Night covered the shelter with its heavy wing. Inside, it was quiet—only now and then the sparks of mana crackled, the ones I made flicker under the ceiling instead of a lamp. It was time for theory.

  “Demons have one trait, given to them by nature,” I began, looking at Riza. “You feel mana better than any human. And some species… they see it. Directly. Without spells. You, Riza… do you see it?”

  She froze, staring into the emptiness in front of her. Her brows pulled together, and her wings tensed almost imperceptibly.

  “Sometimes…” she whispered. “When I strain really hard, for a second everything changes. I see… lines. Like thin glowing threads that pierce stones and air.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. Pure talent.

  “Good. Then you’ve got a foundation. We’ll start with water. For your kind, fire would be more natural, but everyone starts with water. There’s a lot of it. It’s everywhere, even in this dry air.”

  I snapped my fingers, shaping a stone bowl out of the floor, and filled it to the brim.

  “Touch it. Feel its weight. Its flow.”

  Riza ran her fingers over the surface for a long time, mesmerized by the ripples. I placed my palm against the side of the bowl. The water boiled; thick steam rose over it.

  “See? It’s the same water. It just changed form. It became steam.”

  Then I sharply cooled the bowl. The steam settled, and the water inside turned into clear, hard ice.

  “And this is the same thing, but solid. The essence doesn’t change, Riza. Only the structure inside it changes. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she nodded seriously.

  She held her small hands over the empty bowl. I saw her go still, holding her breath. Her face reddened from effort.

  “Zenhald… heat it again,” she asked.

  I sent a wave of warmth, and the remaining ice became steam again. Riza stared into that misty cloud. She tensed again—and then something happened. A miracle I honestly didn’t expect so soon.

  Tiny shining droplets began to appear on her palms. They grew, merged, and fell heavily into the stone bowl.

  From nothing? On the first try?

  My eyes widened.

  Beginners usually spend years just learning to move water that’s already there. And she… she pulled it straight out of the air, out of steam. That was a level many mages never reach even in decades.

  I emptied the basin and said:

  “Your task for the night is to fill this basin to the brim. Only with water you create. I’ll rest a little.”

  I closed my eyes, sinking into a half-sleep. The demon body demanded rest, but my mind kept recording the steady drip—drip—drip coming from Riza’s side.

  About two hours passed. When I opened my eyes, the shelter was completely quiet. Riza was asleep, curled up right by the edge of the basin. Her small hand still lay on the stone rim.

  I looked into the basin.

  It was full. To the very edge. The water was clean, cool, and literally vibrating with the energy poured into it.

  She’s an unreal talent… I thought, and my heart pricked with a strange feeling.

  You’re raising a monster, Zenhald, the voice in my head answered immediately, but this time it sounded almost like a warning. With that kind of power… if you don’t teach her properly, if you don’t give her the right path—she’ll become something horrific. An unmatched executioner. Now you’re responsible for what this strength turns into.

  I exhaled, looking at her defenseless face. She shifted, rubbed her eye with a fist, and slowly opened it. When she saw me, she woke up instantly. A bright, proud smile bloomed on her face—so joyful that for a moment I forgot every dark prophecy.

  “Zenhald!” she cried, jumping up. “Look! I did it! The whole basin! By myself!”

  She bragged so funny, pointing at her work, that I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back.

  But the teacher in me was stronger.

  I made a lazy motion with my hand, and all the water in the basin evaporated instantly, leaving the stone completely dry. Riza’s eyes went wide. Her smile died.

  “O-oh…” slipped out of her.

  And then—in a fraction of a second—I snapped my fingers, and the basin filled to the brim again, so sharply that splashes hit the ceiling.

  “That’s how fast you need to do it in battle,” I said, looking at her stunned face. “You did great, Riza. But that was only a lesson in patience. Now we start the lesson in speed.”

  She looked at the water, then at me—and in her eyes fear finally switched to азарт. She understood the rules of the game.

  Three days left to the goal. I checked the map and my inner compass—the crimson peaks didn’t seem that far anymore. They hung on the horizon like frozen waves of blood.

