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  Part 0. The Lights of Kiudar-Muna

  Many years later

  Lelya stood on the balustrade of Kiudar-Muna, the mountain wind tugging at the hem of her cardigan. Below, in the valley, thousands of lights flickered—torches, candles in windows, magical reflections on tower spires. The city she had once seen only in textbook engravings.

  She took a sip from her cup.

  Who would have told her back then—that freckle-faced redhead sitting through her first lecture, too afraid to ask a question—that one day she would stand here. That her name would be whispered in corridors. That she would become history in those very same textbooks.

  Part 1. Alma

  "Forget everything they taught you in school."

  The lecturer appeared fifteen minutes late—burst into the auditorium, dropped a folder on the lectern, and began speaking without waiting for silence. Lelya straightened in her seat in the third row.

  "Alma is far older than you think. And humans aren't the only ones who live here."

  "Who else? Elves?" someone snickered from the back rows.

  The lecturer didn't even turn around.

  "Alvs. Not elves—that's a human corruption. And if you, smartass, interrupt me again, I'll ask Roslava to personally explain the difference."

  The snickering died. Lelya hid a smile—Roslava's name clearly carried weight here.

  The lecturer had one of those ageless faces—somewhere between forty and eternity. Like all mages. A mage aged to about forty-five, then seemed to freeze. Only trials and suffering could add wrinkles and gray hair.

  "My name is Darimir. I'll be teaching you the history of Alma. And the first thing you need to understand: we mages are not the only immortal beings in this world." He paused. "Moreover, we appeared last."

  Lelya was taking notes, though her hands trembled slightly. Three weeks ago, she had been an ordinary student. Then Roslava noticed her in a café, and everything changed.

  "The first race—the Alvs," Darimir continued. "Created by Ello, one of the three Creators. Immortal. Part of today's Monolith territories once belonged to them."

  The girl to Lelya's left raised her hand:

  "Excuse me, are the Creators gods?"

  "No. Gods are a human invention. Creators are reality. There are three of them: Ellu, Elle, and Ello." Darimir snapped his fingers, and three names flared above the lectern—translucent letters shimmering gold. "They're not omnipotent or omniscient. They make mistakes. They quarrel. Sometimes — they hate their own creations or each other."

  "Sounds like a family," Lelya muttered under her breath.

  Darimir heard.

  "Exactly. A dysfunctional family with the power to create worlds. Imagine the consequences."

  Someone laughed nervously.

  "Most Alvs left Alma thousands of years ago. But not all."

  "Now for the interesting part." Darimir waved his hand, and a new projection appeared in the air: two circles intersecting at the center. One glowed cold blue, the other warm amber. "So—Alvs and humans sharing the same territory. What happens when they mix?"

  "Half-bloods?" the girl to the left suggested.

  "Exactly. Gerons." Darimir touched the intersection, and it flared green. "Stronger than humans. Live up to three hundred years. Once ruled human kingdoms summoned by the humans themselves."

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  "Once?" Lelya blurted out.

  Darimir looked at her — attentively, appraisingly. She felt her ears redden but didn't look away.

  "Humans rebelled. Decided that humans should only be ruled by humans." He clenched his fist, and the projection collapsed into a point. "The Gerons were exiled. They went north and founded their own city. Kiudar-Muna. The Moon City."

  "Wait," Lelya frowned. "Humans themselves invited the Gerons to rule, and then they themselves exiled them?"

  "Yes."

  "That's... illogical."

  Darimir smirked—for the first time during the lecture.

  "Welcome to politics, newbie. Peoples are rarely consistent. Today they call for saviors, tomorrow they want their blood. Remember that. It'll come in handy."

  Darimir waved his hand, and the projections went dark. He sat on the edge of the lectern. His voice dropped, and the auditorium leaned forward.

  "And now—about us. Mages. We're not a race. We're a gift. Or a curse, depending on how you look at it."

  He paused.

  "When the Alvs were leaving Alma, they asked the Creator Ellu: who will preserve the memory? Humans are mortal. In a hundred years, they'll forget everything."

  "And so Ellu created us. Randomly, among ordinary humans, in any family—mages are born. Immortal. And lonely."

