“In every game, there comes a moment when the pieces cease to obey the rules and begin to dictate their own will. A true player does not fight this. They use it.”

  [ 09th Lumiran 1749 | Fardin | 21:10 | Market District ]

  Leaving the ostentatious glitter of the Royal Gambling House behind, the carriage plunged into the dark, narrow veins of the merchant quarter. Inside, the air smelled of damp velvet and the stale scent of old leather. The rain had given way to a nagging drizzle that settled on the windows in a murky film, distorting the already squalid world outside. The wheels clattered dully over the wet cobblestones, and each jolt was answered by the creak of the springs, as if the carriage itself were complaining about its journey to this godsforsaken place. The lanterns here burned dimly, their light drowning in the damp air, barely snatching the shabby facades of houses with their dark, gaping windows from the gloom. The merchant quarter greeted us with empty streets and shuttered shops, and only in the sky did two moons shine silently, bathing the stones in an ethereal yellow and a deathly white light.

  The carriage stopped at an unremarkable two-story house, number 10. The plaster on its walls had peeled away, exposing dark, damp bricks, like skin flayed from bone. The windows, black and blind, resembled the empty eye sockets of a skull. Valerian swallowed nervously, his gaze darting restlessly around the dark alleyways, from which drifted the smell of rot and stagnant water. Eriar’s men, grim and silent, stepped out first, their hands instinctively resting on the hilts of their swords.

  “What is this hovel?” Frederik’s voice was steeped in aristocratic disgust. He disdainfully pulled back the curtain, peering at the wretchedness of the street. “Are you certain, Cornell, that one can play anything here besides ‘who catches the plague first’?”

  “A quiet place, Your Highness,” Liam answered in an even tone. “Confidentiality sometimes requires a sacrifice in comfort. Follow me.”

  I was the last to exit the carriage and saw Evelina’s people, clad in the rough garb of common brigands, descending from the slick roofs with calculated silence.

  It was a slaughter. I manufactured a high, ragged scream — carefully tuned to sound like a helpless woman in panic and, grabbing Frederik’s arm, led him toward the basement I needed. He succumbed to the panic and followed me, heedless of the path.

  “Inside! Now!” Liam shouted, shoving the stunned Valerian toward the dilapidated door.

  We burst into the house. A thick smell of dampness, rotting wood, and desolation hit us. A single candle on a rickety table fought a desperate battle against the gloom, casting dancing, grotesque shadows on the bare, mold-stained walls. It felt as if the walls themselves breathed cold and oblivion.

  “To the basement!” Liam commanded, pointing to a rough wooden door in the corner, draped with shreds of cobwebs.

  We descended the creaking, rotten steps. The basement met us with an oppressive silence and a thick, stale air that reeked of mold and cold, damp earth. The stone walls wept moisture, and water dripped from the low ceiling. Each drop striking the dirt floor echoed with a hollow, anxious sound in the quiet. Here, in the dim light of Liam’s magical lantern, which carved out only a small circle of space from the darkness, the illusion of safety was slightly stronger, but the feeling of being in a trap became almost palpable.

  “What the hell was that?!” Frederik hissed, recovering himself. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with fury. “Is this your doing, Cornell?!”

  Before Liam could answer, I took a step forward. My movements were silent, almost unreal in this compressed space. Golden chains of Order materialized above their heads, and in the next moment, they were pinned to the cold, sticky floor.

  “What the devil!” Frederik roared. He tried to unleash his magic of Darkness, but his power was insufficient to break through mine.

  Isa emerged from the shadows. In her hands were two rough burlap sacks. Without a word, she pulled them over the heads of the prince and Valerian, and their muffled, furious cries were swallowed by the thick fabric.

  In the next instant, a new figure stepped into the room from an adjacent cellar—the very soul mage the rector had spoken of. He was a tall man in a brown, hooded mantle that concealed his face. Upon his face was a smooth iron mask, devoid of slits or emotion. His hands were covered in thick gloves. He approached the chained Frederik and placed a hand on his head.

  “Well now, Prince, we shall rid you of that unnecessary, harmful influence,” his voice, distorted by the metal, was impossibly venerable, a clear sign of a noble upbringing.

  “Who the hell are you!” Frederik screamed through the sack.

  The mage said nothing; his hand and body simply began to glow with a pale blue light. The air around us grew denser, and a subtle scent of incense appeared.

  Frederik screamed, an inhuman sound.

  “Aaaah!!!”

  His pain was merely a consequence of a deep psychic adjustment using a chaotic vector. The mage worked on his consciousness methodically, and red streams of energy dissolved, vanishing into empty space, as if space itself were being healed of the malevolent chaotic vector.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The mage began to breathe heavily; the spell had clearly demanded more strength than he had been prepared to give. His hand trembled, the light faded. The ritual did not last long, but it had a colossal effect on the mage, causing him to sink to the dirty floor, struggling not to faint.

  The magic had worked. Frederik, breathing heavily, whispered, “What happened? Why am I here?” His voice was unnaturally calm, a stark contrast to what I had seen before.

  The soul mage answered hoarsely, “You can thank me later, Prince.”

  I altered the magic of the chains so that they bound only their hands, not their entire bodies.

  “Take them out,” the mage’s voice was muffled and tired.

  Liam and I helped Frederik and Valerian to their feet. Outside, Evelina’s detachment was already waiting, and the bodies of Eriar’s men had vanished, as if far more people were involved than it had first appeared.

  “Excellent, hand him over to us,” a muscular man said in a gruff voice.

