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Matabar. Chapter 47 - Vulture and the Top Hat
🕑 Added 2025-01-18 18:47:00 +0000 UTCArdan was slowly, painfully, coming back to his senses. His ears rang, and the world in front of him shimmered as if he were staring at a lake’s depths on a windy day. Worse yet, his nose caught a dreadful smell. Burnt flesh. Human flesh.
He jerked his head, barely stifling a groan of pain, and opened his eyes. Lying right on top of him, charred to the bone, with flaking bits of its scorched skin landing on his face, was a body burnt beyond recognition. Only the charred remnants of leather boots fused to the bone and a few melted ornaments embedded in the vertebrae hinted that this corpse had once been the mother of that girl.
The girl...
Just as he had back then, in the prairie, digging himself out of the ashes — not only wooden ones this time, but also human ashes — Ardan tried to stand, but even as he clenched his teeth, he nearly collapsed back down.
His left leg was covered in horrendous blisters, his left hand could barely close its scorched fingers, and half his torso was a blistered mass of raw skin and seared fabric.
Unable to hold back his moan of pain, Ardan felt a wave of agony wash over him, the initial shock beginning to fade. His left side felt as if it had been submerged in boiling water, his skin bubbling and the muscles burning beneath. He had an overwhelming urge to scrape off the unending fire, but he fought down that impulse, gritting his teeth.
It was only then that he noticed his right hand was still gripping his staff, which was remarkably untouched by even the slightest hint of scorch marks.
And around him…
Bodies lay scattered everywhere, twisted into unnatural poses, their limbs distorted, some parts of their bodies scorched through and mixing with the molten stone that sizzled like lava beneath his feet. The glass had melted out of the burnt window frames, and the walls were blanketed in thick soot and char.
The wooden counter had vanished, and only the metal cash registers, smeared with something melted, lay toppled on the charred floor. Beyond, the blackened skeletons of clerks, their skulls grotesquely resembling duck heads thanks to the melted visors of their work uniforms, remained welded to their chairs.
Behind him, naturally, no wall remained — only smoldering embers that were once humans, walls and desks. Even in the ceiling far above, there were holes, hissing and sparking, through which glimpses of snowfall could be seen, though the snow could barely touch the building before vanishing in a haze of steam.
Leaning heavily on his staff, hobbling and dragging his smoldering, unresponsive leg behind him, Ardan took a few steps toward the spot where the little girl had been standing, hoping to see a miracle.
Only two faint, child-sized black footprints remained, a dark echo of her presence.
“Oh... You managed better than I thought you would.”
With great difficulty, Ardan turned around. Standing atop a spreading pool of slag where the stairs leading down to the vaults had been, was the same elf from before. Whole. Unscathed. Looking like he hadn’t been at the epicenter of a fiery storm. And, oddly, his hands were empty. He held no bags of exes, no gold ingots, no jewels — nothing.
“You…” Ardan struggled to speak.
“The Dandy will pay for this lead,” the elf cut his attempts off, stepping over scattered bodies and crunching their brittle bones underfoot. “And what am I supposed to tell my client now? That I burned down the Imperial Bank for nothing? A grand show, wasn’t it? Though…” He let his gaze drift to the bank’s charred, smoldering entrance and the street beyond. “It lacks grandeur. Fanatics would’ve aimed for something more impactful...”
The elf smirked, and it was a mad, crazed grin. Ardan looked back to see a crowd of bystanders gradually approaching the building. Some carried buckets, others wrestled with fire hydrants, while still more tried to clear the few abandoned cars out of the way.
Ardan couldn’t even rasp. The air, for a brief moment, felt scorched, and he realized he was suffocating. The elf, without moving his lips, extended a hand and summoned not a True Name, but a shard of it. A shard so potent and anchored in his will that it was enough.
Enough to ignite the crowd. Dozens of people transformed into living torches in an instant. The road jumped like a startled cat, the asphalt melting into viscous streams. Cars were thrown skyward and wrapped in flames, crashing back down as blazing comets.
The heat surged down the street, shattering windows and turning snow into meltwater, then steam, which vanished among the smoke. Soot-blackened buildings lost their winter veils, and the snowfall shifted into a prickly rain, while ashes rose like birds into the graying sky.
No one even had time to scream. They froze in place, a macabre puppet theater, each of them an effigy of a burning, blackened, collapsing skeleton.
“Better,” the elf nodded to himself, stepping past the mother’s corpse and toward Ardan. “Farewell, half-blood.”
