Matabar

Soon, the low-rise buildings were left behind. The modest brick structures that had lined the streets gave way to towering, two-meter-high fences. Crowned with spirals of barbed wire, these fences, like the buildings themselves, were an unwelcoming shade of red brick. The few streetlights that could be seen cast a feeble glow, and were powered not by Ley energy, but by dim, flickering oil flames.

The road was buried under mounds of snow, leaving a deep, slushy track carved out by trucks as the only passable route. The trucks themselves, the solitary wanderers of industrial districts, were scarce at this hour — it was barely past four. In the time that Arkar and Ardan had spent driving through the maze of bristling fences, they had only encountered two wobbling vehicles. One had been laden with gravel, and the other, covered by a heavy tarp, had rolled casually down a narrow alley between two factories.

As for the factories themselves, they all appeared to be strikingly similar: massive edifices that loomed like mountains beyond their almost three-meter-high fences. Their premises were still lit, the faint voices of night shift workers occasionally audible, and their wide chimneys tirelessly spewed smoke into a sky already choked with smog.

Ardi pressed a hand to his face, trying to breathe less frequently. Even so, the air carried a thick, pervasive smell of rubber, the needles of its chemical stench pricking his nose like a harmful bristle. Sometimes, the overwhelming "aroma" of diesel and processed oil seemed to squeeze his throat shut. Amid this mix of penetrating scents that soaked into clothing and skin, the sharp, smoky tang of molten steel in endless furnaces provided an oddly grounding effect.

"They're following us," Arkar said suddenly, his voice low. He adjusted the rearview mirror. In it, a pale light from distant headlights flickered briefly before vanishing.

"Who are they?" Ardi tensed, checking to ensure his revolver was still at his side. It might not end up being much use, but its presence made him feel steadier.

Arkar jerked the wheel sharply, steering off the wide street. The car groaned in protest, rocking over the deep tracks, and turned into a narrow alleyway that stood between a steel mill and a plant producing rebar — or something else similar to that. Ardi couldn't make out the snow-covered signs on the massive gates leading inside.

"The Dandy's men," Arkar growled. "He's not particularly friendly toward us after Baliero, and this section of the factory streets? That's his parade ground... his territory, I mean. The Dandy runs a significant portion of the local workers' guilds."

Ardi glanced back into the night. His half-blood eyes could see reasonably well in the dark, but not well enough to discern much beyond the next bend. All he could make out were plumes of smoke, brownish, dirty snow, and the same sparse, oily lampposts.

"Don't get shaken," Arkar coughed, shifting the gear lever to spur their tired car forward. "Or worry, I mean. Ordargar coughed up things out with the Dandy... they resolved everything, I mean. So, they shouldn't touch us."

Ardan cast a doubtful look at the half-orc. Arkar, nearly bumping his head on the car's roof like Ardi himself, was driving with his left hand while his eyes darted between the mirrors, his right hand hovering near the holster of his revolver.

"But they might?" Ardi pressed.

"Oh, they might," Arkar grinned widely, baring his tusks.

Ardan squinted at him. "Do you have some sort of problem with the Dandy, Arkar?"

Arkar shot him an annoyed glance. "You'd make a fine hound... a fine investigator, I mean," he said reluctantly, grinding his teeth. "Yeah, I've got a bone to pick with him... an old debt he owes me, Ard."

The flicker of headlights behind them disappeared, and their car finally slipped out of the labyrinth of alleyways, auxiliary roads, and industrial clutter. The fences remained a relentless stretch of brick and wire, but they'd left the looming witnesses of the industrial boom behind. Instead, new giants appeared — some resembling enormous square boxes, almost windowless and thin-walled; others, by contrast, were awe-inspiring in their monumentality, with massive doors, gates, and the narrow strips of their windows gleaming in the icy steel of the night.

Warehouses of all shapes and sizes crowded around the lone vehicle crawling like an ant at their feet. During his first months in the Metropolis, Ardi had figured out a curious phenomenon — the taller a building was, the smaller a person felt at its base. Oddly, this sensation had never struck him in the mountains.

"We're here."

Arkar pulled up to a curb buried under filthy snow, set the handbrake, and killed the engine. Some 150 meters away, at the intersection of several broad service roads, near towering gates wide enough for several heavy trucks to pass through them, a simple metal sign swayed forlornly under the weight of the wind and frost.

"Warehouse 6."

The car's headlights failed to reach the intersection and faded, plunging the street into oppressive night. A night so dense that an ordinary person wouldn't be able to see their hand in front of their face.

The already starless sky in Tendari's industrial neighborhood was also hidden under a blanket of smog, smoke and cinders.

