Back in our room, I dropped into an armchair like a suffering martyr and opened Elvindor’s “gift.”

  “Alright. Page one. Introduction. ‘Dear reader…’” I snorted. “Dear? Ha! We’re so happy you’ve decided to learn etiquette… Boring. Next.”

  My eyes snagged on a chapter about hygiene.

  “If possible—wash every day. Comb your hair. Keep your nails clean…”

  I glanced at the mirror. Yeah. After flying around and roasting a boar, I looked like some wild forest house-spirit. I had to shut the book and go to the water tub.

  On the way out, I noticed Elvindor practically devouring his own book with his eyes. I squinted at the cover:

  “Fundamentals of Electricity. Author—Merlin.”

  Something inside me jolted. That was my book!

  “Oh,” I smirked. “Decided to study some serious magic, Elvindor?”

  “This book… it’s incredible!” the elf breathed, not even looking up. “Everything is so simple, so clearly explained. I think I finally understand why I could never produce stable discharges before. This is a masterpiece!”

  I just hummed. If only he knew who was sitting in front of him.

  Meanwhile Riza was carefully tracing lines in her geography textbook with her finger, and I decided not to distract her—hunger for knowledge was a rare and valuable gift in demons.

  When I woke up, the first thing I saw was Riza—still reading. It felt like she hadn’t slept at all. And next to her stood Elvindor.

  He looked… specific.

  His normally perfect hair was standing straight up like a rabid dandelion. His robe was suspiciously smoking in a few places, and soot stains marked his face. Tiny blue sparks skipped between his fingers. Apparently, during the night the “great mage” had decided to practice using my method and messed up the polarity somewhere.

  I couldn’t help it—I cackled across the whole room.

  “Hey, Master,” I wheezed through laughter. “Did lightning bite you in the closet?”

  “Only a fool laughs at other people’s mistakes,” Elvindor replied coldly, trying to smooth his hair down—only for it to spring right back up with a soft crackle of static.

  “Yes, Zenhald, that’s not nice,” Riza added without looking up from her book.

  I choked mid-laugh. “What is this? When did you both lose your sense of humor?”

  “Two more hours to pack—then we move,” the elf cut in.

  I reached for my etiquette book, but it wasn’t on the bedside table. It was lying on the floor.

  “You threw the book on the floor, Zenhald,” Riza said sternly. “That’s disrespectful to knowledge. Knowledge is what makes us stronger. Pick it up.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Were they in on this together?

  “Alright, alright.” I picked up the tome and opened it. “So… where were we? Ah. ‘Morning toilette.’ Again? I washed yesterday, for heaven’s sake!”

  But under Riza’s strict stare, I had to comply.

  After the water routine, I came back, sat down, and kept reading:

  “Lazy, slouched postures in the presence of ladies are extremely rude. Avoid noisy actions…”

  Deadly boredom. I flipped a few more pages—and suddenly froze.

  The heading read: “Chapter VII. How to Make a Favorable Impression on a Lady.”

  “Oooh,” I muttered. “Now this is more interesting.”

  I dug in, and here’s what the respectable authors advised:

  Listen more than you speak. A girl doesn’t value the mouth that

  Small gestures matter more than great battles. Offering your hand as she steps out of a carriage, or remembering her favorite kind of tea, earns you more points than killing a dragon. Dragons frighten; attention warms.

  Neatness is the key to success. Even if you’ve just returned from war, your collar must be clean and your gaze clear. A girl should see support in you—not a pile of trash in armor.

  Mystery and politeness. Be courteous to everyone—from servant to king. True nobility shows in how you treat those who can’t answer you back. And a light touch of understatement in your speech creates an aura of mystery that so attracts young ladies.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  I glanced at Riza. She was frowning intently over a map of the Central Plains.

  “Listen more than you speak…” I thought. “So next time she starts talking about the taste of yet another bug, I shouldn’t interrupt with a lecture on invertebrate classification? Hm. Hard, but I can try.”

  “Zenhald, why are you looking at me like that?” Riza lifted her eyes.

  “I…” I remembered the part about “mystery.” “I’m simply reflecting on the fragility of existence—and on how your geography is as vast as my future plans.”

  Riza blinked. Elvindor—who was trying to discharge his hair—froze mid-motion.

  “…What?” she asked.

  “The book works,” I whispered to myself and hid my face behind the pages so they wouldn’t see my satisfied grin. “Though ‘fragility of existence’… that’s probably from the section for poets.”

  We left the city at dawn. I flew along lazily, rocking in the air currents, and pretended to be deeply studying The Art of Manners. In reality, I was scanning for a target to practice those “favorable impression” tips on—but no suitable candidates appeared.

  Riza flew beside me, amusingly copying my posture: she held her geography book in front of her too, trying to look maximally focused, though her wings sometimes beat a little too sharply, betraying impatience.

  When dusk settled over the forest and we made camp, it was time to swap etiquette theory for combat practice.

  “Enough books for today,” I said, setting the tome aside. “Get the spear.”

  Riza transformed instantly. She drew her new weapon; the steel point flashed coldly in the firelight. I stood opposite her, watching carefully how she held the shaft.

