Kael sat calmly at a rickety wooden table inside a small room, safely concealed within the lair of the Forsaken Brotherhood.

  The room was small and nearly empty. Stone walls, a bed, a low ceiling, a dim magical lamp in the corner—nothing unnecessary.

  Kael wore only trousers. His entire torso was tightly wrapped in bandages, with dark stains showing through in places—signs of injuries that had not yet fully healed. He kept his breathing even, though every awkward movement was answered with a dull ache in his ribs.

  Before him lay a narrow, elongated sheet of parchment. It gleamed as if coated with a thin layer of wax. It was alchemically treated parchment, meant for working with mana and reagents used in the art of inscription.

  Beside it stood a small inkwell.

  But there was no ink inside.

  A viscous, dark liquid slowly swirled inside, giving off a faint herbal scent with a metallic note. A solution made from rare herbs and beast blood.

  Kael held a long needle in his hand.

  Thin and perfectly straight, with a spiral groove carved along the length of its tip. He lowered it into the inkwell, and the liquid itself crept upward along the grooves, distributing evenly, as if alive.

  He then steadily continued drawing the lines of the rune, adjusting certain elements of the magic circle. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, as though he were simply reproducing a diagram from memory. The diagram gradually assembled into a complex, multilayered structure, where every line carried meaning, and a single mistake could ruin all the ingredients.

  Behind him, on the edge of the narrow bed, Girren and Kris sat quietly.

  They tried not to interfere. Girren—out of habit, honed over years; Kris—more out of fear that Kael might get angry again. The girl leaned slightly forward, watching how the needle glided over the parchment, how the lines came together into a pattern she did not understand, yet which, for some reason, fascinated her.

  They exchanged glances.

  Kris raised an eyebrow and smirked, already about to blurt something out, but Girren beat her to it. He gave a barely noticeable shake of his head and, hardly parting his lips, whispered:

  “Quiet. Otherwise your brother will get angry again.”

  Kris immediately puffed out her cheeks, demonstratively turned away, and crossed her arms over her chest, clearly showing how she was “not interested at all.” Yet she remained sitting on the edge of the bed all the same, not taking a single step to leave.

  At that moment, Kael completed the final stroke.

  The needle froze, and then he slowly lifted it from the parchment. For a split second, the diagram seemed to come alive: all the lines flared simultaneously with a soft glow. The solution used to draw the runes vanished from the surface, as if absorbed into the parchment, leaving it completely clean.

  Kael exhaled and carefully set the needle aside.

  Then he turned, bracing his palm against the edge of the table, and looked at them.

  “I’m done,” he said calmly. “You can talk now.”

  Kris sprang up instantly.

  A wide, satisfied smile bloomed across her face—she’d clearly been waiting for that. She jumped off the bed and almost skipped over to Kael, leaning forward and examining the parchment with undisguised interest.

  “Finally!” she blurted out, no longer holding back. “So, are you finally going to tell me what you’re working on?”

  On the table, farther from the inkwell, lay an entire stack of similar parchments. At first glance they looked empty, but Kris knew Kael had been working on them almost all night.

  Kael picked up the freshly finished talisman, pinching it between two fingers, and smiled faintly.

  “Every mage has a Soul Form,” he said calmly, as though stating something obvious. “A unique one. Even if two people follow the same Canon of Magic, their paths will still differ. Because the nature of their souls differs.”

  He placed the talisman on his palm and lifted his hand slightly.

  “These talismans are used to determine it.”

  Kris blinked, glanced at the stack, then back at her brother.

  Kael turned his head and looked at Girren. A familiar, slightly cunning spark flashed in his eyes. Then he looked back at his sister.

  “Do you want to see how they work?”

  Kris didn’t even try to hide her reaction. She immediately nodded so energetically that several strands slipped free from her hairstyle.

  “Of course!”

  Kael held out the talisman to her.

  “Then press it to Girren’s forehead,” he said evenly. “And channel mana into it.”