  All the way, Riza didn’t stop training. She walked, and water kept dripping from her fingers—drip—drip—drip—keeping rhythm with our march. She started eating twice as much; magic was sucking calories out of her at a crazy rate. I watched her bite into yet another apple and wondered: how was she not sick of this diet yet? But she chewed with such appetite, like it was the best delicacy in the world.

  When evening came, I built a stone shelter out of habit, to hide from the cold breath of the desert.

  “You forgot something,” Riza said, stopping at the entrance. She looked tired, but her eyes were burning with азарт.

  “What?” I raised a brow.

  “Make the stone basin.”

  “Ahhh. Right,” I smirked and with a short gesture made the stone floor bend, forming a deep bowl.

  She didn’t wait. Riza stretched out her hands—and a stream of water poured from her palms. This time it wasn’t drops. It was a real струя. In about four minutes the basin filled to the brim.

  “Look, Zen! Look! I did it!” She almost bounced from excitement, showing off her progress. Before, it took two hours. Now—four minutes.

  I smiled at her joy.

  But when Riza noticed my smile, she suddenly narrowed her eyes хитро.

  “You’re dirty, Zenhald!” she shouted—and before I could react, she formed a ball of water and threw it straight at the top of my head.

  The ball burst, soaking my face and hair with cold water. I froze, shocked by the audacity.

  “Why you—” I started forming pressure in the air. “And what about you? You haven’t washed in forever either!”

  I ran a hand through my wet hair and felt my fingers turn sticky with dust and soot. In the heat of fights and travel, I’d forgotten completely that I was in a child’s body that needed basic hygiene.

  I really was dirty.

  “Fine. You win,” I grumbled, but there was no anger in my voice.

  I created a strong поток of clean water that spun around us, washing away the gray dust of the Wasteland, leftover ash, and exhaustion. We stood at the center of that water vortex, and I watched the dirt slide off Riza, revealing her clean blue-gray skin and shining wings.

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  When the “shower” ended, I snapped my fingers. The flow of mana transformed, and a warm, gentle wind poured from my hands. It wrapped around us like an invisible blanket, instantly drying clothes and hair.

  Riza closed her eyes in pleasure, tilting her face into the warm струи of air. Her wings unfolded, soaking up the heat, and she made a quiet sound—almost like purring.

  “Good…” she whispered.

  I looked at her and understood: this short moment—clean water and warm wind—was more important to her than all my lessons in “great magic.”

  Look at you, the voice in my head woke up, but now it sounded almost softly-mocking. The great Demon King drying a girl with a warm breeze. If your old generals saw this, they’d die laughing on the spot.

  Let them laugh, I answered in my head. I liked them even less when they were dirty.

  I sat Riza down on the hides. Clean, warmed up—she almost immediately started slipping into sleep. Three days left to the Citadel. But tonight, inside this stone shelter, it felt cozy like never before.

  Morning met us with sharp cold, but after yesterday’s “shower” walking felt strangely easy. I walked, feeling the fresh wind on my face, and now and then I glanced at Riza with a sly look. She walked beside me, stepping carefully, and occasionally twitching the tips of her dark wings, now pressed tight to her back.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she finally couldn’t take it, narrowing her eyes подозрительно.

  “Nothing,” I shrugged, hiding a smirk. “Just thought… Listen, you’ve got wings. Why are you walking instead of flying?”

  Riza froze. Her steps stopped, and she lowered her head.

  “My father… we didn’t fly much,” she whispered. “He hid me a lot. He said the sky is where we’re easiest to notice. If you’re in the sky—you’re a target.”

  A tiny tear flashed in her eyes, and I immediately felt everything inside squeeze from irritation at myself.

  What an idiot I am, I cursed silently. Found the perfect thing to ask a kid who lived her whole life in hideouts.

  But then Riza sniffed—and suddenly smirked. She spread her dark wings. They were much bigger than they looked folded.

  “But he’s not here now,” she said, and there was challenge in her voice.

  She started flapping—clumsy, sharp, kicking up clouds of gray dust. On the third try she managed to lift off. She hovered a couple meters above the road, wobbling in the air, and looked down at me.

  “And you?” There was a flash of real sadness. “You don’t have wings. Are you gonna keep stomping the dirt?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Oh, don’t pity me.”

