"Home… everyone has their own association with the word, even I. For an alpha-soul such as myself, the concept is tied to the petal 'El'anir,' which we destroyed. A new home is an impermissible luxury for my true essence."
(The lulling rhythm of the wheels and the monotonous landscape outside the window had almost erased the tension between us, but the silence in the carriage was different now—not calm, but deafening. It was still filled with what had happened at "The Solitary Crow" tavern.)
I silently watched Catherine. She sat turned toward the window, her silhouette a tense, still line against the backdrop of the passing snowy landscapes. She wasn't looking at me, but I felt her gaze turned inward, to where the death rattles still echoed and blood stained the dirty snow.
After another half hour or so, Catherine slowly clenched her fists on her knees. This quiet, measured gesture was the first movement to break her stupor. She turned to me, and in her blue eyes burned a question she had likely been pondering for a long time:
"Arta, why are you not afraid? How could you kill those men so easily and feel… nothing at all?"
I held a pause, allowing her words to hang in the cramped space of the carriage, and took a slow, almost human breath. "If you've forgotten, this was not my first kill. It's only difficult the first time," I answered calmly.
"You mean those cultists in Sumerenn, right?" she asked, taking the bait I had laid. My first kill had happened too long ago for her to know about it. And even then, I had felt nothing, as that woman had been a threat to the balance of the universe.
I did not want to deceive Catherine, but I could not answer directly either.
"The first time, as a child, I killed a rat with a fork when I went into the cellar." This was a permissible truth, a fact from the biography of my current incarnation.
"Arta, you do understand there's a huge difference between a rat and a human. You might as well have said you killed a mosquito…" she said cheerlessly, looking away.
She did not understand… Of course, she did not understand. For her, a scale of value existed: human, animal, insect. For me, there are only variables: those that threaten the universe, and those that do not. My story was not an attempt to diminish what had been done. It was the most accurate analogy available to her consciousness, and she had rejected it.
"Listen, it's not about whether it's a rat or a human. I act for reasons of safety. That rat wanted to attack me when I was little," I replied calmly.
"And how old were you then?" she asked skeptically, looking at me again.
"A year and a half," I answered, meeting her gaze indifferently.
"And what were you doing in the cellar at a year and a half?" she asked, not understanding.
"Nothing. My older sister Mary and I were playing hide-and-seek. She's a year and a half older than me. And she locked me in the cellar when she found out I was there."
"Wait… so your sister locked you in there? At a year and a half? That's… somehow wrong," she said indignantly.
"She was little. It's foolish to blame her for it now," I objected. Catherine shook her head.
"So be it." Her expression darkened, and she paused reluctantly. "But I don't know what to be more surprised about, Arta: that you were playing hide-and-seek at a year and a half, or that you killed a rat at that age." She pressed a hand to her forehead, as if checking her own temperature. "And where did the fork come from?" she continued to ask questions.
"The servants' dishes were just stored there, nothing special," I shrugged.
"Do you realize how insane this all sounds? Including the fact that your sister locked you up! Do you know, for example, what I was doing at a year and a half?" she asked with irony.
"And what was that?" I asked, yielding to her provocative question.
"Playing with dolls!" she sighed. "And definitely not hiding in cellars!"
"As you can see, I was an active child," I replied dryly.
"A little too active, it seems…" she muttered. Then Catherine leaned closer to me, her face falling into shadow.
"So, still, Arta, tell me, why did you feel nothing?" she repeated her initial question.
"And what was I supposed to feel? Start panicking and let them rape us, and then kill us?" I asked, deliberately sharpening the question.
Catherine involuntarily recoiled, as if from a physical blow.
"I don't even want to think about that, Arta. I never thought I could end up in such a situation."
Fear was a universal language she finally understood. She was not convinced by moral dilemmas, not by philosophical constructs, but by a simple, animalistic threat to her existence. The structure of her psyche had failed, but it was precisely this failure that allowed her to see the logic of my actions. A cruel efficiency that had finally allowed her to open her eyes. Before I began to speak, I held a short pause.