  Girren tensed instantly.

  “What?” He jerked, as if about to bolt. “Wait, Kael, maybe—”

  “Don’t move!” Kris cried brightly, already bounding toward him.

  Without any ceremony, she pressed the talisman straight to his forehead with her index finger. Girren flinched, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut, but did not resist.

  “Kris…” he began, but it was already too late.

  Kris’s weak mana flowed into the talisman—yet it still responded.

  A soft glow spread across its surface, and the previously hidden inscriptions revealed themselves again, as if emerging from within. Lines and runes began to move, as though alive, slowly flowing toward a single point—where Kris’s finger pressed the talisman.

  Girren drew in a sharp breath.

  He felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation, as if something inside him had answered the call. As though something deep within his chest was reaching upward, toward the talisman.

  “What…” he muttered hoarsely, without opening his eyes. “What is this feeling…?”

  Kael clenched his teeth, braced his palm against the edge of the table, and pushed himself up through the pain. The movement was slow and careful—his ribs immediately reminded him of themselves with a flash of pain.

  He took one step, then another, heading toward Girren. From the outside, it might have seemed that he was barely dragging himself along, uninterested. But in reality, his attention was completely focused on the talisman and what was happening now.

  “Let’s see…” he murmured, narrowing his eyes. “What do you have here…”

  He had just stopped in front of them when the glow suddenly faded.

  The talisman grew warm, and the light went out. Kris instinctively pulled her finger away and deftly caught the parchment, not letting it fall. Now the pattern was clearly visible.

  A form had appeared on the surface.

  Three violet spheres, dense and sharply defined, like condensed masses of energy. They revolved around a common center, intertwined with thin bolts of lightning that jumped from one to another, forming a closed cycle. There was both sharpness and tension in their motion.

  Kris blinked, studying the image.

  “Um…” She turned the talisman toward the lamp. “And what is that?”

  There was no answer.

  She frowned and slowly turned to look at her brother.

  Kael stood motionless. His gaze was fixed on the parchment, his face frozen. He looked deeply surprised—almost stunned.

  Girren, sensing something was wrong, opened his eyes and lifted his gaze.

  “Kael?” he asked cautiously. “Is something wrong?”

  Kael remained silent for a few more seconds, not taking his eyes off the parchment. Then he drew in a breath and gave a quiet whistle—there was genuine admiration in it.

  “Well… I’ll be damned,” he murmured, as if not fully believing what he was seeing. “A Thunder Star…” The pause was brief, but weighty. “More precisely… the Trinity of Thunder Stars.”

  Girren tensed even more than before. He remained seated, but his shoulders instinctively hunched.

  “And…” he began carefully, “what does that even mean?”

  Kael finally pulled his gaze away from the talisman and gave a crooked smirk, as if he himself understood how strange the answer was about to sound.

  “Apparently, your mother was meant to have triplets.”

  “What?” Girren raised an eyebrow, clearly not understanding where this was going. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Kael flinched slightly, as if only now emerging from his own thoughts. He blinked, straightened as much as his ribs allowed, and looked at Girren more consciously.

  “Sorry,” he said more evenly. “I got too lost in my head.”

  He nodded toward the talisman.

  “Your Soul Form was originally a Thunder Star. It’s a fairly powerful form, ideally suited for battle mages. It enhances the piercing and cutting nature of lightning, making the discharges more concentrated and destructive.”

  Girren frowned, catching on a single word.

  “Originally?” he repeated. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

  Kael nodded.

  “Because that’s where things get interesting,” he replied calmly. “When a woman carries twins, their Soul Forms are always the same. That’s one of the mysterious rules of our world. The souls of twins form in sync, and only afterward do their bodies take shape.”

  He paused briefly, choosing his words.

  “But sometimes,” he continued, “at the very earliest stages of development, an anomaly occurs. One embryo absorbs another. It’s an extremely rare phenomenon.”

  Kris involuntarily held her breath.