  I snapped my fingers and simply turned off gravity for myself. Mana caught my body, and I rose smoothly into the air, hovering level with her. Riza got so surprised she almost flipped backward, but she steadied herself and laughed—bright and ringing.

  “The one who reaches that lonely tree first,” I pointed at a twisted trunk far ahead, “wins! And the loser tells a bedtime story. Deal?”

  “Deal!” she yelled—and shot forward.

  She flew badly—it was obvious she had almost no practice. She tilted sideways, flapped too often, but there was such hunger for freedom in every movement that I couldn’t help watching. I floated beside her with levitation, easily faster, but I slowed down on purpose to stay with her.

  But at the end I still poured a bit more mana and touched the branch first.

  “Haha! I’m first! I’m first!” I spun in the air, pretending childish joy.

  Riza landed on a branch beside me, breathing hard, but her face was glowing.

  “Okay, okay, Zen… You win. I’ll tell you a story.”

  For the rest of the day we didn’t really walk anymore. We flew. I levitated, boosting myself with mana impulses, and Riza caught wind currents, getting more confident with every hour. Our speed tripled. The crimson mountains were coming closer frighteningly fast.

  At night, when the stone shelter was ready and Riza had eaten apples, it was time to pay the bet. She sat across from me, hugged her knees, and looked seriously into the fire.

  “This will be a story about the Gray Stone and the Blue Cloud,” she began quietly.

  “Long ago in the desert lay a Gray Stone.”

  “Seriously, about a stone?”

  “Don’t interrupt,” she said.

  “It was very old and very cold. It thought the whole world was only dust and other stones that felt nothing. It lay like that for hundreds of years, until one day a Blue Cloud stopped above it.

  The Cloud was strange. It didn’t bring thunder. It didn’t want to break the Stone. It just looked at the Stone and dropped one капля of water on it.

  At first the Stone got angry, because water was wet. But then it felt that inside it—under the very crust—something warmed up.

  The Stone asked: ‘Why are you wasting water on me? I’m just a stone.’

  And the Cloud answered: ‘Because you can become a home for a flower, if you stop being so hard.’

  And then the Stone allowed the water to soak into its cracks. And after many days, a small green sprout grew from the Gray Stone. The Stone was still a stone—but now it knew it wasn’t alone in this desert anymore.”

  Riza fell silent, looking at me.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  I stared into the coals, and something stuck in my throat.

  “It’s a good story, Riza. A very right one.”

  Did you hear that? the voice in my head whispered, and for once it sounded almost sober. She sees you as the “Blue Cloud.” You’re her hope. But remember, Zenhald—clouds always leave sooner or later. What will you leave her when you have to return to your real goal?

  I’ll leave her a garden, I answered myself firmly. A whole world where she can fly without being a target.

  We reached the very foot of the mountains. Now they didn’t just loom—they pressed down with their mass, radiating the heavy, stale mana of the Higher Ones. I felt a ripple in the air and snapped out an order:

  “Riza, down. Land and stand right behind my back. Don’t move a step.”

  She folded her wings and landed, gripping my jacket. In the same second a figure wove itself out of the gray fog. First it was a shapeless clot of darkness—a Reaper, a product of mental magic. It began to change shape: stretched, formed a human silhouette, and then…

  Its face flowed—turning into mine.

  The Reaper stared at me with my own eyes, baring a terrifying grin.

  The world around us suddenly shook. The Wasteland vanished. Thousands of my copies surrounded us. A solid wall. Each held lightning in their hands, and each whispered:

  “You’re nothing. You’re a mistake.”

  I felt Riza tremble. Her breathing turned broken, her eyes widened with primal terror. She saw thousands of “Zenhalds,” and each one reeked of bloodlust.

  “Illusion,” I said calmly.

  I didn’t wave my arms. I just made a short, sharp exhale and put a tiny drop of true mana into it. A light breeze ran in a circle, barely brushing the faces of my doubles.

  That was enough.

  The world “cracked” like a shattered mirror. Thousands of figures crumbled into ash, and we were back on the dusty road.

  Riza blinked, coming back, and let out a shaking breath.

