The night in the mountains was deaf and cold. Wind crept over stone, slid along the slopes, and vanished into the dark folds of the terrain. The light of torches from the miners’ camp trembled far below, wedged between two ridges, but it did not reach this place. Only a weak, broken glow, as if something down there were breathing slowly among rock and earth.

  Two men stood above the camp, beside a single horse, hidden in the bushes.

  The spot was chosen well. A narrow terrace. Rock on one side, low shrubs on the other. From here, they could see everything, while remaining almost invisible themselves.

  The first was a rider. Dark clothing, no marks or ornaments. His cloak was gathered so it would not rustle. He stood motionless, holding the reins, looking downward. Not at the torches themselves, but at the gaps between them. At the places where the light ended, and true darkness began. He kept watch the way someone does who has done it before. Without fuss, without excess movement, as if he were part of the night itself.

  The second was a miner. Worn work clothes, traces of dust, calloused fingers. He carefully shifted chunks of ore into a leather bag slung over the saddle. The bag was the size of a large pack and already nearly full. Each stone touched another with a barely audible sound, and every time the miner held his breath, as if that sound alone might decide whether they would be heard below.

  The camp smoldered beneath them.

  Several rows of barracks. Torches on stakes. A watch that existed more out of habit than necessity. Guards wandered lazily between the buildings, stopping to talk, to chew on something, to warm their hands. Nothing here had demanded real attention for a long time.

  The miner froze for a moment, then pulled a small stone from a fold in his clothing. Even in the dark, it looked cleaner than the rest. Smooth, with a cold gleam.

  “Look,” he whispered. “Yesterday was a good day. This one… crystal clear.”

  He held the stone closer.

  “Keep it in your pocket. Just in case.”

  The rider did not turn.

  “All right. Just quieter.”

  The miner nodded, slipped the stone into the bag, and tightened the strap. His hands moved quickly, but without panic.

  “Tell Ravon to keep it for a while,” he whispered. “Not to sell it right away. You hear me?”

  The rider said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on the camp.

  “You hear me?” the miner repeated, even more softly.

  The rider narrowed his eyes.

  “What’s going on down there…” he muttered. “Did the guards fight over supper?”

  They both looked down.

  Near the mine entrance, two guards lay sprawled on the ground. A few more were moving toward them. From this distance, it looked like an ordinary brawl. Rough, messy, nocturnal.

  Then a scream tore through the camp.

  “Scavengers. Scavengers in the camp.”

  Others took it up.

  Miners poured out of the barracks. Someone stumbled and fell. Someone ran without direction. Torches swayed, light fractured, shadows ripped across the ground, merging into something shapeless.

  “Scavengers here?” the miner whispered. “There are two dozen guards down there. They can’t handle a few crawlers?”

  The rider slowly shook his head.

  “There aren’t just a few.”

  From the darkness, new figures emerged into the torchlight.

  They moved in jerks, unnaturally fast. They threw themselves at people, knocked them down, sank their teeth into legs and throats. There were more of them than living souls left in the camp.

  “On the horse,” said the miner. “Now. To the city.”

  They mounted a single horse. Several of the creatures turned their heads toward them.

  “Thunder, to the city,” the rider snapped, digging in his heels.

  The horse lunged forward.

  Behind them came howling. Several of the creatures gave chase. They were fast, but not fast enough. On the slope, the horse had the advantage. Moments later, the scavengers fell behind and turned back toward the camp.

  The rider and the miner vanished among the rocks, racing toward the city, leaving behind screams, fire, and a night that was no longer quiet.

  Later

  The road through the mountains stretched on for a long time.

  Stone rang beneath the hooves, cold wind cut into their faces, and darkness lurked in every bend. They rode in silence, both listening not only to the night but to their own thoughts.

  When the path finally leveled out, a field opened before them. At the far end, on rocky heights, stood the city of Korosten.

  Towering walls. A ditch before them. A stone bridge was thrown across the river that cut through the field. The bank on the city’s side was much higher, and that was deliberate.

  Not a single tree remained in the field. Everything had been cut down long ago, carefully and methodically.

  From the walls, the guards could see the entire area as if it lay in the palm of their hand.

  On the side facing the mines, the field was bordered by a small thicket. The horse stopped on its own beneath the trees and froze, waiting for a command.

  “Hold,” the miner whispered. “Before we enter the field.”

  “We need to tell the guards quickly,” the rider replied. “Let them raise the city.”