  “In such cases,” Kael added, “a fusion of souls takes place. Not destruction, but fusion. Within a single body, a soul with two origins is formed.”

  He looked at the talisman again.

  “And you,” he said quietly, “don’t have two such origins. You have three of them.”

  The moment those words were spoken, Kris parted her lips, then sharply inhaled, as if she had suddenly put everything she’d heard together.

  “Wait…” she blurted out. “Are you saying Girren…” She faltered, but still finished: “Are you saying he devoured two of his siblings in the womb?!”

  Girren flinched as if struck. The words cut unexpectedly deep, and something unpleasant clenched in his chest, as though he had unconsciously done something terrible.

  “No,” Kael cut in immediately. “That’s a very crude way to put it. I was careless with my wording.”

  He looked at Kris sternly, almost reproachfully, then immediately softened his tone, shifting his gaze to Girren.

  “At that point, their souls were only just beginning to form,” he continued more calmly. “It’s more accurate to say they merged with you. No one devoured anyone. You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t take anything from anyone.”

  He paused, letting the words settle.

  “Cases like this are extremely rare in themselves,” Kael added. “And with triplets…” He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “That’s a miracle.”

  Girren sat there, fingers clenched. Despite Kael’s words, a strange feeling still scraped at him inside—as if he had involuntarily been the cause of something wrong. But curiosity proved stronger than unease.

  “And…” He lifted his gaze. “So what does this mean for me? How does it affect me?”

  Kael looked at him attentively, then the corner of his lips lifted in that familiar, slightly sly smile.

  “Your life?” he said simply. “Not at all. But your potential…” Here he paused. “Very much so.”

  Girren tensed.

  “If you become strong enough,” Kael continued, “you’ll be able to form a contract not with just one spirit.”

  He raised two fingers—then added a third.

  “But with three at once.”

  Girren shot up from the bed, forgetting pain and fatigue alike. His eyes widened; his breathing turned uneven.

  “What…?” he breathed. “Are you… are you serious? That’s impossible!”

  Kael was about to answer, but at that moment a quiet, careful knock came at the door.

  All three of them turned.

  The door opened slightly, and a short old woman appeared in the doorway, her lilac hair gathered into a neat bun. Her face was lined with wrinkles, but her eyes were lively and sharp. She cast a quick glance around the room and smiled kindly.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked gently. “The Black Rat wishes to know if you’re finished.”

  Kael nodded politely and replied calmly:

  “I’ve just finished the last talisman. I’ll head to the Black Rat immediately.”

  The old woman smiled in satisfaction, gave them another look, and, unhurried, turned away. As she left, she didn’t close the door—only gently pulled it to, leaving a gap through which the muted light of the corridor seeped into the room.

  Kael turned to Girren.

  “Once I’m free,” he said in a more matter-of-fact tone, “I’ll choose a suitable Canon of Magic for you. With your Soul Form, it’s important to start the right way. If you train diligently,” he narrowed his eyes slightly, “you’ll have a great future.”

  He patted Girren on the shoulder, then turned and headed for the exit. His movements were still restrained by pain, but there was a quiet confidence to them—the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  As soon as the door closed, silence settled over the room.

  Kris stared at the door for a few seconds, then frowned and crossed her arms over her chest in annoyance.

  “Not fair,” she muttered. “He still didn’t tell me what my Soul Form is.”

  Girren glanced at her and couldn’t help smiling.

  “Your brother is up to his ears in work,” he replied calmly. “I’m sure he’ll help you later. He’s not the type to forget things like that.”

  Kris snorted, making it very clear how much that had “comforted” her.

  “Because of him, I’m stuck here,” she declared, “and I’m bored.”

  She spun toward Girren, sizing him up from head to toe, and jabbed a finger in his direction.

  “This is your family’s fault!” she announced with complete seriousness. “Which means you’re obligated to entertain me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she burst into laughter.

  Girren let out a heavy sigh and leaned back slightly on the bed.

