Serain and Miravelis were riding to an audience with Gannud.

  His residence lay in a small village a few hours from Trostal. The settlement rested among gentle hills, where vineyards and orchards framed stone houses with pale roofs. There were no walls, no garrisons — only a few watchtowers on the hills and a broad road leading to a large estate at the outskirts.

  Miravelis had insisted on accompanying Serain’s delegation in person. She had pressed the matter with such quiet certainty that her father did not even argue.

  Syra rode with Serain, along with several guards from both sides. Nicola remained in the city.

  They traveled on horseback. The road wound through green fields, past villages where peasants paused in their work to watch the riders pass. More than once, grain carts and wagons heavy with grapes pulled aside to give way on the road to Trostal.

  Miravelis did not stop asking questions.

  First, about the cities of Ceredan. Then, about customs and traditions. Then about politics — and the life of The Compact.

  The more she listened, the more questions she found.

  Especially about mercenaries.

  — And how do you, mercenaries, choose a ruler? — She finally asked.

  Syra rode slightly behind Serain but guided her horse forward with ease.

  — The rank and file elect their commanders, — she said. — The commanders elect the clan leaders. The clan leaders form the council. And the council chooses the ruler.

  Miravelis leaned forward slightly in her saddle.

  — Is that Atrion? Is he your ruler?

  — No, — Syra answered calmly. — Atrion is the founder and leader of the strongest clan. But he is not the ruler.

  She paused briefly.

  — The ruler is Vancil.

  Miravelis blinked in surprise.

  — But I heard he is not even a warrior.

  — That’s true, — Syra said. — He is not a warrior. But he knows how to govern cities, money, and people.

  Atrion commands the army. Vancil governs the state.

  They rode in silence for a while. Only the dull rhythm of hooves struck the road.

  Then Miravelis spoke again.

  — And is he Untouched as well? Otherwise… how can he rule?

  Syra cast a glance at Serain, who rode beside them and seemed only half to listen.

  — No, — she said. — He is not a king. He does not have to be Untouched.

  Miravelis frowned.

  — But how… — she paused. — How can one rule if Suggestion can twist your mind and seize—

  She did not finish.

  For several seconds, no one spoke. The wind stirred the grass along the roadside.

  Then Miravelis said more quietly:

  — Tell me… who is your chief Suggestor?

  — There is no single chief, — Syra replied. — Each clan has its own Suggestor.

  She let a faint smile touch her lips.

  — But the strongest is in Atrion’s clan.

  — Katerina. She is at the fourth stage.

  At the name Katerina, Miravelis tilted her head slightly toward Syra, then lowered her gaze.

  Her horse continued its slow, steady pace.

  — Is she the one… — Miravelis said softly. — The one who was once with my father?

  — Yes, — Syra answered.

  Miravelis remained silent for a time.

  — I remember her a little from my childhood, — she said at last. — She was very beautiful. White hair, pale skin, blue eyes.

  She hesitated.

  — Like a princess from legends. Or from fairy tales.

  Serain, who had been quiet until now, spoke softly.

  — She still is.

  He looked ahead, where Gannud’s estate was already visible beyond the hill.

  — She hasn’t changed.

  At last, the party approached the village.

  What had seemed a quiet settlement among vineyards now resembled a small fortress. A stone wall encircled it. Above the gate rose a wooden watchtower. Guards with bows stood along the walls, and several armed soldiers waited at the entrance.

  Serain studied the fortifications.

  — Much has changed here, — he said quietly. — This no longer looks like paradise.

  The gates were closed.

  Serain halted his horse and turned to Miravelis.

  — Act as if this were your plan all along. Be confident. Do not show fear. If anything happens, we will protect you.

  He gave a brief nod toward her guards.

  — Tell them not to draw their weapons unless you give the signal. Understood?

  — Yes, Your Majesty, — Miravelis replied.

  She guided her horse closer.

  Serain leaned slightly toward her.

  — One more thing. Syra enters Gannud’s hall with us.