  “And what exactly will you tell them?”

  “Have you ever seen that many scavengers?” the rider snapped. “They’re loners. We chased them off with sticks when we were kids.”

  “Not just you,” said the miner. “But these… they’re different. Probably from the Neutral Forest.”

  The rider tightened the reins.

  “We have to tell the guards everything. Immediately.”

  “Yeah,” the miner snorted. “And while we’re at it, explain what you were doing near the mines at night with a bag full of Glass.”

  “There’s no time,” the rider hissed. “The scavengers are already moving toward the city. Our partners knew something. They suspected.”

  “Calm down.

  Ravon is your main problem right now. We go in quietly. Drop off the bag. Then we talk to the shift guard. Say we didn’t want to cause a panic.”

  “And what do I say when they ask why I was at the mines at night?”

  “You brought food to a friend. At night. So you wouldn’t have to share.”

  The rider stayed silent for a few seconds.

  “And the Glass?” he asked. “Looks like this is the last batch for a long time.”

  “The last. And the most expensive one.”

  “When the city learns what happened at the mines, the price will go through the roof. Tell Ravon not to sell for some time.”

  The rider nodded.

  “All right. Let’s go. While the scavengers are still out of sight.”

  The horse slowly stepped out from beneath the trees and headed toward the bridge.

  Korosten, a few days ago

  The bright room was almost sterile.

  Tall windows were covered with frosted glass, allowing light to enter as an even, cold layer. Neither day nor night. Just illumination that left no place for shadows to hide. The air was dry, smelling of dust, paper, and old ink.

  Around fifty adolescents sat in the lecture hall.

  Rows of benches. Notebooks. Gazes: some attentive, some bored, some far too attentive to be safe.

  A lecturer stood before them.

  Pillum looked exactly like someone entrusted with history should. Tall, lean, dressed in strict dark clothing without a single unnecessary detail. His voice was trained and level, his words precise, stripped of emotional excess. Academic speech that left no room for ambiguity.

  And yet, one detail broke the image.

  When he moved his hands, a tattoo was sometimes visible beneath his cuff. Old. Not decorative. Clearly, neither student foolishness nor fashion. It did not belong here. And precisely for that reason, everyone noticed it.

  Behind the lecturer hung a large map.

  Old. Worn at the edges. Marked with notes in different inks.

  “…and that is how,” Pillum said without turning around, “power was divided between the northern and southern empires.”

  He raised his pointer.

  Three states stood out clearly on the map.

  A small one in the center: Lugarn.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  A large one in the north.

  And another in the south.

  “To prevent a new unification and a possible uprising of the Rejected,” he continued, “two mercenary outposts were established on the borders of the free zone, near the Glass mines.”

  The pointer slid down, then up.

  “You know them by the names Angels and Demons. These are colloquial, unofficial names. They come solely from the color of their armor: white in the south, red in the north.”

  Several students exchanged glances.

  They had all heard these words before. Just not spoken this calmly.

  “Over time,” Pillum paused briefly, “the authority of the outposts grew significantly. And the king of the southern empire decided to dissolve the southern outpost.”

  The room grew quieter.

  “The Angels refused.”

  He lowered the pointer.

  “The king was prepared. The city was surrounded quickly. Within a few days, the castle was destroyed along with its entire guard.”

  Several students shifted nervously.

  “This decision by King Fernus was unexpected. And, at first glance, illogical. It triggered a civil war across the entire southern kingdom.”

  Pillum spoke as if reading a dry chronicle. Yet each word landed heavily.

  “A war that was eventually won by the Veytur brothers. Not without the help of a then little-known mercenary—Atrion.”

  Several students lifted their heads.

  “Under circumstances officially recorded as an accident,” the lecturer continued, “Friedrich Veytur, the elder brother, died during a hunt. The younger brother, Serain, became king. Our king.”

  He stepped aside.

  “Atrion, meanwhile, was granted the right to govern the wild eastern territory. There, he and his pack live to this day, under the autonomy you know as The Compact.”

  A hand rose in the hall.

  “Yes?” Pillum nodded.

  “In the villages near White Hold, they say,” the young man began cautiously, “that Fernus attacked not for power. But because the Angels had acquired a fifth-stage suggestor.”

  Someone in the room exhaled quietly.

  Pillum did not answer at once.

  “That is a version,” he said finally, “spread by his followers to whitewash their master. The Angels did not allow those villages to join the stone clans. So the destruction of the outpost suited many.”