  He had known Kael’s family for only one night, and he was already a little tired. But along with that fatigue, a pleasant, unfamiliar feeling was quietly settling in.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Maybe this is how a real family is supposed to be? Without rules, without duty, without statuses and ranks?” he murmured to himself.

  ? ? ?

  While Girren was tensely trying to figure out what, in Kris’s opinion, counted as “entertainment,” Kael was already climbing the spiral staircase with a quick, though slightly restrained pace. Pain flared in his ribs at every sharp turn, but his thoughts were already crowded with ideas and tasks.

  As soon as he cleared the last step, Kael pushed the door open and entered without knocking.

  The scene inside was strangely familiar.

  The Black Rat was sitting at the table with her legs casually propped on its surface, lazily flipping through some notes. In her other hand she held a thin pipe, from which a wisp of smoke curled upward.

  Kael smiled.

  “You never abandon your traditions,” he remarked with light irony.

  The Black Rat immediately snapped her head up, removed her legs from the table in a single motion, and stood. Her movements were unhurried, but the impatience was obvious. Her gaze instantly caught on the parchments in Kael’s hands.

  “Those are the talismans?” she asked directly, without wasting words.

  Kael nodded.

  “Six of them,” he replied calmly. “One—for you. The rest—for your most trusted people.”

  He took a few steps forward and carefully handed her five talismans, fanned out. The parchments looked completely blank, but the Black Rat knew exactly what was hidden within them.

  “When everyone determines their Soul Form,” Kael continued, “bring the used talismans back to me. Once I’ve examined them all, I’ll try to select suitable Canons of Magic for your subordinates.”

  The Black Rat accepted them slowly, ran her thumb over the smooth surface of the top parchment, and paused in thought for a moment. Then she lifted her gaze to Kael and said:

  “I wish I could climb inside your head… and find out just how much you know.”

  Kael gave a quiet snort and shrugged slightly, taking her words without any sign of tension.

  “My head isn’t all that different from yours,” he joked lightly. “Inside, it’s the same things—fears, goals, irritation… And my knowledge and secrets,” he paused briefly, “are just the result of circumstances I would never want to live through again.”

  The Black Rat studied him carefully, then slowly shook her head, as if deliberately refusing to go deeper into that topic. Instead, she lowered her gaze back to the talismans, inspecting them quickly and professionally.

  “There’s barely any mana coming from them,” she noted with a frown. “If I didn’t know what you’re capable of…” The corner of her lips twitched. “I’d think you were trying to trick me.”

  She slipped the five talismans into an inner pocket, then lingered on the last one—the one still in her hand. The nervous gesture was barely noticeable: she swallowed in anticipation.

  Noticing this, Kael merely smiled and asked:

  “So, shall we begin?”

  The Black Rat raised an eyebrow and smirked boldly, with her usual defiant confidence:

  “Are you teasing me, boy?”

  Kael gave a short laugh and innocently shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  And before she could reply or step back, he took a step forward. He rose onto his toes—the difference in height still noticeable—and with a quick, precise motion pressed the talisman to her forehead.

  Everything happened too fast for an instinctive reaction. In the next moment, the parchment was already resting against her skin, and tension hung between them—not threatening, but saturated with anticipation.

  “Don’t resist,” Kael added quietly. “And trust the process.”

  In that same instant, the talisman began to glow.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, while an almost festive atmosphere reigned in the lair of the Forsaken Brotherhood, Lasthold was waking up.

  The morning sun was rising, and with its light, rumors began to spread through the streets. There were whispers of a fire at the mansion of the Vengeful Thunder Family, of flashes of mana, of someone daring to challenge one of the Three Families and walking away alive. The rumors multiplied, and each new retelling was more absurd than the last.

  In the very center of the city, a solitary figure walked along the paving stones.

  A thin old woman moved calmly and confidently, with impeccably straight posture, as if age held no power over her at all. Her silver-gray hair was gathered into a tight, flawless bun—not a single strand out of place. A simple yet immaculately clean robe lay neatly along her figure.

