CHAPTER -1-
"...suffering and misery - you face a difficult choice. What's more dangerous for the day than the storm of feelings..."
Outrunning the storm by mere minutes, the column of riders managed to take shelter at a small farmstead nestled at the foot of a hill crowned with ancient trees.
They politely requested lodging from the farmer who greeted them and were granted the barn. Nothing more. It was enough. Exhausted from days of forced march, they were at the limit of their endurance.
Quickly clearing space in the hay, they unharnessed the makeshift stretcher. The woman lying upon it groaned but didn’t open her eyes.
Her condition was worsening by the hour. She needed a healer—a skilled one. The efforts of some village bonesetter wouldn’t suffice. They were certain the town just an hour’s ride away would have one, but the approaching storm had forced them to detour and seek shelter.
The youngest of the riders knelt beside the stretcher and pressed an open canteen to the woman’s cracked, bloodless lips.
"Drink," he urged, his voice slightly hoarse. His hand trembled almost imperceptibly as her frail fingers brushed against his calloused knuckles. Her chalk-white fingers curled weakly around his, as if seeking warmth. Her head shifted slightly in refusal.
With his free hand, the man reached into his unbuttoned coat and retrieved a small but clean cloth from an inner pocket of his leather jerkin. Dampening it with water from the canteen, he began dabbing her lips with careful, almost tender motions. The woman tried to open her eyes. Failed. For a brief moment, the slits between her eyelids revealed dilated pupils before her lashes fell shut again, too heavy to lift. A single tear managed to escape.
"How is she?" An older man approached, dressed identically to the younger—save for the wide-brimmed leather hat perched with quiet dignity upon his head. It was his signature, an extension of himself he never removed. He wore it tilted forward, shadowing his eyes.
To the observant, however, the deep scar bisecting his forehead from temple to temple was unmistakable. Long healed, the wound had left a pale, sunken furrow that accentuated his dark brown eyes. His face bore no hair—no brows, no lashes, and beneath that hat, his scalp was smooth and bare.
A cloak draped over his broad shoulders, falling to the floor, but it did little to conceal the muscular chest visible beneath his half-open jerkin. His skin was oddly smooth for a man, marred only by two faint scars. These absences had earned him the name The Serpent—a title he wore with pride.
"Not good, Serpent." The young man looked up and shook his head. "She needs a healer, and fast. I don’t know if she’ll last another day."
"The storm’s upon us. We can’t move." The Serpent’s voice held a thread of something almost like hope before sharpening as footsteps sounded outside.
The barn’s side door burst open, shoved inward by a gust of wind, and the farmer stumbled in. A middle-aged man with wild hair tied back, his simple tunic cinched at the waist with thick rope over a slight paunch. He clutched a wooden cudgel, its end carved into a crude knob.
"We’ve got trouble!" he near-wailed.
"What kind?" The Serpent stepped closer, his right hand drifting toward the dagger at his belt.
"My wife spotted riders on the road behind you. Recognized their leader by his orange cloak."
"So?"
"Waylayers, sir! They’ll turn this way—they won’t pass by in this storm!" The farmer’s voice cracked with fear.
Outside, the storm broke. Wind carried the first sparse but heavy raindrops.
"If your wife recognized them, they’ve been here before." The Serpent was flanked now by the four others who’d ridden with him. "You’ve dealt with them. You know them."
"I don’t know, sir. They’ll want shelter—fifteen men and horses can’t just vanish!"
The Serpent smirked.
"Then why fret, good host? Let them come."
"I want no trouble," the farmer insisted.
"Neither do we."
"But sir, anyone can see you’re honest caravan guards. They won’t like that. You know what they are." The farmer’s voice grew desperate. "They’re bloodthirsty, mark my words."
"We know their kind." The Serpent smirked. "So what're you suggestin’? We step out the back into the storm? That your idea of hospitality, barkeep?" His tone hardened, his cloak swaying pointedly to reveal a long sword in a metal scabbard.
"N-n-no, sir, please!" The farmer waved his free hand frantically. "I’m just warnin’ ya. Y’all do as you see fit."
"Easy, barkeep. If they want trouble, let ’em come. We’re off duty." The Serpent’s glare slid back to the farmer, unnerving him further.
