The lirion pie turned out to be far tastier than I expected.

  It was warm, with a delicate sweetness and a light tang, and the dough practically melted in my mouth. I ate slowly, savoring every bite, while Lorean sat across from me, lazily twirling a mug of some herbal infusion between his fingers.

  — Mom doesn’t make it often, — he said casually. — Lirion is expensive. And temperamental.

  — Worth it, — I answered honestly, taking another bite. — Lirion isn’t a cheap fruit. Elvarin rarely cooked anything with it either.

  Lorean smirked but said nothing.

  For a few seconds we ate in silence. Not awkward — just calm. After the workshop and the failure with the blade, I wanted to just… be a normal kid for a few minutes.

  — So, — Lorean suddenly said, setting his mug aside. — Since you officially live with us now, let’s clear something up.

  I looked up.

  — What exactly?

  — Magic, — he said directly. — I remember you said you studied healing and fire. But you never said what level you’re at.

  I thought for a second. There was no point hiding it — sooner or later he’d find out anyway.

  — Fire magic, — I said. — Beginner rank. Healing too. Beginner.

  Lorean raised an eyebrow slightly.

  — That’s… a solid result for your age. I only reached beginner rank in earth magic at seventeen.

  — Seventeen? How old are you now?

  — Twenty-nine.

  Even after living in this world for years, I still couldn’t get used to how Aurions didn’t look their age. A man could be over two hundred and still look thirty at most.

  Lorean studied me more closely now. Not mockingly — evaluatively.

  — So, — he said, — I want to test your beginner rank in practice.

  — Test? — I repeated.

  — A duel, — he said casually.

  I nearly choked.

  — What?!

  — Relax, — Lorean added immediately. — Not a real one. A magical one.

  — And… what does that even mean? — I wiped my lips with a napkin. — I’m not a battle mage.

  — You don’t have to be, — he replied. — It’s simple. I put up an earth shield. You try to break it.

  I stared at him.

  — You’re joking.

  — I’m not.

  — You’re older. Stronger. And… earth magic. It’s perfect for defense. I won’t break your shield.

  — You don’t have to break it completely, — he shrugged. — I just want to see how you attack.

  I shook my head.

  — No. I don’t want to.

  — Why?

  — Because I just burned one of your blades, — I said honestly. — And I don’t want to break anything else. Or myself.

  Lorean smiled. Slowly. Too familiarly.

  — So you’re scared?

  — I’m not scared, — I shot back immediately.

  — Looks like it.

  — It’s called common sense.

  — Common sense is knowing what you’re capable of, — he said. — And you don’t seem sure about that yourself.

  I clenched my teeth.

  — I just don’t see the point.

  — The point is simple, — Lorean leaned forward. — Either you can actually do something… or all your “I read books” talk is just words.

  He straightened and added almost casually:

  — Though honestly… I wouldn’t be surprised by the second option.

  That’s when I realized I’d been hooked.

  I exhaled slowly and set my plate aside.

  — Where? — I asked.

  Lorean’s smile widened.

  — The courtyard, — he said. — Plenty of space there. And don’t worry… — he stood up from the table, — …I promise I won’t hit back.

  For some reason, that wasn’t comforting at all.

  I stood up too, feeling the familiar tension rising inside me.

  Fine, I thought. You asked for this, Lorean.

  We stepped into the courtyard.

  The evening air was cooler than during the day. The stonework still held warmth, but shadows were already stretching along the walls. Somewhere beyond the fence came neighbors’ voices, the clatter of dishes, distant laughter.

  An ordinary, peaceful evening.

  Completely unsuited for a duel.

  Lorean stood across from me, a few steps away. Calm. Too calm. No tension, no anticipation — as if we’d come out not for a magical test but just for fresh air.

  — Ready? — he asked.

  I nodded silently.

  He raised his palm slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.

  The ground beneath his feet trembled faintly.

  A shield began to form in front of him.

  Not a wall. Not a dome. A dense, slightly curved slab of stone and compressed earth. But I felt the pressure immediately. The magic was dense. Heavy.