"And?" Arkar asked, breaking the silence.

"What?" Ardan countered.

Arkar looked at him with a bit of annoyance.

"What's the plan?"

"The plan? Why are you asking me?"

"Sleeping Spirits, little guy!" Arkar nearly shouted but stopped himself, hissing the rest. "This, damn the angels and demons, is your bloody debut. I'm here to help, not organize your mess."

If he thought about it, Arkar was right. It was Ardi's responsibility to get Boris out of the trap. He had asked for Arkar's help, which the half-orc, if one remembered what he'd done with Inga, had already provided. But that didn't mean...

There was a knock at the window.

Simultaneously, Arkar and Ardan drew their revolvers, pointing them toward their unexpected visitor.

Outside, four barrels gleamed in the darkness, accompanied by flashlight beams and the unmistakable sight of cocked hammers.

"Arkar?"

"Crooked?"

"Crooked your ass, you unshaved mongrel."

"Didn't have time," Arkar said, running a hand over his thick stubble. "And stop shining that light in my eyes."

Slowly, the flashlight beams dropped closer to the ground, revealing their visitors. They were four young men with sharp, wolfish eyes and movements to match. They seemed to stand together in a pack, shadowing the one in front, who was not the tallest or most muscular, but someone whose twisted nose spoke of countless scuffles.

"Here, take this," Arkar handed the one called Crooked (the nickname was unsurprisingly apt) the note Inga had given them. "From your boss."

Crooked, even though he'd lowered the hammer back into the cylinder, didn't holster his revolver. Taking the note, he read it carefully and shrugged.

"And what the hell are we supposed to do with this scribble, Arkar?"

Arkar blinked a few times, then sighed heavily and... slammed his forehead against the steering wheel.

"And how many are there?" The half-orc asked.

"Fuck if I know," Crooked shrugged again, a flicker of unpleasant amusement dancing in his eyes. "We were paid for three wheels' worth of passage and to keep anyone else out. Or, if someone more serious showed up, to give them a signal."

Arkar cursed in Orcish. Ardan couldn't quite parse the meaning, but it seemed like the half-orc's string of curses went as far back as Inga's ancestors from five generations ago.

The half-orc lifted his head from the wheel, then looked at the group with a glimmer of hope.

"How about joining us in rescuing one dumb lord?"

"Three wheels, Arkar," Crooked repeated. "There are at least a dozen of them. And Pavel saw two with staves. Right, Pavel?"

"Yep," one of the others confirmed.

"Exactly," Crooked drawled, dramatically stashing his revolver back under his battered coat. "And I'm allergic to mages, Arkar. Especially when they've got a dozen armed, imported muscles with them."

"Not locals?"

"Exactly. Westerners, by the looks of them. None of our people have ever seen their faces before." Crooked gave the car roof a mocking pat. "My advice, overseer, would be to turn around with your friend and drive back where you came from. There's nothing for you here. Whoever they've got in that warehouse will need stormtroopers from the Guard to pull them out. Or the Cloaks."

Arkar swore under his breath, then began opening the door.

"Well, it's your call," Crooked said, tipping the brim of his fur hat that protected his ears from the cold.

Once the half-orc stepped out onto the street, Crooked gave him a measured nod.

"Arkar."

"Crooked," the half-orc replied with equal solemnity.

The group of four turned and began to fade into the snowy night. Meanwhile, Arkar circled around to the trunk of his car, unlocked it, and pulled out a set of ten industrial-grade explosives with rather short fuses. He handed a few to Ardan.

"You know what this is?"

"I'm from the Foothill Province," Ardi said simply, taking the explosives and tucking them into his belt.

Arkar snorted and carefully, quietly, closed the trunk.

Standing beside Ardan, he stared at the enormous, elongated structure of the warehouse behind the fence. His gaze was fixed on it and his whispers were barely audible.

"Never trust whores..."

"You've said that before."

"I told it to you," Arkar snapped, lifting his fur-lined collar to shield himself from the biting winter wind. "And now I'm reminding myself."

"But what-"

"Inga screwed us," the half-orc cut him off. "I thought that if this business was on her turf, it not only had her permission, but her muscle... her people, I mean. But all she gave was permission, while those bastards brought their own muscle."

Ardan realized what the half-orc was upset about. If Inga's support had included her own enforcers, her note might have drastically reduced the number of opponents facing them. Now, though...

"By the way, why is it that when you greet someone or say goodbye to them, you just call each other by name?"

"Because wishing them good health when parting is just asking for bad luck, and asking to meet again is wishing to risk your neck once again and..." Arkar abruptly stopped, his eyes gleaming with irritation as he turned toward Ardan. "Sleeping Spirits, Ard! Is that really what's on your mind right now?"

