Part 4: Initiation

  Roslava placed her palm on the girl's crown — right where the fontanelle once pulsed. The touch was light as a breath.

  The pain came instantly — not physical, something else. As if she'd been turned inside out and shown to herself.

  She saw:

  Herself at thirteen, in a school bathroom. Girls laughing, pointing at her hair, her freckles. "Ginger freak. Spotted face." Rage rising in a wave — and the mirror exploding.

  Herself at sixteen. A fight with her mother, words that should never have been spoken. "I hate you!" — and her mother clutching her head, going white.

  Herself at twenty-one. A car running a red light, she leaps aside, thinks: "Drop dead" — and the driver loses control.

  And beneath it all — golden heat. The power that had always been with her.

  When the world returned, she was kneeling in the center of the circle. Her shoulders trembled — not from fear, from recognition.

  "Shifter," said Roslava. "I suspected as much. Now you know too."

  Then came the conversation. Roslava spoke — about Alma, about the Creators who made it, about the mages.

  "We call our world Alma. That's what Elle named it — She who created it. They taught you something different in school, didn't they?" Roslava smirked.

  "Mages were created by Ellu, one of the Creators. Created so we would preserve the memory of losses, heroes, and lessons of the past — because mages are immortal."

  The girl looked at Roslava in shock. "Immortal?"

  "Yes, forgive me for not mentioning it." Roslava nodded calmly. The girl sensed that her "forgive me" was clearly hollow. She had never intended to mention it. "That's what we're born for — to live forever and remember."

  "And my family?" the girl asked quietly.

  "Mortal."

  "So I'll be... burying everyone?"

  "Yes." Roslava looked her in the eyes. "That is the fate of a mage. We are born human, but we live forever. Our children, friends, lovers — mortal. The gift doesn't pass through blood."

  The girl stepped back.

  "Why did you tell me this after the initiation?"

  "Because before it, you wouldn't have believed."

  "And now I'm just supposed to... accept it?"

  "Now you have no choice. You are a mage. You have been since birth. The initiation didn't make you different. It showed you who you are."

  The girl was silent. Outside the window, the sun was setting, and the room filled with golden light — the very same she now felt inside herself.

  "Fine," she said at last. "What's next?"

  Roslava smiled for the first time that day:

  "Next — your name."

  Part 5: A Name

  Beyond the hall — a small room. A low table, black glass, an unfurled scroll bearing names.

  "These are ancient names. Kings and mages of Monolith," said Roslava. "We don't assign a name — we help you hear it. Listen. Not 'like' — resonates. Once you take your name, in the world of mages you'll be known only by it. Your human name will remain secret — for the safety of those close to you."

  The girl bent over the scroll. Names floated before her eyes: Miroslava. Dobrava. Zlatoyara. Beautiful. Majestic. Meant for someone else.

  Yasna. Milana. Radmila.

  She traced her finger along the lines. She wasn't looking for beauty — she was looking for truth.

  I'm not Zlatoyara. Not Milana. I'm the one who goes unnoticed. The one who works in silence.

  Her finger stopped.

  A short name. Simple. Unremarkable — like herself.

  "Lelya," she whispered.

  And felt something inside her click into place.

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  "Welcome, Lelya." Roslava nodded.

  They began to descend.

  "There are four kinds of mages," Roslava was saying. "Battle mages are called to protect mages and humans. Healers heal. Weavers create illusions and get inside heads. And there are those like us — yes, I'm a shifter too. The only ones who change form. All mages draw power from Alma. But we also draw from the Moon. During the full moon, our power grows. You have to learn to control it. Magic doesn't run in blood. It arrives — and stays. Scale isn't chosen either. Shifters are the strongest; then battle mages; then healers; then weavers. This isn't about 'better' or 'worse.' It's about how the scale works."

  "That should be enough for a brief introduction."

  Later, downstairs in the lobby, Roslava handed her a heavy tube bearing a coat of arms and a red wax seal.

  "Your initiation document. With this, you'll be accepted into the Academy. Seventh floor, right from the elevators, to the arch with the stained glass."

  Lelya held the tube like something fragile.

  "And what will I do there?"

  "Learn. Control your power. Understand the laws of our world and its hierarchy." Roslava paused. "Each country has its own Alnar — in other words, a mage government. But there's a place where the fate of all Alma is decided. Kiudar-Muna, the Lunar City. That's where the Council of Elders convenes, where the Geron kings live."

  "Gerons?"

  "Half-bloods of humans and an ancient race. They once ruled humans. Now... now it's more complicated." Roslava gave a slight smirk. "But that's for later. First — the Academy."

  The seventh floor turned out to be drier and cooler. A narrow corridor led to a stained-glass arch; the colored glass scattered the light into strips of gold and blue.

  Lelya stepped toward the arch — and at that same moment, a tall man emerged from a side corridor. Dark curls to his shoulders, precise stride. Olive-brown eyes slid over her and lingered for an instant.

  This was Prince Nikolai Shotsky — Minister of Culture, Education, and Sports, Director of the Academy for the Newly Initiated.

