The next day, it was not Tulila who came to the class.

  It was the witch in the old-fashioned dress with her hair combed back. With her arrival, a heavy stickiness burst into the air—whether it emanated from her herself or was born from Ortahn's guess as to who she was. The woman silently threw open the door and, once the men had taken their seats in bewilderment, stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind her back, her feet planted wide, excessively drawing attention to herself.

  "Your teacher has fallen ill," she announced in a harsh voice, without the smallest organelle of sympathy. "You cattle cannot be left without human supervision, so I will be replacing her. My name is Ildara-daughter-Sabra of the Black Blood clan, twenty-third rank, teacher of class Fifteen. But this information is useless to you, as you will call me only 'Mistress'."

  Ortahn tensed. He knew enough to seriously doubt her words about Tulila. The gaze of her cold, cooled-steel colored eyes slid over the men, forcing them to lower their heads. All except Yaron. As always, he jumped to his feet with a duty-bound smile plastered across his face.

  "A prosperous life, Mistr—" the words managed to escape his mouth before he grabbed his neck. The skin there instantly turned crimson, as if from a burn, and droplets of blood appeared.

  Ildara's hand, gripping an invisible whip, fly up, and Yaron flew out from behind his desk, flopping to the floor in a formless heap of meat, unable to even cry out in pain.

  "Standing and speaking without permission," Ildara explained. She slowly ran her fingers through the air, and the invisible weapon slid back into the folds of her sleeve with a rustle. "Unlike your previous curator, I do not believe in your pathetic attempts to pretend to be human. You are here for training, and training," she drew out the phrase, just to spend more time with it, "requires discipline and pain. She has spoiled you far too much. But the liberties are over. It's time to learn for real."

  Ortahn looked at Yaron. For a moment, he thought she had killed him, and he felt a pang of pity for the fool, but then the boy began to jerkily return movement to his body. In Ortahn's head, his pounding blood washed over the memory of the words: "A broken man is a safe man." He could feel the spark, awakened by Viya and Esh, being extinguished under Ildara's pressure.

  "Today's lecture," Ildara continued, "is dedicated to the fundamentals of magical influence on living organisms. Specifically, on the nervous system." Her thin lips twisted into a smile, as if before the climax of a witty joke. "In other words, magical torture. Torture is the art of control. It teaches submission, purifies the mind of chaotic male thoughts, and liberates the soul. Torture is a science, on par with anatomy and psychonetics. Magic can be directed into the nerves, the bones, the mind; you can make a person see nightmares while awake, you can make them feel things that nature never even intended. Anything is possible. Torture is..."

  The lecture was long, detailed, and unbearable, not to mention its pointlessness from a learning perspective. Ortahn couldn't imagine a situation where this knowledge would be useful to him. And torturing with male magic seemed impossible; you could only crush someone. Ildara, of course, knew this, and for her, it was a deliberate and very successful act of intimidation. The students sat pressed into their desks, not even rustling their clothes, as if invisible hands were squeezing their throats.

  After the lecture, Ildara led the class to a hangar, where meat homunculi were barely standing—amorphous lumps of flesh, with only faintly suggested limbs. Their skin was the color of spoiled meat, their eyes cloudy but still alive. These clumps of foul-smelling magic moved awkwardly and jerkily. Clearly defective.

  "They are unstable, just like you. Your task is to stabilize them by strengthening their structure. Channel your primitive magic into their muscles," Ildara ordered dryly. "Apply yourselves. Or face the consequences."

  Yaron was the first to make his homunculus explode, which surprised no one. His practical victim trembled and burst into bloody chunks, splattering the floor and his neighbors. Ildara immediately struck him with the invisible whip, and Yaron collapsed, writhing in pain, a bleeding stripe visible through his clothes on his chest.

  One by one, the homunculi joined the state of their exploded brethren. The hangar filled with the smells of alchemical acids and the iron of blood. Damp pops echoed as the walls and floor became coated in organic matter. After each explosion, Ildara would coldly utter, "Punishment," and the invisible whip would find another victim.

  Ortahn tensely tried to pour a drop of anything into his trembling meat-thing. But the male aether had not been kind to him since that day when... when...

  Something warm and slimy hit him in the back, and the surprise sent him flying into his homunculus. The impact broke its legs; bone fragments shot out from where its knees should have been, and it spread out on the floor in a semi-liquid mass. Ortahn managed to turn and catch a glimpse of Vitl, who immediately looked away, pretending to be diligently working on his own whip-wound on his shoulder.

