Western border of the Kingdom of Viscol.

  A mountain range stood like a solid wall of stone, dividing two states. Peaks crowned with snow even in summer vanished into the clouds. The wind moved constantly between the cliffs, driving cold and dust from the ravines. Only a single narrow gorge cut through these mountains, connecting both sides.

  Viscol and Hieros had been enemies since their very birth. Both states rose from the ruins of the Northern Empire, yet from the first day, they chose opposite paths of development — different pillars upon which to build their societies.

  Viscol was built on money and slavery.

  Hieros — on faith and service.

  They did not merely hate one another. They could not coexist.

  Only the mountains prevented a great war. The pass between them was too narrow to move an army through in force. No legions could deploy here, no battle lines could be formed, no cavalry maneuvered. A few hundred men could block thousands.

  So neither side dared begin an open invasion. Instead, both kingdoms fortified the border year after year, raised watchtowers, strengthened intelligence networks within enemy lands, and carried out sabotage.

  Sometimes bodies of scouts were found in the passes. Sometimes patrols vanished. But a full war never came.

  Even in such hostility, diplomacy had to exist — and so it was carved into stone.

  At the center of the gorge stood a stone house. It had been built many years ago so that diplomats of both states could meet there without fear of attack.

  The road to the house was completely exposed. It crossed a narrow stone platform overlooked by watchtowers on both sides.

  Anyone who entered had no chance of retreat if the other side chose to open fire.

  That was the guarantee.

  Whoever decided to kill you here would die as well.

  Serain stood at the border of Viscol with Syra and Vladur, watching the stone house at the heart of the gorge.

  — When did you last see him? — Serain asked.

  — Long ago, — Vladur replied.

  — And what has he become?

  Vladur shrugged.

  — A fanatic. What do you expect? And offended. I have Gannud. You have Dagmar. He has no one.

  A faint smile touched Serain’s lips.

  — He still doesn’t know which of us has it worse.

  From the other side of the gorge came the dull sound of a gong.

  Vladur nodded toward it.

  — That’s the signal. Go.

  Serain turned to Syra.

  — If anything happens, do not let Radavel leave here alive.

  — He won’t, — Syra replied calmly.

  She was already drawing her bow, aiming toward the rider slowly approaching the meeting house from the opposite side.

  Serain spurred his horse and rode forward.

  They moved toward each other without breaking eye contact. Hooves struck heavily against the stone of the gorge. The riders reached the house almost at the same time.

  Serain dismounted at the door and stepped inside.

  The building contained only one large room. The space was divided symbolically in half: on one side hung the colors and crests of Viscol, on the other those of Hieros. There was nowhere to hide. Every corner of the chamber lay in plain view.

  Carpets covered the floor at the center. A low table stood between cushions for seating, with paper and ink laid out. Negotiations here were conducted reclining or half-reclining. The table was so low that writing upon it required sitting on the floor.

  There was one more person in the room — an observer from the mountain tribes.

  He kept the house warm and maintained order. If necessary, he could assist either side.

  Only those who could not speak — and who had nothing to lose — were allowed to serve as observers.

  He saw Serain, bowed, and, understanding that this guest was here for the first time, stopped feeding the fire. Silently, he gestured toward the place at the center of the room.

  Serain sat on the cushions and leaned his back against the wooden pillar that supported the roof in the middle of the house.

  Almost immediately, Radavel entered.

  He was thin, his head completely shaven. Without eyebrows, his eyes seemed even darker, deepened by unhealthy shadows beneath them. Pink streaks began on his face, ran down his neck, and disappeared beneath his garments, trailing toward his arms.

  For a moment, Serain faltered. He had not expected to see him like this.

  — Radavel… you are beginning to resemble those who worship you, — Serain said.

  Radavel gave a faint smile.

  — They deserve the image they believe in.

  He sat at the center of the room, opposite Serain. His gaze drifted to Serain’s hands.

  — I see you are also trying to become what your followers believe you to be.

  — I have no followers. These people chose me once, of their own will.

  — They did not choose you, — Radavel replied quietly. — They chose the Veyturs. Once, there were two of you.

  He tilted his head slightly.

  — Or have you already erased Friedrich from their memory?

  Serain allowed himself a brief smile.

  He did not argue against that.

  — How are things in your kingdom? — Serain asked after a pause. — Do your people have enough to eat?

  Radavel shrugged.

  — Perhaps our deserts are not as fertile. But we have no slaves. All our people are free.

