The smell of roasted meat, beer, and human sweat had driven out the stench of burning. The great hall of the castle buzzed like a disturbed beehive. At the tables, pushed together into one long row, sat everyone: bearded dwarves in their finest, rune-embroidered doublets; human militiamen, peasants, surviving soldiers; even a few pale, battered soldiers of Vigar, seated at the very end.
Valos sat in the place of honor between his father and Thorgrim. Before him stood a goblet of fine, dark ale, which he barely touched. He observed. His mind, unaccustomed to simple pleasures, automatically assessed the situation: «Mood is elevated, bordering on hysterical relief. The cost of this feast equals a month's wages for the garrison. But it will pay back a hundredfold in loyalty. The dwarves already consider these walls half their own. The people look at my father as a savior. At me… with wary interest.»
— …and I tell you, young count, — Thorgrim boomed, clapping Valos on the back so hard he nearly face-planted into his plate — this victory will yield us pure mithril! Respect! You can't buy it. You can't beg for it. You take it, like ore from a mountain! Your father is a solid rock! And you… you turned out not to be a waste of space!
Thorgrim was drunk. Thoroughly. His monologue on the value of "respect" had smoothly transitioned into a lament about the imperfections of the universe.
— And these masons of yours! — he jabbed a thick finger across the table at Balin, who was gloomily, with the air of a true connoisseur, breaking a loaf of bread into perfectly even cubes. — Rubble! Marl! Limestone! That's not order! That's chaos, frozen in haste! Stones are just disorganized crystals, you understand? Lazy, formless bastards! True beauty lies in the crystal lattice! In geometry! In… the purity of structure!
Balin slowly raised his stony eyes to him. He was not drunk. The dwarves of his clan, it seemed, drank nothing stronger than water. He looked at his boisterous kinsman, then at his bread, and, without a word, stacked the cubes into a perfect pyramid. The answer was comprehensive.
Thorgrim, not receiving the expected debate, turned back to Valos.
— I swear by the beard of my ancestors and the hammer of my clan! The House of the Ancient Hammer is a friend to the House of Tropan! As long as metal flows in our forges! — He rose, raising his overflowing goblet. The noise in the hall briefly subsided. — To the Tropans! To those who stand to the death!
A roar of approval rolled through the hall. Eldrid, sitting with a straight back, nodded, his face softening for a fraction of a second. Valos was forced to raise his goblet and take a sip. The ale was indeed good. «Eternal friendship. As long as we have mithril and they need allies. Perfect relations.»
The feast lasted late into the night. When the last drunken songs faded and the hall emptied, three gathered in the small advisory chamber: Eldrid, Ealda, and Valos. Lyra, like a shadow, stood behind the Count's chair, her eyes glinting in the light of a single candle.
— It was a good day, — Ealda said quietly, but there was no joy in her voice. Only weariness.
— A day of respite, — Eldrid corrected. He looked exhausted. — We won a battle. Not the war. The necromancer was merely a symptom. Like a fever in a sick man.
Valos felt his muscles tense. The time had come.
— He was a tool. Someone gave him the grimoire. Someone inspired him. The demons, the Council of Ten… they will not wait for us to build our walls higher. The threat is not eliminated. Only postponed.
— What do you propose? — Eldrid asked.
— Travel to the capital. To the Queen. Not with a plea for help for our estate, but with a warning for the entire kingdom. The necromancer from the south was the small stuff. If the demons have begun active operations, if they are arming the likes of Nazrik… this is a threat to everyone. We need an alliance. An official mandate. Resources.
Eldrid sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was a massive political step. Admitting vulnerability to the Crown. The risk of being perceived as a panic-monger or, worse, as an ambitious upstart trying to drag the Crown into his own feuds.
At that moment, the door opened quietly. Corvus entered. On his face, illuminated by the candle flame, the new scar looked like a deep chasm. In his hand, he held a small frog.
— A message, — Corvus said curtly. — From Her Majesty's court. Transmitted via Auropod, ALMP system.
