My hands were trembling.

  I could no longer feel my palms — only a dull, sticky pain spreading through my shoulders and chest. The stone floor was cold, but even that barely registered.

  — Two hundred eight, — Loreon said calmly.

  I lowered myself again and tried to push up. My elbows shook, my body nearly collapsed, but I held.

  — Two hundred nine.

  — I… — my breath broke. — I can’t anymore.

  Loreon stood off to the side, leaning against the wall as if we were out for a stroll, not inside a training hall.

  — You can, — he replied without mockery. — You just don’t want to.

  I fixed my gaze on the floor. Sweat dripped onto the stone, leaving dark spots.

  — My arms won’t hold, — I forced out.

  — Then hold with your core, — he said, stepping closer. — Two hundred ten.

  I clenched my teeth and lowered myself again. The world narrowed to a single movement — down, up. Pain became background noise.

  — That’s it, go to hell. I’m done. — I muttered, collapsing onto the cold wooden floor.

  — Fine. That’s enough for today, — he said.

  Loreon trained his body regularly, and he’d dragged me into it so he wouldn’t be bored alone. I’d agreed — for my former self, physical exercise would’ve been a luxury. Besides, I liked the faint ache in my muscles after real effort.

  Loreon sat on the bed and broke the silence.

  — You know, I had an argument with one of the merchants today.

  — Not surprising. You love arguing, — I replied. — What was it about this time?

  — An old legend.

  — If this is another story about a great mage who “with a single snap of his fingers”… — I grumbled.

  — No, — he smirked. — The opposite. About a man who was somehow turned into a god.

  I looked up.

  — Who?

  Loreon took a sip from his mug and lowered his voice slightly, as if afraid someone might overhear.

  — Archon.

  I’d heard the name before. Right — Lira had mentioned him. For the Asgards and the Siverians, he was a god. For everyone else… something between a legend and a political myth.

  — Isn’t he… — I hesitated, choosing my words. — Not a god?

  Loreon snorted.

  — That’s exactly my point. Why elevate an ordinary mortal — even a strong one — to divinity? Just because he killed Vailax?

  — Maybe he deserved it.

  He lay back on the bed. His movements were smooth and calm, as if he hadn’t done five hundred push-ups ten minutes ago.

  — Don’t be ridiculous. Archon Virdal Skyran was born in Asgard lands, in the Windblade battle clan. That clan’s warriors were famous for speed. From childhood they drill one idea into you: strength is a dead end — movement is the path. They say he trained not in halls, but on the Storm Plateaus. Where the wind breaks bones. Some claim half the students simply vanished there… blown into the ravines. Asgards love embellishment.

  — And you don’t believe it? — I asked.

  — I believe he survived, — Loreon shrugged. — As for how — that’s where the fairy tales begin.

  He turned toward me.

  — They say he received Aeris’s blessing. Officially, the wind goddess noticed him in battle while he was covering fleeing civilians from vampires. He didn’t pray, didn’t beg — just fought until he should’ve died. And she granted him a gift.

  — Sounds… poetic, — I said.

  — Too poetic, — Loreon nodded. — Some mages believe it wasn’t a blessing at all, but an extremely rare mana resonance. A perfect alignment of conditions. Asgards, as usual, credited the goddess. It’s more convenient that way.

  I thought about that.

  — But the speed, the reflexes… that’s not ordinary magic.

  — That’s the interesting part, — Loreon’s eyes glinted. — Archon didn’t just fight faster. He did something no one had done before. He defined Spiritual Will. A state where a person doesn’t think “I’ll try,” but “I will — even if it kills me.” In simple terms, Spiritual Will temporarily enhances reaction speed, strength, and even mana recovery. That’s largely why he was proclaimed the God of Battle.

  — So it’s like… a magical stimulant?

  — Like what?

  — Never mind. So he invented it?

  — Or he was the first to live long enough to describe it, — Loreon smirked crookedly. — Some believe similar bursts happened before. No one just tied them together into a single concept.

  — But he defeated the strongest vampire in history, didn’t he? I’m not saying that alone makes him a god, but defeating a practically immortal thousand-year-old vampire is impressive.