"Right, sir. As you say." The farmer spun on his heel. He had no desire to stay another second. Outside he went.
"Boys." The Serpent nodded. Like clockwork, the men fanned out across the barn, silently claiming the most defensible positions. Only the Serpent and the young man who bore the name Mladen—with pride—remained by the stretcher. A minute later, the first of the Waylayers shoved through the doors.
The barn was large, but crammed with fifteen men and their horses, it felt claustrophobic. The Waylayers, a motley crew of scrap-heap rejects draped in rags, stood out like a garish stain against the near-uniform guards. Among them towered a lanky figure wrapped in the farmer’s described orange cloak. Though patched, it was meticulously kept, untouched by grime. Hitting just above the knees, it revealed well-maintained leather boots adorned with silver spurs.
"Well met..." The tall man’s assessing gaze lingered on the men by the stretcher. His greeting ended with a voice tinged by a metallic rasp. "...guards. Farmer didn’t mention we’d be sharin’ a roof with caravan hands."
"Well met." The Serpent’s reply was frost. "Lovely weather out, ain’t it?"
The lanky man stared back with glass-gray eyes. His face, scarred with a web of faint marks, didn’t twitch.
"Don’t see your caravan."
"Off duty. Headin’ back for respite." The Serpent’s expression rivaled the Waylayer’s in chill.
"That so?" The leader of the ragged pack lazily raised his left hand, pointing at the stretcher. "Wounded?"
"Aye."
The Waylayer tilted sideways for a better look.
"Oh-ho!" Spotting the woman, his face twisted as thin lips stretched into a sneer. "Would ya look at that?"
He turned to his men—a huddle of patchwork thugs scowling on cue.
"Boys, fate’s just handed us a gift!" He jabbed a finger toward the stretcher. The men rumbled, but from their angle, Mladen’s frame blocked their view.
"Can’t see?" Their leader’s voice sharpened. "No? Fine then. Allow me. Oh, what an honor!" His stare locked onto the Serpent.
"Friends, we’re sharin’ a roof with none other than Mayan Lee herself." The grumbling behind him swelled. Curses erupted. The colorful mob shifted. Steel whispered from sheaths.
"What can I say, gents?" The tall man eyed the Serpent again. "My boys hold a grudge. That bitch’s bled us dry over the years."
"What can I say, sir." The Serpent’s voice was a hiss. "We’re fond of our bitch too. Spilled plenty ourselves."
That was the trigger. A metallic shriek of drawn steel followed—shouts, screams, the thud of boots, the twang of bows, the whistle of arrows finding flesh. Curses and war cries merged. The barn became a blur of bodies swinging steel and wood, blood soaking into moldy hay bales.
Outside, slumped against the barn wall, the farmer clutched his head in his hands. The cacophony of slaughter left him swaying in shock. His wide, darting eyes refused to focus. Hands clamped over his ears, as if he could mute reality itself. The storm’s roar was nothing against the barn’s horrors.
A sober thought flashed through the farmer’s mind. He decided to run. To hide inside the house, then quickly barricade himself in the cellar with his wife and two children. He rose to flee, but his eyes caught a massive black shadow hurtling toward him through the curtain of pouring rain. He took an impossible step back. Slipped.
His hands sank into the muddy earth as his back pressed against the wooden wall of the barn. His eyes widened, his ears deaf to all but the maddened drumming of his own heart.
A massive canine muzzle stopped inches from his face. The wet nose of the impossibly huge beast twitched. Hot breath engulfed him. It sniffed. Then again. Yellow eyes locked onto him. Devoured him. Heavy lids blinked once… twice. Then the creature froze.
A deep, quiet growl rumbled from the beast's chest. Suddenly, its nose—followed by jaws lined with enormous white fangs—lifted to taste the rain-soaked air. In that instant, the farmer knew it was over. The creature pushed off with its powerful haunches and lunged aside. Its unsheathed claws tore into the soft mud, propelling its heavy body toward the barn in a blur.
Without slowing, the Man-eater crashed through the slightly ajar side door. Its bulk shattered the wood with a thunderous crack as it surged inside. The farmer didn’t wait. He didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to see. He wanted only one thing—to run. Sliding, falling, crawling through the churned muck of his yard, he vanished into the rain, stumbling toward the house.
