The silence in the Transit Center was ringing and heavy. Not physically — the mechanisms here hummed with an even, barely audible tone — but psychologically. After the cramped, smoke-and-sweat-smelling streets, this cyclopean space with its glass dome and three massive doors in black-and-yellow frames seemed a temple of an entirely different order. An order that Valos was increasingly beginning to hate. An order that smelled of ozone, cold stone, and melancholy.
He stood with his father and Corvus, feeling like a boy brought to an important meeting of adults. Eldrid was unshakeable as always, but in the tense line of his shoulders, anticipation could be read. Corvus, like a shadow, slightly behind, his red eyes methodically scanning the space, stopping on each of the six ALMP guards — two mage-technicians, two warriors with subdued wills in their eyes, and a priest.
Precisely at the appointed hour, the central door, above which the black column hovered, opened. From the shimmering passage stepped a man who made even Corvus tense.
Fleet Coordinator-Captain of ALMP, Krazmik. Valos had glimpsed him before — a stern, muscular man with graying temples. But then he had been in field gear. Now…
Now he was dressed in the full dress uniform of ALMP: a grey tunic with razor-sharp creases, exuding icy authority. On his shoulder boards were an anchor entwined with wheat sheaves, and beneath it, three golden, soulless eyes, embroidered so artfully they seemed to watch you. On his chest glinted three medals: the first, round, with a white background and a complex black fractal pattern at its center; the second, shield-shaped with crossed lightning bolts; the third, a simple star of dull steel. Each, Valos understood, was a history of suppressed rebellions, pacified anomalies, and blood-soaked "protocols."
— Count Eldrid. Heir Valos. — He did not introduce himself. — Your request has been received and processed. The stabilization team is arriving. You will coordinate the provision of their work on site.
— We are grateful for the promptness, Captain.
— Promptness is the foundation of Protocol. I trust the local authorities understand the degree of… cooperation required of them.
Five minutes later, the door opened again. This time, the sound was different — with a faint metallic grinding. From the passage emerged a certain mechanism. A bulky, square backpack, from which articulated reinforcements extended, encasing the operator's body, increasing his height to Krazmik's level. It was an exoskeleton, crude and utilitarian, but clearly effective. Over it was draped a long, floor-length robe of a deep blood-red color with a deep hood. The face was hidden by a gas mask, from which two thick hoses led back into the depths of the backpack. Above the right eye was a complex device with numerous levers, glowing with a dull yellow light. In his right hand, reinforced by the exoskeleton's frame, he held a strange weapon — a cross-shaped staff-mace of light metal. At the crosspiece was a hollow gear, and at its center was fixed a small metal skull. In its empty eye sockets burned two red mana-crystals, pulsing in time with the barely audible hum of the backpack.
The mechanism stopped. From the gas mask came a voice, distorted by the respirator but not devoid of a strange, mechanical liveliness.
— Engineer-Mechanic Mikael, Sanitation Sector. I was informed my skills are required on these lands. — He turned his head; the gas mask creaked as he surveyed the hall. — There is work. But we must wait for the security circle's rear guard and… one more person.
While they stood, Mikael did not waste time. With his left hand — not reinforced, but dexterous — he opened a valve on his backpack and extracted a miniature metal aircraft, folded from a hundred parts. Then he brought his right hand to it, and the mana-crystals in the skull on his mace glowed faintly. The aircraft disassembled into dozens of parts, hovered in the air, and then, obeying invisible forces, began to reassemble itself, but into a different configuration — something like a tiny butterfly. Absolute, hypnotic precision. Every part knew its place. Magic not as brute force, but as an extension of will and calculation.
Another five minutes. The door opened this time quietly. From it stepped a young woman. Alina. Valos barely recognized her. Not a sister, but almost a ward of the house, sent to study in the capital a month ago. She was about eighteen, with warm chestnut hair gathered in a simple braid, and kind, intelligent eyes of the same shade. She wore a simple but quality traveler's dress. There was nothing of the fearsome mages or soldiers of the Concordat about her. Until she smiled.
— Uncle Eldrid! Valos! — her voice was warm, sincere. She approached easily, embraced the Count, then nodded to Valos. — They told me you encountered a problem. I came as soon as I could.