  — According to the Asgards, Archon destroyed Vailax himself using the Sunblade. But Aurion archives say Vailax had already been weakened during the siege of his castle. Some claim other warriors helped. I seriously doubt he defeated Vailax at his peak alone. That’s the Asgard and Siverian version. Reality was probably different.

  I stayed silent, turning it all over in my head.

  — Do you even care who calls him a god? If the Asgards made him one, so what?

  — Are you serious? — Loreon snapped upright. — The Asgards insulted the true gods by placing a mortal on their level. That’s blasphemy.

  — Loreon, don’t lecture me about sins. Let me eat in peace.

  — Sometimes your indifference amazes me.

  — I just prefer not to clutter my head with useless things. Why should I care what the Asgards call Archon? To me, it’s just an interesting legend.

  He smirked but said nothing.

  Loreon headed to the bath, grabbing a towel and whistling under his breath. The door shut, and soon the sound of running water filled the room.

  I went to the kitchen.

  My body still ached from training, but it was a pleasant, dull reminder that I was alive. I took bread from the basket, sliced off a piece, reached for an apple—

  And then someone knocked.

  Sharp. Short. Not hesitant — but not timid either.

  I froze.

  Loreon was in the bath. His parents were out. We weren’t expecting anyone.

  — Coming, — I called automatically.

  At the door, I glanced through the narrow side window. A man stood outside. Tall. Thick beard. Dark robe. Hood lowered, face visible.

  Unfamiliar.

  I slid the bolt aside and opened the door slightly.

  — Yes?

  The man looked down at me. His gaze was calm — too attentive for an ordinary visitor. He looked at least three hundred years old.

  — You’re Eiron? — he asked.

  His voice was soft. Polite. No pressure.

  I frowned.

  — And you are?

  He smiled faintly — the kind of smile worn by those accustomed to being answered.

  — My name is Malaxus, — he said. — I’m from the Guild. I need to speak with you. Alone.

  Something unpleasant stirred inside me.

  — Loreon is busy right now, — I said carefully. — If you need—

  — I need you, — Malaxus interrupted calmly. — Not him.

  I tightened my grip on the door.

  — I wasn’t expecting anyone from the Guild.

  — I know, — Malaxus nodded. — That’s why I came without notice.

  He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.

  — It concerns something you’re currently keeping. The cube.

  The cube?

  For a moment, my mind went blank.

  Then it clicked.

  The cube. The one under my bed.

  Damn it.

  My heart dropped.

  How does he know? And why now — months later?

  I didn’t step back. Didn’t step forward. Just stared at him as tension slowly tightened in my chest.

  — You’ve got the wrong address, — I said.

  Malaxus straightened.

  — No, — he replied just as softly. — I never get the wrong address.

  Behind me, water still ran. Loreon was still inside. And somehow I understood: if something went wrong right now, he wouldn’t make it in time.

  — Let’s step outside, — Malaxus suggested. — I dislike discussing such matters in a doorway. Especially with the door open.

  He stepped aside, as if certain I would follow.

  The worst part was that a part of me already knew — he wasn’t leaving. Not today. Not without an answer.

  I exhaled slowly and stepped outside.

  We moved into the courtyard.

  The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and grass. The stones still held warmth, but shadows stretched along the fence. Malaxus stopped near an old tree, choosing a spot where no one could overhear.

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  I crossed my arms, more to occupy them than from defiance.

  Why did I even take that cube?

  The thought surfaced on its own. Back then, it seemed like a strange but harmless find. Now a Guild member stood in my yard because of it.

  — Relax, — Malaxus said, as if reading my thoughts. — No one intends to punish you.

  — For stealing an artifact? — I smirked. — I doubt that.

  — You stole nothing, — he replied calmly. — You found it. That’s different. The Guild has no interest in ruining a child’s life.

  He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from inside his cloak and handed it to me.

  — Here’s what you need to do. Bring the cube to a specific place.

  I didn’t take the map immediately.

  — Where?

  — To a well, — Malaxus said. — An old one. In the forest.

  I unfolded the paper. A rough sketch. Minimal detail. The forest looked familiar. Not far.

  — Tonight, — he added. — After sunset. Someone will meet you there.