"I just thought I'd ask since it came up," Ardi replied calmly. He'd always been curious about why criminals of all kinds, marshals and Cloaks didn't say "hello" or "goodbye" but simply addressed each other by name or title.

"You're a strange one, Ard," the half-orc muttered, scratching his stubble with fingers that had gradually reddened due to the frost.

They fell silent. Ahead of them loomed the warehouse, while their backs were pressed against the cold brick fence. The wind howled, bringing in icy air from the ocean's frozen shores, and farther out, less than a hundred meters from the quay, it raged in a dark winter dance colder than snow itself.

"Arkar, if you want to leave, then-"

The half-orc bared his tusks, grabbing the handle of the axe tucked into his belt.

"Are you calling me a coward, pup?" He growled.

"I'm just saying-"

"Save your warnings for the girl you finally take to bed when you're forced to tell her that the only breast you've ever held before was your mother's when you were drinking her milk!" Arkar snapped. "Now focus that overly-clever skull of yours and figure out what we're going to do. You understand mages better than I do."

Ardan sighed and thought about it for a moment. It was unlikely that Orvilov had spared enough money to not only hire ten thugs but also find a Star Mage crazy enough to assist him. Why was the mage crazy? Because, despite everything else, the baron had kidnapped a lord. What's more, he was the son of the Southern Fleet's commander, who was a hereditary aristocrat of the Empire and a member of the Upper Chamber.

People like that didn't take kindly to having even their estranged kin cut into pieces.

At least that was what Ardan had guessed based on his general knowledge. What it was really like in practice… Only Boris himself might know that.

So, he was presumably facing ten or more armed men who probably lacked substantial military training (such people valued themselves too much to get involved in abducting the aristocrats' offspring), and probably two first-year students from the Grand.

Ardan harbored no illusions about his abilities as a combat mage, so taking on two "schoolmates," even if they collectively had just ten rays between them, wasn't feasible. And they had the aid of a bunch of hired guns, whatever their level of skill.

Crooked had been right. It would've been more sensible to get back in the car, turn around, and leave, but...

Ardan remembered how Boris had spent an entire night listening to his emotional struggles. Not just listening, but actively participating, doing his best to help his... friend? Did Ardan really not know how to befriend humans? Strangely enough, Neviy, his brother, Anna, and Faruh had seemed to understand that.

Tomorrow's thoughts.

"I'll make us invisible," Ardan said, gripping his slightly-icy staff tightly. "But I don't know how long I can hold the veil, and…"

He stopped himself, but it was too late.

"A veil?" Arkar turned to him sharply, raising an eyebrow. "Not a seal, but a veil? So that's how you pulled Lisa out of her nightmare in that house... She mentioned some bullshit... nonsense, I mean... and I thought it was just her nerves... but you... You know the art of the Aean'Hane."

"I'm just a simple Speaker," Ardan admitted, no longer denying it. It was too late. "And not a very skilled one at that."

"Work your magic, Speaker," Arkar ignored his deflections. "If we were in the steppes, songs would be written about this adventure of ours."

Orcs truly did have an obsessive passion when it came to valor and the legacy they left behind in the histories of their clans. At least that was what Ardan's grandfather had taught him. Orcs valued warrior and hunter glory above all else and composed songs about it. They called the eras of the greatest wars and upheavals "Times of Great Songs."

Ardan closed his eyes and opened his mind to the world around him. With a familiar effort, he distanced himself from the endless constellation of complex shield spells that, like festively-lit trees, adorned the warehouses and factories. They shimmered like a dispersed rainbow, creating the illusion that the night had turned into the fever dream of a madman.

And amid this fractured kaleidoscope of the Ley's shimmer and glow, Warehouse 6 stood out as a dim, desolate blotch. The building's stationary shield was down, likely to keep everything happening inside a secret, and...

Tomorrow's thoughts. Again.

Ardan bent down, running his hand along the undercarriage of the car, searching for that darkness untouched by any light — a place where the absolute sovereignty of shadow reigned. He needed to find it, for without it, Boris...

Scenes of his friend being tortured mingled with Elena's sobbing, and the sensation of soft, yielding darkness vanished from Ardan's mind.

He swayed slightly, feeling exhaustion settle like a lead weight on his shoulders. Gathering himself, he reached out again for the timid, malleable shadows, which seemed to know that nothing else existed but their serene, dark domain. He nearly grasped them, but the image of Elena's tear-streaked face surged forth once more.

Sleeping Spirits... It wasn't just shadows he was fighting, but himself as well...

