"This?"
Roxy waved her hand, and symbols flared in the air.
"Water. Flow. Change."
I answered without thinking.
Roxy narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Her finger slid through the air again, leaving a thin glowing line.
"And this?"
"Strength. Suddenness."
She nodded slowly.
"And this one?"
Three symbols appeared before me at once, connected together. I had only seen them separately before, but what did they mean combined? I frowned, recalling the diagrams and patterns we had gone over in recent weeks.
"Breakthrough. Disturbance. Burst."
This time Roxy didn't answer right away. She just looked at me, and a spark flickered in her eyes.
"What?"
She exhaled, crossing her arms.
"You're annoying."
"What?!"
Roxy snorted, shaking her head.
"I thought you'd be stumbling over this for at least a couple more weeks. What the hell? You didn't even look focused!"
"I wasn't. It just… kind of happened on its own."
Roxy stared at me for a few seconds, then a smile tugged at her lips.
"All right. If you're so smart…" She suddenly extended her hand, and another word flared in the air.
I looked at the symbols. We hadn't studied them, but I'd seen them in one of her books.
"Control. Perception. Balance."
"Oh… I should've been giving you harder assignments…"
"You just underestimated me."
"Yeah, sure." She lowered her hand from her face and smirked again. "Fine. If you know the basics now, then it's time…"
She reached into her bag and ran her fingers over some object. A wooden wand covered in runes, with a small red crystal shimmering on its handle.
"…to move on to practice."
I took it carefully, feeling a slight tingling in my fingers.
"What is this? An artifact?"
"A wand for dueling magic and more. It makes it easier to control your power until you get used to the technique."
I frowned.
"And what is dueling magic?"
Roxy smirked and tilted her head.
"It's the kind of magic that does this…"
She extended her hand forward, and in the next instant my legs lost their support. The air thickened around me, I felt a sharp jolt, and before I understood what was happening, I was on the ground, sprawled in the grass.
"WH—"
"That," Roxy finished calmly.
I blinked, shifting my gaze from her to the sky and back. Her smirk shone even brighter.
"That didn't hurt, right?"
"No…" I sat up, rubbing my back. "But it was very unexpected…"
"That's the point." Roxy twirled the wand lightly between her fingers. "Dueling magic doesn't kill. It immobilizes, knocks you down, interferes with attacks. That's what they use in tournaments or sparring between mages."
"In sparring? But don't mages fight with combat spells?"
Roxy snorted.
"Of course they do. If they have no brains."
She took a few steps to the side, arms crossed.
"Imagine this. Two mages stand facing each other. The first launches a fireball, the second replies with an ice spear. One miscalculates and that's it—no sparring, just a funeral. Convenient?"
I blinked.
"Not really…"
"Exactly!"
She touched her chin with her finger, thinking about how to explain it more clearly.
"When your life is on the line, you use everything you can. But if it's training, if it's a tournament, if it's a palace duel where you're not supposed to be blown to pieces… you use different magic."
"And that's dueling magic?"
Roxy nodded.
"It's based on restraining, blocking, and suppressing the opponent. Knock out, stun, bind, topple. Anything that doesn't kill but still makes you the winner."
I thought for a moment, turning the artifact wand in my hands. She went on.
"It's foolish to expect that a spell created to kill will suddenly decide not to just because the fight is a practice one. Magic doesn't make distinctions. It doesn't care whether it's a duel or a battlefield."
Yeah, that actually made sense. I had never thought about it before. In my mind, mages were something like walking catapults: the more power, the better.
But Roxy was right. If every fight ended in death, no one would last long.
"Watch."
Roxy swept her hand, and a blue dome flared around her. A translucent sphere surrounded her figure.
"This is a basic shield. Simple protection that softens impacts. Good against weak attacks, but it won't hold for long."
She snapped her fingers, and the structure changed.
Thin lines ran across the dome's surface, weaving into a honeycomb pattern. Now the shield looked much sturdier.
"And this is the combat version. See the difference?"
"The cells?"
Roxy nodded.
"They distribute the force of impact better. One strong hit won't break the entire shield at once — it'll only damage a few cells. But creating this one is much harder. Understand? It requires control…"
She snapped her fingers again, and the shield vanished.
"Now lift the wand."
I hesitantly raised my hand and then…
"Shot."
A blue projectile flew straight at my hand. Pain shot through my fingers, and the wand flew out of my grip.
I blinked, not immediately understanding what had happened.
The wand hit the grass with a dull thud, and my palm still tingled sharply, as if something invisible had flicked my fingers.
"Damn!" I shook my hand, trying to get rid of the numbness. "What was that for?!"