And from the barn, the sounds grew louder, painting the air in violent hues. The entire structure trembled under deep, savage growls, shrieks, and the wet tearing of flesh, punctuated by choked, gurgling cries of terror. The frenzied whinnying of horses, the thunder of hooves.
The barn’s double doors rattled violently. Inside, horses driven by primal terror battered the thick wooden planks. A heavy timber splintered with a crack, and the doors burst outward. Finding their escape, the animals surged past one another, frothing pink with panic, fleeing the barn. They tore across the yard, leaped the low fence, and dissolved into the storm’s embrace. Soon, the drum of their hooves faded into the torrent.
Then—silence. Sudden. Absolute. Just as the barn's chorus reached its frenzied peak, it was severed. Cut short. The storm swallowed everything beneath the roar of its wrath.
Inside, one survived. Kneeling, leaning on his sword, Zmiya stood with his back to Mayan’s stretcher, never taking his eyes off the enormous beast. Drenched in blood—most of it not his own—the man breathed heavily. His eyes had lost their natural hue, reduced to black coals smoldering in crimson beds. His bare scalp, stripped of its hat, bore several gashes. His cloak was gone; his shirt barely clung to one shoulder and part of his stomach.
"What are you? Back, beast!" He barely managed the whisper. He’d watched the creature descend, seen how in half a minute it had shredded and slaughtered the Waylayers surrounding them. Moments earlier, he'd witnessed the deaths of his comrades. All had died trying to protect the caravan mistress.
Why did they owe her? Did they even owe her? Back then, fending off the attacks of a few frenzied Waylayers, he’d asked himself those questions. By the next swing of his blade, he’d answered. "Always. Everything." To every single one of them, Mayan Lee wasn’t just the caravan mistress they sold their services to. No—she was the one who helped each of them rise from their personal tragedies, who shouldered the weight crushing them and gave them purpose. She’d spoken to every one of them over the years. He’d seen what she did when lost souls stumbled into her care. He knew the lengths she went to for them. The late-night talks, the daylight conversations… all of it. For her, everything.
Yet it twisted his gut to watch his friends fall under the assault of those ragged wretches. Back then, right before the beast appeared, The Snake had felt his end coming. The pain had hollowed him, stolen his strength. Then, like lightning, like hellfire, that Cerberus had surged in and grinded them down. Literally. A splattered dark cloud of blood. A primal, almost religious terror had seized him. As if he were witnessing a beast ripped straight from scripture, sent to punish the mortal. He refused to remember the details anymore. It was unspeakable. Not even his enemies deserved that. All he kept was the blur of a black whirlwind and sprays of red. He scrubbed the specifics from his mind to stay sane.
"What are you?" The Snake hissed it again, softer now, barely above a whisper.
Blood-flecked eyes struggled to focus. He wiped his face with what remained of his sleeve, smearing gore instead of clearing it. With the last sparks of courage, he lifted his gaze. Through the dim light of the barn, he stared at the hellish beast looming over him—then nearly toppled backward in shock.
The blood-matted mass of muscle before him was no demon.
It was the Maneater from Green Hill.
"You?!"
The monstrous dog sat on its haunches, tongue lolling, watching him with gleaming yellow eyes that seemed to laugh. Recognition brought relief. The man steadied slightly. He’d met this devil-hound once before, and by some miracle, it had helped then too. He remembered it clearly—the Healer and that scrappy little warrior girl practically embracing it. Remembered the Healer pointing at Mayan, signaling the beast.
Satisfied the man was no longer a threat, Shaggy slowly rose, shook himself once—ears flicking—then lumbered toward the stretcher. He paused at the man’s side, nose twitching over the sword-grip beneath his fingers. The scent registered. "Keeper." Locked into memory. He moved past.
The man, stretched too thin, finally broke into sobs.
Shaggy ignored him. His focus was the stretcher.
He sniffed. Her. The Bleeding One. Friend.
Yes, this was her. But her scent was faint now. Cold. The life in it was seeping away. He nudged his snout under her clothes, searching—
"Stop!" Fear jolted through The Snake—an instinctive lurch at the thought of the beast ripping into her helpless body.
The Maneater paid him no mind. His nose had already found the source. The wound where her life pooled out.
He had to stop it.