Ardan opened his eyes, and the world regained its clarity. The kaleidoscope of the Ley's brilliance disappeared, and the young man wiped large beads of sweat from his brow, leaning heavily on his staff to keep standing.

"And?" Arkar asked, looking around. "Are we invisible yet?"

"I couldn't do it," Ardan admitted, shamefaced. "I'm too tense... I can't focus, and-"

"Ard, fuck, you're going to tell that to a girl when..." Arkar waved his revolver dismissively. "I'm already repeating myself."

"What if we claim we're here with a ransom?" Ardan suggested. "And when they're distracted, we could-"

"They'd pump us so full of lead we'd be shitting from a dozen extra holes," Arkar told him firmly, then asked after a brief pause, "What was Boris wearing?"

Ardan quickly described what his maybe-friend, maybe-good acquaintance usually wore.

Why was it so complicated with humans...

"Alright," the half-orc nodded, checking the bullets in his revolver's cylinder before pulling out a second revolver. "In any case, based on my experience, all these clever plans, Ard, always go to shit... fail, I mean. So, let's try to sneak in quietly and put down... switch the light off for... bury... Fuck! Kill as many people as we can, I mean. They won't send your Boris to the Angels just yet. He represents a lot of money to them."

Ardan nodded but kept the rest of his thoughts and guesses to himself. If Iolai Agrov was indeed involved, then... what could two and a half thousand exes possibly mean to him? After all, he was one of the Great Princes. His family had real money, more money than anyone could imagine... so why?

"Let's go," Arkar muttered, motioning with the barrel of his revolver. Bending low, he darted across the street.

Ardan, gripping his staff in his right hand and his revolver in his left (even though he could hardly aim with his right hand, let alone his left), hurried after him. Pressing their backs against the cold brick wall of the fence, they sidestepped toward the gates.

The massive, iron doors used for transport were locked up tight, but the smaller, man-sized door within them was secured only by a simple latch.

In complete silence, Arkar held the barrel of his second revolver in his mouth and, pulling a wide knife from the sheath strapped to his back, carefully, without any unnecessary movements, lifted the latch.

It seemed like the owners of the warehouse hadn't bothered with better security measures, relying on their stationary industrial-grade shields, which were currently deactivated, and the Crimson Lady's hired protection, which could be bribed, as it turned out.

What a mistake that was… Then again, no one was here to steal anything.

"Focus, little one," Arkar whispered.

The half-orc opened the door in the gate's frame slightly and peeked inside the courtyard, then crouched and returned to Ardan.

"There are two guards near the entrance. Getting in quietly won't work," he growled. "We'll have to fight our way through."

At those words, Ardan flinched. Memories of Gleb, Marshal Elliny, the bandits on the train, Baliero, and the recent incident at the Imperial Bank all came rushing back to him.

Why did it seem like, ever since he'd met the Cloaks, a single month hadn't passed without people — and Firstborn — dying around him?

"Can you see in the dark?" Ardan asked, almost doing it out of habit at this point.

"Not as well as purebloods, but I can make out shapes."

Ardan nodded.

Arkar closed his eyes and muttered a few words in Orcish.

"Alright, kid. Let's fuckin roll!"

No longer bothering to hide, Arkar approached the door and kicked it open.

"Who gave you permission to operate in this city without asking, outsiders?!" He roared, rushing inside and firing both revolvers simultaneously. The thunderous crack of gunfire echoed.

Shouts rang out within the warehouse, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. Ardan caught sight of figures leaning out from the catwalks that ran along the walls inside. Cheap, low-grade revolvers were being clutched in hands clad in coats ill-suited for the season.

At least he'd guessed that part right.

Ducking his head and instinctively hopping like a mountain goat to avoid the spots where bullets were slamming into the pavement, Ardan followed Arkar into the inner yard.

Near the entrance to the warehouse, one man — he was barely twenty years old — was gasping and clutching his chest, blood seeping through his fingers from a bullet wound. Another was locked in close combat with Arkar, who had a stream of dark, reddish blood dripping from his right side.

Their fight was brief. Arkar, knocking away the man's revolver — which was apparently empty already — grabbed his opponent's head and pressed it against his chest. The half-orc's inhuman muscles tensed, and then there was a sickening crunch followed by a short scream. The walls of the warehouse were painted by a spray of blood and brain matter.

Ardan instinctively turned away from the sight, but immediately regretted it. One of the shooters on the catwalk fired, and the bullet grazed Ardan's left thigh. He stumbled forward, rolling to the ground before pressing himself against the iron gates, hiding beneath their overhang. Arkar, who was covered in blood — his and others' both — helped him up.