  Deep violet eyes looked straight ahead, calm and attentive, as though nothing could unsettle her.

  Magister Priscilla was on her way to the Council of Elders.

  Seeing the massive gates ahead—the boundary of the Elders’ territory—Priscilla slowed her step for a moment.

  The stone here was different—lighter, polished, as if it had absorbed the authority of those in power. High walls, carved arches, symbols of ancient houses. Once, back in her childhood, these walls had filled her with awe.

  Now—they didn’t.

  “To hell with those old men,” Priscilla thought calmly, without anger. “Saving Kael was worth any risk.”

  The thought was precise and final.

  That morning, Riada had come to her and told her everything. How Kael had been seized. What exactly Zeiran had planned to do with him. How Kael had managed to break free—and at what cost. And, far more importantly, she had spoken of his hidden knowledge.

  With every passing minute, her doubts faded.

  “If anyone can change the balance in Lasthold,” Priscilla thought, “it’s Kael. To hell with who he really is. What matters is that he’s looking in the same direction as we are.”

  He shared her ideas. Her disgust with stagnation. Her rejection of the fact that the Three Families had long treated the city as their personal property.

  The gates were already very close.

  Priscilla closed her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself a short pause.

  “If something happens to me,” she noted coldly, “Violet will report everything to Duran.”

  The thought of Magister Duran cast a barely perceptible shadow of irritation.

  “It’s unclear when that old bastard will finally deign to come out of his self-imposed seclusion. While he lounges about, I’m the one bearing the entire Hall on my shoulders.”

  Another scene surfaced before her mind’s eye—recent, almost fresh. After her conversation with Riada, Priscilla had not relied on chance and had briefed Violet. Without panic, without unnecessary emotion—she had simply conveyed the facts and possible scenarios. In case the day ended not as she might hope.

  Recalling this, Priscilla allowed herself a faint smile.

  The smile was cold and confident.

  “Zeiran will pay for his arrogance,” she thought. “Sooner or later.”

  With that, Priscilla no longer hesitated.

  Her step grew a little faster, more assured, and soon the Grand Assembly came into view ahead—a massive building of dark stone with a high pediment and carved symbols of the Council.

  A steward on duty stood at the entrance.

  The potbellied man in a richly embroidered robe visibly flinched the moment he saw Priscilla. He hurriedly straightened, swallowed, and bowed his head a little lower than protocol required.

  “Greetings, Magister Priscilla,” he forced out with strained courtesy. “You… you are expected.”

  He hastily reached for the massive doors, as if eager to rid himself of her presence.

  Priscilla merely nodded in response, not slowing her step. But her attentive gaze caught the small details: the man avoided meeting her eyes, his movements were fussy, and his breathing was too rapid.

  “Why won’t you meet my eyes?” she noted coldly to herself.

  The doors slowly parted with a drawn-out creak.

  A spacious council hall opened before her.

  The floors and walls were entirely paneled in dark red wood, polished to a gleam. The light of magical lamps reflected off the surface, creating a sense of depth and solemn weight. The high ceiling was supported by massive carved columns, each adorned with the symbols of ancient houses.

  Along the walls on both sides of the hall, arranged in three ascending tiers, stood the seats of the Elders. Dozens of figures were already seated there, watching the entrance intently. Some looked on with open curiosity, some with wariness, and some—with barely concealed anticipation.

  And opposite the entrance, on a raised platform, stood three thrones.

  Durimar, Vulnar… and Zeiran were already seated upon them.

  The instant Zeiran’s gaze fell on Priscilla, his face contorted. The polite mask cracked, giving way to anger and poorly restrained contempt. His fingers clenched around the armrest of the throne, and that same fury flashed in his eyes—the fury he had not yet unleashed.

  A ripple of unease passed through the hall.

  The Elders stirred. At first cautiously, almost imperceptibly covering their mouths with their hands as they whispered among themselves. Then more boldly. Gazes grew sharper, more intent, and many fixed their eyes on Priscilla.