  — Go ahead, — Lorean said.

  I swallowed.

  Alright. Fire.

  I extended my hand and focused. Mana flowed as usual, responding to thought. A small flame burst from my palm and struck the shield.

  No effect.

  The fire spread across the surface, leaving only a dark scorch mark.

  — Again, — Lorean said calmly.

  I clenched my teeth.

  — Fine.

  I increased the flow. The flames grew brighter, hotter. I poured in more mana, trying to maintain control like they taught at school. The fire struck harder — but the shield only warmed slightly.

  — You’re hitting the surface, — Lorean noted. — Earth doesn’t care if you heat it.

  I exhaled in frustration.

  Damn it, he’s right. Simple fireballs won’t break that wall. I need something denser. Sharper.

  I lowered my hand and closed my eyes for a second, trying to recall not the theory — but the feeling.

  Fire isn’t just heat.

  It’s motion. Pressure. Expansion.

  I raised my hand again — but this time changed the mana output. Not wide. Narrow. Focused.

  The flame thinned. Hardened.

  Instead of a fireball, a slender elongated needle of pure flame formed in my hand — like an arrow wrapped in red fire.

  The stream struck a single point.

  The shield trembled.

  Just slightly.

  But I felt it. And saw it.

  A crack appeared on the stone’s surface — thin, almost invisible, but real.

  — Hm, — Lorean muttered.

  I didn’t stop.

  I increased the pressure, ignoring the burning sensation in my chest. Mana flowed faster than it should. The flame sharpened, turning almost white at the edges.

  The crack widened.

  Stone began to crumble.

  — Stop, — Lorean said.

  I didn’t hear him at first.

  — Eiron, that’s enough.

  He stepped forward, and the shield collapsed, crumbling into dust and small stones at his feet.

  I stood there, breathing heavily, feeling my temples pulse with pain. But overall… I felt fine. Years of training showed.

  Lorean looked at me — no mockery left.

  — Almost, — he finally said. — A little more and you would’ve broken it.

  I lowered my hand, still not believing it.

  — Seriously?

  — Seriously, — he nodded. — For your age… — he narrowed his eyes, — …and for beginner rank — that’s a lot.

  He stepped closer.

  — But you made the same mistake as with the blade.

  — I know, — I rasped. — Overloaded it.

  — Yeah, — he confirmed. — You don’t control your limit. You push to the extreme because you’re afraid it won’t work otherwise.

  I stayed silent.

  He was right.

  But still… I almost broke that shield.

  Lorean clapped my shoulder — not hard, but firm.

  — You’ve got potential, — he said. — A lot of it. But if you keep rushing forward like that… one day you’ll burn yourself out.

  I exhaled slowly, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and… satisfaction.

  Several months passed.

  I caught myself thinking about it suddenly — not in the workshop, not during training, but on an ordinary morning when I woke up earlier than everyone else, as usual.

  The Lurue house no longer felt foreign.

  It hadn’t become home — but it had stopped feeling temporary. I knew which floorboards creaked, which stair step sat slightly lower than the others, and what time Mirella usually put the kettle on.

  My life here had found its rhythm.

  I spent most of my time in the workshop. At first — observing. Then helping. And now… working.

  Simple tasks: recharging rings, amulets, defensive plates. Lorean never rushed me. He rarely rushed anything — and that was the first serious difference between him and Alak.

  Alak had taught me correctly. Strictly. Step by step.

  “First the foundation. Then repetition. Then control.”

  If I made a mistake — he stopped me immediately.

  If I succeeded — he made me repeat it until the result became stable.

  Lorean, on the other hand… allowed mistakes.

  Sometimes even too much.

  — Let it burn, — he’d say, watching me overload a rune. — Don’t memorize the formula. Memorize the feeling when you cross the line.

  And I did.

  I no longer ruined artifacts as foolishly as I had on the first day. I learned to feel when mana stopped being “foreign” to an object and began to break it. I understood that every structure resisted differently.