  — Who?

  Malaxus shrugged.

  — That won’t matter.

  I looked up at him.

  — And that’s it? I bring the cube, and it’s over?

  — Yes, — he nodded. — No consequences. No questions. You return the item — and continue your life as if nothing happened.

  His tone was even. Almost friendly. And that was the most unsettling part.

  I looked at the map again.

  This is a bad idea.

  The thought was clear.

  But another walked beside it: What if he’s right?

  — Why can’t you just come and take it yourself? — I asked.

  Malaxus narrowed his eyes slightly.

  — Because that would raise questions. And you… — he glanced at the house, — …are just a boy who made a mistake. Boys aren’t feared. They’re forgiven.

  I didn’t like that.

  But I had nothing to counter it.

  I folded the map and slipped it into my pocket.

  — Fine, — I said after a pause. — I’ll come.

  Malaxus nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else.

  — A wise decision.

  He turned toward the gate, but paused before leaving.

  — And one more thing, Eiron, — he said over his shoulder. — Tell no one. Not a word. It’s in your best interest.

  The gate creaked softly and closed.

  I stood alone in the courtyard, the map in my pocket and the uneasy feeling that I’d just taken a step somewhere from which you don’t simply walk back inside and resume an ordinary evening.

  Several hours passed.

  For Eiron, they dragged painfully, as if time itself had decided to mock him. He tried to eat — it didn’t work. Tried to read — the letters blurred and refused to stay still. Even lying down and staring at the ceiling proved impossible: his thoughts kept circling back to the same thing.

  How does he know about the cube?

  He went over every possibility.

  Loreon? No. He would’ve said something directly. Besides, he probably doesn’t even know I have it.

  Kronos and Mirella? They don’t know either… I think.

  The Guild? I never showed the cube to them. Not once.

  So someone must have seen it. Or sensed it.

  When the sun began to sink toward the horizon, Eiron pulled the cube from beneath his bed. It was cold, as always. Nothing had changed. No marks. No warnings.

  — I just need to return it and forget about it, — he muttered.

  He left the house quietly, trying not to make noise. Loreon was busy in the workshop, and Eiron didn’t say goodbye. For some reason, he felt that if he spoke even a single word, everything would go wrong.

  The city lived its usual evening life. People were returning home, some argued near shop stalls, children laughed somewhere in the distance. Eiron walked without drawing attention, keeping the cube hidden beneath his cloak.

  As he moved down the street, a man noticed him.

  Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in simple leather armor, worn and clearly not ceremonial. A two-handed sword rested across his back in dark scabbard.

  When Eiron passed by, the man slightly turned his head.

  He felt something — a thin thread emanating from Eiron, almost imperceptible to ordinary mages.

  The Asgard frowned, tightening his fingers around his belt. Without quickening his pace, he began to follow.

  Eiron didn’t notice. He was completely absorbed in thoughts about the strange artifact.

  Soon he had left the city behind, where houses thinned out and the paved road gradually turned into a worn dirt path. The forest darkened ahead. The well was supposed to be somewhere there — near the edge, among old stones.

  Eiron walked quickly, trying not to think about what would happen if Malaxus had lied.

  I was almost at the well marked on the map.

  It was already dark, and I had to conjure a small flame in my palm to light the way. The forest grew denser with every step. I had to push through branches and thick undergrowth, weaving between old trees. At one point I thought I had lost my way.

  But then I saw it.

  The well.

  And a man standing beside it.

  He wore a dark robe. Before approaching him, I stood still for several seconds, thinking about what I would do if something went wrong. He had claimed to be from the Guild — but I had no way of knowing for certain.

  He stood about twenty meters away, his back turned to me.

  Then he slowly turned.

  — Don’t be afraid. There’s no need to hide.

  Damn. He must be a powerful mage if he sensed my mana so easily.

  Fine. Just give him the damned cube and forget about it like a bad dream.

  I stepped out of the bushes.

  It was the same old man — Malaxus, or whatever his name was. I had expected someone else to be waiting here. Why couldn’t he have taken the cube when he came to our house? I would’ve just pulled it from under my bed and handed it over.