  Miravelis looked at the archer in surprise.

  — She? But then he will try to seize her mind.

  Serain did not change his expression.

  — I told you — do not worry. That is exactly what we need.

  He studied the princess carefully.

  — And do not tremble.

  For a moment, Miravelis lowered her gaze. Her shoulders shifted faintly.

  Then she drew a slow breath, straightened in the saddle, and rode forward beside Serain.

  As the party drew closer to the gates, one of the guards stepped forward and raised his hand to halt them.

  He looked at Miravelis — then at the riders behind her.

  — Princess, — he said, without particular respect. — Who are these with you?

  Miravelis straightened slightly in the saddle.

  — This is Serain Veytur, King of Ceredan. And his escort.

  The guard stared at them for several seconds. Then he shrugged.

  — Fine… we’ll open in a moment.

  He did not move.

  Serain tilted his head slowly.

  — “Fine”? — he repeated quietly. — Have you completely forgotten how this world is ordered?

  The guard only twisted his lips in disdain.

  He did not get the chance to reply.

  Serain dismounted in one sharp motion, crossed the distance in two strides, and stopped almost chest to chest with him.

  The strike cracked dryly in the air.

  Serain’s palm struck the guard’s cheek so hard the man staggered and barely kept his footing.

  On the wall above, a bowstring tightened. Horses shifted nervously.

  Serain looked straight into the soldier’s eyes.

  — Do you think hiding behind Gannud gives you the right to speak like that?

  He gestured toward Miravelis.

  — Let me remind you — this is the daughter of your king. Your king. You open the gates for her. You greet her. You escort her.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The guard pressed a hand to his cheek.

  — But King Vladur told us—

  — I am not King Vladur, — Serain cut in.

  His voice grew quieter.

  And therefore more dangerous.

  — And if your king cannot bring you to your senses… I will.

  He stepped half a pace closer.

  — One more foolish word. One more sign of disrespect toward Miravelis.

  He nodded toward Syra.

  — And this woman will drive an arrow straight through your skull.

  Syra calmly took the bow from her shoulder.

  Slowly. Deliberately. She drew an arrow and pulled the string back.

  Nervous voices rose along the wall. One of the archers lowered his bow.

  Another — standing at the very top of the watchtower — did the opposite. He raised his bow and aimed directly at Serain.

  Serain noticed him at once.

  He lifted his head and studied the silhouette against the sky for several seconds.

  Then he said calmly:

  — Syra… don’t kill him.

  The arrow snapped from the string.

  It sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, arced high, and passed just above the archer’s head on the tower. The wooden edge of the roof shuddered as the arrow struck stone behind him.

  The archer froze.

  — That was the warning shot, — Serain called up to him.

  Silence fell along the wall.

  The archers glanced at one another, confused. Not all of them understood at once what had happened. The shot had come from below — and the arrow had reached the very top of the tower.

  Not merely reached it. It had passed exactly where Syra intended.

  A few seconds later, the bows began to lower. One by one.

  The guard at the gate went pale.

  — My apologies… King Serain, — the guard said quickly. — I will inform Gannud’s watch at once so you may be received.

  He did not wait for an answer. He turned and nearly ran toward the inner houses of the village. Silence settled again by the gate.

  Miravelis watched Serain for several seconds.

  — Your Majesty… that was not necessary, — she said quietly.

  Serain did not even glance at her.

  — It was necessary, — he answered sharply. — Everything here is sliding somewhere it shouldn’t. And it’s beginning to irritate me.

  He waved a hand toward the houses lining the road.

  — Look at this.

  On nearly every second building hung long banners bearing Gannud’s sigil. The black emblem fluttered in the wind — above gates, on balconies, even over small shops.

  — He’s planted his standards everywhere, — Serain muttered. — His crest on every corner. He must think very highly of himself.

  His voice grew louder, his gestures broader, and people in the street quickly averted their eyes.

  — I remember this place. There were vineyards and orchards here. Now it’s a small fortress devoted to the cult of one old man.