So he did what he always did with his own injuries. Two careful nudges rolled her onto her stomach. His teeth tugged aside the putrid rags pressed to her back.
The stench hit him like a fist—rotting flesh, seeping pus. He recoiled, snarling in disgust… but this was Her. Friend. He forced himself back.
Then he began to lick.
Slow. Precise. Just like tending his own wounds. He worked his tongue into the gashes, coaxing every drop of saliva from his parched mouth.
Dead tissue parted. The ooze thinned. He lost time to the rhythm of it, stopping only when she finally groaned.
Lifting his head, he took stock.
Rain tapped lightly on the roof now—not the earlier storm, just a quiet drizzle. Dawn breached the cracks in the barn walls. A curl of smoke drifted upward from where the man had built a small fire over swept straw next to the cleared corpses—Shaggy’s leftovers. The man himself sat cross-legged on the other side, gaze anchored to Mayan.
A bucket of water caught the dog’s attention. His thirst roared back. He shook out his coat in one violent ripple before padding to the bucket. A sniff confirmed it—clean. Rainwater.
Still watching the man, he drank deeply, draining most of it.
One last glance at Her.
The Bleeding One didn’t fit anymore. That name no longer held. She wouldn’t bleed again.
He needed to roll her onto her side—but first, the wound needed more tending.
Shaggy settled beside Mayan, tucked his legs beneath him, and went back to work. Tongue methodically coating the injury. The flesh was already knitting.
CHAPTER -2-
"...Bathed in the power of simple human vanity, with a whip leaving trails across the back, gazing toward the edge..."
The meeting was supposed to take place at a small gazebo amidst a lush meadow in the middle of the broad forest belt surrounding a settlement called Canary. This was the first major town along the road after The Ladder. With nearly sixty thousand inhabitants, Canary stood as the third largest city in Briest and had become the unofficial administrative capital.
The encounter was arranged to avoid overwhelming the Healer, putting him at ease for frank conversation without intimidating him with officials and formalities. Yet it never happened.
"I made a mistake. Forgive me!" Mikael bowed his head. He trembled with tension. Carrying the body had exhausted him beyond measure, but it wasn't physical strain that broke him—it was guilt. He held himself accountable for what had occurred. Throughout the journey, one thought haunted him: that his own revelations to the professor had precipitated these events.
"What's done is done. We can't turn back time. Perhaps the mistake is mine." The beautiful young woman stood motionless beside the distressed man, watching as summoned medics carefully placed Nolan Storer's body onto a stretcher and hurried back toward town.
"Please, follow me!" The young woman—clad in a dark blue, ankle-length dress that clung gracefully to her slender frame with its wide, plunging neckline—nodded to Mikael. Without hesitation, she mounted the white stallion whose reins she held. The movement revealed daring slits along both sides of her dress, rising high above mid-thigh. Her shapely legs were sheathed in sheer stockings matching the dress, so fine and form-fitting they accentuated every contour of her impeccable anatomy. Soft leather boots laced up to her knees completed the ensemble. With practiced ease, she settled her feet into the stirrups and spurred the spirited stallion forward. Her back remained straight in the saddle while her lustrous black hair cascaded down to the horse's hindquarters. A delicate golden diadem adorned with a small blue gem at its center accentuated the severity of her gaze. She didn't turn to look at Mikael. Her concern was evident—one might even call it anger.
A faint crease had appeared on her smooth forehead when Mikael emerged carrying the body. But when he hastily explained what transpired, the glint in her eyes turned nearly lethal. She said nothing. Instead, she simply gestured, and two guards materialized as if from thin air. When they bowed and acknowledged her orders with "Yes, Prophetess," the last vestiges of color drained from Mikael's face. The flush from his exertion paled to a sickly white, and the sweat on his brow seemed to freeze in place.
When they'd summoned him for this unusual task—to escort a newcomer from The Ladder—they'd given precise instructions about where to take him. They'd told him the name "Nolan Storer" and that the meeting involved someone important. Mikael never imagined this important person would be the Prophetess herself. He'd seen her years ago when she inhabited the body of an elderly woman. He'd attended one of her discourses, enthralled by her words. He still remembered what she'd said that evening by the fire, surrounded by listeners. She spoke of politics. He understood little. The discourse had begun long before his arrival, yet he recalled every word.