And, as if nothing had happened — as if he hadn’t just killed over a hundred people — the elf strode out of the bank and down the street. Ardan could only watch his retreat, his eyes fixed on the red cloak flapping in the dry, hot wind, and flanked by burning cars.
So much pain… So much death…
“Stop,” Ardan managed, his lips cracked and bleeding.
The elf didn’t even think to stop. Ardan raised his staff and tapped into the energy of his Star.
“That is a bad idea, boy,” the elf’s voice, though he was already far away, sounded so close, as if they were speaking face to face. “I won’t spare you a second time just because we share a path.”
“A path?” Ardan’s breathing steadied as his focus returned. His Matabar blood was kicking in, dulling the pain. He could barely stand. His left leg refused to move, and his left arm was barely responsive. “You… filthy bastard…”
The elf turned halfway, a mocking gleam dancing in his pink eyes.
“Give it time, young Speaker,” he said in a bored tone. “One day, you’ll become just like me.”
Ardan began to shape the most powerful combat seal he knew: Ice Barrage. But due to his pain and shock, the process was much slower than usual.
“Foolishness,” the elf stretched out his gloved hand. “There are too few left in this world who truly understand the Art. Don’t make me bear the sin of killing a kindred soul.”
“You’re… no kin to me…” Ardan growled. “You... pointy-eared... vermin…”
He tried to pour energy into the seal, but he wasn’t quick enough. The elf sighed and shook his head. From his palm, a torrent of roaring fire burst forth, taking the shape of a massive mustang. It struck the ground, its hoofbeats making the surrounding lava bubble, its mane a thick plume of smoke, breathing out flames as it stormed into the bank, an unstoppable force of raw fury.
It hadn’t even been made by a True Name…
And yet…
And yet, after the events in the steppe, Ardan had replayed his duel with Gleb Davos in his mind hundreds, even thousands of times. He’d spent hours poring over methods to counter that fiery vortex. Had any other Aean’Hane besides the elf attacked him, Ardan would have joined his father and great-grandfather.
Using what little strength he had left, Ardan forced his Ley energy to subside, preventing it from feeding the seal. Intentionally breaking his creation, he formed a different structure.
It was a variety of the Universal Shield crossed with the Basic Shield taught at the Grand. This was his own creation, born from the events on Fifth Street.
Before him, a Water Shroud formed, taking two more rays to do so, and manifesting as a thin, almost imperceptible ripple. Like the edge of a woman’s scarf, it spread out, enveloping the torrent of fire and swirling it around in a graceful dance as easily as Anastasia, delicate and small, had once twirled with an awkward Ardan.
The Water Shroud spun and spun, guiding the fire in its gentle embrace until, unexpectedly, it stretched toward the elf in a single thread. And the fire that had been on the verge of devouring Ardan was redirected with that same fury straight at the elf.
But he merely snapped his fingers, and the flaming horse vanished, dissolving into harmless sparks.
“Star Magic?” The elf asked, disappointed. “I thought you could do better, Speaker.”
Ignoring the elf’s taunts, Ardan struggled to shape an Ice Arrow seal, though the process dragged on. Concentrating on the pattern while keeping a wary eye on his opponent, lest he strike suddenly, was no easy task, especially with the searing pain gnawing at his consciousness.
“Well then…” The elf exhaled slowly, and Ardan felt something he’d only sensed once before while descending into a dormant volcano with Atta’nha.
But this time, the volcano wasn’t asleep. It was waking. And with it came all the relentless, destructive force that lurked within its blind rage.
The elf was calling upon the True Name of the earth’s inner flame!
“Ah,” the elf paused, and the sensation subsided a little. “You can hear the Name of the Flames of the Deep? Who taught you, boy, that you can so easily hear unfamiliar names and-”
The elf jerked his head sharply to the side.
“The Cloaks are close,” he muttered with clear irritation. “We’ll have to cut this little chat short, amusing Speaker. But don’t worry — we’ll meet again, and then you’ll tell me everything about your teacher.”
He lowered his hand just as Ardan completed the modified Ice Arrow seal, one that could draw as much energy as was fed into it.
Ardan gave it everything he had. Four rays flared from his Star, which immediately dimmed. But even as that happened, a two-meter-long icy spiral as thick as a grown man’s thigh materialized, spinning wildly.
With a velocity greater than a bullet fired from an army rifle, it shot forward, leaving frosty patterns across the cooling, freezing ground. It covered the distance to the elf in the blink of an eye and... dissolved into a hot puddle at his feet, barely dampening the bastard’s boots.