"No one thinks about it until it happens. One must always think one step ahead, or better yet, several," I remarked, trying to steer the conversation in a constructive direction.
"But still. Why is that? I don't believe you're heartless," she said, lowering her voice.
"If you wish, you may think so. But consider this: what would you do if I were in mortal danger, and the options were to kill the attacker or allow me to be killed?"
She closed her eyes, and a heavy silence hung in the carriage.
"Arta… if I had to kill for you, I would kill. But I can't imagine what would happen to me after," she said, and her left hand on her knee trembled slightly.
I leaned closer to her and placed my palm over her trembling hand. It was slightly warm.
"Listen, Catherine, I am not calling on you to kill. I am calling on you to reason logically and assess priorities," I answered calmly.
"I understand…" she muttered. "Tell me, would you kill someone for me? Not like in the tavern, when we were both in danger…" she paused painfully, "but only for me."
I fell silent. The question was saturated with emotion, but I wanted to answer truthfully.
"I would. But only if you were in real danger."
She smiled joylessly.
"Arta, you know, I don't know how to react to all this." She hesitated and placed her free hand on mine. "It's as if yesterday I knew one version of you, and today you are already different."
"If you consider me guilty, you may. I do not mind," I tried to pull my hand away, but she did not let go, pressing my palm tighter.
"How can I consider you guilty? You saved me…" She swallowed. "You do so much for me. I just don't know if I could have killed those people, if I had to protect you," she said with a note of vulnerability in her voice.
"I am quite self-sufficient, so you needn't worry about me.," I answered coldly.
"Arta… You don't understand! I'm not going to be a burden! I will be strong, to protect not only myself, but you too!" She looked at me with a challenge.
She did not understand what she was saying. To protect me—it sounded too absurd.
"Catherine, first learn to protect yourself. Then we will talk about me."
"But…!" she exclaimed indignantly.
"No 'buts.' I have made myself clear."
"I understand…" she exhaled, then looked at me.
"Listen, Arta. Can you hold my hand so I can calm down? Or am I asking for too much?" She looked me in the eye with a faint hope.
To refuse her would be to force myself to experience that "itch" within my perfect structure all over again.
"Alright. But only this once," I answered coldly.
"Alright," she nodded. With one hand, she interlaced our fingers, and with the other, she covered the back of my hand, then closed her eyes.
We rode like that for the next few hours. Catherine sat silently, enjoying the quiet and calm, while I analyzed her state, which was gradually returning to normal.
***
The remaining five days of the journey passed in relative calm. Catherine had finally let go of that situation, and now I increasingly noticed in her not fear, but a sharp gaze, full of an inner, unshakeable confidence.
The last stretch of our journey was along a snow-covered road. The carriage moved slowly, and outside the window, a strong blizzard raged, and the bare trees swayed as if they were about to break.
Catherine, sitting opposite me, had covered herself with a plaid up to her chin, trying in vain to get warm. I just looked out the window, not registering the details. Only when the weather improved did it become possible to make out the ice-bound river, the empty fields, and the frozen houses by the roadside.
For me, autumn and especially winter were the most structured seasons. Even the human eye submits to the rhythm when all that is superfluous disappears. No extra lines, no unnecessary movements. Chaos in winter froze on its own, and the light dimmed without a fight. Only rare exceptions, like an untamed blizzard and the winter solstice, disturbed my usual rhythm, but I considered them an obvious given.
A few hours later, the carriage stopped at the gates of the Holu estate, in the suburbs of Liranis.
The snow crunched under the horses' hooves. The air was dense and prickly, insidiously penetrating the layers of clothing. Winter here did not forgive either carelessness or haste. The cold was not an enemy—it was the norm, the natural state of matter, where every movement had a price. However, the winters here were milder than in Tarvar, and even that already influenced people's minds.