  Stone — stubborn and heavy.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Metal — cold and abrupt.

  Wood — soft, but treacherous.

  After two months, Lorean said for the first time:

  — Alright. You can work on your own now. But only with simple orders.

  It felt… good.

  Not like praise — more like recognition that I was no longer in the way.

  Magic was harder.

  Alak had always approached it as a discipline.

  Routine. Repetition. Limits.

  He taught me to stop before it hurt. He said a living mage was a mage who knew when not to cast.

  Lorean taught something else entirely.

  — Magic isn’t an exercise, — he said once, after I conserved mana again and got a weak result. — It’s pressure. Either you endure it, or it breaks you. The only question is when.

  He made me attack shields of different densities. Change the shape of flame. Work not with power, but with direction.

  Sometimes — just stand still and feel the mana around me until it began to feel alive. Fluid.

  Formally, I was still beginner rank.

  But I barely used fireballs anymore.

  Instead, I learned short, sharp bursts.

  Flame threads.

  Needles.

  Flat waves of heat that didn’t burn — they sliced the air.

  One day Lorean stopped a training session and said:

  — If ranks were measured not by mana volume but by how well you spend it… you’d already be higher.

  I didn’t know whether to feel proud or afraid.

  Sometimes in the evenings, when my hands trembled from exhaustion, I thought of Alak.

  His calm.

  His certainty.

  The way he looked at me as if he knew exactly who I’d become in ten years.

  Lorean looked differently.

  As if he were curious whether I’d break before then.

  Strangely, that made me more careful.

  Not in action — but in timing.

  I stopped pushing to the absolute limit every time. I began pulling back on my own before my body started screaming.

  That was probably progress.

  I was happy.

  I was living the life I had dreamed of.

  I had a healthy body.

  I was doing what I loved.

  I even had a friend.

  And yet… it felt like something was missing.

  It was a strange feeling — like achieving everything you wanted, only to realize you didn’t want it as much as you thought.

  Maybe it was just adolescence, my body gradually growing and changing.

  Or maybe the root of the problem lay deeper than it seemed.

  Still… it was far better than being bedridden, trapped in an apartment for years.

  I hope this feeling passes soon.

  Silence and tension filled Corven’s council chamber.

  The hall was small, windowless. Only a few glowing crystals hung above the table, leaving the faces of those present half-shrouded in shadow. No insignias were worn here, and no titles were spoken aloud — there was no need.

  Six people sat at the table. All Aurions, their features sharp and composed.

  — Let’s begin, — said the man at the head of the table.

  His voice was calm and dry. He continued:

  — You all know what happened a few days ago. Some attribute it to the wrath of the gods, others dismiss it as the work of ordinary bandits. But I hold a different opinion.

  He laced his fingers together.

  — What happened to the caravan cannot be a simple robbery. And it certainly cannot be divine punishment — we have done nothing to incur the gods’ anger.

  He nodded to the woman on his right.

  — We found signatures.

  The room grew quieter — so quiet that the faint buzz of a fly above the table became audible.

  — Residual traces of the mana field match those we recorded in the past. These are heretics of the God of Knowledge cult.

  No one showed surprise. Only a faint tension passed through the room.

  A pause settled.

  — Apostles, — someone at the far end of the table said. — So they’re moving again.

  — Not “again,” — the leader corrected calmly. — For the first time in several decades.

  He turned his head to the left.

  A man sat there with dark hair tied in a low ponytail. His cloak was plain, without symbols, but the fabric was clearly expensive. He carried himself in a relaxed manner — inappropriately relaxed for this room.

  — Your thoughts, Asterion? — the leader asked without raising his voice.

  Asterion slowly lifted his gaze. There was no concern in his eyes, no urgency — only bored attentiveness.

  — If the signatures are real, — he said, — then this isn’t a raid or a probe. Apostles don’t act for gold.

  — We reached the same conclusion, — the leader nodded. — The caravan was only a pretext.

  The woman on the right leaned forward slightly.