“A mere first Star, boy — that’s not even close to my level,” the elf smirked, tipping his hat with a mocking flourish. “Until next time.”
He turned and slipped into a narrow alleyway leading to a small restaurant.
Ardan remained standing in the bank. Perhaps he should have stopped there. After all, he’d done everything he could. The law of the hunt was clear about the fact that this wasn’t his prey. Not his burden. There was nothing here for him to claim. No reason to pursue a far stronger predator, but…
“Mister, Mister, are you a mage?”
Ardan cursed, glancing down at his numb leg.
“Work,” he growled, slamming his fist against his chest as though willing the symbol left by Ergar’s fang to repeat its miracle from the prairie. “Come on! Do something, you useless scrawl!”
But the symbol remained silent. The surge of power, of the snow leopard’s ferocity, did not come. Only pain and a sense of his own helplessness.
“Hell no,” Ardan hissed, looking toward the alleyway. “No… it won’t end like this… It won’t end so easily, you pointy-eared scum!”
Gritting his teeth so hard his gums bled, he took a step. Then another, and another, each one slicing his mind with knives of pain, and he remembered. He remembered every day he’d spent in this damned Metropolis.
He remembered Eveless. He remembered Iolai. Arkar. Fifth Street. The Firstborn who had tried to beat him on his first night. The sneers and jibes he’d heard on the city streets; the scornful and contemptuous whispers of the Grand’s students.
And within all of this, he heard hints of sounds that melded into the distant echo of something resembling a name. An unpleasant, filthy name. The sort that made you want to step back and scrub yourself clean after just hearing it.
Atta’nha had warned him never to heed such names, as they could easily lead an Aean’Hane down a dark path, from which no one returned.
But with each new piece of filth that clung to Ardan, with each fresh shard of something vile he accepted, the pain in his leg lessened. It faded faster and faster, and Ardan found himself breaking into a run without even realizing it.
In mere seconds, he was at the alley’s entrance. The elf, turning sharply, looked at him, not with a smirk this time, but with surprise.
“What sort of joke…” He breathed, as though he’d just seen the very creature Ardan had spotted in Baliero. “But you’re not a dark one… So how…”
But Ardan didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything this bastard said. At that moment, he didn’t see the elf as the one who had taken so many lives, but as an embodiment of everything that had suffocated, torn apart, and poisoned his life for the past four months.
And Ardan, clinging to the shards he’d gleaned from his own pain and fury, looked up at the sky. Gray and low, it seemed to have long forgotten storms and tempests. It had certainly never known the rage that boiled over the peaks of the high mountains.
But Ardan remembered. He remembered well the icy lightning that flashed across the heavens. The thunder that echoed the roar of the snow leopard greeting his older brother. And how the earth had trembled with a fury it could never comprehend.
Ardan remembered the fragments of the name he’d heard in the storms and tempests of the Alcade. And he shared them with the sky. Told it that somewhere, beyond the horizon, it had a brother. One who was not as grim, but just as cold, proud, and no less formidable. And the sky answered.
It darkened, now shrouded in the shadow of night, and then, with the ferocious growl of a predator on the hunt, an icy bolt of lightning descended.
With a shimmering fang veiled in streams of liquid ice, it struck the ground right where the elf had been standing.
“That’s better, Speaker!” Laughed the elf, leaping aside and extending his hand.
And, just like in his grandfather’s tales, he grabbed the lightning and clenched it into a fist. The lightning erupted into white-hot sparks that scorched building facades and a small tree, casting a shadow like a figure in the dark.
But the darkness itself, along with the shattered bolt from the heavens, soon gave way to the usual winter gray.
And Ardan…
Ardan, his focus and strength lost, collapsed to the ground. His body immediately responded with even more pain than before. The burns on his limbs were joined by an entirely new sensation, as if someone had crushed not only his fingers but every patch of skin he had, twisting them in an effort to tear them free from his body.
The young man wasn’t sure if he could take another breath. He gasped, feeling his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets and his swollen tongue choking his throat.
“Did your teacher not warn you about the dangers of Aean’Hane battles, Speaker?” Came a voice through the haze. “And yet, you can hear unfamiliar names, including the dark ones. You can even summon fragments of elder elements... Did anyone ever tell you you’re a walking anomaly?”
Ardan blindly swung his staff, or tried to, but his arm merely twitched, hanging limp and useless.
“You will come with me, half-blood,” the elf grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him across the ground. “We need to move away from the Ley cables... I can’t open the path here...”