  "Who threw it?" Ildara roared, striding toward Ortahn. Everyone could already imagine the outline of the whip in her raised hand. "Who threw their mistake at the other?"

  "...I don't know, Mistress," Ortahn forced out after a torturous pause.

  "Liar," she pronounced his sentence.

  She waved her hand, and sharp metal spikes wove themselves from the aether around Ortahn's head, vibrating with tension. Their points froze a centimeter from his skin, forming a deadly sphere.

  "Who?" the teacher demanded, her gaze also piercing him.

  "I didn't see, Mistress," he finally said, having no choice but to look directly into her eyes.

  "Playing the hero? Being the fool?" Ildara slowly circled him. "Great. That means you are voluntarily taking the blame for disrupting the training process." She was behind him now, and he could only feel her breath on his ear. "Ten lashes with the bio-whip. These spikes won't kill you, but they will cause serious pain if they penetrate your body, especially your head. Far more painful than the bio-whip; the optic and dental nerves are extremely sensitive. But I leave the assessment to you."

  Ortahn remained silent, because he hadn't been asked a question.

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  "And why are you sweating like a baresteether?" Ildara suddenly snapped at someone behind Ortahn.

  "V-v-very worried about my comrade. M-m-m-mistress," Vitl wheezed. From the state of his voice, it was amazing he was still conscious.

  Then the whip struck—across his back. The second—his shoulder. The third—his chest. Ortahn felt hot blood run down his arms. The spikes before his eyes blurred, their glint turning into blinding circles; visually, they had already entered his eyes. The pain was sharp and searing, burning out his nerves, but Ortahn gritted his teeth, not making a sound. This pain was minuscule compared to Viya burning in his arms. Her whisper of "Live" began to fill Ortahn's entire existence, pushing out the agony, turning it into a distant background noise.

  Ildara continued to hit him, methodically, again and again, until his body grew numb from shock and his blood-soaked clothes stuck permanently to his skin. All she got from him was silence.

  The second lecture never happened—Ildara went to her primary class. Everyone waited until the woman's footsteps had completely faded in the distance, and then waited a little longer, just to be sure. Ortahn was also about to leave, wondering how to find Esh, but the men surrounded him. They started talking almost at once, their voices merging into an excited hum:

  "That's our bald-head! Your gloomy nature came in handy!"

  "Showed that plague jririviska (female baresteether) how men take pain."

  "Did you see that wench's face!"

  "Well, it was even a little... sexy. Her hair got all messed up. And the way her..."

  "A pity such looks are spoiled by an azurt (bad) petty soul."

  "She's from the Black Blood, they're all inzignipp (strange from inbreeding) over there."

  "Did they burn out your nerves too, huh?" Karbo slapped Ortahn on the back with the force of a man who doesn't know what pain from a fresh wound feels like.

  "Mmmmm! Mmm mmm!" Gartan grunted indignantly, knocking the "Great Kinetic's" hand off Ortahn and clearly making a gesture that meant "complete idiot."

  Ortahn looked at them and didn't know what to do with this. His classmates... admired him? Spoke of him as a victor? For getting beaten more severely than anyone else? No. Through their crude excitement, he clearly saw hunger. A hunger for any display of will, for any action that screamed, "We are not cattle!" It was their clumsy way of saying "thank you." Their admiration was a cry for help, and that cry pierced him through and through, unlike the lashes of the whip.

  "Ortahn, I saw Yaron and his cronies, does that mean you don't have a second lecture?" a familiar voice sounded, and Esh appeared in the open doorway. "But the homunculi broke down a bit unexpectedly, so I'll have to take you to your cell."

  She found him easily—he towered over the crowd of his classmates. Coming closer, she saw the state of his clothes and the body beneath them. Esh instantly pushed the men aside, forgetting her modesty, grabbed Ortahn's hand, and led him from the room.

  "How horrible! Come on, I've got a couple of regen-activator capsules in my storeroom. Did you get into a fight with a beast, Ortahn? Are these your practical lessons?"

  In their wake, of course, came a powerful stream of vulgarity mixed with envy. But now Ortahn heard in it not malice, but a desperate desire to seize upon the slightest reason for amusement. To grab hold of life. His worldview had been turned upside down under Ildara's torture spells, but not in the way she had planned. Because of her willful ignorance. The crooked tree.

  He no longer saw his classmates as enemies. He saw a tormented, frightened pack, of which he himself was a part, whether he wanted it or not. The enemy was Ildara and the entire system that kept them in these conditions. His loneliness, which had tormented him all this time, disappeared, replaced by something he had never even considered. Belonging.