Roxy stood before me with a satisfied smirk, arms crossed.
"An energy shot — the most basic dueling spell."
"And why did you do that?"
"So you wouldn't daydream."
I shot her an annoyed look, rubbing my hand.
"Ever thought of warning me?"
"Are you going to ask your opponent in a fight to give you five seconds to prepare?" She raised a brow as if hinting the question was rhetorical.
I tilted my head, flexing my fingers. There was still a slight tingling in my palm, but the pain was gone.
"So, an energy shot…" I muttered, picking the wand up from the ground. "The absolute basics of dueling magic, huh?"
Roxy nodded.
"Exactly. The most basic attack they teach first. It won't kill you, but you'll feel it. Especially if you take several hits in a row. Anyway, enough sitting around — you'll be learning these two spells next…"
Roxy extended her hand, and two symbols flared before me.
"The first is Suppression. The second is Burst. In dueling magic, they're used together. One blocks the opponent's actions, the other knocks them off their feet. A simple but effective combo."
I studied the symbols, feeling forms already beginning to take shape in my mind.
"You want me to invoke them?"
"No. I want you to memorize them. By evening."
She raised a finger.
"And then we'll start sparring…"
***
"Lord Philip."
A guard passing through the corridor bowed and immediately continued on his way. Usually, this wing was filled with quiet order. But today that calm had been broken.
Philip was walking down the manor corridor with quick steps.
He could feel the tension everywhere: the servants tried not to get in the way, the guards whispered uneasy fragments of conversation. Something was brewing.
At the turn he spotted Ghislaine.
She was leaning against a column, resting lazily and carelessly, as if nothing mattered. But Philip knew that look and that deceptively relaxed pose. Half‑lidded eyes like a cat before a jump. She had sensed him coming long before he stepped into the corridor.
"Is Father in his office?" Philip asked.
"Yeah."
"What's his mood?"
"Threw a stool. Almost hit Captain Stein. Want to try being next?"
Philip nodded as if he'd heard something completely ordinary, wiped his forehead, sighed, and moved on.
Two guards stood by his father's office. One of them opened the door before Philip even spoke.
"His Grace is expecting you."
Philip nodded and stepped inside.
The room was smoky, smelling of meat and the tobacco of smokeleaf. Sauros stood at the massive table buried under maps, reports, and empty cups. One of the guard captains was in the middle of reporting:
"…if he keeps moving south, he'll cross the old border in two days. We've set posts on the main paths, but if he really united more than three bands—"
"I know how many he united!" Sauros roared. "I know what you're pouring into my ears right now! But you know what I don't know?! Why you're wasting my time repeating what I already read two days ago?!"
The captain fell silent, stepping back with his head lowered.
Philip quietly closed the door behind him. Sauros saw him and waved a hand.
"Out! Enough empty words. If something changes — call me. If nothing changes — YOU'LL GO OUT THE WINDOW!"
He suddenly exploded.
The guards bowed quickly and left.
Only he and Ghislaine remained, the latter appearing in the doorway a moment later. She didn't say a word, just swept her gaze across the room. Her lips twisted in a faint grimace — irritation or boredom.
"So, you've heard already?" Sauros threw out, not waiting for greetings. He poured himself wine, drained half the cup, and exhaled loudly. "The Wildlands are stirring again. I'd just begun hoping I'd live to old age without extra headaches, and here we go again. Like flies to shit."
Philip frowned and stepped closer:
"What exactly happened?"
Sauros rolled the cup in his hand without looking at his son.
"A raven came this morning. Scouts reported that in the Wildlands some bastard started gathering bands…"
Philip looked silently at the map. His gaze followed the routes.
Sauros finished his wine.
"At first we thought it was another brat. But a village was wiped out completely, a patrol never returned, the road is blocked."
Philip slowly shook his head. A thought flashed through his mind:
"Same as always. First everyone thinks it's just another upstart who gathered some scum and is puffing himself up. Then villages start burning, patrols disappear, and suddenly it turns out it's already too late. We step on the same rake every time."
"'Serek the Destroyer is coming.'" Sauros grimaced. "Tch. 'Destroyer', my ass. What does that bastard think he is?"
Philip looked at his father and stayed silent.
There was still strength in Sauros's voice, but now it came through a rasp, through weariness and wine. Sauros still growled, snapped, raged — but to Philip, it was no longer the kind of roar that froze blood.
Legends about his father were still told: how he held a mountain pass alone for three days until reinforcements broke through.
How he pulled a monster's heart out through its maw with his bare hands.
How he commanded units where only those who followed him to the end survived.