Dragged along the rough cobbles, Ardan drifted in and out of consciousness, only to be yanked back into reality.
In one such moment, he realized he was no longer being dragged. He lay... or perhaps sat... No, he mostly lay there…
Propped against the cold stone wall of a building, Ardan stared ahead at a scene both mesmerizing and terrifying as it unfolded on the wide avenue.
Two figures stood there. One — the elf — was missing his right arm, his face had been scarred with an acid burn, and his left leg replaced by a bleeding stump hanging in the air.
Yet even in this state, flames roared around him, raging like a wild boar, tearing down the street and consuming everything in their path. A broad stream of fire rent the asphalt, turning facades, lampposts, and benches to ash. Not a trace remained of the snow cover, and even the snowfall itself had ceased. Only the somber sky still bore witness to the fact that it was winter in the Metropolis, not autumn.
But the boar’s frenzy was short-lived. The second figure — a man in a black coat, with black epaulettes and black boots — raised a steel staff and struck the ground with it.
Before him, a seal flared to life, so large and intricate that Ardan wasn’t even sure such a thing was possible, or if he was simply seeing it wrong. The young man couldn’t count the number of layers, contours, or runes that comprised this seal.
Then... everything froze for a moment. And when the boar stilled, it was no longer fire, but a roaring torrent of water. It surged down the streets, sealing the burning cuts and hollows left behind by molten tusks with a crust of ice. Then, with barely a heartbeat’s delay, the water whirled up into a veritable tsunami, rose several meters into the air, floated there momentarily as a monstrous wave, and crashed back down on the avenue.
Cracks spread through the cobblestones, and when the water settled in puddles and streams, a crater nearly a meter in diameter and a hand’s breadth deep marked where the elf had stood.
The Second Chancery’s mage stepped up and peered into it.
“Dead,” he stated flatly. “A pity… I would’ve loved to interrogate you, fanatic... The Angels would’ve wept at how merciful I’d have been.”
Ardan blacked out again, and when he came to, a tingling warmth was spreading through his body — the sensation of healing Star Magic.
“You’ll have a lot to tell us,” said a blurry face, and soft darkness once again enveloped the young man.
***
Ardan lay on a rough straw mattress thrown over a stone slab, staring at a drawing in his grimoire. A lamp burned with a flickering yellow light generated by wick and oil. At least they changed it every morning.
That was how Ardan tracked the days, for there was no other way to keep time in this stone cell where he couldn’t even stand fully upright, and where lying down meant pressing his shoulders against the wall.
For the past… Ardan checked the folded edge on the first page… four days, he had been held in the custody of the Second Chancery. From the limited information he had, he figured he was somewhere near the Niewa, as, during those rare moments when the small hatch at the bottom of the heavy, iron-bound door (the sole exit from this tight stone cage) opened, his sharp Matabar ears had caught the sound of waves. This suggested that, despite being held in a dungeon, he was probably not underground.
As for food, a metal tray with a tin bowl, tin spoon, and cup was shoved through the hatch once a day. They’d fed him something that was a cross between soup and porridge, which had tasted faintly of roots and pine cones. But Ardan wasn’t one to be picky in situations like these. Back when Ergar had been training him, there were days when the young hunter was neither quick nor lucky, and he’d had to settle for far worse...
They had taken everything from him — his clothing and all his other possessions — except his staff, his grimoire, and, strangely, his mother’s letters, which were returned to him after an hour; they had been tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket.
As for why a Star Mage like him had been allowed to keep his grimoire and staff? The answer was as complicated as it was simple. In four days, Ardan hadn’t managed to recover a single ray, and when he’d tried to use his Aean’Hane vision, all he had been able to see was darkness — denser and more indifferent than even the gloom and damp that permeated his windowless cell.
He relieved himself through a small hole in the wall opposite the door. The stench built up occasionally, but soon it would vanish — apparently, the hole didn’t connect to any sewage system, but led to a refuse bin that was periodically emptied.
The most peculiar thing was that it had been two days since Poplar was supposed to visit him.
But neither the cat nor his loud red boots had appeared. That was how Ardan knew for sure that the stone from which the chipped and scratched walls had been built was far from something that could be found in the streets of the Metropolis.
Not to mention that, on his first day of confinement, he had endured quite the unpleasant experience: nausea, dizziness, sporadic nosebleeds, and a persistent ringing in his ears, as if a church bell had been tolling in there. This hadn’t happened because he had still been suffering from the injuries he’d sustained in his fight against the Aean’Hane elf. No, no. His wounds, he knew, had been tended to before he’d arrived in this dungeon.