  “Listen and remember,” I began, circling her. “The spear is the most basic weapon—and at the same time the most treacherous weapon in history. It’s the foundation. For simple tasks it’s perfect, but if you want to be truly strong, you’ll have to rub your palms raw.”

  I pointed at the tip.

  The kill zone: The most dangerous part of a spear is the last ten centimeters of steel. Everything else is just a stick. Your job is to never let the enemy get past that zone.

  Distance advantage: The spear is made for mid and long range. While your enemy is trying to reach you with a sword, you can stab his throat three times. You set the terms of the fight as long as you keep distance.

  Critical vulnerability: But remember—if a skilled fighter breaks past the tip and gets close, consider yourself dead. A wooden shaft won’t save you from a dagger at your throat. That’s why your feet have to move faster than your hands.

  I made Riza take off a couple meters.

  “Now the important part,” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re a creature with wings. For you, a spear isn’t infantry gear—it’s a diving fang.”

  Inertia: When you drop from height, your body weight and flight speed concentrate into a single point—the spearhead. That strike will punch through even the heaviest armor.

  Throwing: If you’re pinned down—throw it. With your strength, a spear becomes a ballista bolt. But do it only if you’re sure you have a backup plan—or a second weapon.

  Fly-by strikes: You don’t need to stand still. Sweep past, slice with the tip, and return to the sky before they can even swing.

  “The spear takes thousands of repetitions, Riza,” I added, correcting her stance. “Your body has to become an extension of the shaft. The point should appear where you’ve barely had time to look.”

  She nodded, face deadly serious. Until midnight, the forest rang with the whistle of cutting air and the dull thuds of the shaft hitting practice trunks. I watched her and understood: she learned faster than any human. Her movements grew smoother, her thrusts frighteningly precise.

  You’re not raising just a mage, Zenhald, the inner voice whispered. You’re building an ideal killing machine. A reaper of the skies.

  “Fifty more thrusts,” I ordered, forcing down a yawn. “And watch your elbow—you’re dropping it.”

  Dawn had only begun painting the sky a soft pink when I woke to the rhythmic whistle of air. Peeking out of our shelter, I saw Riza. She wasn’t resting. The girl was diving from tree branches, delivering lightning-fast strikes at imaginary enemies. Her movements were sharp and predatory—but there was too much “sky” in them.

  “Come down, Riza,” I called, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “For today—forget your wings.”

  She landed and obediently folded her dark feathers behind her back.

  “Why?” she asked, catching her breath. “It’s easier from above.”

  “Because enemies won’t always wait for you in an open field,” I cut in. “In a narrow corridor, in thick forest, or in a crowd, wings can become a burden. You have to know how to kill with both feet on the ground.”

  I snapped my fingers, and moisture in the air froze instantly, forming a heavy, perfectly balanced sword of ice.

  “Attack,” I took an absurd pose, imitating a clumsy village thug. “Pretend I’m an evil bandit. Raaah!”

  I charged her awkwardly. Riza didn’t even flinch. When I got close, she made a short thrust and lightly poked me in the stomach with the spear tip.

  “Good,” I nodded, dispersing the ice crumbs on my belly. “Now a little harder.”

  I re-gripped the sword properly, the way elite guards are taught. My gaze turned cold. I advanced, cutting distance with jagged, unpredictable steps. Riza grew nervous. She tried to stab me three times, but I simply knocked the point aside with the flat of the blade. Then I was right up on her—ice steel at her throat.

  “You’re dead,” I said quietly. “Your mistake is that you let me cross the line of the spearhead. You didn’t hold the distance.”

  We started again. And again. And another hundred times. Every time I tried to close in, she now reacted instantly with a step back or sideways. When I tried to slip past the point with a sudden burst, she didn’t panic—she blocked my strike with the spear shaft itself.

  “Good,” I exhaled, wiping sweat from my forehead. “But you still let me get within sword range too often.”

  “It’s really hard!” Riza exclaimed, lowering the spear. Her hands trembled from strain. “With a sword it would be easier. A spear has only one deadly point—the tip. A sword has almost the whole blade. If I miss with the spear by even a centimeter, you get past.”

  I paused, staring at her in surprise. “Good catch, kid. You’re grasping the core fast. A sword forgives mistakes. A spear doesn’t. But switching weapons is too late. More precisely: the spear stays your base—but in the next city, we’ll buy you a sword too. Or rather, you’ll choose one yourself with the money we earn.”

  We spent the rest of the day drilling. Elvindor sat off to the side reading his electricity book, occasionally flinching when sparks from his failed attempts singed the grass. But by evening, I was satisfied.

  Riza had changed. On the ground she moved like a shadow. She no longer tried to just “poke” me—she felt the invisible boundary of her safe zone. The moment I stepped, she stepped too, keeping the same two meters that separated my life from her spearhead.

  “That’s enough for today,” I said when the sun finally disappeared. “You did well. Your legs are finally listening to your head.”

  She only nodded, then collapsed onto the grass, exhausted, still clutching her spear.