Far East

  The garden was so dense and alive that the black earth was hidden beneath thick grass and a scatter of multicolored flowers. The trees stood close together, their crowns interwoven into a vaulted green ceiling through which sunlight pierced in narrow columns, spilling across the grass in golden pools. Birds called over one another without pause, competing for branches and attention; their song was loud, insistent, almost triumphant. Nearby ran a narrow, crystal-clear stream; the water murmured evenly over stone, as if some unseen hand was patiently counting prayer beads.

  In the midst of this greenery stood a bed—real, with carved posts—and beside it several pieces of furniture that looked out of place in a garden, yet entirely natural for the one who ruled here. A lantern burned on a small table, though the day was bright; its flame did not flicker, because wind did not exist here.

  On the bed lay two young Rejected. She lay on her back, relaxed, her hair spread across the pillow; he sat beside her, her legs draped over his shoulders. Their movement was rhythmic, harmonious, as though they were keeping time with the murmur of the stream. Everything around them seemed an extension of that rhythm.

  Suddenly, he froze. The motion stopped—not from fatigue, not from doubt, but in a single instant. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked upward. His eyes were clouded, tinged with dark green that seemed unnatural even here. They were not looking at the sky—they were looking through it.

  “What is it, my Lord?” Her voice cracked with concern. “Did I—?”

  He cut her off sharply, though not with irritation—rather with delighted curiosity, almost childlike excitement.

  “Well,l now. What guests are riding to us? What a meeting this will be.”

  She frowned, confused. “Guests?”

  He lowered his gaze to her, and in his greenish eyes flickered a shadow of recognition.

  “Tell Tiks that Atrion and Velm are riding to us. Let him prepare the reception.”

  His eyelids lowered slowly. His eyes closed and tightened, as if he were trying to hold something inside. Then the garden began to unravel. First, the birdsong vanished—cut off like a severed string. The sunbeams dimmed. The grass lost its color, the flowers withered in an instant, and the stream fell silent. The green canopy dissolved like mist.

  In its place appeared stone walls, heavy curtains, and a dark wooden floor. The bed and furniture remained, but now stood in an ordinary chamber—cool, half-shadowed. The lantern on the bedside table no longer seemed out of place; it was the only source of light.

  Her legs slipped from his shoulders. She moved away quickly and began to dress, her motions sharp and focused. The room was quiet—truly quiet.

  The man drew a sudden breath.

  His eyes opened. They were normal now—lighter, alive, without the dark green haze. For a few seconds, his gaze remained empty, as if he were returning from great depth.

  “He left? Did something happen?” Tiks asked hoarsely.

  “Just now,” she replied, pulling on her shirt. “He said Atrion and Velm are riding to us. And that you should prepare.”

  Tiks sat upright. There was no fear on his face—only quick, cold calculation. He gave a short nod, as if confirming something he had already sensed deep within, even before the words.

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He rose from the bed, fully himself now, without an enemy shadow behind his eyes. “Then no more lying around. If Dagmar releases me before finishing, it means we must hurry.”

  Tiks dressed quickly, without wasted motion. The garden was gone completely, leaving only stone, shadow, and the approach of guests.

  Atrion and Velm rode along a narrow road through the forest. The crowns intertwined so tightly that light barely reached the ground, turning the path into a strip of dim gray within black-green shadow. The air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of moss and old bark. The forest seemed motionless—but that was an illusion. Here, someone was always watching.

  The Rejected favored the deep woods. Like The Pale, they understood the value of shadow. Yet the road to Innorat was known and marked. Traders and travelers could use it. Enemies could not. Dozens of observation posts were concealed along the forest’s edge, hidden in canopies and among roots. Traps—mechanical, chemical, sometimes living—waited for anyone foolish enough to stray from the path. False trails led into dead thickets or into circles that returned one to the starting point. In this forest, no one became lost by accident.

  Innorat was a stronghold of those Rejected who had managed not only to survive, but to build something more—order, craft, fortifications. Over time, the secretive and closed settlement became part of the trade network of The Compact, cautiously opening its gates to select merchants and vetted travelers. Trust here was measured in years—and in blood.

  The rule was simple and uncompromising: move only along the road. Do not step off it—not even once. And never travel at night. After sunset, the forest stopped pretending to be neutral. Too many places had been prepared for enemies, and darkness itself was part of the defense.

