re coming for you?” he asked, glancing at me.

I didn’t answer, but I did unbutton my jacket for easier access to my pistol.

When they were just a few meters away, the giant slowed, allowing Vincent to step forward.

“Lady and gentlemen,” he greeted.

We responded in different ways: the Chapmans answered formally, Simon cheerfully, while Finella and I remained wary.

“Your Honor,” Vincent addressed the judge. “Might we trouble you for a moment of your time?”

“How can I be of service?”

“I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Patrick Wimbush, Knight of the Order of Merit from New Freeland.”

A lean man with a friendly face and cockroach-like whiskers stepped forward. The mentioned order hung around his neck on a red ribbon edged with gold. The inscription around the gilded oak tree on his oval badge read: ‘Faithful in Deed, Pure in Honor.’ If that was true, what the hell was he doing in Fairburn’s company?

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wimbush,” the judge said, then took the opportunity to introduce the rest of us. Much to my surprise, it turned out his son went by the last name Kettle and even held the title of baronet. Illegitimate? “How are things in the southernmost dominion of the empire?” the judge asked politely.

“Quite well, thank you. This year’s pearl harvest is up ten percent.”

“Is that your business?”

“No, I run a small cattle farm. Meat is in high demand when all you have around is fish.”

“And what brings you to our region?”

“Business, mostly. But I came to Farnell specifically to visit family.”

“I don’t think these discussions will interest the younger crowd,” Lord Fairburn interjected.

“Boring,” August confirmed. He was about to add more, but Baronet Kettle cut him off.

“What are you talking about? Family drama is the most interesting thing there is!”

Grandfather Chapman shot a stern glare at his grandson, but this time Simon chose to ignore it. Mr. Wimbush cast an uncertain glance at the elder Fairburn, who gave him a small nod.

“Family – specifically, my cousin, to be precise. We lost contact about five years ago, and when I arrived, I found out she’d passed away, her husband had hanged himself out of grief, and their two boys were left orphaned.”

What the hell?! That’s the story of the Sparrow brothers!