  Miravelis said nothing.

  Ahead, a large house with wide steps came into view — Gannud’s residence.

  When they reached the entrance, several armed guards stepped forward and blocked their path. Beside them stood a young woman in light, almost translucent garments. Gannud’s vessel.

  She inclined her head.

  — Welcome, King Serain. Princess Miravelis.

  Serain stepped close to her, almost face to face, and studied her features.

  — How old are you, child?

  The girl faltered.

  — Eighteen.

  Serain exhaled shortly.

  — He has truly lost his mind… old degenerate.

  The girl lifted her head sharply.

  — You have no right to—

  Serain did not let her finish.

  His gaze swept over her clothing. The garment balanced on the edge of propriety — more ornament than covering.

  — Gannud clearly needs to be brought back to his senses, — Serain said coldly. — And I have very suitable news for that.

  He stepped toward the doors.

  — Let’s go.

  The guards instantly crossed their spears, blocking the entrance.

  Serain stopped slowly.

  Turned back to the vessel.

  — Tell him we either enter peacefully… — he said quietly. — Or we walk in over the bodies of his guards.

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  — Or is he already afraid of two women and me?

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut. Silence held for several seconds. When she spoke again, her voice was different. Deeper. Not her own.

  — Let them pass, — Gannud’s voice said through her. — I will deal with them myself.

  The guards stepped aside at once.

  The girl slowly opened her eyes, looking at them with confusion, as if she did not fully understand what had just happened.

  Serain was already walking past her.

  Then he suddenly stopped and turned back.

  — You’re coming with us.

  The girl shook her head uncertainly.

  — The Master told me to remain here.

  Serain stepped closer to her.

  — Come, — he said quietly. — That wasn’t a request.

  He seized her wrist abruptly.

  — You can tell him that.

  Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her after him inside.

  Behind them, the heavy doors closed.

  The hall was filled with luxury. Thick carpets, furs, lamps of colored glass. Exotic plants stood between the columns, and strange birds fluttered restlessly inside a gilded cage. It looked more like a royal court than the reception chamber of a man who had once lived in a quiet village.

  They approached several large chairs in the center. The vessel made a small gesture with her hand.

  — Please, sit.

  Miravelis was about to lower herself into one of the chairs, but Serain caught her sharply by the elbow.

  — Don’t sit.

  The vessel frowned.

  — You must sit for the audience. Otherwise, it will be… dangerous.

  Serain did not even look at her.

  — Syra.

  The archer understood without explanation.

  She turned quickly to the doors, checked the lock, then shoved a heavy table against them and dragged another chair into place.

  Now the doors could not be opened quickly.

  The vessel took a confused step forward.

  — What are you doing?

  Syra was already moving.

  She snatched a metal torch from the floor, lit it from a nearby lamp, and pressed it to the dry plants hanging along the wall. The leaves caught instantly.

  Thick smoke rose upward. And vanished. It was drawn into a narrow slit just beneath the vaulted ceiling.

  The vessel’s eyes widened.

  — What are you— the Master will—

  Her voice broke. Her eyes rolled back, and she began to fall. Serain caught her in time and lowered her carefully into a chair.

  For a few seconds, she sat motionless.

  Then her eyes snapped open. The pupils glowed green.

  — Serain! — She screamed.

  The voice was no longer hers.

  — Serain, I will destroy you!

  Her head jerked sharply.

  Her gaze locked onto Syra, who was already setting fire to another dried bouquet along the opposite wall. Flames spread quickly through the leaves, and heavier smoke climbed upward.

  Again, it vanished beneath the vault, drawn into the stone itself. The smoke thickened. And it flowed precisely where Gannud was watching through the eyes of his vessel.

  The girl straightened rigidly in the chair. Her fingers dug into the armrests until the knuckles whitened. The green pupils fixed directly on Serain.

  — Who is she?! — Gannud hissed through her mouth. — An Untouched mercenary? Where did you find her? How did you know?

  Serain did not answer.

