The Council of Elders continued even after Priscilla had been taken into custody.

  When the doors closed behind her and the guards’ footsteps faded down the corridors, the tension in the chamber rose, though everyone tried to conceal it. The Council session went on at its usual pace: discussions of Lasthold’s problems, laws, plans, and the like.

  Toward the end, the elders began to rise from their seats, maintaining an outward appearance of calm. Yet it was only an appearance. Each of the elders was quietly analyzing what had just occurred. Some, loyal to the Vengeful Thunder Family, simply closed the matter in their own minds, believing what they needed to believe. Others began to murmur quietly, exchanging whispers.

  As the elders departed, rumors left the hall with them.

  Lasthold had not yet recovered from the talk about the fire at the Vengeful Thunder Family’s mansion when new gossip began to creep through the city. Now people spoke of Magister Priscilla. Of possible illicit ties to criminals from the so-called Forsaken Brotherhood.

  The truth was quickly lost, giving way to retellings and conjecture.

  Meanwhile, only three remained in the Council hall—Durimar, Vulnar, and Zeiran.

  Durimar slowly exhaled and frowned.

  “The Hall of Ancient Research has long been sabotaging its own activities,” he said quietly. “Have they really decided to go against the Council of Elders?”

  Vulnar crossed his arms over his chest and thoughtfully looked toward the empty tiers.

  “Do you think Magister Duran is involved as well?”

  Durimar let his gaze linger for a moment on the carved symbols beneath the ceiling, then replied evenly:

  “Duran has always been loyal to Lasthold. I don’t want to accuse him without evidence.”

  At that moment, Zeiran calmly rose from his throne.

  He still seemed irritated by the night’s events. Without turning around, he threw over his shoulder:

  “But there is evidence of Priscilla’s betrayal. First, she must be justly punished. Then we’ll deal with her accomplices.” He paused briefly, then added a little more coldly, “It’s long past time to deal with those pathetic criminals.”

  Durimar and Vulnar lifted their eyes to him, but said nothing.

  Zeiran headed for the exit with the same measured stride he usually used when leaving the Council. The doors closed behind him with a dull sound.

  For a moment, silence reigned.

  Vulnar slowly exhaled, clenching his red beard in his fist as he thoughtfully stroked it.

  “I don’t like any of this, Durimar,” he said at last.

  Then he turned and, without bothering to choose his words, spoke bluntly:

  “My subordinates did report that the Vengeful Thunder Family was keeping a close watch on Kael.”

  Durimar nodded, accepting this without surprise. His deep green eyes dimmed for a moment, as if he were sinking into thought.

  Only after a few seconds did he reply:

  “But why would Zeiran risk his reputation this way? Kael is a promising boy,” he paused briefly, “but kidnapping him—that’s already too much.”

  Durimar sighed heavily and slowly ran his palm along the armrest of his throne, as if gathering his thoughts.

  “For some time now, rumors have reached me that certain influential mages of Lasthold are dissatisfied with the actions of our Three Families,” he muttered.

  He fell silent for a moment, then raised both hands to chest level, holding them as if weighing a pair of scales.

  “On one side—Zeiran,” he continued evenly. “Who staged a senseless kidnapping of a child. Talented, yes, but still far too young to fully develop that talent.”

  Durimar shifted his gaze to his other hand.

  “On the other—mages who disagree with us. Those who chose to ally themselves with criminals for unknown purposes. They even managed to distract Zeiran and infiltrate his mansion.”

  Durimar’s green eyes flashed sharply. He lowered his hands and turned to Vulnar.

  “So which side of the scales outweighs the other, Vulnar?”

  Vulnar did not answer at once. He clenched his beard into his fist again, this time harder, and stared into the empty space before him for several seconds.

  “A meaningless question,” he finally said without hesitation. “If you want to compare weight, we must know exactly what lies on each scale.”

  He lifted his gaze at Durimar.

  “And right now, only one thing is obvious: something is being hidden from us.”

