Lilia.
Outside the window, night stood still.
No light made its way in — not even through the cracks. The air was cold and dry. The stone floor kept the same temperature. Its surface was flat. Bare.
In the center of the room lay a thin mat. White fabric almost blending into the floor. Beneath it — nothing but bare stone, smooth and cool.
A girl slept on the mat. Her back touched the cloth, shoulders uncovered, palms at her sides, fingers twitching faintly. Her breath came unevenly, in jolts. Her chest would rise sharply, then freeze. As if something inside kept her from exhaling all the way.
Sweat gleamed at her temples.
Drops trickled along her hairline. Collected at her neck. Short strands clung to her skin, curling slightly. Her hair was chestnut, darker in damp patches, falling across her forehead and cheeks, hiding part of her face. Her cheek burned. Head tilted to the side, she murmured in her sleep.
Her eyelashes trembled.
Her eyelids didn't lift right away. Her eyes stayed shut, pupils moving beneath. Her breath hitched, steadied, then hitched again. The fingers of her right hand tensed, curled into her palm, released.
She opened her eyes.
Her pupils didn't focus at once; her gaze slid aside. Sweat rolled down toward her temples. Her lips stayed slightly parted. Her breath faltered, evened out, drifted again.
Inhales came slow, one after another, each a little deeper. She exhaled sharply, noisily. Then drew air in through her nose — slow, to the limit.
Her fingers clenched again, this time harder.
Her body rose slowly. Back rounded, chin lowered, eyes downcast.
She looked toward the wall. There, in the far corner, stood a sword. The wood was dark, polished. Its butt rested against the wall, the angle perfectly square.
It was supposed to be square.
The thought came at once, without pause. As if it had begun sounding inside her before she had the chance to understand anything:
It has to stand straight. The angle square. The butt pressed tight. That's the right way. If it shifts — it's wrong. Even a little. Even if I didn't touch it. He might think I didn't check. He'll think I don't see. But I do see. I always see. I check every time…
First was the feeling — that she couldn't just sit. Couldn't wait. She had to get up. Get up now. Because otherwise something would happen. Because if she didn't stand, didn't take it, didn't start — her father would find out.
He always knows.
She stood.
The movement was sharp, without hesitation. Her feet found the ground, her torso leaned forward, arms followed. Her fingers trembled, but her grip was precise. She moved toward the sword.
Now. It has to be now. If I don't start — it'll be too late. He'll wake up. He'll come out. He'll ask — did you train. I have to say — yes. And it has to be the truth. Only then everything will be right.
The sword settled into her hands. Grip checked. Fingers closed, wrist steady under the weight. Body aligned — stance assembled, heels grounded, back straight.
First — starting position. One. Two. Again. Exact. Hands don't shake. They can't shake. If they shake — I'm not ready. If I'm not ready — I can't stop. I can't stop. I can't.
She stepped back. Center of gravity low. Blade forward, tip dead on target. Elbows in. Chin down.
Strike.
Then another. And another. She didn't count. Her body moved on its own. Step, lift, downward cut. Return. Weight in the heels. Until her breath was ragged. Until her arms burned. Until thought was gone.
Only when her arms went numb and her breathing evened did she stop. The sword still in her hand, fingers locked around the hilt. She stood still a few more seconds, ran her palm along the wood, checked her grip. One last time.
Only then did she calm.
She lowered the sword carefully, setting the hilt parallel to the wall's edge, blade facing in. Her fingers brushed the wood, adjusted the angle, made sure nothing had shifted. Then she straightened and walked back slowly.
As she approached, she lifted her eyes.
Light stretched across the floor. A narrow strip by the wall. Touching the corner, climbing the wall. It was still gray, but no longer dark. The sun struck at an angle. The glare wasn't strong, but it was direct. She turned her head away.
It's already four. Training. If he wakes up and I'm not there…
The sword was back in her hand. Her palm tested the grip. Her feet had already turned toward the door.
***
The day was sunny.
The streets lay open. Stone warmed underfoot, dust showing between the slabs. Light fell straight down, striking walls and glinting off windows. Shadows were sharp, stretching along façades, repeating the curves of the street.
The houses were tall. The stone was pale, with thin yellow seams between the blocks. Even ledges ran above the windows. No breaks. Between the roofs hung taut sheets of fabric.
The streets were crowded.
Women wore tunics of fine cloth, embroidered along the edges. Cords with copper pendants hung from their belts. Shoulders were covered in sheer fabric, hair pinned with combs and strung with jeweled chains.
Men wore long shirts with clasps of carved metal, cloaks over them with wide collars fastened at the throat by brooches. Their shoes shone; metal plates gleamed on the heels. Several large rings adorned each hand.
The clothing of the nobility was heavy, richly decorated, meant to be looked at. In Arse, wealth was not hidden — on the contrary, every step was arranged to display it.
Rows of columns lined the streets.
They rose directly from the stone. No steps, smooth at the base, with carvings near the top. Arches ran between them, beneath which people sat.
Carpets hung from balconies. Bowls of flowers stood between the railings, stems reaching upward. From the upper floors came music — quiet, wordless, with an even refrain.
Farther on lay the eastern part of the city.
Here it was quieter. The stone beneath the feet was cool. The seams between the slabs sank deep. The walls ran flat, colored gray-blue, without a sheen.
Statues stood at the intersections. The figures were tall and slender, arms hanging at their sides. A sword rested along the body, blade down. Faces were smooth, without expression.