  — According to intelligence reports, several months ago Vortex Rakshur left the Steel Covenant.

  The name fell into the room like a heavy stone into water. Rings of silence rippled across the table.

  — Demons don’t release figures like him lightly, — she continued. — Especially not now.

  Asterion exhaled slowly through his nose.

  — If Rakshur stepped out of the game, — he said, — then someone is moving pieces larger than usual.

  — Exactly, — the leader replied. — And we need to know where.

  He turned fully toward Asterion.

  — The northern sector of the Silver Moss Forest.

  Asterion raised a brow.

  — The northern sector is vast, — he noted. — I’m unlikely to find anything. Reconnaissance there is nearly useless.

  — That’s precisely why we’re asking you, — the leader said. — Unofficially. Not as part of a unit. Alone.

  Asterion tapped a finger lazily on the table for a moment.

  — What exactly am I looking for?

  — Traces, — the woman answered. — Signatures. Contact. Any confirmation of apostle activity.

  — And if I find them?

  — Observe, — the leader said shortly. — Do not engage.

  Asterion smirked — barely.

  — You don’t know apostles very well if you think they’ll allow themselves to be observed.

  — There’s much we don’t know, — the leader replied without emotion. — That is precisely why Corven still exists.

  Silence followed.

  Asterion rose from his seat.

  — Very well, — he said. — I’ll check the north.

  He turned, but paused at the door.

  — One more thing, — he added without looking back. — If you’re right… and this truly is an apostle operation…

  He tilted his head slightly.

  — Then something has already been set in motion. And we’re most likely late.

  The door closed behind him softly, without a sound.

  Silence settled over the chamber again.

  — He’s right, — the woman said quietly. — If the apostles have stepped out of the shadows, then the decision has already been made.

  Corven’s leader clasped his hands tighter.

  — Then we have only one option left, — he said. — We make sure that decision does not go unnoticed.

  The crystals above the table glowed with steady, cold light.

  And none of those present voiced the thought they all shared:

  If the apostles had entered the game… there would be no simple outcomes left.

  We left the house closer to noon.

  The sun was already high, yet Illusion’s streets never overheated — shadows always lingered between the buildings. The stone beneath our feet was pale, polished by thousands of steps, and the air carried a mixed scent: dust, herbs, hot metal, and faint, lingering magic.

  — Get used to it, — Loreon said, noticing me looking around. — Illusion feels too… perfect at first. Then you start noticing the cracks.

  — I thought the capital would be louder, — I said honestly.

  — It will be, — he smirked. — Once you begin to understand what actually happens here.

  We walked along a moderately narrow street built on two levels. Overhead stretched passages between buildings — stone arches, wooden walkways, sometimes just planks reinforced with enchantments. Someone had hung laundry right above the street; others had placed pots of plants on narrow windowsills.

  — Tell me, — I nodded toward the houses. — They all look… different. Like they were built in different eras.

  — Because they were, — Loreon replied. — Illusion is over twenty thousand years old.

  I froze for half a step, then caught up with him.

  — Seriously?

  — Absolutely. Originally it wasn’t a city — it was a fortress. — He gestured toward the distant districts. — This was where they held the line against the Siverians. Back then, they were far more dangerous than they are now.

  — And the city just grew around it?

  — Gradually. But the real surge came later. During the Great War.

  I’d heard of it. Everyone had. The Great War was a popular subject among Aurions. At school they talked about it often; Alak’s acquaintances liked to discuss those times over mugs of beer. Even before I could speak, my parents read me stories about the Chthonians and that war — as if it had reshaped the world itself. But usually it was told either too grandly or too dryly.

  — The previous capital, Lorelin, — Loreon continued, — was almost completely destroyed. The Chthonians didn’t just take it — they erased half the city from the face of the earth.

  — That’s why Illusion became the capital?

  — Temporarily, — he emphasized. — While Lorelin was being rebuilt. Everyone assumed power would return there in a few decades.

  He snorted.

  — Several thousand years passed. We’re still here.