  — You have the cube? — he asked calmly.

  — Yes, — I replied, my voice trembling slightly.

  I pulled the cube from inside my cloak and held it out to him.

  Malaxus took it and examined it for a few seconds, as if checking whether I had somehow damaged it.

  Then he smiled.

  — Excellent. Thank you for bringing it. You may go now. No one will know about this. I promise.

  Just like that?

  Why did I expect it to be complicated?

  A sudden wave of relief washed over me, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I no longer had anything to hide. Nothing to fear.

  Hopefully Malaxus would keep his word. Hopefully there would be no consequences for taking the cube.

  He was just about to put it away when he suddenly froze.

  For several seconds he stood completely still. Then his gaze shifted, scanning the darkness around us — as if someone was watching.

  He quickly concealed the cube and raised his hands, preparing for something.

  I had never felt so afraid for my life.

  — Eiron… run. Now. — His voice was low, almost a whisper.

  — W-what? Run? — I whispered back.

  Suddenly, something crashed through the bushes.

  I didn’t even have time to react.

  In the next instant, I felt it.

  I couldn’t move.

  I fell to the ground like a log.

  I tried to scream — nothing came out. Tried to stand — to run — to do anything.

  But my body refused to obey.

  Again.

  That same feeling.

  The feeling of being nothing more than a helpless sack of flesh and bone. Unable to act. Unable to choose.

  They forced me to remember those days I had wanted to erase. To forget completely. To tear from my memory forever.

  Eiron lay on the ground, unable to feel his body.

  His eyes were open, yet the world seemed distant — as though he were watching everything through thick glass. He saw the well. He saw Malaxus — tense, focused, hands raised. And he saw someone stepping out from the shadows between the trees.

  It was a tall man in leather armor. An Asgard — though with dark hair. A two-handed sword rested across his back. His movements were calm, confident, unhurried. There was no stealth in his steps, but no showmanship either. He simply walked forward, knowing he had already been noticed.

  Malaxus slowly turned his head.

  — Heir of the Bloody Throne, — he said darkly. — I suspected as much.

  The man stopped at the edge of the clearing.

  — You sensed me too late, — he replied. His voice was low and even. — You’ve grown old.

  A faint smile touched Malaxus’s lips, but the tension in his shoulders only deepened.

  — And I see you still prefer to enter uninvited, Ragnar.

  The name hung in the air like the snap of a drawn bowstring.

  — I felt the artifact, — Ragnar said, without looking at Eiron. — Then I felt you. The coincidence seemed too convenient.

  Malaxus shifted slightly, positioning himself in front of the well.

  — The boy has nothing to do with this, — he said. — He’s just a courier.

  — They all say that, — Ragnar replied calmly. — Until it’s too late.

  He stepped forward.

  The ground trembled.

  With a heavy crack, thick roots — some stretching up to twenty meters — burst from beneath the soil. They lashed between Ragnar and Malaxus, twisting and interweaving, sealing the space. A moment later, a basalt wall rose from the earth — uneven, massive, veined with hardened magma.

  Ragnar stopped.

  — Still hiding behind stone? — he asked.

  — I prefer staying alive, — Malaxus replied, flicking his hand.

  The roots lunged forward.

  Ragnar vanished — not literally, but he moved so fast that to the human eye it looked like teleportation. A surge of energy tore through the ground, ripping open the soil. One root exploded into splinters and ash. Ragnar reappeared at the side, not attacking yet — testing distance.

  Malaxus stepped back and raised another wall. Then a third. He wasn’t trying to strike — he was enclosing, compressing the space, denying approach.

  Stone projectiles shot from Malaxus’s hands. Ragnar dodged most of them; one grazed his shoulder, cracking the armor — but he didn’t slow.

  An electric pulse rippled through the basalt. The stone shuddered.

  — You’ve gotten faster, — Malaxus said.

  — And you’ve grown cautious, — Ragnar answered. — That’s not a good sign.

  Ragnar surged forward.

  He didn’t run along the ground — he seemed to fly over it. The rising roots became footholds; he touched them for fractions of a second, pushing off, changing direction mid-air. Each step was accompanied by a brief electric discharge, as if the air itself propelled him onward.