"...Without delving too deeply or using flowery language, I'll simply say that political science gives us knowledge about state affairs. Why is it important? Because it deals with the political system—the coordinating subsystem of society's other three subsystems: economic, social, and spiritual. You might ask why you should bother with this, wave it off convinced you'll never engage with it. But if you don't engage, you won't participate in coordinating the production subsystem, and the financial flows will fill someone else's pockets instead of yours. If you don't participate in coordinating the social subsystem, social institutions won't protect your interests but others'. Right? That's why outsiders come running—from the Church or other kingdoms—to coordinate your social subsystem for you. If you don't coordinate the spiritual subsystem, which you've already abandoned to the Church's claws, don't wonder why alien moral values get shoved in your face. So how do you protect your interests? Understand this:
the political subsystem regulates how all other subsystems function and interact. That's the reality. And it'll remain so as long as politics stays on its pedestal. But when politics gets dethroned and the Church ascends—seizing control and imposing its dogmatic pseudo-politics—that's when things change."
"With politics, things move softly, gradually. But when church dogma takes the reins, the Inquisition grabs the whip. The people from Tam once told me it's about unity between Confucius and Kung-Fu-tzu. True, it was said on another occasion, but it applies here too. Those who've studied Tam's history know what I mean."
"And let's not forget our shadowed historian who taught that men are ungrateful, fickle, hypocritical, treacherous risk-avoiders, insatiable for gain. They'll turn their backs if they think they can get away with it..."
"Familiar, no? The lesson? I'd say love has limited influence in today's political world. In politics, you need respect. We'll swap the word 'fear' for 'respect,' but know I'm tempted to say 'fear.' Being loved in politics? Not crucial. Being respected? Vital. Enough for today."
This severe woman had impressed Michael back then, but now she chilled him to the bone. He followed her obediently, shackled by guilt and her commanding presence. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing.
The stone-cold aura of the council chamber remained untouched by its warm interior and grand sunlit windows. The gloom was reinforced by the three grim faces present. Two of them—the Prophetess and David Sol, High Administrator of Briest—sat in plush high-backed chairs while the third, Michael, stood answering their questions. With each response, his interrogators' expressions darkened further.
"Let me get this straight," said the white-haired administrator, his voice like flint. "You recognized Mr. Storer as your supervising psychiatrist from Tam—Professor Nikolai Vidov?"
"Yes. Professor Vidov supervised my psychiatric treatment in Tam. I'm in his care group. An exceptional man. Well-known—"
"And you decided to inform him of this?"
"I regret that. It was an impulsive act I couldn't suppress. I couldn't comprehend how he could possibly be Here. I even suspected he might be undercover among the Healers. They'd assigned me to escort a newcomer—I expected a child. Instead, I found a man in his mid-thirties claiming to be a Healer. You understand my confusion. I described our conversation to you. My mistake was asking his Tam name outright."
"Describe precisely what happened after you told him." The administrator's piercing gaze offered no sympathy, no tact—just demand.
"He just... collapsed. No sound. His eyes rolled back, and he dropped." The memory made Michael shudder.
"You believe the professor isn't autistic." The administrator shifted on his suddenly uncomfortable chair.
"I'm absolutely certain my psychiatrist isn't autistic." Michael met those crystalline gray eyes without flinching.
"Why would—"
A knock interrupted. The chamber doors swung open as the administrator's secretary attempted to announce:
"Kira abnat Nash Vasion min ahl Brie—" He barely got the words out before being shoulder-checked aside. Kira strode in, freezing the secretary with one glacial look before he scrambled to shut the doors behind her. She turned sharply toward the trio and marched forward with purposeful strides.
"You weren't invited to this meeting, Commander." The Administrator had risen from his chair.
"Former Commander, Sol!" Kira cut him off. "And I don't need an invitation to be here. Would you care to explain what's going on and why Nolan is lying in the Senate's infirmary?"
She approached the Prophetess' seat without taking her narrowed eyes off Administrator Sol. Deliberately, she knelt on one knee before the Prophetess' chair, took the offered hand, and brought it to her lowered forehead.
"I'm pleased to see you again, Prophetess. You've chosen a remarkable sheath."