"Save your ammo, you bastards!" Arkar bellowed at the shooters up on the catwalks. "Oh, I'm going to take each of you apart, you scum! The Eternal Angels will weep when-"

A bullet pierced the overhang, grazing Arkar's chest and tearing through his coat and shirt.

"You filthy mongrel!" Arkar roared, staring at his ruined coat and shirt. "I paid nearly eight exes for these furs!"

The half-orc charged out from under the overhang, firing his revolvers at the catwalks. Shouts and curses rang out — he must have hit someone, but not fatally.

"Shit," Arkar muttered, breathing a bit harder as he returned to the overhang. "Quick little fuckers."

"How are you holding up?" He asked Ardan.

"Give me a few seconds," Ardan replied through gritted teeth.

Ignoring the pain in his leg and the blood running down his thigh, he began arranging the explosives near the warehouse's smaller door. Sticking them into the snow, he worked quickly, tying their fuses together.

Unlike the main gates, the smaller entrance was far more secure. There was no simple way to get through it.

Once he was finished, Ardan nodded to Arkar, who pulled out a lighter and lit the fuses. The cords sparked and sizzled like holiday sparklers. Under a hail of bullets and accompanied by the crash of exploding wood and metal, Ardan and Arkar sprinted to the nearest truck covered with a tarp.

The explosion that followed was deafening. It blew the overhang clean off, hurling it into the air higher than the warehouse's roof. The force of the blast seemed to hammer against their ears, and everything was enveloped in a choking, acrid, white smoke. Dirt, rock fragments, and bits of snow rained down around them.

Arkar peeked out from behind the truck, only to duck back as another shot rang out.

"Damn it," the half-orc muttered.

"Did the door withstand that blast?"

"Well, we definitely did something to it, but we still can't get inside."

Ardan, his heart pounding against his ribs, dropped to the ground and crawled under the truck, peering through the smoky haze.

Gradually, the outlines of the gates became visible through the white mist, including the smaller door past them. The main gates had held, but the smaller door was slightly warped, though not enough to allow them entry.

However... The hinges bearing the door's weight had started to wobble, likely loosened by the explosion and the resulting shockwave.

All it needed was a push.

"Keep them busy so they don't shoot at me!" Ardan shouted, running toward the truck's cab.

"Next time, just say 'cover me,' you idiot!" Arkar roared, throwing himself into the open and firing his revolvers from a prone position.

In response, the thugs — admittedly, Arkar was one as well — returned fire in a flurry of bullets accompanied by a stream of profanities. Meanwhile, Ardan, aiming his revolver at the truck's lock, turned his face away and fired. The lock whined pitifully, and he threw his staff onto the seat before climbing inside.

Surely the driver hadn't taken the keys home, given the shields and other security measures. They were too easy to lose... Or maybe Ardan was just clinging to hope, despite good fortune rarely being on his side.

Rummaging through the cab of the truck, Ardan cried out in relief as he found a set of keys hidden under the steering column. Then, just before he straightened back up, a bullet whizzed past his head and tore through the seatback.

If he'd popped up even a fraction of a second earlier, the bullet would have gone through his chest.

Shaking off the thought — literally — Ardan shouted, "Here!" and inserted the key into the ignition.

Arkar, yelling something incomprehensible, ran to the cab, firing his last few shots before diving inside and slamming the door shut with the tip of his boot.

Sprawled across the seat, he reached into his pockets, pulled out a handful of "moons," and reloaded his revolvers.

"What are we waiting for?!" He bellowed over the sound of gunfire and the clatter of bullets striking the truck.

"I don't know what to do."

"What?!"

"I don't know how to drive!" Ardan shouted back.

They'd never found time for Lisa, who sometimes visited the bar, to fulfill her promise to teach Ardan how to operate an automobile.

"Handbrake down! Push the left pedal all the way down with your left foot! Pull the lever to the left and up! Right foot on the far-right pedal, push it all the way down! Lever down and then down again!" Arkar yelled. "Don't touch the middle pedal at all!"

Another bullet shattered the windshield, its shards biting into Ardan's cheek and chin like a swarm of stinging bees. Hot, copper-smelling blood began to streak down his face and neck.

Ardan screamed something — he didn't even know what — and followed Arkar's instructions.

"Good lungs, kid!" Arkar laughed and curled into a ball as more bullets tore through the cab.

The truck shuddered, wheezed like an old man, then surged forward, barreling straight toward the gates.

Ardan first felt a childlike thrill at the fact that such a massive machine had obeyed his commands, then an equally overwhelming terror as the realization of what was about to happen hit him.

Without lifting his foot off the gas pedal, he braced himself, and the truck rammed the gates. For a moment, the gates groaned and tried to hold out, but with a screech and a deafening crash, they gave way.