  He turned to Roslava:

  "Brought someone?"

  "Shifter," she replied.

  "Well. We need strong ones."

  "Something tells me she's not exactly a brawler. She's studying international relations."

  Shotsky raised an eyebrow:

  "Nonsense. Shifter and diplomacy are incompatible. They're all..." — he made a gesture with his hand — "hysterical. Can't keep themselves in check."

  "You do remember I'm also a shifter, don't you, Weaver?" Roslava stressed the last word.

  "I know. And I know you won't deny the truth."

  He stepped closer to Roslava and asked, almost in a whisper:

  "Free tonight?"

  "That depends on you."

  He laughed with his eyes only. They walked together toward the elevator.

  Lelya stood by the arch. Kiudar-Muna, she thought. Kings. The Council of Elders. "Hysterical shifters."

  She smiled — too wide for her face.

  We'll see.

  And stepped into the stained-glass light.

  Part 6: The World Beneath

  They descended through floors Lelya hadn't known existed. The elevator kept moving down, past where the building should have ended, into stone corridors lit by something that wasn't electricity.

  "How deep does this go?" she asked.

  "The Alnar has forty floors above ground and seven below. The deeper you go, the older the secrets."

  "And the seventh level?"

  "Archives. Things we'd rather forget but can't afford to." Roslava glanced at her. "You won't have access there for centuries. If ever."

  Centuries. The word still sounded unreal.

  They emerged into a wide hall filled with desks, screens, and people—mages—working in what remarkably resembled an ordinary office. Someone was arguing on the phone. Someone else was eating a sandwich while scrolling through documents.

  "This is the Ministry of Education. You'll start at the Academy—six months of basic training. History, magical theory, combat fundamentals, legal framework. After that, you choose a path."

  "What are the options?"

  "Ministry work. Or military. Or diplomatic corps, if you want to deal with other countries. Or research, if you prefer books to people. You can become an 'inactive mage'—stay living in the human world, not using magic, just controlling it. Many choose that." Roslava opened an office door. "Given your background, I'd guess diplomatic corps. But we'll see."

  Inside, a man was waiting. Dark curls to his shoulders, olive-brown eyes, the precise posture of someone accustomed to being watched. He looked up from a tablet when they entered.

  "New one?" he asked.

  "Shapeshifter. Strong. Was studying international relations."

  The man raised an eyebrow.

  "A shapeshifter diplomat? That's... incompatible."

  "She's unusual." Roslava gestured between them. "Lelya, this is Prince Nikolai Shotsky, Minister of Culture and Education. He runs the Academy."

  "Prince?" Lelya repeated.

  "Old title. Mostly ceremonial now." Shotsky stood, extending his hand. "Welcome to the real world, Lelya. How are you feeling? Overwhelmed? Terrified? Ready to run?"

  "All three," she admitted. "Plus hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

  He laughed—genuinely, surprised.

  "I like her," he told Roslava. "She'll manage."

  Roslava handed Lelya a sealed envelope.

  "Your Academy enrollment. Report tomorrow, eight AM, seventh floor. Don't be late."

  Lelya took the envelope. It was heavier than paper should be—weighted with something, maybe expectation.

  "One more thing," she said. "I'm a shapeshifter, but there are other mages?"

  Roslava and Shotsky exchanged glances.

  "Four types of mages," Roslava said. "Battle mages protect. Healers heal. Weavers work with minds. And shapeshifters—the only ones who change form and draw power from the Moon. Full moons will be... interesting. Shapeshifters are the strongest; then battle mages; then healers; then weavers. It's not about 'better' or 'worse.' It's about how the scale works."

  Lelya caught the look between them—something careful, something hidden.

  She filed it away for later.

  Part 7: First Night

  That night Lelya sat in her small apartment, the enrollment envelope lying unopened on the kitchen table.

  The view from the window was the same as always—a parking lot, a strip of grass, the back of another building. Nothing had changed.

  Everything had changed.

  She picked up her phone, scrolled to her mother's number, and stared at it for a long time.

  You'll bury your parents. Your siblings. Your children.

  She put the phone down.

  Tomorrow she would start learning things most people couldn't imagine, become part of a world most people would never know existed.

  And her mother would keep calling every Sunday, asking about her thesis, about job prospects, whether she was eating enough.

  I can't tell her. I can never tell her.

  For the first time since the café, Lelya cried.

  Not from fear. Not from joy. From the simple, terrible understanding that the person she'd been three days ago was already gone—and the person she was becoming hadn't yet arrived.

  She was in between. Suspended. Neither human nor quite mage.

  Not yet.

  She wiped her face, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

  Inside: a single sheet with the Academy schedule, a map of the seventh floor, and a handwritten note at the bottom in precise, elegant script:

  "Control is not the absence of power. It's the choice of when to use it. —R."

  Lelya read it three times.

  Then she set her alarm for six AM, went to bed, and didn't sleep at all.

  Tomorrow: The Academy.