Back then, his name was spoken with respect—or not spoken at all out of fear. He was the very lion on his family crest: alive, predatory, unstoppable.
Now he was old, and the crest still hung on the wall, and someone had to earn it. And of course, who but Philip was supposed to earn it? Who else was worthy? His brother James?
Tch. The very thought of that bastard becoming the head made Philip's eye twitch. He'd sooner die than let him take the seat.
"Serek?" Ghislaine repeated.
She tilted her head slightly, frowned, as if trying to pull something long-forgotten out of memory.
Her ear twitched barely noticeably, but Philip knew that gesture. That was how she reacted when something unpleasant came to mind.
"There was a fight," she said quietly, almost under her breath. "I was injured then. Not in the best shape. He… was there."
A pause.
"I retreated. If I'd been healthy then…" she didn't finish.
"You what, lost?!" slipped out of Philip. He couldn't believe he'd said that.
Ghislaine's head snapped toward him. Her gaze cut like a blade under the skin.
"Are you fucking deaf? Or stupid? I said I retreated, not lost. If I'd wanted to kill him — I would've!"
Philip didn't say a word. His gaze traveled around the room — lingered on the sword by the wall, then on the map, then back on Ghislaine. She was the only one whose strength he had never doubted.
If she retreated, then that bastard was strong. But that didn't matter. What mattered was how it would sound now:
"The great swordswoman Ghislaine retreated. Philip won!"
He definitely liked that thought, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. Philip turned away, hiding it.
He already knew he would kill him.
By killing someone like that, he'd make his point to everyone: to Sauros, to the whole damn nobility, to his bastard brother. He was the heir. The one who would claim the title of Protector not by blood, but by right. The one who would become the new lion on the crest.
"Hell of a man," Sauros muttered, pouring himself more wine. "If even you retreated…"
That was the last thing Philip heard as he left the office.
***
Night.
A man walked along the road between the hills. A cloak on his shoulders, a heavy bag on his back.
His hair stuck out as if someone had jammed a broom into his skull. He passed a wagon with a blood‑stained sideboard, a gutted body under a tree, bones ground into the dust.
A village stood on the horizon.
With each step, the sounds grew clearer: laughter, shouting and shrieks, a woman's voice cut off by a man's.
Three men stood at the gate. One asleep, one eating, the third staring at a woman tied to a wagon. Nearby—stakes with men's heads on them.
The figure came close. One of the guards looked up, started to say something, but didn't finish. The first fell, choking. The second collapsed with his throat cut. The third drowned in his own blood, never understanding what happened.
The man walked on. Without slowing.
In the yard near the center stood a long bench. On it—a corpse. Belly slit open, skin pale, lips blue. Something moved inside.
A man in a torn robe sat beside it, slowly and carefully brushing its hair. The brush scraped against the tangled strands. A spider crawled out of the open stomach, climbed down the side, and hid behind the shoulder. The man nodded, as if approving.
"There we go, there we go, handsome. We'll make a prince out of you," he muttered and continued.
To the left under a canopy sat another man. Beside him—a head on a stool. The jester kept turning toward it with comments, carrying on a conversation.
"Oh come on, stop it! She came up herself. Don't make things up! Ah, you old bitch, you're something!"
He fell silent, listened, frowned. Looked into the head's eyes, then leaned back against a barrel again.
"Why so quiet? Mad at me? Don't sulk! We're friends, right? RIGHT?!"
He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed the head's jaw with his hands, pulled it down, and burst out laughing as the mouth opened.
"See? Much better. Already more fun. I knew it—you've got a sense of humor."
The spider crawled out of the corpse again, moved up an arm to the shoulder. The man in the robe felt something and froze. His fingers tightened around the brush. He slowly turned his head.
A figure stood at the gate. A man in a cloak, a bag on his back. Firelight caught his face. From neck to temple ran a tattoo: a peacock tail curled in spirals.
Spider‑man didn't understand who he was seeing at first. When he did—his mouth opened, but no words came.
The phrases forming in his mind fell apart. He started to get up, then thought better of it.
The jester froze as well.
The Peacock stopped beside them. His gaze swept over the corpse, the spiders, the head on the stool, the frozen lunatics. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining a museum piece.
"Cozy. Just like the royal healer's place. Only cleaner."
The Peacock sniffed the air. Slightly grimaced.
"Where's Serek?"
The Spider‑man nodded somewhere deeper into the village, without lifting his head.
The Peacock didn't even look. He simply turned and walked.
The figure entered a house.
"…and then he disappeared…" someone was saying with a strained voice. "My goblans just up and stole my shield! Ran off! And where am I supposed to look?! They're tiny like roaches. Could've gone under the floor. Or into the forest. Or crawled into someone's ass."