  He raised his gaze.

  “At present, there is only one confirmed fifth-stage suggestor. And he lives in the north, in the kingdom of Valdyr.”

  Another hand rose.

  “And what about Dagmar?”

  “Dagmar has never left his city,” Pillum replied calmly. “To confirm a stage, it must be demonstrated. The Rejected live in isolation. Fortunately.”

  He paused.

  “And in any case, the fifth stage is nearly impossible. At that point, the body becomes almost nonviable. Even if Luga and the blood of others do not kill you immediately, movement degrades.

  Each act of Suggestion consumes health, hours of life, and clarity of mind. Recovery takes time — time you no longer have. The higher the stage, the more hours of life you pay for each use.

  At some point, Lugu forces a choice: Body or Consciousness.”

  “But one officer said,” the young man persisted, “that at the fifth stage, you can blanket an entire settlement with Suggestion at once.”

  Pillum sighed, barely perceptibly.

  “You can. If you have a loyal carrier of Suggestion, a glass tribune,” he paused, “and if the archers do not notice the carrier. But even then…”

  The doors to the lecture hall opened.

  A guard officer entered.

  “Lecturer Pillum,” he said evenly. “I have orders to escort you to the mayor. Immediately. We must end the lecture.”

  “I hope,” Pillum replied, “this has nothing to do with our mines.”

  The officer did not answer.

  “Very well.” The lecturer turned back to the students. “Next week, we will examine the stages of suggestors in detail. And explain why a king cannot be king if there is Lugu in his blood.”

  He flipped the map.

  Another appeared on the wall. A modern one.

  Seven kingdoms and the autonomy of The Compact far to the east

  Pillum walked between the rows.

  The officer moved alongside him.

  The lecture hall remained bathed in light.

  And with questions that were no longer just history.

  The officer and Pillum walked through the streets of Korosten.

  The city was alive and confident.

  Sidewalks are crowded with people. Roads are paved with stone and carefully cleaned. Merchants’ stalls restored, painted in fresh colors. On the counters: fabrics, fruit, and small glasswork. People dressed neatly, unhurried. The city looked as if trouble here was something theoretical.

  Business was good.

  And that was exactly what made everything feel uneasy.

  The officer turned aside, onto a narrow path between buildings. The noise of the market faded at once, leaving only footsteps and distant voices.

  “Besides Mayor Ruvan,” he said without looking at Pillum, “Olaf, the lord of the mines, will be waiting for you. And Lenar, the acting commander of the city guard.”

  He paused.

  “Olaf is tall, gray-haired. Ruvan—”

  “Thank you,” Pillum interrupted calmly. “I know them. And what they look like.

  How much farther?”

  “We’re almost there. Just around the corner.”

  They entered a private garden.

  Sunlight flooded the space with warm light. The greenery was well kept, the paths clean. In the shade, at a table, sat Olaf and Ruvan.

  Ruvan was fussing. Pouring wine, sliding dishes closer, constantly glancing at his guests.

  Olaf sat straight as stone. Gray hair, a heavy gaze, hands folded on the table.

  A little apart, on a bench, sat Lenar. Young. In a uniform not yet worn thin. He studied the plants attentively, as if they mattered more than the conversation.

  On the table lay a letter, three goblets, a pitcher, and a plate of sweets.

  “Pillum,” Ruvan smiled nervously. “Good to see you. Sorry for pulling you away from your lecture.

  You know Olaf. And this is Lenar. During the hostilities, while the king has taken the army, he’s been appointed commander of the local guard.”

  “We’ve already met,” Pillum replied. “When we spoke with the witnesses of the mine attack last week.”

  Lenar raised his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “A terrible story.

  But what a pleasant surprise for a miner, to have a friend ride out to see him at night… on horseback.”

  The last words carried a light, but unmistakable irony.

  Lenar was young, but he knew all the city’s shadowed corners. Perhaps that was why the king had left him here before marching off to war.

  Ruvan cleared his throat.

  “Pillum, we called you because we need your knowledge… about a mercenary from the compact. The king can’t spare troops to clear the mines. So he’s sending one of these clans here.”

  Pillum raised an eyebrow.

  “Mercenaries? Here?

  How unexpected… and interesting.”

  He fell silent for a few seconds. His surprise was genuine, and yet professional.

  “Which ones? What clan? And when will they arrive?”

  “The Blue Cohort,” Ruvan answered. “The Rianes clan.

  They’re expected the morning after next.”