  When the trees suddenly parted, the contrast was almost jarring. Around the walls of Innorat, every tree had been cut down. An open field, some thirty meters wide, separated the city from the forest, exposing anyone who approached. No cover, while ahead rose stone fortifications—restrained, functional, without ornament.

  Atrion’s gaze slid along the walls, the battlements, the towers. They were watching them as well. Always.

  The mercenaries knew the local rules. They neither hurried nor delayed. The road led them straight to the gates of Innorat, and they were already entering a zone where every step was counted by more than themselves.

  “I think it would be better if they did not learn who forms the core of the enemy’s army,” Velm said quietly, without taking his eyes off the road.

  “I agree,” Atrion replied. “We avoid the question. But we do not lie.”

  Ahead, the walls of Innorat came fully into view—gray, even, without ornament. Three figures stood by the gate.

  “Do you see who’s there?” Atrion asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the walls.

  “Yes. Hidema, Anup… and Tiks.”

  “Anup makes sense. Hidema too. But Tiks—who is he?”

  “Dagmar’s vessel.”

  “Damn… a dreadful fate. I’d rather cut my own throat.”

  Velm grimaced faintly. “You see it as slavery. They see it as service. For them, it is an honor. Besides, he receives everything he desires.”

  Atrion narrowed his eyes. “What he desires… or what Dagmar desires?”

  Velm did not answer. They were already too close for careless words.

  The gate stood open just wide enough to admit two riders. Above them—narrow arrow slits, tower shadows.

  Anup stepped forward first, his voice carrying warmly and without restraint.

  “Atrion, Velm, we are glad to see you here. When I heard the news, I did not believe my ears.”

  “I am glad to see you as well,” Atrion replied, dismounting. “It has been more than a year since I last stood here.”

  “Yes, time moves relentlessly,” Anup nodded. “Allow us to escort you to the chambers prepared for you. On the way, you may share your news—and tell us how we might help.”

  Atrion paused for a heartbeat, his gaze sliding over Hidema, then Tiks. Tiks stood calmly, hands folded behind his back. His face was neutral, almost empty. His eyes were ordinary. For now.

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  “I will speak plainly,” Atrion said. “The news is grim. The war is in full force. The enemy presses. We have lost many close to us. And the end is nowhere in sight.”

  The air by the gate grew heavier. Even the wind seemed to be still.

  Without giving space for unnecessary questions, Atrion continued,

  “That is why we are here. After we put ourselves in order, we need to speak with Dagmar. I hope that will not be a problem.”

  He looked directly at Anup.

  The elder held his gaze.

  “Of course. Inform us when you are ready.”

  Tiks inclined his head slightly. Not a word. Not a flicker of emotion.

  “Thank you,” Atrion said shortly. “And thank you for meeting us. I will find you later.”

  They passed through the gate. The stone walls closed behind them with a dull sound. Inside Innorat, it was quieter than outside—but not the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of a place that knew how to wait.

  Reaching the prepared chambers, Atrion and Velm entered without delay.

  The door shut behind them.

  Anup, Tiks, and Hidema turned and walked down the corridor in the opposite direction.

  “Did you see his face?” Hidema said quietly.

  “Whose, exactly?” Anup replied calmly, without slowing.

  “Atrion’s. He spoke evenly. Too evenly.” She turned her head sharply. “That is not how someone speaks when everything is under control.”

  Anup remained silent.

  “And where is Rianes?” she continued, lower now. “Have you ever seen Velm arrive without him?”

  Their footsteps echoed against the stone.

  “They did not come to ask for help,” she added. “They came because something has already broken.”

  Anup fell quiet for a moment.

  “I have seen how people keep silent when they are not yet ready to tell the truth,” he said at last. “If the news is what I suspect… he will speak. When he decides the time is right.”

  “And if he does not?”

  They stopped at a turn in the corridor.

  Hidema shifted her gaze to Tiks.

  “Tiks. Tell me. Dagmar will learn everything, won’t he? Nothing can be hidden from him.”

  Tiks did not answer immediately. His face remained composed.

  “Our lord,” he said softly, “does not like taking by force what is not willingly given.”

  A pause.

  “But if he needs to…” His gaze went empty for a brief moment. “He will know. It does not matter who. From Atrion. From King Serain.”

  The corridor fell silent again.