"Why the cynicism, Kira? You know this isn't just a sheath—and I didn't choose it. The Services are responsible for that. Not everyone has your freedom and privileges."
Kira regarded her softly, but Olana de Ruur, the Prophetess of Briest, caught the suppressed embers in her gaze.
"What happened with Lia abnat Nash was a mistake," the Administrator interjected, but when the stares from both women nearly shoved him back into his seat, he stopped.
"What happened with Lia abnat Nash was her choice, not mine." Kira stood without breaking eye contact with Sol. "Her gift was immense, and it's an honor for me to carry its weight, Administrator."
"We didn't gather here to pick at that wound." Olana's quiet voice cut through the brewing verbal clash. She had witnessed these battles between the two before and had no desire to sit through another. Not now.
"Kira. Please, sit beside me." She gestured to the chair next to her.
"To be brief," Olana continued, "Archivist Mikael was assigned to escort the Healer to a preliminary meeting with me." The Administrator shifted again in his seat. This "preliminary meeting" clearly bypassed his authority, and Olana's revelation displeased him. He had been adamant that the Healer be brought before the Senate, where he and the Prophetess could interrogate him together.
"During the transfer, Mikael discovered that the Healer was his supervising psychiatrist There—and acted rashly by revealing his identity. The Healer collapsed and hasn't regained consciousness for several hours."
"Hardly a coincidence whom you asked to accompany Nolan," Kira observed, studying her.
"Of course not." A smile cracked the composed mask of the Prophetess' youthful face, and Kira glimpsed the old Olana beneath. "I sent Mikael deliberately."
"Why, if I may ask?" Sol turned slightly toward the others seated beside him.
"Because I hoped he would provoke a reaction."
"Explain."
"I was given the name from There." The Prophetess nodded at Kira, who confirmed with a nod of her own. "Professor Vidov is a star in his guild, and his research on autistics makes for fascinating reading. Some time ago, I studied much of his work and knew he supervised groups of adolescent autistics. You confirmed this, Kira, as one of the professor's patients."
Mikael, whom everyone had forgotten was present, jerked his head up, his startled gaze locking onto Kira.
"You too? I didn’t know."
"There’s much you don’t know, Mikael." Kira smiled warmly at him. "There, I’m older than you—and in a different group."
"But how does everyone know everything about me, while I know nothing?"
"Don’t be childish, Slav." The Prophetess gave him a stern look. "This is only your first life in Boria. You have much to learn about our secrets. As for what’s known about you… well, you documented it all yourself. It’s in the archives. As an archivist under Administrator Sol’s esteemed administration, you should understand what I’m referring to."
She meant the fact that every new arrival in Briest meticulously recorded everything about their identity There, as well as their past in Boria. All of it was kept in archives, to which not everyone had full access.
Another knock, louder this time, echoed through the hall. All four turned toward the door. The double doors swung open, and the same secretary announced:
"At your disposal—and at his insistence—Healer Nolan Storer."
Nolan entered the hall. Clean-shaven, groomed, and dressed in the long gray robe with a white hood typical of Healers, he held his arms crossed over his chest, sleeves covering them entirely. He approached the waiting group with smooth, assured steps, stopping before them. He gave Mikael a nod.
"Mikael." His voice came out soft yet firm. His gaze settled on Kira.
"Esteemed Kira abnat Nash Vasion min ahl Briest." He inclined his head in a slight bow, carefully observing the Prophetess. His eyes momentarily brightened with approval before darkening as they met those of Administrator Sol.
"I am not honored to know either of you," he said, "but judging by the surrounding opulence, you must be the ones governing this place." He bowed even lower.
Kira stood abruptly and approached the Healer swiftly. She embraced him lightly, whispering delicately into his ear.
"Nolan?" She received an equally discreet nod in response.
The girl smoothly stepped away from him.
"Esteemed Healer, allow me to introduce you." She turned to those seated. "Chief Administrator of Briest, David Sol." The Administrator gave a shallow nod and received one just as cold in return.
"And the honorable Olana De Rur, Prophetess of Briest." Olana offered a warm smile, and in response, the Healer flashed one of his most dazzling grins. His admiration for the woman's beauty was unmistakable.
"I’m pleased to see you’ve fully recovered, Mr. Storer," Olana remarked, nodding pointedly at Kira, who took the hint and retreated to her seat without further delay.