As for the cause of his current weakened state and former nausea and worse, Ardan could only guess. He’d speculated that it might be due to the absence of Ley energy. Since it influenced the planet’s magnetic fields, perhaps this small cell, which was devoid of that energy, was having an adverse effect on him?
But these were thoughts for another day.
His hand looked healthy, and his leg and side, though bandaged and slathered in some foul-smelling ointment, no longer hurt. This treatment — the healing of his injuries, the return of his letters, grimoire, and staff — had put Ardan at relative ease about his situation. If they’d intended to do to him what rumors usually claimed happened to prisoners of the Second Chancery, they wouldn’t have gone to such lengths.
And so here he lay on the prickly mattress, its fabric worn in spots to the point that the straw beneath was tinged with mold. He lay and stared at his own drawing, a seal he’d designed using elements from both the Universal and Basic Shields.
It was a simple two-layered seal with a fixed array of runes. A redirecting type of shield.
He had even named it in the style of the Stranger, the creator whose work had inspired his own inventions.
“Water Shroud”
[Star: Red
Rays: 2
School: Defensive/Elemental
Element: Water
Max rune combinations: fixed array]
“It’s too simple of a design,” Ardan muttered to himself, a habit he’d picked up over the last few days. Talking to himself gave him a semblance of normalcy. “I need to add another contour so the seal can expand in space. And maybe a fourth contour to make it stationary… but why? I could swap the fixed array for a free array and… come up with a dozen modifications for any possible situation? That’d be just as pointless.”
Biting the tip of his tongue, Ardan traced his finger over the design, struggling with the puzzle that tormented him. If during the fight, his seal hadn’t just redirected the Ley energy back at the elf, but had instead absorbed it and turned it into his own — then… Then it would’ve no longer been a shield.
“Or maybe it still would be a shield,” Ardan squinted, recalling how deftly the Cloak mage had used the power of the fire boar in his own spell. “Suppose a redirecting shield could absorb enemy energy. But it’s impossible to absorb abstract Ley energy — there’s too many free variables. So, I’d need to calculate some of them, which defeats the purpose.”
No matter how hard Ardan tried to improve the Water Shroud, he kept hitting the wall of his limited knowledge.
He had no idea how to make a shield multi-layered in order to add more rune arrays to it. He didn’t know how to incorporate partial arrays into embedded, incomplete seals. And he certainly had no true grasp of vectors.
In his jacket pocket lay a list of books recommended by Professor Convel. Perhaps some answers were hidden in there? But even if he managed to upgrade his seal, the added complexity would mean it required far more energy, which would call not just for additional rays, but more… Stars.
“Sleeping Spirits,” he sighed, placing the book on his face and inhaling the scent of paper. It distracted him from the stale, faintly moldy odor that pervaded the cell.
It was not the kind of stench that choked and clawed at your throat, refusing to let you focus. This was something subtler, sickeningly sweet, invasive — a smell that only made itself known when you’d already forgotten about it and allowed yourself to drift away.
Ardan’s mind returned to the moment of the explosion in the bank. Perhaps if he’d been more restrained, smarter, more calculated, he wouldn’t have chased after the elf or tried to attack him. What were a few dozen burned humans or the little girl to him and…
And then he realized that if that were actually the case, he wouldn’t be Ardan Egobar, the man raised by Hector and Shaia, who grew up on his great-grandfather’s tales, and matured on the mountain trails and forest paths under Ergar’s and Atta’nha’s guidance.
And after he accepted this fact about himself, he found a sense of peace, and even a bit of solace. He had done what he felt was right. Even if he had done it poorly, rashly and clumsily. The whole ordeal had had nothing to do with the battle lust of the snow leopard, nor the cunning little squirrel trying to outsmart everyone. It had been purely Ardan Egobar.
And maybe, after his encounter with the elf, he now understood his father’s motives a bit more — the motives of the man who’d chosen to give his life for the children of Evergale.
The latch clicked.
Ardan frowned. He had been fed recently, and not enough time had passed for him to lose track of it, though under these circumstances, it had happened often enough.
The door opened, and a Cloak entered. His face was hidden by a matte black mask reminiscent of the one Professor Lea wore.
In his hands, the visitor held a military staff. It was inscribed with a dozen intricate, clearly combat-oriented seals and crowned with a pink crystal.
“Come,” he said in a dry tone and, without waiting for a response, turned back to the door.