  “Rianes…” Pillum nodded. “Logical.

  Almost too logical.”

  He smiled with dry sarcasm.

  “As they like to say… one battle will be enough.”

  Olaf slowly turned his head.

  “What do you mean, ‘enough’?

  We didn’t call you here for aphorisms. Explain who they are, who leads them, and how we’re supposed to deal with them. Ruvan told me they’re royal bandits, looting Serain’s treasury.”

  “But they do their job well,” Lenar interjected.

  “They do,” Pillum replied. “That’s exactly why the king listens to them.”

  — “And also because,” Ruvan added sharply, “Atrion, their leader, killed Friedrich Veytur and made Serain king.”

  “That is a tragedy for me as well,” Pillum replied coldly. “But there is no proof of it.”

  Olaf raised a hand.

  “Enough.

  To the point. Explain what you meant by ‘one battle will be enough.’”

  Pillum nodded.

  “There are three clans in The Compact.

  Black Directive is the core discipline, strategy, and money. Atrion leads them.

  Blue Cohort is the one coming here. Silent operations. Strikes from the rear. Sabotage. Technology.”

  He paused.

  “Once, they took part in a prolonged siege of a city, promising to resolve everything in a single battle.

  They simply poisoned the water. Most of the population died. That’s where the phrase came from.”

  “Optimistic,” Olaf said dryly. “And the third clan?”

  “Red Breach,” Pillum replied. “A battering ram. Heavy cavalry, siege engines, scorched land.

  They would have leveled the mines along with the hills.”

  Olaf was silent for a moment.

  “Then one battle really is preferable.”

  “Exactly,” Pillum nodded.

  “Who commands them on site?” Ruvan asked.

  “Rianes,” Pillum answered. “Atrion’s loyal hound. Not the best fighter, but a master tactician.”

  “And fond of the Rejected,” Ruvan threw in.

  “Rejected?” Olaf tensed.

  “Yes,” Pillum explained. “There are many of them in the clan.

  Rianes has ties to all their settlements. They say they even have a Grimcross.”

  Lenar straightened abruptly.

  “Grimcross? A thinking beast?”

  “Thinking,” Pillum nodded. “And dangerous to everyone.

  A byproduct. An animal — a grizzly, in that case — that once received the blood of a suggestor.

  Olaf reacted without emotion.

  “Who else?”

  “Besides Rianes, there are four more.

  Skeld, infantry commander. Former bandit from the Neutral Forest. Betrayed his own to join Atrion.

  Syra, the best archer on the continent. The only bright spot in their leadership.”

  “Syra!” Lenar perked up. “We should introduce her to our guard.”

  “If so, we’ll be glad to have her here,” Ruvan agreed. “But there’s one we won’t be glad to see.

  Velm.”

  Olaf frowned.

  “First time I’ve heard the name.”

  “He recruited the Grimcross,” Pillum said. “He also experimented with Suggestion on animals. Tortured prisoners with it.”

  “And worst of all,” Ruvan added, “he imposed Suggestion on the dead.”

  “Oh…” Olaf nodded slowly. “Isn’t that the famous necromancer?”

  “He is,” Ruvan confirmed.

  Lenar darkened.

  “Wait. I don’t understand.

  What does ‘imposed Suggestion on the dead’ mean?”

  Olaf answered instead of Pillum.

  Luga are unseen living motes that nest in the mind. In Suggestion, they bear your will into another’s lugu. Should the will be rejected, the bond breaks. But if the other is already dead…

  He paused.

  “The body can be used as long as there is a resource left.

  During the Veytur uprising and the siege of one of the cities, Velm used freshly killed defenders — those not yet buried — to slaughter sentries at night and launch a surprise attack.”

  “A disgraceful decision,” Lenar said quietly.

  “In war, there are different decisions,” Olaf replied.

  Pillum set down his goblet.

  “The day after tomorrow.

  If they’re meant to arrive in the morning, expect them by noon. They’ll come in ostentatious armor. Occupy the brothels. Think about headquarters. Clear rooms in the taverns.”

  “We should receive them as the king’s envoys,” Olaf said. “Let the city see them, but not interfere.

  We’ll clear the way.”

  “If we’re lucky,” Pillum said, “they’ll clear the mines in a few days and leave for Hariv.

  And the king won’t even notice the interruption in Glass supplies.”

  The garden fell silent again.

  And no one said aloud that if luck failed, the city would remember them for a very long time.