"Thank you for your concern, Prophetess," Nolan acknowledged, "but I fear my recovery is not yet complete."
"What do you mean, Healer?" Administrator Sol eyed him critically. "Were you not tended to properly upon your arrival?"
"Oh, I received every possible care Boria could provide," Nolan assured, "but I suspect the true diagnosis is… different."
"Do share," Olana said, eyes narrowing slightly.
Nolan’s gaze deliberately flicked toward Mikael, then back to Kira. A weighted silence followed. His questioning stare lingered on the girl before Olana caught its meaning.
"Mikael," she commanded, voice authoritative. "Thank you for your efforts today. Your contribution won’t be forgotten. Please return to your post—but remain on call should we require you."
"Of course, Esteemed One." Mikael exhaled in relief. No matter how curious he was about the forthcoming conversation, he was glad to be spared the ordeal. With a quick bow to those present, he all but fled the hall.
Once the doors shut behind him, Olana turned back to the Healer with a gracious smile.
"You may continue freely now, Mr. Storer."
"Thank you!" He bowed deeper than protocol dictated before resuming.
"I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Prophetess, but full recovery eludes me. The reason you summoned me to Briest—Professor Nikolay Vidov—may no longer be present."
"Do not be so certain, Mr. Storer."
"I believe I must be, Esteemed One." Another bow. "My humble self alone could never have warranted your summons."
"Am I to understand," Sol interjected impatiently, "that we are currently speaking to Healer Nolan Storer?"
"Indeed, Administrator. You are speaking to the Healer."
"Then how might we address the Professor?"
"Ah… therein lies the question, doesn’t it?"
Nolan kept his gaze fixed on the Prophetess.
"The mechanism for consciousness transference is not unknown to us. We uncovered its principles and subjected it to rigorous trials."
"Consciousness transference?" Sol echoed, bewildered, but Olana cut him off sharply, snapping her attention back to Nolan.
"Then?"
"I doubt you’ll welcome what I must say."
Kira’s grip tightened on the armrests of her chair—she already sensed what was coming.
"Following my awakening," Nolan began, "I detected no trace of the Professor within me. He isn’t here."
The ensuing silence was deafening—until soft footsteps from Nolan’s left drew the room’s attention.
The Healer turned just in time to see Kira’s eyes widen. Emerging unnoticed from between the drapes by the windows was a figure robed in black as deep as a bottomless well, his face concealed beneath a heavy cowl. Slowly, deliberately, the stranger made his way to the empty chair beside the Administrator. Neither Olana nor Sol betrayed surprise, though they could not have anticipated this intrusion.
The shadow took his seat, lowering the hood to reveal unremarkable features—a plain face with ordinary brown eyes and short, lightly chestnut hair. He acknowledged Nolan with a nod.
"Forgive the interruption. But what I overheard just now… feels like déjà vu."
"Allow me to introduce," Olana gestured smoothly, "the third member of Briest’s Triumvirate."
The newcomer waved dismissively.
"Enough formalities, Olana." His stare bore into Nolan. "Tell me, lad—do you feel… emptiness?"
"How should I address you, sir?" Nolan was slightly unsettled. Everything about this man screamed he was from the Order of Shadows, and his very presence in Briest was unexpected. At least not so openly. He'd been introduced as one of the three rulers of this place. So here he stood before the three rulers of the mythical Briest—the most enigmatic and unknown figures in all of Boria.
"Names are meaningless, young Healer. As are faces, if you take my meaning." The Shadow's smile carried something venomous. "But if you wish, for your convenience alone, you may simply call me Shadowy."
"You're the infamous Shadowy? The leader of the Shadows?!" Nolan couldn't suppress his astonishment.
"What do titles matter here, boy? You stand in a room with living legends of this world. Do you realize that? Let’s return to my question. Do you feel an emptiness within you?"
Nolan shook off the initial shock that followed the realization of what had just been said. It was true—in this room, aside from him and Kira, everyone else was a legend. Though Shadowy hadn’t made the distinction he had, nor excluded Kira from the company of legends. After all, he knew nothing about her. She could be anything. Literally just a day ago, he’d learned her full name, and that hadn’t been by chance. He’d seen the warriors’ reactions at the gates. She was definitely not just some ordinary girl barely twenty years old.