Ardan, dressed in the gray robe they’d given him, shuffled his bare feet across the cold floor and limped (his leg no longer hurt, but it still moved poorly) after the Cloak.
They walked out of the cell and through a small, zigzagging corridor, turned a few corners, and emerged… beneath the vast roof of a massive boathouse.
For a moment, the cacophony of sounds made Ardan’s ears ring, and the bright, midday light of the winter sun nearly blinded him. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he looked around.
They stood on the edge of a pier. On three sides, rusty metal panels that had been patched in places had replaced the walls. These joined together into an arch, one that was riddled with holes and too dilapidated to be of much use, except as a nesting spot for seagulls.
Several boats lay haphazardly stored and covered with tarps. The pier itself, as rusty as everything else, was partially collapsed and hidden under the ice. The ice stretched out like a white-blue blanket, reaching all the way to the horizon, where it met the embrace of azure and sunlight.
Everywhere he looked, his gaze fell upon a vast, flat expanse, mysterious and beckoning. Fresh wind hit his face, and his chest rose deeply, inhaling the faintly salty, invigorating air.
The ocean!
Ardan hadn’t expected that his first time seeing the Swallow Ocean would happen under such circumstances…
“Move,” the Cloak prodded him in the side.
Together, they approached a table that had clearly been brought to the boathouse in advance. Sitting behind it with a stack of papers was a man. He was tall and thin, with a prosthetic left hand and an old-fashioned monocle on his right eye. On the table beside him lay an out-of-date hat — a black, gleaming top hat. He wore a couple of medals on his chest, which seemed odd to Ardan, as he had never seen military personnel flaunting such things within the city.
His face, marked with red blotches from an old skin disease, would have been quite agreeable were it not for the greasy gleam in his eye and his faintly smug smirk. A thick mane of gray hair sharply contrasted with his ginger beard, and his shoes…
Why had he noticed the shoes? They were clean. Far too clean. It was as though they’d never touched the ground. The same couldn’t be said for the worn and muddy boots of the Cloak leading Ardan to the table, nor for the dozen of his masked colleagues standing behind Top Hat. That was how Ardan decided to name this strange man.
Sitting down at the table and setting his staff aside — a move that, for some reason, made Top Hat flinch slightly — Ardan glanced back the way he’d come. Several figures were already covering the gray stone structure where he had spent the past few days with a large tarp.
“Ard Egobar,” Top Hat said evenly, his voice smooth. And Ardan noticed that he had intentionally left his name incomplete, despite the Second Chancery’s knowledge of it, thanks to the orcs and Cassara. “If I understand the operative division’s reports correctly, you were given a briefing on proper conduct while at Duchess Anorsky’s estate. She is now Empress Consort Oktana, if you need a reminder.”
Ardan said nothing.
Top Hat raised his gaze, his small, gleaming brown eyes meeting his.
“Answer when I address you,” he ordered.
Ardan wasn’t in a position to argue, so he quickly replied, “Yes, I was.”
“Excellent,” Top Hat nodded and flipped a page in his thick folder. “According to our informant, on your first day at the Grand, you got into a fight, during which Baron Lasmelil, Etid Andad, and Etid Innaalif were injured. And you broke Andad’s knee, which required treatment that cost…” Top Hat squinted at the report. “Four exes and forty-nine kso.”
“They-”
“You will speak only when addressed, Mr. Egobar,” Top Hat interrupted, continuing to sift through the papers in his leather folder. “Your aggression was entirely unprovoked, and you simply decided to, let’s say, assert your dominance, yes?”
Ardan nearly choked on his indignation.
“If I hadn’t-”
“Vulture, if you please,” Top Hat turned to the Cloak, a slight wave of his hand indicating Ardan.
The Cloak, surprisingly, didn’t move.
“Vulture!” Top Hat barked.
Only then did the mage from the Second Chancery tap his staff against the floor. A seal glimmered at its edge, and a moment later, Ardan felt himself being bound tightly, unable to move, just like that time in Evergale when his great-grandfather had bound him with the Aean’Hane’s art. Only this time, instead of invisible chains, tangible iron shackles materialized from a glowing seal under the chair, wrapping around his body and twisting around his mouth.
“Much better,” Top Hat nodded. “Now then, moving on… After your little outburst at, I must remind you, the Imperial Magical University, you thought it wise to swindle poor Mrs. Okladov, the owner of a dressmaker’s shop, selling her, for the absurd sum of four hundred exes, some trinket of questionable craftsmanship that had been made without any proper standards or licenses.”