"We don't have time to look for your goblans. We need to move on."
"But the shield is an artifact!"
"Then you'll be without it."
Three men were talking.
One with fish-like eyes sat on the floor, tugging at the hair that covered half his face.
The second was painted and dressed so garishly that his clothes looked like a cloth merchant's stall, trinkets jingling at every movement.
The third stood slightly aside and was clearly their leader.
The moment the figure entered, the conversation died. He let his gaze linger on each of them, sweeping lazily.
"Lovely place… And what is this little wonder!"
The newcomer shot a look at the painted man, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a barely noticeable happy smile. It seemed he liked the man's insane style — unsurprising, since he himself enjoyed appearing in a way no one would forget. Just like…
"Peacock? What are you doing here," Serek said.
"Nice taste in clothes… huh? Serek? Sorry, you're so gray and dull I didn't notice you."
Peacock tilted his head slightly, examining his old acquaintance.
Since the last time they met, much had changed — for Serek. Peacock himself hadn't changed: he was still sent wherever an elite killer was needed. But Serek…
"Hmm… I see you're still alive. Strange. Usually the king's useless lapdogs are scattered in pieces by now. You must be like a cold. Get it? No danger, no benefit. Just annoy everyone."
Serek didn't answer.
Peacock straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and stepped forward, making a gesture like an actor taking center stage before the scene begins. He looked exactly like an actor entering his role.
"Let me remember. Let's see… what was it? Why did one of Asura's Seven Swords suddenly become a worthless traitor?"
Serek cut him off sharply, not letting him reach the next mockery. The topic clearly bothered him, and he rushed to shut it down.
"Enough. Why are you here?"
"Tch. I drag myself through this stinking hole and you can't even offer a chair. Your hospitality is astounding…"
Peacock tossed the bag onto the floor. It landed with a sound that made the fish-eyed one flinch.
"This is for you. From him."
"What's inside?"
"Not a pie. Not clothes. Though you could use some."
Peacock paused, then lazily added:
"A little gift you'll want to get your hands on…"
With a quick motion he grabbed a corked bottle of wine.
"…and the best place to do that is the southern outpost."
Serek stayed silent. Then he slowly bent down, took the bag, opened it. Several neatly wrapped cylinders lay inside, wrapped in cloth. He weighed one in his hand, gauging the blast.
"Does it work?"
"Better than your men," Peacock replied, twisting the cork. The wine hissed.
Serek set the cylinder back, closed the bag, sat down. A beat of silence.
"And who?"
"Our mutual acquaintance decided he'd gotten too clever. Went around us. On his own. Boss doesn't forgive that."
Peacock lifted his eyebrows, made a dramatic pause, and smiled, clearly savoring the moment. Peacock always loved listening to his own speeches, and now he practically glowed with pleasure.
"Listen now!" He threw his hands up. "I'm about to tell you something your mind can barely handle. Remember our lovely little slave route scheme? Those cute paths from the Wildlands into Asura where all that is officially forbidden. It worked beautifully, didn't it? Everyone knew what to do, no one asked stupid questions."
Peacock straightened his shoulders, stretched his long neck, held a theatrical pause, and then sang out the next line in a lilting melody, as if performing for an audience:
"Aaaand Foooos decided he's smaaarter than eeeeveryone! That he caaaan ship the goooods hiiimself, without the booooss, without uuus, without permissioooon—" He cut off sharply. "Can you imagine?"
"…"
Peacock took a sip to soothe his throat after what he clearly considered a stunning performance. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Ah yes. And then the usual. Burn a couple villages here and there, slit a garrison — the basics. And toss a few toys around the southern gates. Let Boreas run around. He's getting old; exercise is good for him. Actually no… better if he doesn't run. How will I kill him then? He might escape! Ha-ha."
Serek lifted his gaze to Peacock.
"The duke… this is all about him? Don't tell me they sent you to get rid of him? Everything happening here… all these raids…" He stopped for a moment, searching for the words. "We're just being used for that, aren't we?"
Peacock flailed his arms in exaggerated outrage:
"No! Oh come on, Serek, look at me… Just look at me! Ha-ha! Do I look like someone who goes around killing dukes? I'm an artist, a delicate soul! I'm so delicate, ah… They only ever send me for style, for mood, for a final flourish! Of course not, no, absolutely not!"
He cut himself off as abruptly as he'd started and, turning toward the exit, threw over his shoulder:
"Don't drag your feet, Serek."
Then he lunged forward and disappeared into the darkness beyond the doorway.
Serek muttered quietly, staring after him:
"Fucking lunatic."