  Several hours later, Atrion, Velm, and Anup were already on their way to meet Dagmar.

  Anup led them in silence through the inner courtyard and opened the heavy doors of the temple. Inside, the space was unexpectedly open: a circular hall, at its center a wide stone platform framed by columns. Dozens of lights burned beneath the vault, and a great hearth along the wall maintained an even warmth that seemed disproportionate to the size of the chamber.

  In the very center stood a round table. Four chairs surrounded it. On the table—cups filled with Luga, diluted with water. The liquid held a faint, cloudy tint and a subtle bitter scent.

  They sat. Anup took a cup without hesitation and drained it.

  Atrion looked at him but did not touch his own.

  “Drink,” Velm said quietly. “It will be easier.”

  “Easier for what?” Atrion replied shortly, but he lifted the cup.

  He glanced inside—the liquid trembled faintly—then drank. The bitterness struck sharply, then dissolved quickly into warmth. Velm finished his own.

  The silence lasted only a moment.

  The world changed without transition.

  The stone floor was covered once more with grass. The columns dissolved. The hall was filled with light.

  Tropical trees rose around them. Ahead—dark ocean. Waves rolled toward the shore with a muted roar.

  The ceiling vanished. Above them—clear sky.

  “He does love drama,” Atrion muttered quietly.

  From among the trees on the far side, Dagmar emerged.

  He did not appear abruptly—he simply became visible among the greenery. Elegantly dressed, light skin without a single flaw, athletic build, perfect posture. His features were too precise, almost sculpted. His gaze was calm, attentive, unhurried.

  Velm rose first. Atrion followed.

  “Dagmar,” Velm said briefly, bowing his head.

  “It has been a long time,” Atrion added evenly.

  Dagmar smiled faintly, as if this were precisely the reaction he had expected.

  He stepped closer and took the empty chair beside them. The grass beneath his feet did not bend. The ocean continued to breathe behind his back.

  “How do you like the view, Atrion?” Dagmar asked, lightly brushing his hand through the air, as if it were his canvas.

  Too perfect. Almost false.”

  “I could add drunken fishermen. The smell of rotting fish. Shouts from the docks.”

  “Then it would be hard to tell where reality ends.”

  Dagmar’s smile curved at one corner. “Reality is always where I allow it to be.”

  He moved slowly around the table. “I have not seen you in so long that I hardly know where to begin. Should I ask about family? About service?” He inclined his head slightly. “No. Better tell me… how goes your war with Serain?”

  The wind strengthened. The waves behind him darkened.

  “Whom are you fighting now? And where is Rianes?” His voice softened—but grew colder. “What must have happened for you to come to me in his place?”

  Clouds drifted over the sun. The light dimmed.

  Atrion met his gaze directly. A few seconds—absolute silence. The grass at their feet began to yellow. The ocean vanished. For a brief instant, the stone walls of the temple and the red glow of the hearth broke through. Reality strained to return.

  Then the garden prevailed once more.

  “Your resistance is formidable,” Dagmar said calmly. “But you did not come here to demonstrate it.”

  Silence cracked.

  The ocean leveled. The wind died.

  “Fine,” Atrion said at last. “A few months ago, scavengers attacked the Glass mine near Korosten. There were many of them. They destroyed the camp — all the workers with it.”

  The sun disappeared completely behind the clouds.

  “The king sent Rianes to cleanse the area. During reconnaissance, he discovered a large army. Oaken, Vishaps… and Rejected.”

  The trees around them grew taller, darker.

  “He planned a strike on their camp. He intended to destroy their siege engines and barracks. Balrek and I joined him. Despite achieving the objectives, during the battle, Rianes was captured. They forced him into a duel with the commander of the Vishaps—at the edge of the World’s Maw.”

  The wind rose again.

  “He won. But the ground collapsed. Many soldiers fell. Rianes was among them.”

  The silence turned heavy.

  Anup clutched his head. “This… this is an irreparable loss for all of us. How could this—”

  The ocean fell completely still.

  Dagmar slowly lowered his head. His breathing deepened, roughened—as if something pressed from within.

  “Terrible news…” he said quietly.

  “But that is not all,” Atrion continued. “They have a Suggestor. We do not know where he came from. And he is not one of them. Powerful. He cast influence over entire units at once. Those who fell under it said they had never felt anything like it. Katerina said—fifth. Skeld confirmed.”