Ardan could only make muffled sounds of protest, but the more he struggled, the tighter the iron chains bit into his flesh.
“But even that didn’t sate your hunger for heinous escapades,” Top Hat adjusted his monocle and cleared his throat, his medals jingling. “You then took up residence in a dubious profit house frequently mentioned in reports from the Ministry of Internal Affairs. One that was suspected to be a front for money laundering by a criminal group known as the Orcish Jackets. I suppose you reached an arrangement with them through the Shanti’Ra, a known associate of yours since childhood?”
Ardan fought against the chains, but it was in vain. He could only stare in shock at this strange man who was twisting every part of his life into something unrecognizable.
“And according to witness statements, you were spotted leading a group of individuals who staged a terrorist attack masked as a gang conflict. This happened on Fifth Street in the Baliero district, where your actions resulted in numerous innocent deaths. We discovered their mangled bodies among the ruins of a historic building. A building that had stood untouched for nearly a century until you decided to tear it down, yes? Trying to live up to your great-grandfather’s reputation, Mr. Egobar?”
Top Hat chuckled and turned another page. Ardan stopped struggling. He could see where this was heading…
“And after that, you saw fit to assist a terrorist fanatic — an outlaw elf wielding old magic. And don’t even think of denying it. Many witnesses saw him attempting to evacuate you from the scene after you were wounded. And that’s not even touching on the fact that you were illegally trained in Star Magic and the old magic… What was it called… Oahne? All of this, Mr. Egobar, points to your… let’s say, disappearance, a fate you were warned about four months ago. But I should inform you that if you refuse to cooperate and tell us every detail of your crimes, as well as the secrets behind your magical training, your family will disappear as well. Perhaps they, too, know something?” Top Hat removed his monocle and wiped it with a pristine white handkerchief. “Who knows, perhaps if we press your mother or little Kena and Ert a bit, they’ll share something interesting?”
Ardan instinctively lunged at Top Hat’s throat, but the chains tightened around him, nearly bending him in half.
“A beast in its truest form,” Top Hat scoffed, placing his monocle back on.
As he raised his hand, Ardan noticed a ring on his middle finger, sitting snugly against his glove — a ring bearing the emblem of the Tavsers…
“Well then,” Top Hat stacked his documents neatly and stood from the table. “It seems we’ll be taking a trip to headquarters, where we’ll review and discuss each incident in detail while we wait for your family. After all, you were so eager to see them, were you not? Such poignant letters you wrote…”
Ardan struggled again, but the chains remained steadfast.
“So,” Top Hat gave a slight bow. “You’ll get the chance to meet them… in the afterlife, of course.”
He turned to Vulture.
“Take him to the Black House.”
The Black House was the central headquarters of the Second Chancery. A building that everyone in the Metropolis avoided by several blocks whenever possible. Rumors about it, the darkest and most absurd kind of rumors, abounded.
“Did I not make myself clear?!” Top Hat’s voice rose when he noticed that none of the Cloaks had moved. Standing at attention in their masks, they remained motionless. “Get the prisoner up and load him into the transport!”
Again, none of them moved.
“That is an order!” Top Hat was nearly shrieking. “I’ll have every single one of you court-martialed! I was appointed by the Upper Chamber and you are obliged to obey me! Not to mention the fact that I outrank every one of you!”
Appointed by the Upper Chamber? Ardan didn’t know much about the workings of the Empire’s executive branch, but he did vaguely remember that the Second Chancery operated as an independent entity, free from the parliament’s oversight.
“Sir,” a familiar voice sounded from behind Vulture’s mask — this was the same mage who had fought the Aean’Hane elf. “According to regulations, we are required to hear the detainee’s statement before taking any further action. It is his legal right as a citizen.”
“He’s a terrorist!” Top Hat nearly screeched. “And that creature isn’t even human! He has no rights!”
“He’s a suspect,” Vulture replied in an even, steady tone. “And his Firstborn heritage does not affect his citizenship status. Everything else remains to be proven.”
Seeing that none of the Cloaks intended to move, the Lord-General (a title granted to nobles promoted to general rank) straightened up, appearing somewhat mollified.
“I won’t forget this,” he said, begrudgingly waving his hand. “Let him speak. It won’t change a thing. The facts are clear, and I have already made my decision.”
Vulture seemingly did nothing, but the chains suddenly vanished, freeing Ardan. He rubbed his wrists and neck, then said curtly:
“My jacket.”