  He looked Serain directly in the eyes.

  — And most importantly, there are no enemies in our forests. We are not at war with anyone. And war, as they say, leaves only a desert behind.

  Serain gave a quiet snort.

  — War has one unpleasant trait. It spreads quickly.

  He paused.

  — The Palmers understood that. But too late.

  Radavel’s smile curved faintly.

  — Good that you explained everything to Gannud yourself. I doubt I could have. I lack experience in speaking with men like him.

  He inclined his head slightly.

  — Though perhaps after this conversation, Vladur’s mind will finally clear, and we may be able to negotiate something with him.

  Radavel paused.

  — So. Did he send any proposal to you?

  The words unexpectedly lifted Serain’s mood.

  — It seems your people have grown worse at listening, — he said. — The proposal is not from him. It’s from me.

  He gestured with his hand and accidentally struck a cup of water. It overturned, spilling across the low table. Two pieces of cloth lying upon it quickly grew wet — one bearing the crest of Hieros, the other that of Viscol.

  Radavel only narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing.

  Serain continued:

  — Lugarn will help me hold the front. While they do, Viscol will take control of their border with Gravell.

  He pointed at the map.

  — We will dismantle and abandon the first defensive post on this stretch.

  He shifted his gaze back to Radavel.

  — But this only makes sense under one condition. You do the same. Dismantle your first post and withdraw your forces.

  Radavel remained silent.

  Serain continued slowly:

  — This will free part of your army. You will be better prepared for spring.

  — Once both sides dismantle those fortifications, restoring them will be nearly impossible. Too close to the gorge.

  — Your archers will no longer sit safely in their forts, waiting for the right moment to fire across the pass.

  Silence settled in the room.

  Radavel studied the map lying between them for a long time.

  — It sounds reasonable, — he said at last. — To be honest, I haven’t heard anything like this from Vladur in a long time.

  He raised his eyes to Serain.

  — But how exactly do you expect me to control it? Should my men risk their lives just to verify that this agreement is worth something?

  — I’m certain you have people who will inform you if the agreement is broken, — Serain replied.

  Radavel gave a faint smile.

  — Careful with your words, Serain. The outcome of this arrangement matters far more to you than it does to me.

  Serain leaned slightly forward.

  — This autumn was dry even in our lands. I suspect the deserts of Hieros yielded even less.

  — Thousands of your soldiers stand at this border, staring into the gorge. They need food — not vigilance. They should be draining the northern marshes and irrigating the soil.

  — They will not irrigate anything, — Radavel answered calmly, — if Viscol secretly breaks the agreement and pushes through the border.

  Serain exhaled.

  — Very well. What are your terms? Do you want your observers stationed on Viscol’s side to monitor compliance?

  Radavel shook his head.

  — Vladur would simply bribe them. And they would report whatever he commands.

  Serain smiled.

  — And what about your faith? Is it not stronger than the sound of coins?

  Radavel answered calmly:

  — My faith ends where my army ends. That is — at the border.

  — You can shape your people, — Serain said. — They will not forget why they stand there.

  — And Vladur is too greedy to pay every single one of them.

  Radavel lifted his gaze.

  — Too greedy? He has changed since the days we began the uprising. Perhaps it is not so visible from the outside… but I know him too well not to see it.

  His eyes drifted to the soaked pieces of cloth bearing the crests. The water had blurred the paint; the two symbols now looked almost identical.

  Once, they had been one people.

  Radavel exhaled quietly.

  — That is precisely why I cannot accept your offer.

  He rose to his feet.

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  — There are no guarantees that Vladur will honor such an agreement.

  Radavel turned toward the door.

  — And I do not build peace on trust in men I know too well.

  He took several steps toward the exit, intending to leave the room.

  Serain rose from the cushions.

  — Wait.

  Radavel stopped by the door but did not turn around.

  — And what if the guarantee is Gannud? — Serain continued. — If he is the one interested in my victory in this war, and will not allow Vladur to break the agreement.

  Radavel slowly turned his head.

  — Gannud… wishes you victory?

  He stepped back into the room.

  — And at the same time, offers guarantees to me?

  A slow, cold smile appeared on his face.

  — In that case… I agree.

  The answer was unexpected for the king of Ceredan. Serain immediately understood the conversation had to end quickly — and the accord sealed.

  — Then I will inform Vladur.

  He stepped outside, mounted his horse, and rode off without delay.