  — Why didn’t they move back? — I asked.

  — Too convenient, — he shrugged. — Illusion stood at the crossroads of trade routes, the mana currents are more stable here, and most importantly…

  He looked up.

  I followed his gaze and saw one of the great magical beacon pillars. It towered above the districts, woven into the city so naturally it felt eternal — stone, runes, a faint shimmer even in daylight.

  — They were built during the Great War, — Loreon said. — When it became clear ordinary walls wouldn’t hold.

  — And they worked?

  — The Chthonians never entered the city, — he answered. — Not then. Not later. The beacons consumed so much mana that half the mages collapsed — but the city held.

  I watched the pillar silently.

  — That’s why Illusion remained the capital, — Loreon added. — Not because it’s beautiful. Because it’s already proven it can’t be taken.

  We turned onto a busier street. The noise thickened: merchants shouting, people haggling, a group of students in identical cloaks passed us.

  — You thought capitals are chosen for history? — Loreon smirked. — No. They’re chosen for survivability.

  — Sounds… not very optimistic.

  — Honest, though.

  He gave me a quick glance.

  — Any regrets about moving?

  I thought for a moment.

  — No, — I said after a second. — Not yet.

  — Good, — he replied. — Because some local customs might seem strange to outsiders.

  — Strange customs? You mean how people treat holidays?

  After some time living in Illusion, I’d noticed it. Celebrations here were quiet — almost restrained. In Lorelin, if someone got married, they threw massive feasts with firework displays made of fire magic. Here, weddings invited only close relatives, and the ceremony rarely lasted more than thirty minutes.

  They also commemorated days of catastrophes and defeats. That was truly strange. Here, remembering losses was considered more important than celebrating victories.

  — No, — Loreon said with a chuckle. — Not just holidays. Architecture too. In Illusion, they rarely build perfectly symmetrical structures. Many windows, as you noticed, are intentionally different sizes. And in two-story houses, one floor is always larger than the other.

  — And why do they do that? That’s a nightmare for perfectionists.

  — Heh, you’re right. People here believe overly perfect shapes attract those who love order more than life itself.

  — What kind of nonsense is that? How are those even related?

  Loreon spat onto the cobblestones.

  — No idea. But I like it better this way. You’ll never confuse Illusion’s architecture with any other city.

  — True enough, — I agreed.

  He stopped at a crossroads and pointed ahead.

  — The market’s further on. Let’s see how welcoming the city feels today.

  We walked on, dissolving into the flow of people as the city lived its measured, ancient — and far from harmless — life around us.

  We stepped onto a broader avenue, and the noise instantly thickened.

  This was no longer a calm walk. People moved in dense streams, some carrying baskets, others arguing mid-stride. Ropes stretched overhead with goods hanging from them. The smells blended into one — spices, roasted meat, fresh fish, metal, and magic.

  A lot of magic. Not active — residual, like lingering heat.

  — Here’s the market, — Loreon said, raising his voice slightly. — Get used to it. This is Illusion’s real face.

  — Yeah, whatever. You only brought me so I could carry your shopping anyway.

  — Ha-ha, fair enough, — Loreon replied.

  We moved slowly between stalls. Loreon greeted several merchants with short nods. They clearly knew him — not as someone important, but as a regular customer. That said a lot.

  — Every couple of weeks. Sometimes more often if orders pile up, — he said. — Most of what the workshop needs comes through the market. Even if crystals are “officially” purchased through guilds.

  — Officially?

  — Officially — paperwork. In reality — through people like these, — he nodded toward the stalls. — Guilds like to pretend they control everything. The market laughs at that.

  — Why do we even need crystals? We can enchant without them, can’t we?

  — Look at it this way, — he said. — In one day I can recharge maybe ten artifacts before I run out of mana. But we can receive up to fifty recharge orders a day.

  — Ah… that makes sense.

  We stopped at an amulet stall. The vendor animatedly explained something to a customer, waving her hands. Loreon barely glanced at the goods and led me onward.