The truck plowed forward, its momentum carrying it into the warehouse, and it smashed through rows of crates of all shapes and sizes.

A hail of bullets rattled against the roof, sides, rear, and hood of the truck.

"What an absolutely glorious and spontaneous idea, kid!" Arkar laughed, firing his revolvers... somewhere. He seemed to be shooting roughly in the same direction the bullets were coming from.

"Spectacular!" Ardan corrected, shouting over the din of gunfire.

The truck, smashing through dozens of various crates, barreled straight to the middle of the warehouse before slamming into a steel column.

The impact flung Ardan and Arkar to the floor, slamming their ribs and then their heads against the cab's interior.

"Ah, demon balls..." The half-orc muttered through gritted teeth.

Ardan, clenching his own teeth, quickly flipped open his grimoire to a page he knew all too well. Maybe it was time to finally memorize Cold Shadow…

Drawing energy from his Star, Ardan followed the instructions written in the book, forming the sigil and pouring the seething energy from his veins into it. He slammed his staff against the truck's door. The door groaned, as though it had been struck by another shockwave, and the sigil appeared right above his staff. Thick, frosty mist poured out of it.

The rapidly-expanding cloud of icy darkness blanketed both the truck and about ten meters of the surrounding area.

Ardan and Arkar tumbled out on the opposite side from the catwalk.

The gunfire ceased. Apparently, no one was foolhardy enough to shoot blindly into the murky cloud.

"No sign of the mages," Arkar said, wiping away blood and sweat. "The rest of the bastards are on the catwalk."

Ardan turned toward the far end of the warehouse, where he thought he'd briefly heard a familiar voice through the maze of stacked crates.

"Will you cover me?"

"There are six of them, little one," Arkar said, shaking the spent casings out of his revolver and reloading it. "Plus two more wounded who are still capable of shooting. And I'm alone... Of course I'll cover you! This whole situation's completely against those pissers... I mean to say-"

"I understand what you meant," Ardan assured him.

Arkar bared his teeth in a grin. "Orak Han-da," he said, making Ardan flinch. "Or, if you translate from the language of Ectassus: good hunting."

"And to you," Ardan replied with a nod.

The young man knew what the phrase meant, just as he knew it was the battle cry of all Firstborn. But for him, those words would forever remain burned into his memory as the battle cry of the Shanti'Ra gang…

Tomorrow's thoughts.

"You sons of rotten bitch-" Arkar's last word, shouted as he leaped out from behind the crumbling truck, was cut off and drowned out by the thunder of his revolvers.

Ardan, catching his breath, unfastened his belt and pulled it free so he could tie it around his thigh. The bleeding from his gunshot wound needed to stop.

Glancing at the revolver lying abandoned in the cab of the truck, Ardan sighed. He ignored it, opened his grimoire, and plunged into the labyrinth of crates. Pressing his back against the rough wooden planks bound with steel rivets, he left behind the echoes of the gunfight, moving through what seemed like an endless tangle of pathways and junctions.

He navigated more by instinct than scent — his nose was overwhelmed by the acrid smells of gunpowder, blood, and sweat. Eventually, he reached a relatively open area.

Crouching behind a crate, Ardan cautiously peered out to assess the scene.

There, tied to a chair with thick ropes, sat a naked Boris. Or at least it was someone who looked like Boris. His ginger hair was matted with blood, and his face was swollen and covered in numerous bruises. His left eye was completely shut, while his right had been reduced to a narrow slit.

Long, deep cuts made by a knife marred his chest. His right leg was broken in several places near the knee, the joint itself almost entirely shattered. And on his left hand, not only his pinky, but also his ring finger were missing.

Boris wheezed, occasionally spitting out a mix of saliva, foam, and blood. Several teeth had been pulled from his mouth, roots and all.

"If you think those fools will manage to save you, you're dumber than I thought," said a young man standing before him.

His appearance was extremely ordinary: he had chestnut hair, an average build, and was around 175 centimeters tall, maybe a bit taller. Ardan thought he might have seen him before, possibly during the lectures they shared with the Military Faculty.

Next to the mage, on a table, lay a collection of bloodied tools: construction pliers, a hammer with a chisel, a crowbar, a screwdriver, a saw, and other instruments that were likely taken from the warehouse.

"You're better off just telling us the cipher for this," said the second mage, who was also vaguely familiar to Ardan. He held up a medallion. The medallion's chain, which had been crafted into an intricate weave of mythical creatures, was immediately familiar to Ardan.

Boris had never taken it off. The cipher for the medallion was their goal?

"Tell us the cipher, Boris," said the chestnut-haired mage, his tone eerily calm. "And your suffering will end. I swear on my honor as a baron, I won't harm your maid."

