Part 1: The Shadow on the Rooftop

  Lelya learned of the Geron king's death on her third day at the Academy — a snippet of conversation in a corridor, anxious glances from the senior mages, a lecture suddenly cancelled. She didn't yet understand what it meant. Years later, she would: that day marked the beginning of what would change everything.

  Night over the capital of Monolith never darkened — it shimmered with screens on facades and office lights. Cars drifted along the avenue, humming, glinting. Somewhere below, an electronic bass-line pulsed, muted as if through water.

  Varvara stood on a high-rise rooftop. Plain coat, hood up, bracelet switched off. Wind tugged at her hem, carrying the damp smell of concrete. She gazed down without moving.

  When he appeared, she only turned her head. A man in black stood by the edge of a service unit — hood low, hands at his sides. She had been waiting for him.

  "The king is dead," he said. "Two days ago. Ingvara is already gathering supporters."

  Varvara nodded without a word.

  "She's calling everyone who still remembers what the word 'geron' means," he continued. "She's invoking the oath of El-Memorium. Arot hesitates."

  Varvara turned her gaze to the river, where a train's lights flickered past.

  "What about your successor?" the shadow asked.

  "Not found yet," Varvara answered quietly.

  The man in black dissolved into darkness as simply as he had arrived—one step, two, then nothing. Only Varvara remained on the roof. The city didn't know that this night in Kiudar-Muna, the City of Kings, something else had begun.

  Part 2: Two Candidates, One Throne

  Kiudar-Muna held still — like a beast before it springs. Spiral tiers rose into the clouds, a white stairway stretched toward the palace where fates are decided. Here time seemed deliberately slowed: not for beauty—for memory. The city froze in the Old Era, when it had been destroyed. It didn't flaunt technology, but used it when required — the rules were simple and strict.

  Silence filled the hall of farewell. On a low pedestal lay the body of the king who had held the balance for so many years. His sword rested on his chest, his eyes closed. Ingvara stood in the half-shadow of the colonnade. A dress the color of night, copper hair loose over her shoulders. She had not approached, had not bowed: the era was over, rituals no longer held.

  On the opposite side — Arot, still the supporters of compromise. Even, composed, without gestures.

  Ingvara stepped into the center and broke the symmetry.

  "The king has departed," she said. "That means power returns to those willing to answer for it."

  A soft murmur rippled through the rows.

  Arot stepped forward.

  "Do you want to revive the throne? Or simply occupy it?" he asked.

  "I want the Gerons to remember who they are," said Ingvara. "We've forgotten what we were. People called us to lead them into battle and build cities. We are the blood upon which the human empire was built. And then humans decided our time had passed, and they drove us out. They erased us from records, hunted us like animals. And not only humans. Mages have dirty hands too."

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  "There was no Council of Elders then," Arot reminded calmly. "The Council that rebuilt Kiudar-Muna and returned a homeland to the Gerons."

  Ingvara wasn't looking at Arot; she was looking at the hall, answering him but addressing everyone.

  "Now mages lead nations and write laws. And the Gerons — one voice among many. They left us a seat on the Council — a place where we are listened to, but not heard."

  "That's a compromise," said Arot. "Without it, we wouldn't be here."

  "But we are here," Ingvara replied. "Which means we can remind them. Not about revenge — about duty. Mages must recognize the authority of the Geron king — not symbolic, but real. Not as a gift. As a debt."

  "Are you calling for war?" Arot asked calmly.

  "I am calling the Gerons."

  Ingvara continued:

  "The Gerons have no dynasties. The throne is not inherited; it is chosen. Each generation decides anew — who will lead, and how much it will cost everyone. And today the time has come to choose again. Let us see what the new generation decides."

  The rift began without swords — with a shift in the air. No one left, but many were no longer the same. Beyond the windows, the moon hung above the stairway—and it seemed to measure not the night, but the time until the vote.

  Part 3: The City Chooses Sides

  The city sensed it before it understood. On the lower tiers, people spoke in whispers, but simultaneously, as if hearing a shared signal. Kiudar-Muna knew how to listen—and that was often more dangerous than knowing how to shout.

  "She isn't afraid," said a carpenter in a tea house on the third ring. "And I'm tired."

  "A king should rule, not advise," they whispered by the sanctuary of memory.

  "Maybe if they raise their heads, they'll stop thinking of us as a legend," a trader said at the market, and the guard didn't interrupt.

  Ingvara's name wasn't spoken. It stood in the pauses and glances, echoed in footsteps in the corridors.

  Arot sat by the observation circle, gazing down. Each day, the lights in the residential tiers burned longer; conversations broke off when he approached. Simple "yes" and "no" were gone—only glances remained. "She's not offering revenge," he thought. "She's offering meaning. That's stronger."

  By evening, someone had carved the symbol of El-Memorium beneath the arch of the Upper Repository—the ancient oath of the Geron King—and one word: "Remember." No one tried to erase the carving. No one pointed at it. People passed—and slowed their steps.

  The city held its breath. No one was sure whether it would exhale in peace—or in a cry. The choice approached like a shadow, and the shadow was already longer than the evening stairs.

  Part 4: A King by Six Votes

  The palace hall held silence the way stone holds shadow. Voting would begin at sunrise. No speeches, no signals from the candidates: Ingvara and Arot stood on opposite sides of the circle—like two possibilities for the future. The ritual was as old as memory itself.

  Each elector—a Geron by blood and duty—approached the niches with two bowls and dropped a token: dark into one, light into the other. No names were spoken; the decision remained between palm and stone. Ingvara—simply dressed, a pattern familiar to everyone on her shoulders. Arot—in grey, by the western arch; stillness that held neither challenge nor concession. The closer to the end, the heavier the air grew.

  The Keeper came to the bowls. His hands were slow and precise. The count stretched out like a narrow path along a mountain slope.

  "Arot. By a margin of six votes," said the Keeper.

  The hall didn't erupt—it shifted. This wasn't a victory. It was "for now." Several figures in the far semicircle left immediately. The rest stayed. Ingvara neither bowed nor issued a challenge. She turned—and walked away.

  The coronation took place at sunset: simple, almost modest. Arot placed his hand on the bowl of memory and spoke the ancient oath:

  "I do not inherit power. I accept memory. I do not rule. I preserve."

  Within a day, the city was different. On the outskirts, near the old smithy, someone had burned a phrase into a copper sheet: "A true king needs no votes. Only memory." It was read in silence—and not forgotten.

  And somewhere far away in the night city, on a rooftop amid glass and billboards, a woman in a coat switched off her bracelet and looked at the lights. There, where people lived under the rule of mages without knowing how much depended on others' oaths. This was Varvara the Northen, High Mage of Monolith. And even though Arot had been chosen today, the Gerons had shown their preferences: to become kings of humans and mages once more—but now, in the world of mages.