  Radavel watched him for several seconds and murmured:

  — So it is true. A new Suggestor has appeared. Stronger. Far more dangerous. And most importantly, bound to no one.

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  — When you realize you are losing, Serain, — he said to the empty room, — only by accepting our faith will you be able to save yourself.

  The observer suddenly stirred. He waved his hands sharply, pointed toward the door, then toward the gorge.

  Radavel understood the gesture.

  If he did not step outside at the same moment Serain mounted his horse, both sides would assume the negotiations had ended in murder.

  And then the arrows would fly at once.

  Serain, Velm, and Dilfiza stood beneath the tall pine crowns at the edge of the lake. The water was dark and almost still, disturbed only by a faint ripple when the wind brushed across it. On the opposite shore, beyond a thin veil of mist, the walls of Hariv rose — a city built almost against the water itself.

  Before them stretched a wide clearing. It cut the forest in two like an old scar in the green body of the Neutral Forest. Beyond the open field, the trees closed again into a dense, shadowed wall.

  Near the edge of the clearing, pits had been dug.

  Heavy logs lay within them, and three men were bound to the wood.

  They struggled violently — straining their arms, slamming their shoulders against the logs, trying to lift themselves — but the slick earth gave them no footing. Their mouths were bound with filthy strips of cloth, and their screams came out only as muffled growls.

  Dilfiza watched them in silence for several seconds.

  — Who are they?

  Atrion did not answer at once. He looked at the men as if they were not human, but broken tools.

  He slowly pointed to the first.

  — That one deliberately killed his wife. Twenty knife wounds.

  She did not betray him. He was not drunk. He simply… enjoyed it.

  The man on the log began to convulse violently.

  Atrion moved his hand to the second man.

  — This one kidnapped young girls. Sold them into slavery in Gravell.

  He knew perfectly well what was done to them there.

  The second man groaned through the gag.

  Atrion took a few steps and stopped before the third.

  — And this one…

  He crouched beside him.

  — This one goes first.

  Atrion seized the man by the hair and forced his head up.

  — He slaughtered an entire family. The father. The mother. Three children.

  Calmly. Coldly. For money.

  He leaned closer to the man’s face.

  — You thought we wouldn’t find you in Lugarn, didn’t you?

  The man’s eyes widened in terror.

  — There is nowhere you can hide from us.

  Atrion rose slowly and nodded toward Dilfiza.

  — A painful death awaits you. Do you know what a Spore does?

  He scooped up a handful of damp soil and let it trickle through his fingers.

  — They draw the Lugu from your blood. No cuts. No wounds.

  Millions of tiny openings will begin to form in your skull. Through them, the Lugu will pass… into her.

  He pointed at Dilfiza again.

  — And with the Lugu, your years of life will drain away.

  Atrion tilted his head slightly.

  — In a few minutes, you will become an old man. And then you will simply… dry out from within.

  The man began thrashing wildly, trying to scream through the gag.

  Atrion flung the wet soil into his face.

  — Quiet.

  For several seconds, there was absolute silence.

  Then Dilfiza said coldly:

  — Enough.

  She did not look at the men.

  — You need to leave. Do not return until I call for you.

  Atrion gave a short nod.

  — Fine. We’ll wait for the signal.

  He turned to Velm.

  — Let’s go. Our soldiers have already secured the area. We can begin.

  They mounted their horses without another word.

  Within moments, hooves were thudding dully against the ground, fading toward the forest.

  Only Dilfiza remained by the lake. And the three bound men.

  She watched in silence as Atrion and Velm disappeared among the trees. Even after they were gone, she stood still, listening.

  Silence.

  No one nearby — only wind moving through the pines… and the three men tied in the pits.

  Good.

  It was time.

  Dilfiza stepped toward the first pit. She lifted the hem of her dress slightly, descended carefully into the hollow, and straddled the man’s hips where he was bound to the log.

  At first, he thrashed violently. Then he froze.

  His eyes devoured her. He muttered something through the gag, shifting his hips uselessly against the restraints.

  Dilfiza did not look into his eyes.

  She drew the knife and sliced his shirt open across the chest. Cold air struck bare skin.

  A moment later, the blade carved a long cut. Blood welled up at once, thick and dark.

  The man tensed.

  Dilfiza wordlessly drew the blade across her own palm.

  A thin cut opened almost without pain, and drops of blood began to slide slowly downward. She pressed her hand against the wound in his chest.