  “What… What are you doing?!” Valerian cried out in confusion through the fabric of the sack.

  “None of your business, idiot!” Another man approached Valerian and, with a full swing, backhanded him across the face.

  Valerian cried out, and Evelina’s other accomplices moved to take the prince, who was barely standing.

  In that moment, everything changed abruptly. Liam’s face twisted into an unnatural grimace. He clutched his hair with one hand and drew a dagger with the other.

  With an incoherent cry, he lunged, aiming for Frederik’s throat.

  My reaction was instinctive. Instantaneous. It was not a decision—it was a calculation. I understood in that same second that I had lost this game before it even began: Liam, like Frederik, was under the influence of a chaotic vector, and now he was about to commit an act that would be potentially irreparable and would spawn even greater chaos.

  A beam of pure Order, thin and silent, shot from my palm and pierced Liam directly through the heart. He froze mid-stride, the dagger falling from his hand with a clatter on the stone. His eyes, full of a newfound madness, went dark, and then his body collapsed to the ground.

  Evelina’s men glanced at me askance but said nothing, and in a nearby alley, several shadows in tattered, patchwork cloaks flickered. Their movements were too fast, too graceful for random, frightened passersby.

  Frederik and Valerian were led away into the darkness, and a few moments later, Isa slipped behind me and took my arm. “We have to get out of here,” she whispered fearfully in my ear.

  We ran through the night streets, leaving everything that had happened, including the soul mage who was still sitting in the basement, behind us.

  『 ?? 』━━━???━━━『 ? 』

  [ 09th Lumiran 1749 | Fardin | 21:43 | Streets of Sumerenn ]

  We stopped only when our legs refused to run any farther, in the dead end of a narrow, foul-smelling alley. It smelled of rot and wet stone, and from a rusty drainpipe, heavy drops fell monotonously, beating out an anxious rhythm in the silence. The only source of light was the dim reflection of the moons, barely breaking through between the rooftops.

  “Arta, who was that?!” Her voice was a strangled whisper; she clung to my arm, trying to still her trembling. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted among the shadows, as if expecting death to leap out at any moment.

  “Some bandits…” I lied. “Liam… He tried to kill Frederik, I had to… I had to kill him,” I whispered, perfectly mimicking the voice of a terrified girl whose nerves were frayed.

  “What?!” Isa’s eyes widened. “You saved the prince?!”

  “Yes…” I replied, feigning shock.

  “Arta, you did the right thing, but now the prince is in the hands of some enemies!”

  “Yes…” I replied again, sighing sadly.

  “This is terrible!” Isa pressed her hands to her chest, her eyes filling with horror. “Are we… are we going to report this? What happened? That he was kidnapped?”

  “No, absolutely not,” I answered quickly, almost too sharply. “Report everything that happened to your grandfather; inciting public hysteria is very dangerous right now!”

  “But… but he’s the prince!” Isa waved her hand desperately. “They’ll be looking for him. They’ll be looking for us to find out what happened. We have to… we have to do something!”

  I gently pulled away from her. My heart beat steadily and calmly, unlike hers, which was fluttering like a trapped bird.

  “We will do nothing,” I repeated, trying to make my voice sound as convincing as possible. “We didn’t see the faces of those who took them…”

  Isa nodded, but her gaze was still full of confusion. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to get warm. “Yes… I saw that. But why did you… why didn’t they touch you?”

  And there it was—the question I had feared. Logical, inevitable, deadly dangerous. In her fear-filled eyes, a sharp, inquisitive mind burned. She had already connected the dots, and this small inconsistency could destroy the entire carefully constructed legend. Isa would not forget. She would think, analyze, ask questions. This crack in the story would, in time, become a chasm. I could not allow that. Isa was a witness, but she could become a threat. Which meant her memory was a field that needed to be… corrected.

  “I don’t know…” I whispered, taking a step toward her. My voice sounded as sincere as a voice woven from lies could possibly sound. I gently touched her temple. Thin, almost invisible golden threads of Order streamed from my fingers, penetrating her consciousness. It was risky, almost like walking on a razor’s edge. The slightest mistake, and I could damage her mind. For a moment, bewilderment flickered in her eyes, her pupils dilated slightly, and then… everything fell into place. In her new, corrected reality.

  Isa sighed, her body went limp, and she pressed her head against my hand, seeking comfort. The paradoxical question vanished from her memory, replaced by primal fear.

  “Arta! That was so horrible! They nearly killed us!” she repeated fearfully, and now her terror was pure, unclouded by logic.

  “Yes, but everything is fine now…” I said calmly. “Calm down, we’re safe.” I reached out and lightly touched her cheek, feigning concern. “We need to get back to the academy, Isa. I’ll report everything to Evelina, you report to your grandfather. We can’t handle this alone.”

  “But… but he… he’s…” Isa whispered. “If he doesn’t come back, we… we’ll be…”

  “Nothing will happen to us,” I interrupted, trying to sound as confident as possible. “We’ll just wait. We won’t do anything ourselves.”

  Isa nodded slowly. Her eyes were still full of fear, but she seemed to be starting to understand what I was proposing. “Yes, I understand… You’re right, Arta. It’s too dangerous…”

  “Isa, should I walk you?”

  Isa shook her head. “Arta, be careful.”

  I nodded in return. “You be careful too.”

  Isa darted out of the alley and ran off into the night, her movements full of fear and panic, but she was trying to keep herself together. I leaned against the cold, damp wall and threw down my wig, shedding the guise of “Eliza” forever.