  "Why lonely?" someone asked quietly, sensing a trap.

  "Because love doesn't last forever, and that's why there are almost no marriages among mages." The lecturer spoke clearly and without emotion, understanding it was better for new mages to grasp this now than learn it the hard way. "Because the magical gift isn't hereditary. Your children will most likely be ordinary humans."

  "Mortal," said Lelya. Not a question—understanding.

  "Yes. You will bury your children. And your grandchildren. And your great-grandchildren."

  Silence. Heavy, like a stone on the chest.

  The girl to Lelya's left suddenly stood and walked out. No one stopped her. Darimir followed her with his eyes but made no comment.

  "That's why many mages don't start families," he continued evenly. "Not because they don't want to. Because they know the price."

  After the lecture, Lelya found the girl in the corridor by the window. She was sitting on the windowsill, arms wrapped around her knees.

  "Hey," Lelya stopped beside her. "How are you?"

  "Fine." Her voice was muffled. "It's just... I have a younger brother. He's eight."

  Lelya was silent. Then sat down beside her.

  "I have one too. He's twelve."

  They sat in silence, looking at the Academy's inner courtyard. The first lanterns were being lit there, and the shadows of trees lengthened on the white stone.

  "I'm Lelya."

  "Mirra."

  Pause.

  "You know what's strangest?" said Mirra quietly. "Three weeks ago, I was complaining to my mom that life was boring. That nothing ever happens."

  Lelya gave a joyless smirk.

  "Be careful what you wish for."

  "Yeah. I will be now."

  Footsteps in the corridor. Roslava—the same woman who had found Lelya—stopped beside them. In her hands, two paper cups.

  "Coffee?" She held one out to Lelya, the other to Mirra. "Darimir likes to hit hard. He believes it's better to learn the truth on day one."

  "He's right," said Lelya. Her voice came out duller than she intended.

  Roslava nodded.

  "Maybe. But that doesn't mean you have to digest it all in one evening." She stood. "Tomorrow's lecture is on law. It'll be more interesting. And scarier."

  She left. Lelya and Mirra stayed, warming their hands on the cups.

  Part 2. Laws

  "Knowing about races is all well and good," said the lecturer, entering the auditorium. "But in my opinion, it's more important to know what you can now be executed for."

  He was different, nothing like Darimir—impeccably buttoned suit, cold face, movements precise and economical. Lelya recognized him: Mislav, the Minister of Justice himself. Roslava had mentioned him yesterday.

  "Oh, they didn't tell you?" Mislav raised an eyebrow slightly. "Yes, executions exist for mages. We couldn't have lived so secretly while simultaneously governing humans without very strict laws."

  "Three thousand years ago, mages across all of Alma developed a code of laws. The Chief Mages of that time signed it in blood. This code is absolute, meaning it is not up for discussion."

  Lelya opened her notebook. Her hand was steady—she was already beginning to get used to the blows.

  "So, what you can be executed for. First: causing harm to a human. Any harm. Even the smallest."

  Someone in the auditorium sighed.

  "Second: deliberately revealing information about mages to a human."

  Mislav clapped his hands.

  "A human is beyond your power. Their body, memory, will—not your playground. And our secret is not currency for bargaining." He paused. "There should be no illusions: ignorance, fatigue, fear, 'I was ordered to'—none of that saves you. Your tools are caution, discipline, silence."

  Lelya was writing, feeling a strange sensation growing in her chest—not fear, more like a sharp awareness of weight. Every word, every gesture now have consequences.

  "You'll read the section on punishments tonight," said Mislav. "There are case studies there. And answers to the most popular 'what ifs.'"

  He swept his gaze across the auditorium and paused.

  "And in my experience, someone among you will end up under investigation before the semester's end."

  Someone behind whispered: "Off to a lively start." The whisper immediately died under Mislav's gaze.

  "Nothing personal," he added, gathering his papers. "Pure course statistics."

  Lelya looked at her notes. The page was covered in small handwriting: 'execution,' 'deliberate,' 'responsibility.'

  Three weeks ago she had been preparing for a civil law exam. Now she was studying what she could be killed for.

  She closed the notebook and thought: I wonder which of us will become the 'statistics.'