  The wind ceased entirely. For a moment, even the ocean stopped moving.

  “Fifth…” Dagmar repeated.

  He did not look surprised. He did not raise his voice. He merely shifted his gaze from Atrion to the horizon.

  “For many years, there has been no one. Except me… and Gannud.”

  A pause.

  “If it is truly a fifth,” he added calmly, “then either he is dying… or we are all underestimating what is unfolding.”

  “That is not all,” Velm interjected. “He cast directly. Not through a vessel. Syra saw him with her own eyes. He stood. Alone. On a platform. And crushed us.”

  The grass beneath their feet darkened.

  “On the fifth stage—walking?” Dagmar shook his head faintly. “Impossible. At that stage, the body cannot endure. One cannot even sit for long, let alone move.”

  “But he moved,” Velm said firmly. “Many saw it. This was no hallucination.”

  Dagmar fell silent for several seconds.

  “If this is true,” he said slowly, “the balance is no longer in your favor. He must be eliminated at any cost. But approaching him will be impossible. A fifth sense senses your approach before you even realize you’ve begun to move.”

  Silence settled over the hall. Even the ocean stopped murmuring.

  “Wait,” Anup spoke. “If there is such a Suggestor there… then who commands that army?”

  “Some Rejected,” Atrion replied. “Luga has fully distorted him. But physically, he is intact. Active. Clear-minded.”

  “A rare case,” Anup murmured thoughtfully. “And what is his name?”

  “Ranuper… Ravuner…” Atrion shrugged. “We did not have time to confirm it.”

  “Ranuver?” Anup lifted his head sharply.

  “Possibly. Yes.”

  The air grew colder.

  “Ranuver is not just a name,” Anup said quietly. “It is the name of one who has long been dead.”

  “Who was he?” Atrion asked.

  “The one who once united the Rejected. Conquered these lands. He built the first city where Hariv now stands. To us, he is a hero. Almost a saint.”

  “That was two hundred years ago,” Atrion replied dryly. “If it is him, he would be over two hundred now.”

  “Approximately,” Anup confirmed.

  Silence.

  “It is not him,” Dagmar said calmly.

  He did not rush to continue.

  “But whoever took that name… understands exactly what he is doing.”

  His gaze turned cold.

  “The name Ranuver can gather the Rejected faster than any command. If it has returned, it was done deliberately.”

  “We need to uncover two things. Who managed to unite the Rejected… and who that Suggestor is.”

  “I had hoped you knew more,” Atrion said dryly.

  “No,” Dagmar replied evenly. “To learn that, one must explore the Dark Forest. Its deepest corners. The places even beasts avoid.”

  “And who, in your view, would go there?”

  “The one who lives in forests and rules them. The one who can find the edge of the World’s Maw, pass through it… and emerge on the other side, into the Dark Forest.”

  “Who is that supposed to be?”

  A pause.

  “Nektokaris,” Velm said quietly.

  The name fell heavily.

  “You are joking,” Atrion snapped. “I am not going there.”

  “Afraid of your own nightmares?” Dagmar asked gently.

  “One can lose their mind there,” Atrion replied sharply. “And I still need mine.”

  “You will not,” Velm said calmly, “if we lose.”

  Atrion did not answer at once. For a moment, he saw the dark thicket again, the whisper that belonged to no voice, and those who had returned with empty eyes.

  “Not everyone comes back from there,” he said more quietly.

  “Not everyone comes back from war either,” Velm answered. “Yet you still go.”

  The ocean behind Dagmar dissolved. In its place appeared a road across a wide field. In the distance—a city. The suggestion of Hariv: a lake behind it, farms surrounding it, mountains to the left. A peaceful image of home.

  Atrion’s gaze lingered on the city. Too long.

  “I know that without you,” he said at last, rising slowly.

  “Thank you for the hospitality, Dagmar. We will prepare. Tomorrow we ride. To Nektokaris.”

  The image vanished. The stone hall returned, along with the steady warmth of the hearth.

  Atrion and Velm rose and left without a word.

  Anup remained. He was already turning to follow when a voice reached him—now without illusion, without ocean, simply in the dim quiet of the temple.

  “Send people. Learn everything about Ranuver. If it is truly him…” A brief pause. “We will have to decide which side to stand on—and a mistake will cost us our future.”

  The fire in the hearth crackled softly.