  Durimar felt a sense of agreement—but along with it came a bad premonition. He lowered his voice and added more quietly:

  “Like you, I’ve known Zeiran for decades. And today, he was not himself. Even though he tried to hide it.”

  While Durimar was speaking, Vulnar had already taken out his pipe and packed it with tobacco. He snapped his fingers, and a red spark flared above the bowl.

  “Something about this is off,” Vulnar muttered, taking a few draws and lighting the tobacco. “Both Zeiran and Priscilla are hiding something.”

  The red glow wavered, then went out.

  “Moreover…” Vulnar paused, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Doesn’t it strike you as strange how quickly the evidence of Priscilla’s betrayal surfaced?”

  He spoke calmly, without accusation, but there was wariness in his voice.

  “Even if Zeiran isn’t lying and truly has been watching our ‘malcontents’ for years,” Vulnar continued, “it still fits together far too neatly.”

  Durimar nodded and said thoughtfully:

  “That much is obvious…”

  He fell silent for a moment, replaying the recent Council session in his mind—intonations, pauses, glances. Then he continued more firmly:

  “But the three of us are the core and the stability of Lasthold. While the picture remains unclear, we cannot undermine Zeiran’s standing.”

  He paused briefly and added without emotion:

  “That is precisely why I chose to keep these questionable points to myself during the Council.”

  Vulnar slowly nodded, releasing another cloud of smoke.

  “You and I, as always, think alike…”

  Durimar snorted and allowed himself a faint smile—rare in conversations like this.

  “We may think alike,” he said, “but we express ourselves very differently. You are my friend—very rough. You could stand to learn a bit of softness.”

  Vulnar huffed, setting the pipe aside.

  “Go to hell, my dear friend.”

  He smirked and, raising an eyebrow, added:

  “Was that soft enough?”

  They both smiled, but the smiles were crooked and brief, as if they did not match their true mood.

  Shaking his head, Durimar rose slowly from his throne.

  “One thing is clear,” he said, looking toward the closed doors. “For some reason, that boy—Kael—is at the center of this mess.”

  He took a few steps toward the exit and, without turning around, added:

  “The trial is in three days. In that time, we must find out where he might have gone and how he is connected to all this chaos.” Durimar paused for a moment. “And we must proceed carefully. We cannot allow this local turmoil to spill over into all of Lasthold.”

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  Vulnar rose as well, speaking evenly:

  “Since meeting Kael, I haven’t paid him much attention. But if Zeiran truly set his sights on him for some reason…” he frowned slightly, “then I’ll have to personally review all the reports on him.”

  Durimar did not reply. But inside him, a cold, emotionless thought passed through his mind: “Of the three of us, I was the one who became the Head of Lasthold. I resolved the orphan crisis created by our predecessors. I am the one they call ‘wise.’”

  The thought grew heavier for a moment.

  He reached for the door and froze halfway through the step.

  “But am I truly governing Lasthold wisely enough?”

  His fingers slowly tightened on the handle, and Durimar pulled the door open.

  Taking his first step outside, he thought:

  “It feels as though a new crisis is brewing. And this time, we ourselves may be its cause.”

  He frowned, recalling the faces of people he had known for decades—their actions, their stubbornness, their consistent distance from power, and their faithful work for the good of Lasthold.

  “Priscilla and Duran never sought power. If people like them are moving against the Three Families, are we not repeating the path of our predecessors?”

  There was no answer.

  With a heavy sigh, he quickened his pace. The stone slabs beneath his feet passed faster than before, while his thoughts continued to cling to one another, giving him no peace.

  “If they are guilty, yet right about our mistakes—how should they be punished? How do we demonstrate authority without provoking similar incidents? How do I know whether I was wrong? And if I was—where exactly?”

  Stepping out into the inner courtyard, where he could be seen by others, Durimar forced his shoulders to straighten and his stride to become measured once more. His face took on its familiar, calm expression—composed and impenetrable.

  Staring into the distance, he muttered under his breath words he had once heard long ago from his grandfather:

  “The most dangerous mistake a ruler can make is confidence in his own infallibility. The loss of clarity of vision is the first step toward a new crisis.”