He handed the frog to Eldrid. He took it, and in the silence of the room, a clear, modulated female voice sounded, devoid of emotion, like a recorded announcement:
*«To Count Eldrid Tropan and his son, Valos Tropan. On behalf of Her Majesty Queen Angelica. Gratitude for the valor and decisiveness shown in neutralizing the threat on the southern borders. Her Majesty wishes to personally express her appreciation and discuss further measures to ensure the security of the region. Arrival in the capital is expected within two lunar cycles. May order preserve you.»*
The message ended. Silence fell.
Eldrid slowly raised his gaze to Valos. In his weary eyes, a spark ignited — not of hope, but of cold resolve.
— It seems we will not have to request an audience. We have been summoned. And about "uniting the kingdom"… we will discuss it there.
***
The Transit Center in their provincial town resembled a giant, poorly lit barn with pretensions to grandeur. A cyclopean building with a glass roof through which the dim light of a rainy day streamed. In the center of the hall, on a low stone platform, stood three doors. Not mere wooden portals, but frames of dark, polished metal, filled with a shimmering, liquid-like film of light. Above each, floating without touching the ceiling, hovered a black constant-column, covered in barely perceptible, slowly rotating disks.
Around the platform, a wide black-and-yellow warning line was painted on the floor. "Safety distance 5 meters." To the right of the entrance nestled a "rest area": a couple of benches, bookshelves with worn folios, and a wooden cooler two meters tall, resembling a giant's coffin, from which a slight chill emanated. To the left was a door to the technical rooms, and beside it, a large, floor-to-ceiling frosted mirror.
Six ALMP employees in grey uniforms stood at their posts. Two mage-technicians in more elaborate uniforms with built-in crystals fiddled with a control panel, consulting scrolls. Two warriors, a man and a woman, stood on either side of the platform, their postures relaxed, but their gazes scanning the hall with predatory attention. A priest in a simple grey robe with the symbol of the Two Principles on his chest prayed quietly, fingering his rosary. The station chief, a stocky man with an intelligent, weary face and a departmental badge on his chest, was making notes in a log.
Eldrid stepped forward.
— Bertrand. Long time no see.
The chief, Bertrand, looked up. His face lit up with a sincere but concerned smile.
— Eldrid! Damn, I heard… no, read the report. Your family. Incredible. — His gaze slid over Valos, Corvus, lingering on Lyra, whose tail twitched nervously.
— Heroes. In our dull age of papers and protocols.
— Thank you, — Eldrid replied. — We need to go to the capital. Direct route. It's urgent.
Bertrand frowned, rubbing his chin.
— A direct jump… Eldrid, you know the tariff. It's ten times the cost of a chain of three transitions. Plus the load on the local network… I can route you through Holdheim and Falstad, it'll take half a day longer, but…
— No time, — Eldrid cut him off. — A royal summons. A matter of state importance.
Bertrand sighed, capitulating. He waved to the technicians.
— Direct to the capital's Alpha Node. Prepare for reconfiguration. Warning: at this distance, stabilization between jumps will take about five minutes. And… be careful. The "nitrezi" are especially active today. Hungry, it seems. Don't step past the line. At all.
The warrior and priest took positions directly behind the black-and-yellow line, on either side of the central door. The mages froze at the panels.
Eldrid and Corvus went first. They stepped into the shimmering film and dissolved, without sound, without flash. The door went dark for a moment, then the light within shifted to a different shade, flickered, and began to intensify.
Valos watched, a lump in his throat. «Magic as public transport. Except instead of a schedule, it's five-minute waits, and instead of hooligans, it's astral parasites. Just wonderful.»
Five long minutes passed. The light in the door stabilized, settling into an even, white-blue radiance.
— Ready. Next, — Bertrand commanded.
Valos stepped toward the line. Lyra, per protocol, was to follow, with an interval.
He placed his foot just before the line, preparing to step.
The door burst open.
Not inward, but outward. From the even light field, a distortion erupted. First, a diamond-shaped eye appeared, composed of grey geometric shapes, empty and soulless. Then, with a terrifying, grinding sound that made the glass in the roof shudder, a hand tore from the opening. It was grey, two-dimensional, as if drawn by an unskilled child, but moving with nightmare speed. It reached directly for his leg.
Valos recoiled, stumbled, and fell onto his back. The hand, missing by a centimeter, dug its clawed angles into the stone floor, leaving deep scratches.