  Outside the classroom, Taut joined them (physically; his mind, as always, resided no closer than the opposite arm of the galaxy), and they trudged toward the storeroom. Esh still held Ortahn's hand, as if he were a child who might fall without her support, but he didn't complain.

  After listening to a brief and dry retelling of what had happened, as if Ortahn were recounting the chronicle of distant, unimportant days, Esh said with grim seriousness, "So you chose punishment over obedience. You stood out, and now she'll be on your case like... Hmm. Usually, they say 'like Ildara' around here, But it's her hair that you've ruffled. Like two Ildaras! I'd better give you my whole supply of regen-activators."

  "But what can I do? Escape?" Ortahn joked bitterly.

  "And why not?" Esh replied without a trace of irony. "It's better than becoming another 'unfortunate accident' in Ildara's report."

  Esh's thought deftly penetrated his mind. "Why not escape?" a native thought in his own head met it. And then the answers found them: "I have nowhere to return to. I'll become a fugitive. I'll leave Esh. Unless she agrees to run with me. Then..."

  But what "then" was never born, because they walked out into The Pit. Right into Yaron, Vitl, and Samar.

  "Oh, look who's here," Yaron drawled, taking a wide step forward to block their path. "Our fat hero. Baldy! And the mistress's bloody favorite. Heh. And this... girl is with him. Haven't changed your mind, beauty? Must be boring with this meat monster with a stone mug. I can show you something better than his fatness."

  "Uh-huh," Samar chimed in, twisting his face into a smirk. "They say he's silent 'cause he's got nothing going on down there. For business with women, that is. I'd be sour and silent too, with that."

  Esh tensed but decided not to waste a single microjoule of her energy on a response. Unexpectedly, Vitl stepped forward. His usually murky gaze was unusually clear.

  "Thank you, Ortahn," he breathed out hoarsely. His eyes glistened with unshed moisture. "Not even my own ma has ever done as much for me as you did today."

  Yaron roared with laughter, slapping Samar on the shoulder.

  "Did you hear that? Ha-ha!" he bent over in a fit of fake laughter. "He's fallen in love with our bald fat-walker!"

  Vitl turned red and, fueled by rage and shame, spun sharply on Yaron. Tears flew from his eyelashes.

  "You... you threw my homunculus at him! You set me up, you mutarg (bad person). I thought she was going to kill me!"

  "But nothing bad happened," Yaron shrugged as if it were a trifle. "Just scratched the fat-walker's back. He's got a layer of fat there; he didn't feel a thing. Right?" Yaron stared at Ortahn, seeking confirmation. "Didn't hurt, did it? Or did it? Well, go on and cry then, 'cause it's not raining, and we're bored."

  "Kwate'malpe'Pandemoniumxia-im (your opinion is irrelevant to me, and it should go burn slowly in Pandemonium)," Ortahn said with icy calm everything Tulila had taught him. Fatigue, pain, and contempt merged within him, crystallizing into that indecent but deep word.

  "You..." Yaron's face contorted with rage. He lunged forward, roughly grabbing Esh by the shoulder and yanking her toward him, while shoving Ortahn in the chest with his other hand. "...are rude! You want to spend time with someone like this, girl? Hey, calm down, I won't hurt ya."

  In a normal state, Ortahn wouldn't have even budged, but now he was bloodless and exhausted. He staggered, his blood-soaked boot slipped on the floor, and he collapsed onto his backside. Esh struggled to break free, mentally calculating which part of Yaron's anatomy could be disabled most painfully, but the power imbalance was clearly not in her favor.

  And then the air trembled. It became hostile, heavy, and sharp, making it difficult for everyone to breathe. The light-lines on the walls flickered, flashed unnaturally bright, dimmed all at once, and came back to life. The entire Pit seemed to contract and expand, agreeing with the fury pulsing through Ortahn, breathing in time with his heart. It lasted only a moment. Esh took advantage of Yaron's confusion and tore herself from his weakened grip.

  "Don't waste your time on these coppers, let's go," Samar hissed hoarsely.

  Yaron hesitated, his gaze darting between Esh and a focused Ortahn, but the instinct for self-preservation was present even in his brain.

  "Fine," he gritted out, but his parting look was long and promising. "Later. Got better things to do than waste free time on copper."

  Yaron and Samar hastily departed, almost backing away. Vitl, however, without looking at them, helped Ortahn to his feet along with Esh (and a belatedly arrived Taut).