Buildings stood apart. Between them lay training grounds; water ran along the paths, pooling in hollows. The roofs were low with wide eaves. Corners rounded.
Most of the sword schools of the capital were here. All belonged to a single, unified School of Water.
At the entrance to one building stood the students.
They wore uniforms — dark blue, with straight sleeves and high collars. Along the edge ran embroidery in the shape of waves, white thread lying flat, without curls.
On the plaque at the entrance was carved a single word — Stahl.
A young man with tousled light-sand hair stood slightly apart. He smirked, looking down. His fingers fidgeted with the folds of his clothes. The fabric was wrinkled, the collar skewed.
He fussed with his belt. Held the cloth in his hands. Tried threading the sash, then loosened it again.
The garment shifted, collar slipping to the side. He kept trying to fix it, bending over, straightening, glancing at the others. The students nearby stayed silent. Some shot him sideways looks without turning their heads. The glances were quick, short, but edged with irritation.
"Fucking hell… How the hell…"
He drew in a breath, tightened the sash, and simply tied it in a bow. Froze for a moment, then looked around.
No one said a word.
He stepped forward.
In a single stride, he crossed to the middle of the courtyard. Straight to a young man with chestnut hair, standing by the stone path.
A hand rose in greeting. With one hand he hooked the young man by the neck; with the other he ran through his hair, mussing the carefully smoothed strands.
"Hey-hey! Phil! How about helping me out here…"
He didn't let go, kept ruffling his head with a wide grin. The hairstyle fell apart. Hair stuck out to the sides.
The young man's face went still. His gaze turned sharp.
He raised his eyes; his lips twitched slightly. His cheeks flushed. His nose gave a little twitch each time he drew breath — the smell was sharp, heavy with booze.
"Paul…" he breathed through his teeth, knocking the hand away.
He took two steps back.
Looked him up and down. Grimaced.
His eyes moved over the rumpled clothes, the unfastened collar, the lazy gait. His hand rose to his hair — Philemon quickly smoothed the strands, trying to restore order.
"Your first day… after last night…" His voice was quiet, but tight.
Paul shrugged. Waved a hand.
"Come on, Phil. I've put away more than that. I'm fresh as a cucumber. Everything's under control!"
He stretched; his back cracked loudly. He smirked again.
"You, for example, woke up, smoothed your little locks, straightened your collar — and what? Think you look scarier now? It's still obvious you're the little brother…"
Philemon sighed without looking up, running his fingers along the strands at his temple.
"Better the younger than the disgrace of the family," he replied, calmer now, but with his usual bite.
"Oh, that was strong." Paul nodded as if acknowledging the hit. "Right at dawn, you plunge a knife into big brother's heart."
Philemon looked at him. Held the look for a second.
"If you had a heart, maybe I'd feel sorry…"
"That's what I'm saying," Paul spread his hands. "I'm absolutely invulnerable. No pain, no conscience, no hang—"
He froze abruptly, covering his mouth with his palm. His stomach clenched in a short wave.
Burp.
Paul exhaled, raised his eyebrows, and gave a slight bow toward Philemon.
"Oh… pardon me, milady…"
Philemon rolled his eyes without bothering to answer. Calmly turned away, as if hoping his brother would vanish if he didn't look at him.
Paul thumped his chest. Then stepped toward his brother. Leaned to his ear.
"But at least in the morning I smell like a true legend."
Philemon recoiled, wrinkling his nose.
"Like a cellar with rotting apples."
"Still nobler than your eternal smell of lacquer," Paul went on, squinting. "You powder yourself like a lady before someone goes into her… Only without the lady. And without the going in…"
Philemon turned back slowly. His eyes narrowed. His gaze dropped to the belt. One eyebrow lifted; his face darkened.
"I could say you're such an idiot you can't even tie a belt properly…" He tilted his head, keeping his gaze on the bow. "But I'll ask something else. Whose belt is that?"
Paul frowned. Bent for a closer look.
"What do you mean, whose? Mine, obviously."
Philemon shook his head and tipped his chin up slightly.
"Yours you burned yesterday. When you shoved it into… what do you call it?"
He squinted, pretending to recall.
"Right. Hellbrew. A mash of whatever was left at the bottom of the bottles. Which would be generous to call poison."
Paul began to wince, squinting as if against bright light. His hand went to his temple.
"So… wait…" he muttered. "What was I even drinking yesterday…"
For a second his gaze went blank. Then the memory surfaced.
"Ah… right."
He smirked. His eyes widened slightly.
"I don't drink — I go straight to the fucking finale!" he cried, in the same tone as then.
In his mind his hands repeated the gesture — the belt going into the bottle's neck. The strike of flint. Flame. The bottle flying through the air and disappearing somewhere behind people's backs.
"And everyone went, 'Whaaaa!'" Paul spread his arms as if soaking up the crowd's approval again.
"…"
Philemon watched him in silence. Then drew a deep breath, turned away, and said:
"Moron."
"Well, the belt…" Paul shrugged, looked down at the bow again. "Borrowed it."
He grinned, glanced at Philemon, and added with a slight tilt of his head:
"Don't think she'll be needing it today… ha-ha-ha."
At that moment a bell rang.
Sharp and booming, it rolled through the streets, bounced off the walls, and died away. The doors before them swung open, heavy, with a dull scrape. Inside it was darker; the air stood cool.
Philemon stepped forward first. Back straight, step precise. Paul stretched, yawned, and followed at an unhurried pace.
P.S.
Tomorrow's chapter