  ? ? ?

  At that same time, on the other end of Lasthold, entirely different events were unfolding within the Forsaken Brotherhood.

  Silence reigned in the Black Rat’s office.

  She sat with her eyes closed, her back straight, practicing the Canon of Magic Kael had given her. Several sheets lay on the desk before her, covered in a mantra and accompanying notes, while faint black mana slowly coiled about her body.

  The flow of mana within her was unusually stable. No jolts, no sharp surges, none of the familiar pressure on her channels that she had long since grown accustomed to. The mana flowed exactly where it needed to go, in precisely the required measure, without causing pain, burning, or dangerous overloads.

  The corners of her lips twitched almost imperceptibly—whether in restrained delight or nervous disbelief.

  “It feels as if the mana itself wants to flow into my body,” the thought flashed through her mind.

  The black mana dissolved gently inside her, as though it knew its limits and had no intention of crossing them.

  “No resistance, no pain in the mana channels, no dips or sudden spikes in the flow… This is simply unbelievable.”

  Her breathing remained even, but inside her a cautious, almost frightening realization was slowly growing: this Canon was unlike anything she had ever encountered before.

  But at that moment, the silence was broken by the slam of a door.

  The Black Rat opened her eyes instantly. The black mana around her body dispersed almost at once, sweeping through the office in a ring, sending loose pages and books scattering. She had already drawn breath to curse when she abruptly stopped herself, seeing the figure in the doorway.

  An old man, looking like a vagrant, stood there holding a flask.

  “What happened, Heirven?” she asked coldly.

  The old man took a sip, his expression unchanged.

  “Priscilla has been taken into custody,” he lowered the flask, “on suspicion of ties to the Forsaken Brotherhood.”

  He paused for a second, then exhaled and added:

  “Jean is missing as well. They say the guards took him last night. Right in the bar where he’d been drinking.”

  The Black Rat sprang to her feet.

  “Damn it…” she hissed. “One problem gets solved, and another immediately takes its place.”

  She clenched her teeth and looked at Heirven intently.

  “Anything more concrete?”

  “For now, only rumors,” he replied evenly. “But we’re working to learn more.”

  The Black Rat gave a short nod and made an impatient gesture with her hand.

  “Then at least tell me the rumors.”

  Heirven took another sip and began:

  “They say the trial is in three days. At the Council of Elders, there was a heated exchange between her and Zeiran. Durimar and Vulnar said they were prepared to consider the accusations against Priscilla—if she provides at least some evidence.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “For example… if Kael appears and claims he was kidnapped.”

  “Clever bastard,” the Black Rat cursed. “This is bad news.”

  She paced the office, then turned sharply and added more coldly:

  “The Three Families can’t be trusted. If Kael shows up at the trial, he’ll be in grave danger.”

  At that moment, the door flew open again with a bang, and the Black Rat flinched, already bracing for yet another piece of news.

  “What now?! What disaster is it this time?!” she snapped angrily.

  A woman with pink curls appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. She immediately rushed to the Black Rat and whispered something in her ear.

  Heirven froze with his flask in hand, squinting as though trying to guess what news had been brought to his boss.

  After finishing her message, the pink-haired woman straightened and quickly left, quietly closing the door behind her.

  For several seconds, the Black Rat remained silent. Then the corners of her lips slowly crept upward into a predatory smirk.

  She turned toward the table where the Canon Kael had provided lay and added with a hint of sarcasm, “We have a full three days to prepare a wonderful gift for the esteemed Elder Zeiran.”

  It seemed the Black Rat’s foul mood had shifted to its complete opposite. Inside her, anticipation began to bubble.

  ? ? ?

  At that very moment, deep beneath the city, Elder Zeiran walked slowly down a long underground corridor.

  Stone walls and heavy doors stretched in a straight line; every cell was additionally sealed with a reinforced barrier. The dim light of crystals reflected off the runes carved into the floor and ceiling. This was where those who could not be left unattended were kept.

  Zeiran continued at an unhurried pace.