  — Crystals are rarely displayed openly, — he explained. — Too valuable. They’re either hidden or sold only to trusted buyers.

  — And they trust you, — I noted.

  — For now, — he smirked. — In Illusion, that’s never guaranteed for long.

  We turned into a side passage between stalls. It was quieter here. Awnings hung lower, light filtered in narrow strips.

  — Tell me, — I looked around. — You don’t just recharge artifacts, do you? You enchant new ones too?

  — Sometimes, — he answered after a pause. — When someone requests something unusual. Or is willing to pay for the risk.

  — Often?

  — More often than they should, — he snorted. — People like to think an artifact will solve their problems. Especially in the capital.

  He stopped at an inconspicuous stall half-hidden in shadow. A middle-aged man with a short beard and sharp eyes stood behind it. Before him lay pouches, boxes, and several crystals — cloudy, various sizes, faintly glowing within.

  — Here he is, — Loreon said quietly. — Not the most talkative, but honest. Within reason.

  The merchant looked up and paused on me, assessing.

  — Loreon Lurue, — he said. — Been a while.

  — And hopefully not for a bad reason, — Loreon replied. — I need crystals. Medium. Pure.

  The merchant gave a crooked smile and shook his head.

  — Bad time you picked. Prices went up.

  I saw Loreon frown slightly.

  — How much? — he asked calmly.

  The merchant named the sum.

  Loreon whistled.

  — You’re joking.

  — Wish I was, — the man shrugged. — But no.

  Loreon was about to argue, but exhaled and glanced at me.

  — See? — he said quietly. — The market always knows first.

  I stayed silent, sensing there was far more behind this than a price dispute.

  Loreon looked back at the merchant, more intently now.

  — You realize for that price I could buy half your stall instead of crystals? — he said dryly.

  — I realize, — the merchant replied calmly. — But you also realize I don’t pull them out of thin air.

  Loreon snorted.

  — Two weeks ago I bought the same batch from you. Same purity. Same volume. Price was nearly a third lower.

  — Two weeks ago was a different time, — the merchant shrugged. — Today is today.

  I noticed Loreon slowly clench and unclench his fingers. He wasn’t happy — but he wouldn’t make a scene.

  — Listen, — he said after a pause. — I buy regularly. Not once. You know that. Give me a fair price and I’ll be back next month.

  The merchant narrowed his eyes, weighing the words.

  — You always come back, — he agreed. — But I always take the risk.

  He pulled a small coin from beneath the counter — worn, with a barely visible wind symbol on one side.

  — Let’s do it the old way, — he offered.

  Loreon raised a brow.

  — A coin?

  — The coin, — the merchant nodded. — Heads — price drops. Tails — you pay as is.

  I looked between them. They were seriously going to settle this with a coin toss?

  Loreon sighed and waved a hand.

  — Fine. Toss it.

  The merchant flipped the coin.

  It spun upward, catching a strip of light, hovered for a second — then landed on the counter with a soft ring.

  Tails.

  The merchant didn’t smile. He simply pocketed the coin.

  — Aeris’ will, — he said evenly.

  Aeris? The wind goddess? What did she have to do with this? Did they really think the coin would fall however she wished?

  Loreon grimaced.

  — Damn it… — he muttered, then louder: — Fine. Give me the crystals.

  — Medium. Pure, — the merchant repeated, sliding a pouch forward.

  Loreon weighed it in his palm, checked the seal, then counted out the money in sharp, irritated motions.

  — Robbery, — he said.

  — Market, — the merchant shrugged. — Don’t confuse the two.

  We walked away from the stall, and only then did Loreon let out a real breath.

  — Hate that method, — he said. — But I hate it even more when it works against me.

  — Do you actually believe the wind goddess decides how the coin lands? — I asked.

  — No, — he answered immediately. — But people believe it. And sometimes that’s enough to end an argument.

  He glanced at the pouch in my hands.

  — Remember this, Aeron. In Illusion, you can be right. You can be smart.

  But if the wind isn’t on your side today — you’ll still pay more.