The priest raised his hand. Three spears of pure light blazed in the air. They struck the grey projection with a dull thud, pinning it to the floor. The hand trembled, emitting an even louder screech.
The warrior, without hesitation, drew his blade — dark crimson steel. One swing, and the severed grey limb crumbled to dust, which immediately evaporated.
Valos lay on the floor, his heart pounding in his throat. He saw that the door remained open. Inside, the same chamber of the capital center was visible, but… the image was blurry, wavering, as if seen through murky water.
— Channel compromised! — one of the mages shouted. — Nitrezi have latched onto the stream!
— Control test! — Bertrand commanded.
The second warrior, without hesitation, hurled a thick wooden rod into the doorway. The rod, reaching the middle of the opening, splintered into fragments in a cloud of grey dust.
And at that moment, a second hand burst from the blurred portal. Larger. Louder. The screech was so piercing that Valos's bones ached, and the glass in the roof vibrated in unison. The hand gripped the edge of the frame, trying to widen the opening.
The warrior lunged forward again, pinning the wrist to the metal frame with his blade. The hand thrashed like a caught fish.
The priest did not wait. He quickly produced from the folds of his robe a simple, worn notebook with a cardboard cover, bearing the eye-rune. He whispered something, and the rune flared brighter. Then, with force, he hurled the notebook directly into the center of the blurred portal.
— Pull back! — he shouted to the warrior.
The warrior withdrew his blade and leaped back. The hand instantly retreated into the portal's depths. The warrior slammed the door's panels shut.
For a second, silence reigned. Then a bright light burst from beneath the metal threshold of the door, and a muffled, compressed pop sounded, like a giant bubble bursting. The screech stopped mid-whine.
Silence returned, oppressive and full of relief.
Bertrand approached Valos, who was still sitting on the floor, and offered him a hand.
— Get up, sir. Congratulations. That's a station record for manifestation size. Usually they're no bigger than a horse. It seems your fame attracts not only admirers.
Valos allowed himself to be helped up. His knees trembled slightly. «A record. Wonderful. I need a home. On another planet. Where there are no doors from which geometric nightmares emerge, no necromancers on skeletal dragon mechs, and no spiders the size of horses. I would, honestly, now prefer to be dropped naked into the Australian rainforest. At least there, the crocodiles are comprehensible.»
Two minutes later, when the technicians gave the all-clear that the channel was "cleaned and stabilized," Valos, gritting his teeth, stepped through the door. The sensation was like falling into an icy waterfall that lasted an infinitely long fraction of a second.
He emerged, staggering, into the Transit Center of the capital. And stopped. Their provincial "barn" was nothing compared to this. This was a cathedral. A vast hall with marble columns, stained glass windows depicting the Triumph of Order over Chaos, and soft, diffused light. There were not three doors, but twelve, arranged in a circle. A low hum of voices, footsteps, and clicking devices hung in the air. People in ALMP uniforms bustled everywhere with businesslike efficiency.
Five minutes later, Lyra emerged from the same door, pale but composed. She shook herself off, her tail bristling.
Gathered in a group of four, they emerged onto the streets of the capital. Clean, paved with light-colored stone, with neat lawns and lanterns powered by magical crystals. The air smelled not of manure and smoke, but of flowers.
They reached a monorail platform, an elegant metal structure on high pillars. A carriage, resembling a glass caterpillar, glided silently up to the platform. Inside was spacious and almost empty.
The carriage sped over the rooftops, gaining speed. The view was dizzying. The colossal Citadel that was the capital sprawled below like a meticulously crafted model: giant, multi-story houses with pointed roofs, wide avenues, parks. And at the center of it all, a massive, squat castle of white stone. Beside it, still under construction, rose a strange spire, not of stone, but assembled from metal trusses like a giant lattice. It looked alien, like a forgotten tool of titans.
At their stop, they disembarked, finding themselves at the foot of a massive building of dark granite, more reminiscent of a courthouse or ministry than a headquarters.
And there, they almost collided with him.
