Another couple of months passed. New Year’s flew by—celebrated with surprising quietness, but balanced by a mountain of pancakes from Aya. It was already the end of January. Time here moved with an indecent speed, as if someone were constantly winding the clock hands forward.

  Our "students" were making progress. Erol and Yara were already conjuring fire spheres with confidence and could juggle orbs of water. Alastor and Aya weren't lagging behind either; they practiced mana accumulation, squeezing the absolute maximum out of their human vessels. It was harder for the adults than the children, but the demons certainly didn't lack persistence.

  Lucia entertained us with "tricks." She showed us how to breathe fire (an impressive sight), how to accelerate strikes with mana pulses, and how to turn an ordinary flame into a dazzling flash.

  Tizor progressed faster than anyone. A child’s brain absorbed magic like a sponge. Watching him, I understood: everything is laid down at the very beginning. If you grow up in a house where magic is served for breakfast, by age ten you’ll become either a great mage or a very dangerous natural disaster.

  As for Aya, she was starting to seriously unnerve even Lucia. The Demon of War learned with a terrifying, instinctive speed. If Lucia showed her a single technique, Aya wouldn't just copy it—she would immediately find its weak points and adapt it for herself.

  Another month passed. February met us with silence and a sudden creative impulse. We were sitting in the living room... painting.

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  I was agonizingly trying to remember how to properly paint a shadow. My head was empty—no composition, no technique, only a vague sensation that once upon a time, I painted better.

  — "Darn it!" Tizor poked his brush into an empty palette, looking offended. "I’m out of yellow! And I have no blue! How am I supposed to paint the sun, the sky, and the river without them?"

  I couldn't help but smile.

  — "You know, kid... I remember a person. He could take just one color and paint the whole world with it so that you would see thousands of different shades. And if you gave him two colors—he would create the entire world."

  Tizor looked at me with awe, and I suddenly... froze.

  The smile slowly slid off my face.

  What was his name? What did his voice sound like? Loud? Quiet? Husky? Who was he?

  I... I... I...

  An icy abyss opened up inside me. Fear, cold and immediate, constricted my throat.

  How did I meet him? Were we friends? Or was he my teacher? Why did we part? Did he die? Did I kill him? Or did he just leave, abandoning me?

  Who the hell was he?!

  My memory thrashed in its cage, slamming against locked doors. Every attempt to break through the fog was met with a sharp pain in the back of my head.

  — "Zenhald!" Lucia’s voice rang out like a clap of thunder, jolting me out of my trance.

  She was sitting beside me, gripping my shoulder tightly. There was an anxiety in her gaze that she didn't even try to hide.

  — "It’s okay. Do you hear me? Breathe."

  I exhaled heavily, feeling cold sweat trickling down my back.

  — "Yeah... it's okay. I just... ran out of paint."

  I set the brush aside. I didn't want to paint anymore. The world had become complicated again.