  He sliced through the first root mid-leap.

  Split the second lengthwise, running along it like a bridge.

  The third exploded under the strain of his energy.

  Malaxus clenched his fist sharply.

  The earth responded with a roar. A thick basalt wall erupted directly in Ragnar’s path.

  He didn’t stop.

  The Asgard crashed into it shoulder-first, and at that same instant a powerful surge coursed through his body. Lightning spread across the stone in branching veins. The wall cracked, fractured — and collapsed in heavy slabs. Ragnar emerged through the dust, already turning for his strike.

  — Too slow, — he said.

  Malaxus barely raised his arm in time.

  Dozens of roots burst upward at once — not chaotically, but in layers, crossing trajectories, attempting to suffocate the space. One wrapped around Ragnar’s leg. Another coiled around his arm. Electricity flared; the roots smoked — but held for a fraction of a second.

  That was enough.

  Malaxus struck — not just with magic, but with his entire body, channeling force into a wave of stone. The earth rose and crashed forward, sweeping everything in its path.

  Ragnar was hurled backward, slamming into a tree trunk and dropping to the ground. He rose immediately — but this time, slower.

  Malaxus was breathing heavily now. Sweat coated his forehead. His breath came unevenly.

  — Leave, — he rasped. — You already know this isn’t your target.

  Ragnar didn’t answer.

  He moved forward again — step by step — cutting through roots with single strokes of his blade. Basalt no longer rose in solid walls; Malaxus couldn’t keep up. The stone jerked upward unevenly, incomplete.

  In the next instant, Ragnar was too close.

  Malaxus tried to turn — but the sword was already descending in an arc. It didn’t merely cut — it burned, carving a deep, smoking wound across his side.

  Malaxus cried out and staggered back.

  Something slipped from beneath his cloak and struck the stones with a dull sound.

  The cube.

  For a second, both froze.

  Ragnar shifted his gaze from the wound to the ground.

  Malaxus understood instantly.

  — Damn it… — he breathed.

  He slammed his palms against the earth.

  Roots surged upward in a thick, living wall — intertwined and dense. They sealed the space between him and Ragnar, obscuring vision, tearing the ground apart. The earth shook, soil collapsed — and behind that curtain, Malaxus vanished.

  Ragnar did not pursue.

  He stepped forward, bent down, and picked up the cube. For several seconds he held it, feeling its cold weight and dense mana.

  Then he straightened and looked at Eiron.

  — So… this is what all the fuss was about, — he said calmly.

  The paralysis was nearly gone, but Eiron still couldn’t stand.

  Ragnar took a step toward him.

  — What’s your name, boy?

  The paralysis loosened slightly. Eiron still couldn’t rise, but he could speak.

  — E-Eiron, — he said, his voice trembling.

  — Do you work for the Apostles? — Ragnar asked, his tone sharpening.

  — F-for who? A-Apostles? — Eiron stammered. His tongue still felt heavy.

  — Don’t pretend you know nothing, — Ragnar snapped.

  Eiron’s breathing quickened. His heart pounded harder than ever before. In that moment, he cursed himself for ever picking up the cube.

  — I-I really don’t know anything. The cube came to me by accident. Then that old man came and said he was from the Mage Guild. Please — let me go. I won’t get involved with that Aurion again.

  Tears slowly ran down Eiron’s cheeks.

  It was the first time he had cried in eleven years in this world.

  Ragnar stared at him angrily. It was clear he was furious — but trying to remain rational.

  — Fine. It seems you truly were dragged into this against your will. Spherum enjoys using mortals who don’t even realize what they’re stepping into.

  Hope flickered in Eiron’s eyes. Relief washed over his face.

  — Thank you. I swear, I’ll never deal with people like that again.

  — I hope so. But… — Ragnar studied him carefully, as if weighing something. — I can’t just let you walk away.

  — What? — Eiron blurted.

  In that same instant, Ragnar’s hand crackled with blue energy. He extended it toward the sitting boy.

  Eiron didn’t have time to understand. Or to speak.

  Lightning surged through his body as if he were a conductor. Thousands of volts shattered his vision in a blinding flash.

  And then everything went black.