"Healer Storer!" Shadowy’s soft voice prodded him.
"Yes. So strong it hurts." Nolan confirmed, trying to express the void inside him with as few words as possible.
"Do you have a memory of it?" Shadowy continued.
"Yes."
"Explain." Olana interjected.
"I don’t know how to explain it to you, nor do I know if it’s in my best interest." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully.
"Be at ease, Nolan." Kira nodded, declaring her support. "Nothing bad will happen to you here."
Shadowy looked at her, smiling.
"Young man, you’ve been given assurances by Kira herself. That’s a treasure. Believe me. In all of Boria, you could count on one hand the people who’d dare face her in direct combat—and two of them are in this very room." He turned to Administrator Sol.
"Nothing personal, David, but your methods are different and no less effective."
"You don’t faze me, and you know it." Nolan saw the Chief Administrator smile for the first time.
"Good to see you again. I’ve missed you." The Shadow had turned to Kira.
Kira flashed him a sharp, toothy grin and let out a soft growl. Clearly, there was some private joke between them.
"I won that bet!" Olana narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together. "Remember, Shadowy?"
Then she shifted her expression, cutting short the frivolous moment. She fixed Shadowy with a sharp look.
"I don’t think now is the time for this, is it?"
"You’re right, as always, esteemed one." Shadowy turned to the Administrator. "I’ll need a fair bit of your resources to resolve this case."
"You have them, of course." The Administrator’s words carried such warmth and readiness that Nolan raised his brows. He understood there was more here than just a simple dispute between three rulers.
"Thank you for the support, Kira." He began, continuing after her nod of agreement.
"When the professor and I shared my body, we both drew knowledge from one another. When consciousness is suppressed—what we decided to call the 'background'—it has the ability to access everything the other has experienced, learned, thought, felt… everything. Do you understand? It’s like stitching together memories and skills. Even motor functions, muscle memory, sensations. Everything." He endured the stunned gazes of those present.
"When you’re in the background, you have full awareness of what’s happening around you in real time. You can even communicate mentally with the other. The connection is two-way."
"You’re saying you have the professor’s knowledge!"
"Not all of it, of course. Only what I’ve managed to sift through. True, the speed of absorption is immense, but the sheer volume of information in the mind of a man nearly forty is endless."
"We quickly realized that if we weren’t careful, we could lose Aza’s uniqueness. To melt and compile the 'self' of each of us into a new personality—a single way of thinking, behavior, and shared experience. Yet still two consciousnesses. Literally imposing ourselves onto one another."
All four had fixed stone-faced expressions, and they didn’t change as the conversation continued. Only that initial shock, which had briefly pierced their masks, remained in Nolan’s memory. After that, there was no telling what was going on in their heads. All the professor’s knowledge and experience in this field were utterly useless here.
They questioned him at length. About everything. It felt endless. By the time the sunlight through the windows dimmed, then vanished, and the star-studded sky became visible through the glass panes, the Prophetess finally decided to give Nolan a rest and release him.
Accompanied by Kira, they descended the long stone staircase leading to the first floor of the two-story building. They passed through a wide corridor that took them past a series of doors and, after a few turns, delivered them to the door of the Healer’s quarters.
Kira held Nolan’s hand. She walked quietly beside him. Both were mentally exhausted, and any conversation would have been an effort neither could afford.
Stopping at the door, Nolan looked at her and gave a faint smile.
"What comes next, Kira?"
"We’ll find out tomorrow, Healer."
"He’ll come back, won’t he?"
"I don’t know, Nolan."
"I miss him."
"Me too." She smiled.
"Goodnight, Kira."
"Goodnight, Healer."
She rose on her toes and kissed Nolan on his clean-shaven cheek. He looked at her, slightly surprised.
"You know it’s me, Nolan." He joked—or maybe he didn’t.
"Yes, of course." She whispered. "If it were him, it wouldn’t have been just a peck on the cheek."
Nolan, smiling but weary, entered the room and closed the door behind him. He leaned against it, taking a heavy breath. He was wrecked from the day’s events. He missed Nick. Even in the short time they’d been consciously together, he’d grown so accustomed to him that the void now frightened him.