  Durimar and Vulnar reacted as well.

  The former frowned more deeply than usual, his fingers slowly interlacing before his chest. Vulnar, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to the side as if examining a complex problem whose solution he already disliked. Their reactions were too synchronized, too wary, to be accidental.

  Priscilla noticed it too.

  She walked into the center of the hall with a calm, measured stride and stopped exactly where, by unspoken tradition, a mage summoned before the Council was expected to stand.

  She inclined her head respectfully—precisely as much as protocol demanded—and said:

  “I greet the Council of Elders.”

  Her voice carried through the hall clearly and confidently, without a trace of tension. Then she glanced around slightly, as if truly taking in those present for the first time, and returned her gaze to the central thrones.

  “There is something strange in the air,” Priscilla added calmly. “Would you care to explain the reason for it?”

  For a brief moment, silence hung in the air.

  In that moment, Priscilla’s heart suddenly skipped a beat.

  Durimar slowly straightened. His gaze grew heavy and official, stripped of its customary politeness. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh and detached—like the reading of a verdict, not the opening of a discussion.

  “I offer my apologies in advance, Magister Priscilla,” he said. “Today’s Council was meant to proceed under a different protocol.”

  He paused briefly, letting the words settle.

  “However, we have been provided with information,” Durimar continued, “indicating that you may be connected to an organization known as the Forsaken Brotherhood.”

  Another wave of whispers swept through the hall—more agitated this time.

  Durimar did not look away and added, with perfectly measured pressure:

  “Is Magister Duran aware of these alleged connections?”

  The moment those words were spoken, Priscilla gave a scornful snort.

  “Is Duran aware?” she repeated with mild reproach, looking straight at Durimar. “You speak of this nonsense as if it were already an established fact.” She tilted her head slightly. “I categorically reject this nonsense.”

  A murmur swept through the hall again, more nervous this time. Several Elders exchanged glances; someone clicked their tongue in disapproval, while others, on the contrary, leaned forward as if expecting what would come next.

  Durimar exhaled slowly.

  “Alas, Magister Priscilla,” he said in a heavy, weary voice, “the sources are far too reliable for us to simply disregard this information.”

  He raised his hand, and a creak sounded from a side door, and someone was brought into the hall—or rather, dragged in.

  Two guards were hauling him by the arms. His legs dragged across the floor, his head hung helplessly against his chest. His face was swollen, covered in bruises and abrasions; one eye barely opened. His clothes had turned into filthy rags, soaked with dried blood. It seemed that a little more, and he would die in their hands.

  A low murmur passed through the hall.

  Priscilla cast an impassive glance at the man. Not an eyebrow twitched, not her breathing faltered. She did not recognize him—before her was merely a broken, barely alive person.

  But if Kael had been here now, he would have recognized him instantly. It was Swindler.

  Durimar leaned forward, and the hall immediately grew quieter. Even the whispering died down, as if the very space itself were waiting for what came next.

  “This man,” he said evenly, gesturing toward the broken figure, “is directly connected to the Forsaken Brotherhood.”

  He spoke without emphasis, almost casually, but that very tone gave his words additional weight.

  “Despite the measures taken,” Durimar continued, without specifying which ones, “he refused to disclose the location of their lair. Even under the threat of imminent death.”

  “However,” Durimar’s voice hardened, “he indicated that you, Magister Priscilla, have repeatedly been in contact with their leader.”

  The guards loosened their grip slightly, and the man jerked, as if the movement sent pain rippling through his whole body. He lifted his head, struggling to focus his clouded gaze, and rasped, barely managing to part his shattered lips:

  “It’s… a lie…” The words came out hoarse, as if each one required effort. “I… I didn’t say that… I’m just a merchant…”

  He broke into a fit of coughing, choking, and one of the guards roughly yanked him upright again, not letting him collapse to the floor.

  At that moment, a contemptuous laugh rang out.

  Zeiran leaned back against his throne, looking down at the scene as if it were a cheap performance.