  That was the case until he turned into a side section.

  Here, the prison looked different. The cell doors were massive, adorned with metal and engraving, more like entrances to private chambers than prison cells. There were only a few such cells, and each one stood out immediately.

  The guard stationed at the entrance visibly stiffened when he saw Zeiran. He swallowed and hastily straightened.

  “Greetings, Elder!”

  Zeiran gave him a lazy glance. Without replying, he tossed the guard a spatial ring.

  “Go take a walk.”

  The guard was taken aback, instinctively caught the artifact, and hesitated.

  “What do you mean… I can’t…” he began, but broke off.

  “I won’t repeat myself,” Zeiran cut him off sharply. “And I won’t remind you what will happen if anyone finds out about this incident.”

  The guard went pale. He swallowed nervously, nodded quickly, and without looking back, hurried out of the section with the “luxury cells.”

  The corridor fell silent.

  Zeiran approached one of the doors and placed his palm on the cold metal. The barrier trembled; the runes flared for a moment and went dark. He removed the protection as calmly as if he were unlocking his own office.

  The door opened without a creak, and an old woman sitting on the floor came immediately into view.

  Priscilla sat with her back straight, her eyes closed. Her hands rested on her knees, her breathing even and calm—more a posture of meditation than imprisonment. No chains, no sign of panic. It seemed she had no interest at all in who had come in.

  Zeiran stopped at the threshold and simply looked at her for several seconds.

  “Where is the lair of the Forsaken Brotherhood, and why did you attack my mansion?” he asked coldly.

  Priscilla didn’t even open her eyes and calmly asked in return:

  “Why did you kidnap Kael?”

  Zeiran snorted.

  “We don’t have much time for games,” he said dryly. “In three days there will be a trial, and you will most likely be sentenced to death.”

  He narrowed his eyes, studying her face.

  “If you give up the location of the Forsaken Brotherhood, I will speak in your defense. Your reputation will be destroyed,” he paused briefly, “but you will at least keep your life.”

  Priscilla slowly opened her eyes.

  There was no fear or doubt in her gaze. Only cold contempt. She gave a faint smile, as if she had heard something she expected.

  “I am old enough not to fear death,” she said calmly. “Besides, it would change nothing. You will pay for your greed and arrogance regardless.”

  Zeiran smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  “When I find all of your accomplices…” he began.

  “Spare me this nonsense,” Priscilla cut him off sharply.

  The words caught in his throat.

  She looked straight at him, not averting her gaze, and continued more quietly, but with greater hardness:

  “You need Kael. That’s why you’re here. It’s obvious.”

  Priscilla closed her eyes, as if the conversation were over for her.

  “But I don’t know where he is. And I have no intention of speaking to you further,” she added. “So get out of here, you vile old man.”

  Zeiran’s face flickered for a moment.

  It was almost imperceptible—a brief tightening of his jaw, a slight crack in his confident mask. But he quickly composed himself and snorted.

  “What nonsense,” he tossed out contemptuously. “What use would your boy be to me…”

  He turned and stepped toward the exit.

  “Fool,” he added as he left the cell. “If you had agreed to cooperate, you might have saved your life.”

  Zeiran stopped at the threshold and, without turning around, said, his voice cold:

  “Make no mistake. Even after your death… all those close to you will pay for your betrayal of Lasthold.”

  The door slammed shut.

  Silence settled over the cell.

  Zeiran walked down the dungeon corridor at a measured pace, and only a brief appraisal flickered through his mind:

  “I wasn’t expecting much anyway… But I’m surprised the old woman is willing to sacrifice her life for the boy. Perhaps they know of his value as well?”

  He passed rows of cells without slowing.

  “Should I use a potion on her? No… then Durimar and Vulnar would no longer be able to remain neutral.”

  Narrowing his eyes, a cold, calculating thought flared within him:

  “The rats from the Forsaken Brotherhood will definitely be watching the trial. I’ll have to use that to my advantage. I’ll track down where they’re hiding the boy and his family—and I’ll personally see to their execution…”