  In her other hand, she held the Glass dagger. The blade gave a faint chime as she drove it into the earth beside the log.

  In the neighboring pits, the other two men lifted their heads, trying to understand what was happening.

  Dilfiza closed her eyes and pressed harder.

  The man began to convulse at once. First sharply. Then violently. The ropes bit into his wrists, but held. Blood poured more heavily from his chest, hissing in the cold air, splattering over Dilfiza’s hands — yet she only pressed more firmly.

  He choked on his scream. His teeth ground against the gag; his jaw trembled from the strain.

  And then it began.

  His hair turned gray — first in streaks, then almost by the second. His skin shriveled, muscles withering visibly, as though life itself were being drawn out of him. Within minutes, the young man became an old one.

  Dilfiza pushed harder against his chest and drove the Glass deeper into the soil. A low sound escaped her — almost a moan, almost a gasp. Her head tilted back. Goosebumps rippled across her skin; the fine hairs along her arms rose.

  Around them, the field began to change. The winter-yellow grass darkened… then flushed green. Fresh shoots split the soil by the dozens. By the hundreds.

  Among the grass, orderly rows of pine saplings thrust upward. Atrion’s mercenaries had buried seeds across the clearing beforehand — and now they erupted all at once, as if years of growth had been folded into minutes.

  Trunks thickened before the eye. Bark darkened. Branches reached upward. The trees were nearly half a meter wide when suddenly — everything stopped.

  The movement of life snapped.

  Beneath Dilfiza lay a dried-out body. The man was dead. The one who only minutes ago had been young and strong was now a thin, shriveled corpse with gray skin and white hair.

  Dilfiza jerked her hands away, climbed out of the pit, and collapsed heavily onto the ground beside it. Her whole body trembled. She was soaked with sweat: her hair clung to her face, and her dress stuck to her skin. Her legs cramped in short waves that ran through her muscles. She lay on her back, breathing hard, her fingers unconsciously clutching the soil.

  For several minutes, she simply lay there with her eyes closed. Her breathing slowly steadied.

  At last, Dilfiza pushed herself up onto her elbows and then sat.

  — Hah… — she exhaled quietly. — It’s been so long since I felt that.

  She turned her head toward the two men in the neighboring pits.

  — You can’t even imagine what a pleasure it is. If you knew… You would give anything for it.

  She ran her fingers across her palm, where the thin bloody line remained.

  — Just as I once did.

  Both men stared at her with wide eyes.

  Then Dilfiza turned toward the field. Young pines already stood in dense rows. Their trunks were still thin, but straight as spears, their branches slowly stretching upward.

  She nodded with satisfaction.

  — Good. Ready for the next entertainment.

  She looked toward the man in the far pit.

  — You… are handsome.

  A small pause.

  — Your turn.

  The motions repeated almost automatically.

  Shirt.

  Cut.

  Hand.

  Glass.

  Soil.

  Meanwhile, Atrion and Velm stood at a distance, beneath the trees. They watched the field in silence.

  Velm’s hand was tight around the handle of his mace. He did not like what Dilfiza was doing.

  The trees began to grow again. Not merely sprouting now — rising. Trunks thickened at a visible pace, branches spreading wider, weaving together, and slowly closing the open space.

  The lake beyond the clearing became harder to see.

  Within minutes, it had almost vanished behind the dark wall of the newborn forest.

  Dilfiza lay beside the second pit. Or rather, beside what remained of the second man. Convulsions once again passed through her body. Her dress was dirty, soaked, smeared in places with blood and earth.

  The third man now knew what awaited him. He tried to climb out of the pit, bracing his feet against the sides, but the heavy log he was tied to dragged him back down.

  Dilfiza looked at him lazily.

  — Why are you thrashing so much, sweetheart?

  She smiled.

  — Maybe this is your only chance in life to truly give a woman pleasure.

  The man struggled even harder. He rasped and tore at the ropes, trying desperately to break free.

  — Just wait a little, — she said, stretching the words. — Let me rest.

  She ran a hand through her hair.

  — Your friend was very… resilient.

  A moment later, the man managed to rise to his knees, lifting the log with him.

  Dilfiza snorted.

  — Fine, fine. I’m coming.

  She got to her feet and walked to the pit.

  — Don’t kick.

  With one movement, she shoved him with her foot.

  The man fell back onto his spine with a dull thud. Dilfiza jumped down and locked her legs around his hips.