  “As always,” he drawled with a smirk. “Trash remains trash.” His gaze slid over the mutilated body. “Lying even when there’s nothing left to lose.”

  He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the armrest of the throne.

  “When you were questioned last night,” Zeiran added lazily, “you said something entirely different. You were much more… talkative.”

  Then his gaze shifted to Priscilla, and open malice appeared in it, tinged with schadenfreude.

  “By the way, Magister Priscilla,” he continued, as if only now remembering her, “yesterday you were so eager to accuse me of Kael’s abduction.”

  His smirk widened.

  “But why don’t you ask your own associates about it?” Zeiran nodded toward Swindler. “Judging by the words of this piece of trash, they were in frequent contact with Kael.”

  Tension settled in the hall.

  Dozens of gazes turned toward Priscilla. Most of them looked at her with condemnation, as if all the accusations were already an established fact.

  Zeiran observed the scene without changing his expression, but inwardly noted with satisfaction, “Kargos did a good job. Most of the Council is already on our side…”

  “And that’s it?” Priscilla snorted. “Some petty trader beaten into a confession by torture?”

  A condemning murmur rolled through the hall. But there were Elders who merely narrowed their eyes suspiciously and shot glances at their colleagues. They had clearly noticed at once how excessively biased some of them were.

  Durimar frowned and shook his head.

  “No, Magister Priscilla.” His voice remained official. “This is only part of the picture. There is additional evidence, provided by Elder Zeiran.”

  Priscilla let out a short laugh. It was dry and unpleasant to the ear.

  “This is absurd,” she cut in. “Then allow me to bring an accusation as well.” Her gaze hardened. “I accuse Elder Zeiran of abducting Kael, a member of the Hall of Ancient Research.”

  Noise rose in the hall.

  “What do you think you’re doing—” one of the Elders began, but Priscilla did not let him finish.

  “Would you like,” she continued sharply, “for me to beat someone myself, drag them in here half-dead, and call that evidence?”

  The whispering intensified; someone sprang up from their seat, but Priscilla was already pressing on.

  “Though…” She paused briefly, then smirked. “No, wait. Unlike you, I have evidence you can verify yourselves.”

  She shifted her gaze to Durimar and Vulnar.

  “Your families were keeping an eye on Kael,” she said clearly. “Ask your people whether they noticed anything unusual on the eve of Winter Day. There are rumors that an unusually large number of people from the Vengeful Thunder Family were tailing him that day.”

  Several Elders exchanged glances. Vulnar frowned more deeply than before.

  Zeiran, meanwhile, merely smirked.

  “Nonsense,” he tossed out carelessly. “My people were numerous because they were ensuring the city’s security. Your Kael had nothing to do with it.”

  Priscilla turned her head toward him. Cold sarcasm appeared in her gaze.

  “Ah…” she drawled. “And you raised the barrier for no reason, as well? Not because Kael managed to escape from you?”

  Zeiran raised an eyebrow and parried with a smile:

  “If that’s the case,” he said evenly, “then let’s simplify things to the extreme. Bring Kael here. Let him tell everything himself.”

  The words were spoken with almost no pressure, but tension hung between them, tangible and physical.

  Zeiran’s gaze darkened for a moment, and behind the outward calm another thought flashed—cold and clinging: “Either you bring him into my hands yourself… or I’ll pull that information out of you in a dungeon.”

  It was as if lightning had struck between them, but Priscilla did not look away.

  She merely snorted and, refusing to take the bait, said:

  “I’d like to know where he is myself.”

  Then she turned her gaze to Durimar and added more sharply:

  “And that is precisely why I ask the Council for assistance. Elder Zeiran is involved in this. He is hiding behind his status.”

  Several Elders exchanged glances, and someone even voiced it aloud:

  “With all due respect, Priscilla… you’re talking absolute nonsense.”

  Another added:

  “I agree. Why would Elder Zeiran abduct Kael? There must be a reasonable limit to your accusations.”