— And learned a few things along the way, — she said with a slight smile. Then, without changing expression, she slipped her hand into her pocket and took out a pinch of ordinary road sand. She squeezed it in her fist, covered it with her other palm, and between her fingers ran a barely visible ripple — not light, but a distortion, as if the air momentarily became solid and transparent. She opened her hands. On her open palm lay a crystal figurine of a swan, perfectly polished, cold to the touch. She handed it to Eldrid. — A souvenir.
Absolute, frightening ease of matter transmutation. The Singularity of «Glass.» The second circle. She had not simply created an illusion. She had changed the very essence of the sand, its structure, transforming silica into a perfect crystal. Without gestures, without words. Simply… by wanting it.
Eldrid accepted the figurine, nodding silently. Pride and anxiety mingled in his gaze.
— Go to the castle, rest from your journey, — he commanded softly.
Alina nodded and, casting a final, thoughtful glance at the group of «specialists,» left the hall.
The final wait was the shortest. Precisely five minutes later, the central door opened again. The last one stepped out.
A man in an impeccable dark-grey business suit. A suit that did not conceal but accentuated anomalies. His right arm, from the shoulder, was encased in a solid metal framework, merging with the skin at the wrist. The fingers on this hand ended not in phalanges, but in long, thin mithril blades, like scalpels folded together. His left arm appeared human, but the nails on the fingers were unnaturally long and sharp. His face was hidden by a smooth iron mask with five narrow vertical slits for eyes and mouth. Behind them, only dense darkness. On his back, in a special harness, hung three glass cylinder-flasks filled with liquid: green, red, and blue. Thin tubes led from them, fused directly into the metal of the right arm.
He did not introduce himself. Simply stood beside Krazmik, utterly motionless. His "gaze," from behind the mask, was heavier than lead.
***
«And there's the full set,» flashed through Valos's mind as they walked toward the main square under Corvus's silent escort. «A captain-administrator. A technomage-engineer. And… that. The rear guard of the security circle. Judge, executioner, and medic in one. The Concordat is not joking. Or it's joking in a way that makes my blood run cold.»
On the main square of Valosgrad, where not long ago they had buried the fallen, a different ritual was now unfolding. Mikael, his red robe billowing in the spring wind, opened his backpack. From it, he extracted something resembling a corrugated metal tube with a bell-shaped end. On the bell was a universal mounting for runes and a simple button. The mechanic took from a compartment a rune — a disc of white ceramic, on which was engraved a complex magic circle: an outer rim, an inner «Condition Rune» with shimmering words in Asterian, a hexagonal star within which was a hexagon, within which was the Rune of Light (Sna): a circle with two intersecting eyes and radiating lines. He clicked it into the mount.
Then he raised the tube, aimed it at the sky, into the gaps between the spring clouds, and pressed the button. From the rune, a thin, nearly invisible beam of pure light shot forth. It soared upward, and there, at a tremendous height, it flared.
In the sky, a giant magic circle ignited. The same as on the ceramic disc, but the words were different. The clouds around the circle parted, as if recoiling. And a wave of light poured down on the city, on the damp fields, on the forests and hills.
Warm, pure, penetrating through everything. Valos felt the headache that had been gripping his temples since morning vanish without a trace. The fatigue in his muscles gave way to light energy. Even the air seemed cleaner, clearer. The dampness and the underlying anxiety that had hung over the land after the battle seemed washed away by this celestial shower.
Not treating symptoms, but rewriting the conditions on the ground. This was the power of Woven Runes, artifacts, and the bureaucratic machine — capable in an hour of what a village priest would have spent years of prayers to achieve. And this was all a standard, routine «service.»
Krazmik watched the process with the air of a man checking an item off a list. When the circle in the sky stabilized and continued to shine quietly, he turned to Eldrid and Valos.
— The sanitation initiation procedure is underway. It will last three days. Now, escort me to the designated quarters. And familiarize yourselves with the order, — he took from the inner pocket of his tunic a parchment rolled into a tube with the wax seal of the Concordat and handed it to Eldrid, not even glancing at Valos. — On the basis of royal authority and the state of emergency related to the demonic threat, from this moment until the end of the current crisis, all military formations, resources, and the administrative apparatus of the Barony of Tropan come under my sole command. Unconditionally and without the right to debate. You, Count Eldrid, are appointed senior liaison officer to the command staff. You, heir Valos, junior officer. Your opinions will be heard and considered exactly to the extent they are deemed useful for the execution of Protocol tasks.