The estate was not a palace or a castle, but it tried to imitate its grander counterparts in every respect. The towers of the house stretched upward, the walls were carved from white stone. Nevertheless, there was neither life nor death in the lines—only a structure frozen in human dogma, having no meaning for the universe.
Catherine got out first, her gait unhurried. Her decisiveness, dictated by an inner will, was striking, and I watched her step, not quickening my own pace. Jumping out of the carriage and paying the driver, I caught up with her at the entrance, where we were met by a butler—a thin, gray-haired man with tired gray eyes and an indifferent smile.
"Lady Catherine," he began in a practiced manner, his gaze lingering on her new leg. "I am glad you have arrived. And this…" he looked at me.
"This is Artalis Nox, my best friend," Catherine said with pride. The butler nodded respectfully. "In that case, please come into the estate, my lady. And you… Miss Nox," he said with a strained smile.
In the reception hall of the mansion stood a fireplace of regular shape, made of white stone. The fire was decorative: soft, not burning, like everything in this house. Antique armchairs were arranged with precision, but without soul. Everything spoke of an attempt to preserve an order that had long lost the true essence of its structure.
Soon, three people descended the large stone staircase to meet us: Catherine's mother, father, and brother.
Celeste Holu greeted us first with impeccable politeness. Her smile was thin, like a silk string stretched between formality and coldness. Tall, fair-haired, gaunt, in a dark-ash dress with embroidery on the collar, like a fragment of a coat of arms embedded in the fabric. The jewelry was as if on the verge of protocol: a ring with an engraving, thin earrings, a bracelet with a chain clasp. "You look… well, my dear," she said. Her voice was polite and even, but empty inside. "And this, I presume, is your… companion?"
I nodded politely, conforming to expectations. "Artalis Feda Nox. A friend and roommate from the dormitory," I said softly, maintaining the image of a perfect student, and allowed myself a brief glance downward to emphasize due, modesty.
Celeste's eyes slid over the gold inserts on my collar. A quick assessment of the status of a foreigner from the northern empire. "How lovely," she commented, and this "lovely" sounded exactly as mechanical observation could sound.
Edward Holu introduced himself next. He wore a severe, dense suit the color of brown metal. A folded chain on his chest. A heavy collar. His face—stone, with a sharp chin, his gaze—direct, not hostile, but cutting. He did not move a millimeter more than necessary. He was silent. His silence was not neutral—it was weighty. First, he looked at Catherine, then at her prosthesis, and then directly at me, and only after that did he ask a question without any roundabout formalities:
"You invested in this prosthesis. Why?"
Hearing the question, Catherine made a microscopic movement forward, but as soon as she saw my calm reaction, she stopped.
"Catherine had a need. My family had the resources. I satisfied the former, using the latter," I replied politely. After the answer, I politely bowed my head, as the rules of etiquette required.
The last to speak was Heinrich Holu—a young man of medium height with short-cut blond hair and pale blue eyes. He stood slightly apart from his parents and was the first to approach the fireplace where we stood. His figure was relaxed, but not slumped. His cloak—slightly carelessly thrown on. The gloves in his hand indicated that he was about to go somewhere. His gaze was tired but clear; life, unusual for these walls, still flickered behind it. He strongly resembled Catherine, and at first glance, it was clear that he was her older brother.
"A prosthesis like that could buy three estates in Valtheim… Many in the hospital don't even dream of such things, and they are not from the poorest families." Heinrich remarked, a calculated edge to his voice. "In fact, even we could not afford such a prosthesis."
Catherine tensed, though her voice was even and unbroken, "It is a gift, and I am very grateful to Artalis for it, but I suggest we close this matter. The prosthesis was made for me, and there is no financial issue in this."
I noted her composure; her self-control was sharp and flawless.
Celeste held a short pause—not for reflection, but for calculation.
"Then you become a more interesting match for other noble houses, Catherine. The generosity of the Nox family can be beautifully written into a marriage advantageous for us," Celeste remarked coldly.