Ardan narrowed his eyes at the scene and fought back a curse that burned on his tongue. He wouldn't have understood what he was seeing if not for the week he'd spent deciphering the Staff of Demons' seals.

Engraved on the silver medallion of Lord Boris Fahtov, eldest son of the Southern Fleet's commander, was a seal from the demonic school of Star Magic. And it was encrypted far more cleverly than the cipher Gleb Davos had used in his research.

Boris, despite his condition, lifted his head slightly. The two men stood with their backs to Ardan, oblivious to the visitor peering at them from behind the crates.

But Boris… Through the narrow slit of his one functional eye, he somehow recognized the familiar face. "No..." He rasped, coughing up blood and spitting out small bits of flesh.

"Idiot," the chestnut-haired mage said, spreading his arms out theatrically. He grabbed the hammer from the table and brought it down on Boris' other knee — the one that had yet to be reduced to a bloody mess.

Boris screamed. The sound tore through the warehouse like a wild animal's death cry, raw and brimming with agony. It was the kind of scream only those on the brink of madness could make. Ardan had heard such cries before in the Alcadian mountains, from animals caught in a hunter's trap.

Gritting his teeth, Ardan pulled back behind the crates. He suppressed the burning desire to rush forward and attack the torturers. Doing so would accomplish nothing.

"Are. You. Going. To. Talk. Now? Or. Do. You. Want. Promyslov. To. End. Up. Here. Too?"

With each word, the chestnut-haired mage paused to deliver another blow, waiting for the blood-soaked screams of Boris to fade before continuing.

Ardan, flipping through his grimoire, fought to keep his composure. He would need it. Boris had to hold out for just a few more seconds. Just a little longer.

Boris screamed. He screamed so loudly that Ardan's heart clenched, and the blood in his veins seemed to freeze.

But Ardan… Ardan knew almost no combat magic. Ice Arrow was useless — Military Faculty students would easily shield themselves against it. He didn't have enough rays for Ice Barrage. That left only...

Got it, Ardan thought, a flicker of relief passing through him.

His grimoire's pages were currently displaying the sigil for Ice Wall, which his remaining five rays were just enough to cast. But why use a defensive spell?

The answer was simple: a match. That idiotic match Convel had made him ignite.

Closing his eyes, Ardan began mentally integrating an embedded seal into Ice Wall. He had no idea if it would work without physically sketching out the formula, but...

"Aaaah!" Boris' scream, filled with pain and despair, snapped him back to reality. There was no other choice.

Boris screamed once more. It was a sound that carried raw, almost primal pain within it, and made it seem like he was desperately clinging to the last vestiges of his life and mind.

Ardan didn't hesitate any longer. He finished sketching the seal in his mind, straining to maintain its structure in his head, then stepped out from behind the crates.

"Hey," he called out loudly and clearly.

He needed the mages to be distracted, and they were.

Both of them were splattered with blood, their coats and jackets removed, their sleeves rolled up. They turned toward him as he spoke.

"Egobar?" The chestnut-haired mage's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. "What are you-"

Ardan didn't let him finish speaking. He slammed his staff against the ground, and at that moment, a sigil of ice flared to life beneath his feet.

But... nothing happened.

No burst of frost came, no fiery explosion, no stone spikes or spectral blades of wind. None of the flashy displays first-year Military Faculty students expected from magic.

Then, several meters above their heads, a massive ice wall appeared, fully formed, and slammed down onto them. The impact made the floor shake, and shards of ice exploded outwards like shrapnel.

The second mage — judging by the blood and bits of flesh now scattered across the floor — was crushed instantly.

Orvilov, however, had managed to summon a shield just in time. A fiery cocoon had surrounded the baron, carving a molten tunnel through the wall of ice. But in his panic and desperation, Orvilov had poured every bit of energy he had into his shield.

And now he stood waist-deep in scalding water, steam rising around him, yelping in pain whenever the melting ice touched his exposed skin. Drained of strength and trapped, he could barely move.

Ardan didn't spare him a glance. He walked around his creation — knowing it would fully melt and vanish in minutes, the Ley energy returning to its source — and approached Boris.

"A... A-r-r-d..." Boris' voice was weak, barely audible. "W-what... t-took you... s-so l-long?"

A lump formed in Ardan's throat as he fought back tears. Memories flooded his mind: laughing with Elena and Boris in a café, visiting them on Saint Warriors Street, their frequent visits to "Bruce's," and all of them playing card games like Olikzasian Sevens with Tess, Talis an Manish, and anyone else who'd wanted to join.

And now, in his friend's hour of need, Ardan had...