He spoke evenly, without raising his tone, as if stating the weather. In his words, there was no malice, no arrogance — only absolute, chilling confidence in his right.
Eldrid, pale but unshakeable, took the parchment. His fingers tightened slightly around the crystal swan in his other pocket.
***
The sleep into which Valos fell that night was not like ordinary sleep. There were no images, only concepts. He stood in absolute, all-consuming darkness. The only source of light was a dim red LED, hanging in the void. From it emanated a rapid, insistent sound: a series of clicks and hisses merging into a mechanical trill. Morse code. Accelerated.
«.-- -. .. -- .- -. .. . / --- -... -. .- .-. ..- ...- . -. --- / .-- -. . -.... -. . . / .-- -- . -.... .- - . .-.. -..- ... - .-- ---»
(ATTENTION EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED)
Before him, a figure materialized. Or rather, its silhouette. A man. He seemed carved from black obsidian, absorbing the already scarce light. Details were hard to discern: his right leg from the knee was chipped, and in its place, intertwining and shimmering, were golden nerve endings like wires. The irises of his eyes glowed with cold gold. Hair of the same black glass fell to his shoulders. Above his head hovered a halo, but it was a hollow gear. And around it, on invisible orbits, rotated three smaller gears. On the first were fixed a golden caliper, square, and compass. On the second, secateurs, scissors, a watering can, a shovel, and a rake. On the third, a hammer, blacksmith's tongs, and a strange tool resembling a shovel, but instead of a blade, a spiked triangular collar.
— Hello, Yuki, — the voice was calm, almost friendly, but in it rang metal and the grinding of precise mechanisms. — You can call me simply «I.» I like this letter. It's universal.
Valos (Yuki) tried to speak, but could not. He was an observer in his own head.
— You are currently in the Astral. Or rather, on its very outskirts, where it borders the collective unconscious. See? — «I» snapped his fingers. What flared was not flame, but a tiny, perfect spark of static electricity, which hung in the darkness, momentarily illuminating his metallic fingers. — Reality here is… malleable. Especially for beings like us. The Crossed.
He paused, his golden eyes studying Valos.
— If you want to talk for real… not here, in this sticky pre-sleep mire… find a way to play the «Moonlight Sonata.» Its cold, nostalgic notes… remind me of home. For now, remember this: the right person in the wrong place can change the world. Like a faulty gear can stop a clockwork mechanism… or make it run anew.
From the LED, the accelerated Morse code poured again:
«-.- --- -.. / -.. --- ... - ..- .--. .- / .-- .-- . -.. . -. / --- - -.- .-.. ..-- --- . -. .. . / --.. .- --.- .. - -.--»
(CODE ACCESS ENTERED SECURITY SHUTDOWN)
«I» smiled. The widest, unnaturally stretched smile, which might have been friendly if not for the absolute void behind it.
— And now wake up, My Apapheonix.
***
Valos woke with a jolt and sat up on the edge of the bed. His heart pounded wildly, cold sweat streaming down his back. The room was in predawn semi-darkness. Beside him, in an armchair, motionless as a statue, sat Corvus, his red eyes finding Valos in the darkness immediately.
— Nightmare? — the swordsman asked quietly.
Valos did not answer. He rubbed his temples; his ears still rang with the hissing code and the click… The click he had «heard» with his consciousness.
«Moonlight Sonata. The right person in the wrong place. And that… my god, did he just parody G-Man from Half-Life at the very end? Wake up, Mr. Freeman. Wake up and… smell the ashes? "My Apapheonix"? What the hell…»
He exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of his breathing. This was not just a nightmare. It was a message. From that very «Watcher.» From «I.»
And it meant his suspicions were correct. He was being watched. He was being spoken to. And, perhaps, he truly needed to learn to play a forgotten piano, because the alternative was to remain a pawn in a game whose rules had just been summarily, and with dark humor, begun to be explained to him.
The gears of the Concordat had fallen into place. And somewhere in space, in orbit, or in the Astral, or in the white room of the Library, other, larger gears had also begun to turn.
The first volume of the story of Valos Muldran had ended. Not with a victory, not with a defeat. With the first clear, unambiguous click of the starting pistol in a race whose rules he was only beginning to guess.