  At that moment the sky above us split with a whistle. From high above, exploding the ground on landing, a Higher demon crashed down—the first brother.

  He straightened, brushing dust from exquisite armor. His face—beautiful and predatory—was twisted with rage.

  “YOU!” he spat, pointing a claw at me. “Because of you everything collapsed! All our plans, everything we built for years… You destroyed our outposts, you bent our servants!”

  I didn’t answer. I just walked forward, cutting the distance.

  “Your sister…” He burst into barking laughter. “We watched you back there, in the caves. We evaluated you. We thought Mira was the only one with the power to stop us. We prepared traps for her!”

  He stepped toward me, his illusion aura starting to twist into a spiral again.

  “But you… all this time… Turns out you were just holding back. A child playing hide-and-seek behind a girl’s back.”

  I snapped my fingers.

  The sound was dry, like a bone breaking. In the same second, in the demon’s chest—right where the heart should be—a neat through-hole appeared. Mana simply burned through flesh without resistance.

  The brother staggered and dropped to his knees, staring at the wound in mute shock. I walked closer and looked into his eyes.

  “I am a Higher demon of illusions…” he rasped, coughing blood. “I thought I was the best at it… deceiving senses, hiding essence… But you… Zenhald… You wear your mask better than me. You pretend to be human so perfectly that reality itself believes you.”

  He tried to smile, but his eyes were already dimming.

  “You… are the scariest deception in this world…”

  His body cooled. The mana of illusions finally dispersed. The first of the brothers—the master of shadows and lies—fell silent forever at my feet.

  Riza came up behind. She looked at the dead Higher, then at me. In her eyes was something strange—fear of my power, and endless trust.

  “He said you wear a mask,” she whispered.

  I fixed a light strand of hair, returning myself to the look of an ordinary boy.

  “We all wear something, Riza. Come on. Two left.”

  We climbed higher. The air here was thin like a blade and icy. Riza wasn’t flying anymore—she walked beside me, breathing hard, but her gaze was fixed on the peaks.

  “I’ll become just as strong,” she repeated, more to herself than to me. “I have to. So when we reach the sea, I can protect you the same way you protect me.”

  I stopped and looked at her. A small, stubborn girl whose life had only just begun. And inside me, in the darkest corners of my mind, the voice woke again. This time there was no mockery. Only cold cruelty.

  Look at her, Zenhald, it whispered. Those like her—Alites, higher forms—can live tens of thousands of years. Time for them is an ocean. And you? Who are you now? A pathetic human body. You’ll live a thousand years if you squeeze every last drop of magic out of this flesh. But most likely—far less. Your mind will burn out before she even grows up by her people’s standards.

  I clenched my fists. The voice was right. Compared to her eternity, my current span was only a brief match-flare in a dark room.

  You can’t raise her. To her you’re just dust that will settle on her wings and vanish in an instant. You’ll leave, and she’ll be left alone in the world you’re so desperately trying to change.

  “Riza…” I spoke, and my voice came out oddly bright and excited, hiding the storm inside. “One day you’ll become stronger than me. If you truly want it. If you train the way we trained in the shelter.”

  She turned to me, her eyes shining.

  “Really? Stronger than you?”

  “Much stronger.” I smiled—and it was the most sincere and the saddest smile of my life. I stepped closer and lightly ruffled her hair, fixing the tangles. “You’ve got an entire eternity ahead. So much time you can grow not just one apple tree, but a whole forest.”

  I looked aside for a moment, toward the crimson mountains.

  “I hope I’ll live to see it,” I added quietly. “I hope I’ll have enough time to see how great you become.”

  Riza didn’t understand the subtext. She just nodded happily and promised she would try even harder. She saw me as an unshakable rock that would stand forever. She didn’t know that rock was made of the sand of a human life, already slowly crumbling.

  “Come on,” I nudged her forward. “Two brothers left up ahead. We can’t keep them waiting.”

  I walked behind her, watching her small dark wings, and thought that a thousand years is, in fact, a lot—if you fill them with the right words, good bread, and the laughter of one little monster who once called me a blue cloud.

  You’re sentimental, Zenhald, the voice sighed.

  “Shut up,” I answered. “I’ve got things to do.”