“What?” Vulture and Top Hat both seemed to ask in unison.
“On its left lapel, on the inside,” Ardan clarified, deliberately not looking at the Lord-General. He wasn’t sure that he could keep his inner snow leopard from leaping at him if he saw his face again. “There’s a hidden pocket under a patch. Please tear it off.”
“What utter nonsense is this animal — this half-blood — spouting!?” Top Hat sneered.
But Vulture, ignoring him, stared silently at Ardan for a few moments before nodding to one of the Cloaks. The one with the cat mask pulled a battered satchel with a slightly bent handle from behind his back.
It was Ardan’s satchel. So, the Second Chancery had already searched his apartment…
Opening it, Cat pulled out the jacket and, after a moment of fiddling, found the hidden pocket and tore off the patch. A faint, metallic clink sounded as a black coin slightly larger than a kso dropped to the ground. Instead of the Empire’s crest, it bore a shield emblem.
The coin drew everyone’s attention as it rolled toward the ocean before Vulture caught it… Releasing his staff in the process, which clattered to the stones.
Had a war mage just let go of his main weapon?
“And what of it?” Top Hat laughed. “Now carry out my orders, or I’ll summon a special squad of guards!”
“Vulture,” came another familiar voice from beneath Cat’s mask. The voice of the man who had escorted Ardan from the palace to the Grand four months ago. “Is it real?”
The mage, his staff lying abandoned on the ground, studied the insignia that had been given to Ardan by Yonatan.
“Yes. It’s real.”
Cat gave a curt nod and drew his revolver. At the same time, the other Cloaks followed suit, two of them even raising their staves.
They cocked their weapons and activated seals that glinted along the metal, all of it aimed not at Ardan, but at Top Hat.
Vulture tucked the special coin into his coat pocket, then picked up his staff and stood in front of Ardan, shielding him from the Lord-General.
“What…What is the meaning of this?” Top Hat shrieked. “What’s going on?! I’ll have every single one of you-”
“Mr. Egobar has presented us with an officer’s mark from the Second Chancery,” Vulture interrupted, his tone so icy it matched the winds of the Alcade. “Until the condition attached to that mark is fulfilled, he is under the Second Chancery’s protection. Your authority, Lord-General, ends here.”
“My authority?!” Top Hat practically roared. “My authority ends nowhere! I was appointed by the Upper Chamber! That makes me your-”
A gunshot cracked.
A bullet fired by one of the Cloaks struck the ground directly in front of Top Hat, ricocheting into the wall. In his fit of rage, he hadn’t noticed that he’d taken a step toward Vulture.
“Another attempt to approach Mr. Egobar will be the last thing you do, Lord-General,” Vulture explained casually. “Until the officer’s mark’s condition is met, anyone who impedes us will be eliminated. I’ll repeat that for your benefit: anyone.”
Top Hat swallowed hard, stepping back.
“And what exactly is this fucki-?”
“Think carefully, sir, before you finish that question,” Vulture’s staff crackled with several seals.
“What is the condition of this mark?” Top Hat spat through gritted teeth.
“Presenting an officer’s mark establishes one’s right to an audience with the Head of the Second Chancery. The bearer must be escorted to the Head immediately and without delay, and the Head must grant them an audience regardless of any obstacles, preventable or not.”
“The H-h-head…?” Top Hat’s complexion paled to a shade surpassing even Ardan’s or Lisa’s during their ordeal in the haunted house. After all, they had still been able to see a glimmer of hope in that situation.
But Top Hat… The mere mention of the “Head of the Second Chancery” had him looking like he was now facing the inescapable certainty of imminent death.
“Gentlemen!” Vulture, ignoring Top Hat, addressed the other masked Cloaks. “As soon as we determine the location of the Head, we proceed there immediately. Anyone who stands in our way, regardless of rank, position, or citizenship, will be eliminated. Is that clear?!”
“Yes, sir!” The masked Cloaks shouted in unison.
Several of them turned, their cloaks flaring as they strode out. Vulture, facing Ardan, helped him rise from the chair.
“Good move, kid,” the Cloak whispered. “And you did an admirable job not hholding back while that pathetic moron had his fun. But you could’ve handled that a bit smarter… Yonatan didn’t lie in his report: you’re clever and brave, but your reason just abandons you at critical moments.”
What? Hadn’t Yonatan said that Ardan was a coward?
And what exactly was this coin that had compelled the entire Second Chancery to…?
Vulture tapped his staff lightly against the ground, and Ardan fell asleep.