  Durimar let out a heavy sigh, as though each next word came to him with effort.

  “Considering your status and past merits, Magister Priscilla,” he began slowly, “the Council will consider your request.”

  For a brief moment, it seemed the situation was beginning to tilt toward reason.

  But then Durimar continued:

  “However… until the conclusion of the investigation, we are obliged to place you in custody. At present, it appears that you created an opportunity for an attack on the Vengeful Thunder Family.”

  Priscilla straightened abruptly.

  “What?!” Her voice cracked for the first time.

  Vulnar rose from his seat, bracing his palms against the edge of his throne. His gaze was stern and cold.

  “Serious accusations have been brought against you,” he said. “A full trial is required to examine these accusations. And until it is held, we cannot allow you to leave the Council’s territory.”

  He paused briefly and added, looking straight into her eyes:

  “Otherwise, you may flee to the Forsaken Brotherhood for refuge.”

  The moment those words were spoken, Priscilla’s face seemed to turn to stone.

  All remnants of politeness vanished without a trace. Even the shadow of emotion was wiped away, giving way to cold, focused clarity. She slowly swept her gaze from Durimar to Vulnar, lingering on each a fraction longer than etiquette allowed.

  “So that’s how it is…” she said impassively. “I had thought that at least the two of you still had some notion of honor left.”

  The hall grew noticeably quieter. Several Elders bristled, while others awkwardly looked away.

  Durimar did not argue. He merely shook his head, as though addressing a stubborn but already doomed person.

  “You must understand, Magister Priscilla,” he said wearily, “that Elder Zeiran’s prestige is significantly higher than yours. Therefore, your accusations against him will not be given priority.”

  He paused, choosing phrasing meant to sound as “fair” as possible.

  “At the same time,” he continued, “within the framework of the trial, we will examine your statements as well. If, before the proceedings begin, you are able to present convincing evidence, the Council will hold a separate trial for Elder Zeiran as well.”

  There was no malice in his voice. Only dry formality.

  Priscilla snorted.

  Without hysteria, without shouting, and without attempting to justify herself, she turned and walked toward the two guards standing at the edge of the hall on her own. Her steps were steady, her back straight.

  “If, for the well-being of Lasthold, I must sacrifice myself,” she said calmly, “then so be it.”

  Near the guards, she paused for a moment, then turned, casting a glance over the hall, the thrones, and those seated upon them.

  “The Three Families forgot long ago what duty is,” she added coldly. “You care only for personal gain and convenience.”

  Her violet eyes lingered on Zeiran for a second.

  “But the day is close,” Priscilla finished, “when all of you will regret this.”

  The moment Priscilla’s last words echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, the silence broke.

  An indignant uproar rose from the tiers. The Elders began speaking all at once: some jumped to their feet, others gesticulated heatedly, talking over their neighbors. Some protested the Council’s harshness, others Priscilla’s audacity, and still others tried to shout everyone down at once, demanding order.

  Durimar raised his palm, and the noise subsided almost instantly.

  “We understand your indignation,” he said evenly, addressing Priscilla. “And I apologize for the unavoidable harshness of the situation. However, order is order.”

  Vulnar stepped forward, his face still stern, but a note of respect sounded in his voice:

  “If all of this truly turns out to be a misunderstanding,” he said loudly, so all could hear, “I will personally apologize to you. And not just in words. Even on my knees, if need be.”

  Some Elders nodded approvingly. Others merely exchanged doubtful glances.

  And only Zeiran remained silent.

  He did not join the discussion, did not make any ostentatious gestures, and did not try to justify himself. His eyes narrowed, his gaze growing cold and intent, as if he were already envisioning the continuation of this scene.

  “We’ll see each other in the dungeon, old woman…” he thought with lazy satisfaction.

  The guards stepped forward, sealing the Council’s decision.

  And Priscilla, without saying another word, allowed herself to be led away—with the same calm, which spoke far louder than any shout: this conflict was still far from over.