"The important thing is... y-you... c-came..." Boris whispered, his breath rattling out of him.

Ardan carefully pulled out his father's old work knife and began cutting the ropes. He tried his best not to cause his friend more pain, but it was unavoidable. Boris groaned and gritted his teeth with every movement.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Egobar," Orvilov muttered, finally regaining some composure. "You've involved yourself in something that-"

Suddenly, Orvilov gasped, his words cut off.

Ardan turned sharply and saw Arkar. The half-orc was a mess: he was bloodied, his left arm was hanging limp, and two bullet wounds were clearly visible on his right side. He was also covered in several knife slashes, but his expression was cold and steady as he gripped Orvilov's throat with his one working hand.

"This one's a regular of mine, you bastard," Arkar growled. With a sudden, vicious twist of his wrist, he tore out the baron's throat.

Clutching Orvilov's larynx and part of his windpipe in his bloody hand, Arkar watched dispassionately as the baron collapsed into the steaming water, gasping and clawing at his neck. He twitched once, then again, and finally, he went still, blood pooling around him in the water.

"He didn't get to finish speaking," Ardan said quietly, a note of dismay in his voice.

"Didn't get to finish speaking? Are you an idiot, Ard?" Arkar barked, stepping over the ice wall and picking up something from the floor — a revolver, as it turned out.

"He was stalling," the half-orc continued, wiping the weapon clean before tucking it into his belt. "If we hadn't already agreed on this, I'd say you owe me... for saving your overly clever but incredibly stupid ass."

Arkar approached Ardan and helped him finish untying Boris, hauling the beaten lord to his feet. But as soon as Boris stood, he collapsed again, clutching something on the ground. It was his medallion, bloodied but intact, lying next to the rapidly-melting remains of the Ice Wall spell.

Arkar and Ardan exchanged a glance, then hoisted Boris back up.

"Let's go, your lordship," Arkar grunted. "If my head's still working — and it is — Crooked hasn't gone far and should be waiting for us nearby. Inga still needs her order fulfilled..."

Arkar left a bloody trail across the floor, limping on his right side. Ardan hobbled along with his wounded leg and clutched his side where a bullet had grazed him. Between them, Boris dangled like a half-dead slab of meat, barely conscious.

"We'll head to a clinic first, your lordship," Arkar rambled, seemingly more to fill the silence than anything else. "It's mostly my kind — us orcs, I mean — that go there for treatment, but they'll sterilize you, too."

Boris let out a faint groan, barely clinging to consciousness.

"Stabilize," Ardan corrected quietly.

"Yeah, that's what I meant. After that, we'll take you wherever you want to go."

***

Ardan sat on the stairs outside his apartment, slumped against the cold wall. His clothes were soaked with blood — his own and others' both. His ruined outfit clung to him like a second skin, and he barely had the strength to climb the last few steps.

He was there without Arkar.

The half-orc had gone to sort out some details with his superior... chief... The leader of his gang... The gang head... Ardan had never worked out what titles the members of the Orcish Jackets used.

Arkar had been right. Crooked and his men had been waiting for them. After exchanging a few words with the half-orc, they'd loaded the wounded into their cars and taken them to the agreed-upon destinations. After a stop at Old Park's underground theater-turned-clinic, they dropped Boris off at a New City hospital so grand it resembled a museum. Ardan was pretty sure he'd even seen elven healers in the reception area.

And now, after being dropped off near the bar, Ardan had climbed partway up the stairs to his apartment... and stopped. He just sat there, staring at nothing. His head felt hollow, emptier than even his growling stomach.

The creak of a door caught his attention. Red hair glinted in the dim light as Tess appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She was still wearing the same outfit from before. Climbing up, she adjusted her skirt and sat down beside him.

"You alright?"

"I will be, in a couple of days," Ardan mumbled, his words sluggish.

"And Boris?"

"He will be, in a couple of months."

Tess sat silently for a few seconds before taking Ardan's bloodied hand in hers.

"Let's go patch you up," she said, casting a skeptical glance at his torn pants and shredded sweater. "Those stitches look more like loose threads. They'll split open."

"Let's sit here a bit longer," Ardan replied, unmoving.

"Sit here? You're bleeding all over the place."

Instead of answering her, Ardan nodded toward a small window. Beyond its dirty, foggy glass, the sunrise was beginning to blaze. Golden light wrapped around the snowy rooftops of the Metropolis, illuminating the steam rising from the streets and chasing long shadows down the alleyways.

Tess sighed, resting her head on Ardan's shoulder. He sat there quietly, gazing at the horizon as the sun climbed higher.

Or perhaps it was the Eye of the Spirit of the Day?