  The same ritual. Branches closed overhead. The field disappeared. Around them stood only the forest.

  She was so immersed in the sensation that she did not immediately notice the mist gathering around them.

  First, a thin white veil. Then, thicker swirls.

  The fog crept closer.

  Closer still.

  Dilfiza opened her eyes.

  The forest was gone.

  She stood on the edge of a cliff. Snowstorm winds spiraled around her. Beneath her feet was only a narrow strip of stone, and a few steps ahead yawned a dark, bottomless abyss.

  A shape formed within the blizzard.

  Nektokaris.

  He appeared almost without sound. A heartbeat later, he was already beside her.

  His hand shot forward and seized Dilfiza by the throat, slamming her back against the frozen rock. The stone bit into her spine.

  — Enjoying the moment… are you? — Nektokaris said quietly.

  Dilfiza stared at him with wide eyes. She could not answer.

  — Did you think I wouldn’t find you?

  The wind tore at his cloak, snow swirling violently around them.

  — Do you remember what I promised you?

  He leaned closer.

  — Back then. Long ago.

  His voice turned colder.

  — Do you remember how you betrayed me?

  He gave a short laugh.

  — And turned me into… this?

  Nektokaris gestured toward the man. The man had regained some awareness. His arms were thin and withered; the ropes slackened. He clumsily began to loosen the knots.

  Nektokaris did not even look at him.

  He simply flicked his hand.

  Cold struck instantly.

  The man’s hands froze over with ice. Then his face. Then the blood on his chest. In a second, his entire body became a solid statue of frost. He remained locked in the position he had been in.

  Nektokaris released Dilfiza, and she collapsed heavily to her knees.

  He struck the frozen body.

  The ice shattered.

  The body broke apart into dozens of frozen fragments that clattered across the stone and tumbled into the abyss.

  Seizing the brief pause, Dilfiza suddenly screamed:

  — Velm! Velm! Help me!

  Nektokaris’ fingers tightened instantly around her throat. His eyes flared with cold light.

  Frost struck at once.

  Dilfiza’s hair, still damp with sweat, crystallized into ice. Strands snapped and crumbled. Her skin blanched, cracked; thin plates of frost spread across her face.

  She tried to scream again, but her lips barely obeyed.

  Her jaw locked under the cold.

  Through the swirling mist, from somewhere far away, came a voice:

  — Nektokaris! We had an agreement! A deal is a deal!

  Atrion and Velm were riding at full speed. Velm had already raised his mace. Suggestion flared around it.

  To Dilfiza, it looked as if a bright red sun had suddenly risen in the sky. It tore through the frozen gloom and bathed the cliff in heat.

  The cold retreated.

  Only for a few seconds.

  Nektokaris laughed quietly.

  — Velm… — he said calmly. — You have no chance.

  He paused for a heartbeat.

  — But a deal is a deal.

  His gaze slid toward the riders.

  — Tell this to Atrion.

  He loosened his grip.

  Dilfiza collapsed onto the stone, gasping for air. She had not even lifted her head when Nektokaris added quietly:

  — As you can see… even falling into the abyss does not mean death.

  His figure began to dissolve into the mist. With him, the cliff vanished. The blizzard disappeared.

  The world shifted sharply.

  In place of the rocky summit stood the dense pine forest once more. The trees murmured above them, and the ground was soft with fallen needles.

  Nearby lay the body of the third man.

  It was intact.

  No ice.

  But his face remained the same — frozen in terror, the expression he had worn when he stared at Nektokaris within the Suggestion.

  Within seconds, the riders reached her. Velm leapt from his horse and dropped beside Dilfiza, wrapping his cloak around her. His hands glowed with a faint warmth as he tried to drive the cold from her body.

  Atrion stood over them.

  — What happened?

  Dilfiza looked up at him with wide, trembling eyes. Her lips quivered.

  — What… have we done… — she whispered.

  Then suddenly she screamed:

  — What have we done?!

  Tears streamed down her face.

  Atrion bent closer.

  — What did he do?

  — He tricked us! — She cried. — Why… why did you believe him?

  — What did he say?

  Dilfiza drew in a shaky breath.

  — He said… “a deal is a deal.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  — But that’s nonsense. Your deal means nothing.

  Atrion’s voice sharpened.

  — Then what matters?

  Dilfiza looked at him for several long seconds.

  — What matters… is that he is the Sixth.

  Silence fell over the forest.

  — No one… will be able to stop him.