Catherine did not allow herself a single sigh or gesture. Only the even, pure sound of her words, "Due to the changed circumstances, I do not plan any marriages. I have accepted an offer from the crown. I will serve Evelina Valtheim in the role of a court mage."
Catherine had slightly embellished her current position at Evelina's court, but it was necessary to create the right impression. She was using my own lessons against her parents. Her logic and firmness, the absence of superfluous emotions, were the actions required for a situation of this level. She was not asking for permission—she was informing them of her decision. Paradoxically, my "investment" had not just paid off; it had begun to yield dividends I had not foreseen. She was no longer an object I was shaping. She herself had become a shaping force, and this force surprised even me.
Celeste raised an eyebrow slightly. Edward nodded—he accepted the statement, expressing no emotion.
"Then you also bear the responsibility for it," he stated, his voice like a mechanical recording.
"I bear it, and I bear it fully," Catherine answered confidently.
Celeste narrowed her eyes slightly. It was clear she had more to say, but for now, she decided not to continue. Silence once again settled on the room. Heinrich shifted his gaze from Catherine to me. Then—to nowhere. He said nothing.
Catherine took a step forward. Sharp. Direct. There was no demonstration in this step. Only a final separation.
"I will ask directly. May we stay? Or are my new views so alien to you that I should rent lodging in the city?"
Celeste fell silent; she was clearly thinking something over before giving an answer.
"The guest chambers will be prepared," she said at last, smiling. "You are a part of this house. Even if I… do not understand everything about you."
Edward added shortly, "Until you finish the academy, you can count on our support. After—you will decide for yourself in whose name to act."
Heinrich, without any extra words, stepped toward the door, "I will prepare the fireplace in the west gallery. Come, Cat, I think we have things to discuss." He tried to smile, but it was clear that it was difficult for him. "I will go to the hospital a little later. After all, I have not seen you for so long."
Catherine did not argue. She just looked at him and nodded.
A little more time passed before the servants came and took my things. I followed them, once again casting a glance at the lifeless decor of the estate. Here, where every fragment spoke of a spiritual emptiness, Catherine looked like someone who had chosen to stay—on her own terms, in a house where the ice had always been deeper than the snow outside.
***
Before I could enter the room, Catherine caught up with me and held my gaze.
"Arta, my room is directly above yours, one floor up. Rest. I need to talk to Heinrich and my parents." She shook her head. "You don't think they said everything in front of you, do you?" Catherine's voice was calm, but I caught in it that slight shade of internal mobilization that always appears in a person returning to their formative environment.
"I understand," I answered calmly. "If you need anything, I will be here."
Catherine smiled softly. "I will definitely come to you. Don't lock the door."
She reluctantly left me, and I, without any extra expectations, entered the guest room assigned to me for the winter academic holidays.
The room was spacious, with high ceilings, heavy curtains, and muted textile colors. The furniture was chosen with precision—dark wood, hand-carved; not elegance for beauty's sake, but an attempt to emphasize status. Everything here was noble in design and empty in essence. I ran my palm along the back of an armchair—fine work, but without soul. Like everything in this house: the structure was preserved, but the internal content was erased by time or a lack of need for renewal.
A wardrobe stood along the wall, massive, as if it had been placed here not for convenience, but to fill the geometry of the space. The bed—even, neat, with a carefully straightened coverlet, without a trace of recent use. I placed my bag at the edge of the bed and began to unpack. My every movement was calibrated with hermetic precision, and very soon I was finished with this insignificant necessity.
Surveying the room once more, I went to the window. A snow-covered forest stretched out beyond it. The branches bent heavily under the weight of the frozen snow, and this landscape seemed correct: a world in which superfluous processes were temporarily suppressed, and each form was held only by an internal effort. Everything here corresponded to my initial impression of this place. Just a temporary refuge, a place where I had allowed myself to be.