The Freeport League greeted them with salt wind and the cries of gulls.

  The city-state lived by trade—ships in the harbor, warehouses along the waterfront, hotels for merchants and diplomats. They liked neither Monolith nor the Citadel—both too big, too dangerous. But they loved money more than independence, so the League readily hosted international sessions.

  The lesser council hall was in the old town hall—low ceilings, stone walls, narrow windows overlooking the sea. But the technology was modern: projection screens, a voting system, encrypted communication channels.

  Lelya entered first—to get her bearings. Radimir followed with a tablet loaded with all the materials. Two people—for a minor dispute, no more were needed.

  Ten minutes later, the Citadel’s delegation entered.

  Wulf—medium height, soft features, attentive eyes. He smiled when he saw Lelya, and the smile looked almost genuine.

  —Monolith’s new minister. I’ve heard a lot about your meteoric rise.

  —And I’ve heard about your oratory skills. Glad to finally meet in person.

  The handshake—firm but not aggressive. He was studying her just as she was studying him.

  —I hope this session will be productive, — he said. — The question of the Codex has long needed resolution.

  —Agreed. It’s high time to put this matter to rest.

  The chairman—an elderly mage from the Freeport League with a gray beard and weary eyes—announced the start of the session. Formalities, introductions, procedural rules. Lelya half-listened, watching Wulf.

  He sat relaxed, scrolling through something on his tablet. Too relaxed. Too deliberately. A victor who had come for easy prey.

  —The floor is given to the representative of the Citadel, — the chairman announced.

  Wulf rose smoothly, without hurry.

  —Esteemed members of the council, the issue we are discussing today may seem narrow. An ancient book. A museum exhibit. — He paused. — But behind it lies something larger. It is about justice. About a people’s right to their own history.

  Starts with emotion, just like at the World Council, Lelya noted to herself. It worked there—why not try it again.

  —The Codex of the First Laws is not merely a book, — Wulf continued. He brought up an image on the screen: a time-darkened binding, gold embossing, ornate patterns. — It is the soul of our legal tradition. The text that laid the foundations of magical legislation. A document written in the Old Southern dialect—the language that became the basis of the modern tongue of the Citadel.

  He walked along the table, letting his gaze rest on each council member.

  —In the year 5674, taking advantage of political instability, Monolith removed the Codex from Steinberg. A city that for centuries had been part of the southern cultural tradition. A city whose people spoke our language, followed our values, kept our customs.

  A pause—measured, dramatic.

  —We do not demand compensation. We do not demand apologies. We simply want the Codex to come home. To where it will be understood. To where it will be valued. To where it belongs.

  He sat down. Several council members exchanged glances.

  —The floor is given to the representative of Monolith, — the chairman said.

  Lelya stood. Her heart was beating faster than she would have liked, but her voice came out steady.

  —The representative of the Citadel speaks of justice. Of a people’s right to their history. — She paused, sweeping her gaze across the council members. — I, too, want to speak about justice. And about memory.

  She put up on the screen not a map—but a fragment of a memory from Monolith’s archives. An old building, half-ruined, with shattered windows.

  —This is the Steinberg Archive. The year 5674, one week after the Codex was evacuated. The Third Border War. The building burned for three days. Fourteen keepers died, refusing to leave until the last scrolls were carried out.

  Silence. Wulf frowned slightly—he hadn’t expected this.

  —Mr. Wulf calls the evacuation ‘removal under conditions of political instability.’ — Lelya switched to the next slide: a list of names. — These are the names of the people who decided to move the Codex. The Council of Keepers of the Steinberg Archive. Seven of them died in that fire. They knew they were risking their lives by staying in the city. And they stayed anyway—to save what could still be saved.

  She paused.

  —The Codex survived because these people gave their lives for it. Not for the ‘cultural heritage of the Citadel.’ For their sacred relic. Steinberg’s relic. Monolith’s relic.

  New slide: a map of ancient borders.

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  —Now to the facts. In the year 3564, when the Codex was written, Steinberg was part of the Northern Principality. Not the Citadel. The authors of the text—mages of the Steinberg School—were subjects of the northern prince.

  Wulf leaned forward. Lelya noticed—the first crack in his relaxed pose.

  —Yes, the Codex is written in the Old Southern dialect. But in that era, the dialect was the lingua franca for all educated mages. It was used everywhere—in Monolith, in the Citadel, in the Coastal Union. That doesn’t make every text in that language the property of the Citadel. Otherwise half the world’s libraries would have to relocate south.

  A soft chuckle rippled through the hall. Lelya didn’t smile—she held her serious tone.

  —Here are the documents from the year 5674. The order to relocate, bearing the chief mage’s seal. The acceptance-transfer act. The Council of Keepers’ voting record—unanimous in favor of evacuation to Monolith’s capital.

  The chairman studied the copies on his screen.

  —Everything is in order, — he stated.

  —Exactly. No ‘removal.’ A rescue. At the cost of human lives.

  Wulf rose—slower than at the start of the session.

  —The minister skillfully appeals to tragedy. But tragedy does not change the substance. — He brought up a page from the Codex on the screen. — Look at the ornamentation. A characteristically southern style—scrollwork, interlacing, solar symbols. This aesthetic is alive in the Citadel to this day. It is part of our identity.

  Several council members nodded. Lelya could see: the emotional argument was working.

  —Cultural belonging, — Wulf continued, — is not determined by borders and seals. It is determined by spirit. By connection. By continuity. The Codex was written by people who thought as we do, felt as we do, believed in what we believe.