  He stood unmoving, staring at Gannud, who hid behind the body of an eighteen-year-old girl.

  For several seconds, the hall held only the crackle of burning plants and the quiet hiss of flame.

  Then the vessel suddenly tilted its head to the side.

  — Ahhh… — Gannud drawled. — Katerina. The wandering traitor.

  Behind the doors, heavy blows began to thunder.

  The guards were trying to break them down with their shoulders. The wood shuddered under the impacts, but the doors had been built to withstand an external enemy — and for now, they held.

  Inside the hall, the smoke thickened.

  It gathered beneath the ceiling and was drawn into the narrow slits carved into the stone.

  Directly to where the real Gannud sat somewhere beyond the walls.

  Serain allowed himself a faint smile.

  — Trouble breathing? — he asked calmly. — Hard to keep hiding away from your own hall?

  He walked slowly across the chamber, glancing at the carpets, the lamps, the cage of restless birds.

  — Or have you grown too fond of your baths to leave this temple?

  He stopped and surveyed the room again.

  — Though… — he added lightly. — It looks more like a brothel. Not much of a temple.

  The vessel’s body jerked violently. Her hands began to tremble. Her eyes closed, then snapped open again. Her head twitched in sharp, uneven movements.

  Gannud was losing control.

  The smoke had reached his true body now, and each new wave forced him to cough. His focus fractured as he struggled to maintain the link with his vessel.

  Behind the doors, the pounding intensified.

  Inside the hall, the smoke thickened further.

  The vessel’s body convulsed once more — but the green glow in her pupils steadied again.

  — What do you want?! — Gannud snapped.

  Serain did not hurry to answer. He glanced at Syra.

  The archer already held a third bundle of dried stems. The torch crackled softly in her hand, the flame poised to touch the brittle leaves. She waited for a single word.

  Serain turned calmly back to the vessel.

  — Leave authority with King Vladur. As it should be.

  His tone was even, as if discussing routine court matters.

  — I need you to send your people to the border of Lugarn and Gravell.

  And Lugarn, in turn, will support me in the war.

  He nodded toward the girl.

  — And release her. This is not your flesh. It is merely borrowed.

  Anger flared in the vessel’s pupils.

  — Since when do you care about vessels? — Gannud hissed.

  Serain fell silent for a second.

  — Since, — he said, — we encountered a vast army of Rejected.

  And a Suggestor at the fifth stage.

  He paused.

  — One who can move and impose without a vessel.

  The vessel’s eyes widened.

  — Nonsense! — Gannud snapped. — That cannot exist!

  — It can, — Syra said calmly. — I saw him with my own eyes.

  Serain nodded.

  — We were fortunate that Syra managed to wound him.

  Silence settled in the hall.

  The smoke no longer rose toward the ceiling.

  It thinned, slowed, and began to sink back into the room, curling low around the carpets and chair legs — no longer drawn into the stone.

  The vessel’s body suddenly relaxed.

  Gannud’s presence steadied.

  — If that is true… — he said quietly. — Then this changes everything.

  He was silent for several seconds.

  — Damn… — he muttered. — I had grown fond of this life.

  Then he fixed his gaze on Serain again.

  — Very well. Regarding the border — tell Vladur I support it.

  But the decision is his.

  Serain inclined his head faintly.

  — Good. Then we return.

  — Wait, — Gannud said.

  Serain stopped.

  — One more thing.

  — Congratulations.

  Serain frowned.

  — On what?

  A strange smile curved across the vessel’s face.

  — Your blood is now completely pure. That means you are king by right.

  Serain’s lips slowly formed a smile.

  — Finally… — he said. — No more bloodletting.

  He gestured lightly to Syra. The archer extinguished the torch.

  The doors behind them finally opened. Armed guards filled the doorway, tense, eyes fixed on Serain, Syra, and Miravelis. Then they glanced at the vessel.

  Silently, they stepped aside. Serain did not even look at them. He simply walked toward the exit. The road back to Trostal was already waiting.