—Takenaks.

  One word, but Lelya felt a chill run down her spine. She remembered the body of her classmate all too well.

  —The Citadel holds a monopoly, — Varvara continued. — And they don’t hesitate to use it. While you were an assistant—you were already a target.

  —I can take care of myself.

  —Not against a takenaks. — Varvara walked to the window. — The only ones immune are vampires. So I’ve found you a guard.

  —Who?

  —Bogumir. A thousand years old. One of the survivors of the Novograd massacre. Currently drifting between countries, living a life of leisure.

  —Why would he agree?

  —Because he was asked. And paid enough.

  Lelya shook her head:

  —I don’t want an unknown vampire for a bodyguard.

  —Your wishes are secondary.

  —Then let’s discuss alternatives. I have someone I trust. Lilith.

  Varvara froze.

  —Lilith of those who Followed the Sun? The one who killed our soldiers two hundred years ago?

  —The one who came to us and proved her loyalty through service.

  Varvara laughed—short, joyless.

  —I need a living minister. I don’t trust that creature.

  —Bogumir is a stranger. I can’t work with someone I don’t trust.

  —You’ll learn.

  —Varvara. — Lelya stood. — You appointed me because you trust my judgment. Trust it now.

  —No. Lilith will not be your guard. Bogumir will be here soon. This is not up for discussion.

  She left.

  Lelya remained alone.

  Her hands were trembling. She had lost—not because she was wrong, but because Varvara was stronger.

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  That’s how power works. You can be right, bring arguments. But the one with more power decides.

  She went down to her new office. Monitors waited, databases demanded attention, emails piled up.

  And somewhere beyond Monolith, a certain Bogumir was packing his things.

  Lelya sat down at the desk and opened her inbox.

  The work won’t wait.

  Three days of personnel changes.

  The ministry had forty-seven people. Lelya didn’t know them all, but she knew enough. Who actually worked, who only pretended to. Who was devoted to the cause, who—to their career.

  —Miroslav. — She summoned him to her office. — As of today, you’re my second deputy.

  He went pale:

  —Me? But I was your assistant…

  —You were. Now you’re deputy.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Next came the harder part.

  Three senior diplomats took her appointment as an insult. Older, more experienced, more influential. And now they were being commanded by a girl who three years ago hadn’t even known about mages.

  Lelya called them in one by one.

  Milomir, six hundred years old, specialist on the Citadel, pushed his authority:

  —Radimir always listened to my opinion.

  —I’ll continue to make use of competent people. — Lelya turned the screen toward him, showing charts. — Your reports are the best in the ministry. But your predictions over twenty years came true in forty percent of cases. Less than random guessing.

  —Politics is unpredictable…

  —Politics follows patterns. You’re seeing the wrong ones. — She closed the chart. — Revise your analytical methods. Proposals—in one week.

  He left angry but silent.

  Radomir, in charge of relations with smaller states, turned out easier. He wanted peace, not power. Lelya gave him guarantees: no one would touch his area.

  Milana, the analyst, surprised her:

  —I’m glad they appointed you. Radimir couldn’t delegate. Every decision went through him, even minor ones. It killed initiative.

  —You want initiative?

  —I want to work, not wait for approval.

  —Then work. Report once a week. Need resources—come to me. The rest is your responsibility.

  By the end of the third day, the ministry looked different.

  Not drastically—there had been no revolutions. But the lines of command were clearer, responsibilities sharper.

  Radimir stopped by every evening. He looked at her decisions, sometimes nodded, sometimes shook his head. But he didn’t interfere.

  —You’re doing what I should have done forty years ago, — he said once.

  —Why couldn’t you?

  —I was afraid. That they’d leave, get offended, rebel. And you’re not afraid.

  —I am. I just do it anyway.

  On the fourth morning there was a knock—Radimir.

  —Urgent message. The Citadel has initiated a dispute. They’re demanding a session of the lesser council of the World Council.

  Lelya set aside her tablet:

  —The subject?

  —The Codex of the First Laws. They’re demanding its return as “illegally removed cultural heritage.”

  —The Codex? — Lelya frowned. — It’s been in our National Archive for four hundred years.

  —Exactly. — Radimir sat in the chair across from her. — A weak case. But they filed it anyway.

  Lelya understood. It wasn’t a dispute about an ancient book. Wulf had smelled blood after the victory at the World Council. He wanted to finish them off. Consolidate his success. And while he was at it—test the new minister.

  —When’s the session?

  —In a week. The Freeport League.

  —Pull everything on the Codex. History of its creation, its movements, the legal basis. And everything the Citadel has ever said about this document.

  —Already started. — Radimir paused. — Just the two of us?

  —Yes. A minor matter, no point dragging a whole delegation.

  Radimir nodded and left.

  Lelya turned to the window. Somewhere in the Citadel, Wulf was planning his next move. He had won a major battle—now he wanted to show it wasn’t a fluke. That Monolith was weak. That the new minister was easy prey, just like the last one.

  And she had to prove otherwise.