  He took a step toward the center of the hall.

  —Monolith has held the Codex for four hundred years. And what? It gathers dust in an archive. They show it to tourists once a year, on Foundation Day. For them it’s an exhibit. For us—a sacred relic.

  A pause.

  —Is it right that a relic should belong to those who don’t understand its value?

  Lelya let the silence hang. Then she stood—calmly, without hurry.

  —Ornamentation, — she said. — Let’s talk about ornamentation.

  New slide: a comparative table of patterns.

  —The Codex’s binding is indeed executed in the southern style. But it was made two hundred years after the text was written. The original binding perished in the fire of 3700.

  She enlarged the image.

  —The craftsman who created the current binding—Torvald of the Harbor. Born in the Coastal Union. Commissioned by the Steinberg magistrate. If we follow Mr. Wulf’s logic, the binding should go to the Coastal Union. And the text? The text, presumably, stays with us.

  Laughter in the hall—louder than before.

  —But that’s just a remark on the margins. — Lelya switched the slide. — Let’s talk about the main point. Mr. Wulf claims that for Monolith, the Codex is merely an exhibit. That we don’t understand its value.

  She brought up photographs: a bright hall, glass display cases, groups of visitors.

  —This is the Hall of the First Laws in our National Archive. Built specifically for the Codex. Climate control, magical protection, round-the-clock security. Over twenty years, one hundred and forty-three scholars from different countries have studied it. We have never denied anyone access.

  A pause. Lelya swept her gaze over the council members.

  —And now I’d like to ask the representative of the Citadel something. — She turned to Wulf. — How many times in these four hundred years has the Citadel officially requested access to the Codex?

  Wulf was silent.

  —I’ll answer. Zero. Not once. — Lelya raised a hand, forestalling objection. — For four hundred years the Codex has been kept in Monolith. For four hundred years the Citadel knew where it was. And for four hundred years—silence. No claims, no demands, no negotiations.

  She took a step toward the center of the hall—mirroring Wulf’s movement.

  —And suddenly—now. Two weeks after the Citadel won at the World Council. — A slight tilt of the head. — What a remarkable coincidence.

  The silence shifted—grew tense.

  —Mr. Wulf speaks of relics and justice. But let’s call things by their proper names. This claim is not about the Codex. It’s about showing that Monolith is weak. That Monolith can be pushed. That Monolith lost once—and will lose again.

  She turned to the council.

  —The question is whether you want to be part of this performance. Whether you want to turn the lesser council into an instrument of political pressure. Because today it’s Monolith. And tomorrow?

  A glance at the representative of the Freeport League—he lowered his eyes slightly.

  —Tomorrow someone will remember that your museums hold artifacts that ‘historically’ belonged to someone else. And they’ll come with the same kind of claim. With the same beautiful words about justice and cultural heritage.

  Wulf stood—now his voice had an edge:

  —The minister is substituting the subject of the dispute. We are discussing a specific document, not politics.

  —We are discussing a precedent, — Lelya replied calmly. — And everyone in this room knows it.

  She brought up the last slide—a voting record.

  —But if you want to discuss the document—by all means. Here is the Council of Keepers of Steinberg’s voting record. A unanimous decision to transfer the Codex to the capital of Monolith. Seven of those who signed it died a week later, defending the archive.

  A pause.

  —These people entrusted us with their relic. Not the Citadel. Us. And we have kept it for four hundred years. Kept it so that any researcher can access it. Kept it through two wars and three revolutions.

  Lelya looked Wulf straight in the eye.

  —Mr. Wulf asks whether it’s right that a relic should belong to those who ‘don’t understand its value.’ I’ll answer. We understand. For one simple reason—our people died for it. And yours did not.

  Silence.

  —Steinberg chose whom to entrust the Codex to. Four hundred years ago. At the cost of blood. And that choice was not the Citadel.

  The vote took three minutes.

  Four votes for Monolith. One abstention. The Citadel—zero.

  The chairman announced: the demand for the return of the Codex was rejected.

  Wulf took the defeat calmly—came over, shook her hand. But the smile was gone, and his eyes had grown more attentive.

  —You’re playing on my field, — he said quietly. — Emotion, dramaturgy, the strike at the end. I didn’t expect that.

  —You expected it to be easy.

  —After the World Council—yes. — He inclined his head slightly. — My mistake. I won’t repeat it.

  He stepped back.

  —Until we meet again, Minister. It will be more interesting.

  The Citadel’s delegation left the hall. Lelya watched them go.

  Radimir approached:

  —The story about the fallen keepers—a strong move. I hadn’t thought to use it that way.

  —Facts without emotion—half the job. Wulf understands that. That’s why he wins.

  —Won.

  —He’s not the type to repeat mistakes. — Lelya gathered her things. — Next time he’ll come with something serious. And he’ll be ready for the fact that I, too, know how to play on feelings.

  They left the town hall. The sun was shining outside, and the air smelled of the sea. Gulls cried over the rooftops, and somewhere a ship’s bell rang.

  Lelya looked at the harbor—dozens of ships, hundreds of people, ordinary life that knew nothing of mages and their games.

  Wulf was right. The next meeting would be different. He wouldn’t underestimate her again. He’d come prepared. And the stakes would be higher.

  But today—today Monolith had shown it was still alive. That the defeat at the World Council hadn’t broken them. That they had a voice.

  And that voice was hers.

  For now—that was enough.