The Fleet Coordinator-Captain of ALMP emerged from the doors, accompanied by two equally stern officers. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped, graying hair at the temples, and a face carved from granite by life at sea and in offices. His uniform was darker, stricter, with gold insignia denoting rank. But the main thing was not the clothes. He exuded pressure. Not magical, but willful. The presence of a man accustomed to giving orders and knowing they would be obeyed. He gave their small group an appraising glance. His cold, penetrating eyes paused momentarily on Valos, on Corvus's scar, on Eldrid's impeccable posture.
— The Tropans. I read the report. Not such a hopeless branch as they whisper at court. At least you can stand up for yourselves. That says a lot.
Not waiting for an answer, he gave a nod, more like a salute, and strode off with a heavy, confident gait, his men following.
Valos exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. «Not such a hopeless branch. High praise from a paladin of bureaucracy. Just delightful.»
Ahead was a small but elegant castle in the royal quarter. Walls of white marble, decorations of red gold. Inside, the same color scheme reigned: white, red, gold. Everything sterile, rich, and soulless.
They were led up stairs and corridors to the top floor. Eldrid knocked on a massive door of dark wood.
— Enter, — a woman's voice sounded from within.
They entered a spacious, bright study. Behind a large mahogany desk sat Queen Angelica. Her golden hair was styled in a complex but severe updo. Bright blue eyes regarded them with an expression of soft, benevolent interest. She was perfectly beautiful, like a portrait. She wore a simple but impeccably tailored cream-colored dress.
On the desk, at two opposite edges, stood two metronomes. Their pendulums swung in perfect synchrony, forming an imaginary line reminiscent of… a cat's face. On the walls hung portraits of cats of various breeds and colors. And by the large, sunlit window stood three bowls. Two were empty and polished to a shine. In the third sat a pile of some expensive, pink pâté.
— Count Eldrid, Lord Valos, — Angelica smiled. The smile was warm, but did not reach her eyes. — Please, sit. I am glad to have the opportunity to thank you personally. Your actions on the southern border prevented a major humanitarian and economic crisis.
She spoke evenly, politely. She listed their merits as if reading from a pre-prepared paragraph of an award decree.
— As a token of appreciation, the Crown bestows upon you a reward, — she continued, opening a thin folder. — A one-time payment of one thousand gold crowns. Four rings with minor runes of protection against Dark magic for you and your companions. And… a voucher for free use of the Concordat service "Accelerated Flora Growth" for your lands. I hope this will aid in recovery.
She pushed the folder aside. The rewards were generous. And… strangely specific. Money, protection against darkness, accelerated plant growth. As if someone had compiled a list of "what a baron needs after a battle with the undead."
At that moment, a small, fluffy black kitten emerged from under the desk. It stretched lazily, walked over to the full bowl, and began to eat. Loudly. Producing a characteristic sound: «NOM NOM NOM NOM.»
The Queen paid it no attention. She looked at them, her smile still fixed on her face.
She leaned back in her chair, placing the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the other, forming a kind of roof.
— Our intelligence reports. The Council of Ten has become active. They are not merely gathering an army. They are preparing for a war over resources. Their lands… are barren. The magic that spawned them burned the soil. They need our land, our food, our souls. The attack on your lands was not the main strike. It was a probing of the borders. Reconnaissance in force.
The kitten finished eating and jumped onto her lap.
— I have already dispatched the air fleet in your direction. But large masses of ships move slowly. They will need three months to reach your borders.
She looked directly at Valos, and in her sky-blue eyes there was not a trace of warmth. Only cold, ruthless calculation.
— Therefore, I give you not only a reward. I give you status and authority. On behalf of the Crown. Mobilize the remaining forces of your barony and the neighboring ones. Fortify the borders. Delay the demonic advance by any means necessary. Just for three months. Hold the line until the fleet arrives. — She gently stroked the kitten behind the ear. — Succeed in this task… and your family will occupy a very different place at court. Fail… — she did not finish, simply smiling softly. — But I am confident you will not let us down. After all, you have already proven you know how to improvise.
The ticking of the metronomes filled the pause. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. An impeccable, merciless rhythm. The rhythm of a countdown they did not have. The rhythm of a sentence they had just heard.
They had not been thanked. They had been given a task. A lethal one. And thrown into the breach with a couple of gold rings and a fertilizer voucher.