The special forces training hall of Monolith was located on sub-level three of the Alnar, and the first thing Lelya felt as she descended the stairs was the smell of sweat, metal, and something burnt. The second was a blow to the chest that sent her flying into the wall.

  — Dead, — stated a voice from somewhere above.

  Lelya slid down the wall to the floor, trying to inhale. Her lungs refused to work, circles swam before her eyes, and her ribs had either cracked or were doing a very convincing impression of it.

  — You’re the new Minister of Foreign Affairs? — the same voice, closer now. Female, with a faint accent Lelya couldn’t place. — Seriously?

  Lelya raised her head. A woman stood over her — tall, with long black hair and a pale face dominated by dark, almost black eyes. Beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful, like a flower you’d be wise to keep your distance from.

  — I thought diplomats could at least dodge a direct hit. — The woman crouched down, studying Lelya with an expression somewhere between curiosity and disappointment. — How have you even survived this long?

  — Luck, — Lelya wheezed.

  The woman snorted and extended a hand. Lelya hesitated for a second, then accepted the help. She was yanked to her feet — the strength in that slender hand was completely disproportionate to its owner’s build.

  — Lilith, — the woman introduced herself. — From the look of things, I’m your worst nightmare for the next few months.

  Around them, life in the training hall carried on as usual. No one turned around, no one came to help. Clearly, they were used to scenes like this here.

  Lelya looked around, trying not to show how badly her ribs hurt. The hall was enormous — the ceiling disappeared somewhere in the darkness above, the walls were covered with mats and strange symbols, and the floor was scarred with scratches and scorch marks. In the far corner, three mages practiced what looked like synchronized combat; closer to the center, a lone figure methodically struck a punching bag that threw off sparks with each hit.

  — Impressed? — asked Lilith, following her gaze. — Don’t flatter yourself. Half of these fighters wouldn’t last a minute against me. And you, judging by our first meeting, wouldn’t last ten seconds.

  — I’m not here to fight you.

  — Then what are you here for?

  Lelya straightened up, ignoring the pain in her ribs. Her body had already begun to heal — a shifter’s advantage, though full recovery was still a long way off.

  — I’m a shifter. I need to learn how to control my power and use it.

  Lilith raised an eyebrow:

  — A shifter serving as Minister of Foreign Affairs. Interesting combination. Your kind usually prefers… more physical pursuits.

  — Usually, — Lelya agreed. — But I’m not particularly fond of the word ‘usually.’

  Something flickered in Lilith’s eyes — perhaps a shadow of interest, or perhaps just a reflection from the magical lamps. She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest.

  — Fine. Let’s see what you’re capable of. Shift.

  Lelya blinked:

  — What, right here?

  — Were you planning to ask someone’s permission first? — Lilith smirked. — Go on. Show me.

  She closed her eyes and reached for that part of herself she had discovered not long ago. A golden heat living somewhere beneath her ribs, a power that had always been with her, but which she had previously mistaken for anything else — anger, adrenaline, the bad luck of those around her.

  Shifting was like falling. Like leaping off a cliff and hoping the water below was deep enough. Her body changed — bones cracked, muscles restructured, skin sprouted fur. Painful. Always painful, though they’d told her it would get easier with time.

  Within seconds, a lynx stood where the red-haired girl had been — small, with thick grayish-red fur and tufted ears. Green eyes looked up at Lilith from below, because in this form Lelya was considerably shorter.

  — Hm, — said Lilith. — Small.

  The lynx bared its fangs.

  — Don’t take offense. Size isn’t everything in our line of work. What matters is speed and precision. And the willingness to kill. — Lilith crouched to meet the lynx at eye level. — That last part, I suspect, is where you have problems.

  Lelya shifted back. The process took slightly longer than the shift into lynx form and left her somewhat disoriented. She was on all fours, breathing hard.

  — I’ve killed, — she said once she could speak.

  — Have you? — Lilith didn’t look convinced. — What?

  — Cockroaches. A lot of cockroaches.

  Lilith laughed — unexpectedly warm and genuine, and the sound clashed completely with her menacing appearance.

  — All right, diplomat. Get up. Let’s see what you can be taught.

  The next hour turned into an unbroken string of pain and humiliation. Lilith was faster, stronger, and more experienced — centuries of experience against a few months. She knocked Lelya off her feet, forced her to shift back and forth, struck pressure points Lelya hadn’t even known existed.

  — Your problem, — Lilith said while Lelya tried once more to get up, — is that you think. You think too much. A shifter shouldn’t think in a fight. A shifter should feel.

  — I’m a diplomat, — Lelya rasped. — Thinking is my job.

  — Your job is to survive. Everything else is a pleasant bonus.

  A strike. Lelya flew toward the wall but this time managed to tuck and land on her feet. A small victory.

  — Better, — Lilith acknowledged. — Again.

  By the end of the session, Lelya could barely stand. Her clothes were shredded, her body was covered in bruises, and there was a taste of blood in her mouth — her own blood, which stung her pride. But she was still standing. That, she was beginning to understand, was already an achievement.

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  — Same time tomorrow, — said Lilith without looking at her. — And the day after. And every day, until you learn to at least block my strikes.

  — And then?

  — Then we start the real training.

  Lelya swallowed. If this wasn’t real training, she was afraid to imagine what came next.

  She was hobbling toward the elevator when Lilith’s voice caught up with her:

  — Hey, diplomat.

  Lelya turned.

  Lilith stood in the center of the hall, and the light fell on her in such a way that shadows appeared behind her back — the outlines of something resembling folded wings. A Higher Vampire. Lelya had read about them at the Academy but was seeing one for the first time.

  Vampires were not a separate race — and certainly not a separate type of mage. Any mage could become a vampire, whether battle mage, healer, weaver, or shifter. All it took was one thing: drinking human blood.

  The reasons varied, but the textbooks boiled them down to three.

  The first was the most banal. Blood acted on mages like a drug: euphoria, heightened senses, an illusion of omnipotence. Some tried it out of boredom, others chasing a thrill. The result was always the same. Among mages, vampires of this kind were treated much the way humans treat alcoholics — with a mixture of squeamish condescension. Nobody persecuted them, but nobody invited them to dinner either.

  The second reason was more practical. Human blood dramatically accelerated regeneration. A mage with grievous wounds, on the brink of death, could drink blood and recover in hours instead of weeks. In combat, when seconds mattered and no healer was nearby, it became the only chance to survive. The problem was what happened afterwards: once a mage had tasted blood, the hook was set. Not every day — but regularly. If they stopped, their body weakened, dropping below its original level, as though the body was punishing them for being shown a shortcut and having it taken away.

  The third reason was a deliberate choice. Blood didn’t just heal — it made a mage stronger. Faster, more resilient, more dangerous. Those who walked this path on purpose usually didn’t stop halfway. They drank blood every day, year after year, century after century, building power until they became something greater than an ordinary vampire. Higher. Higher Vampires grew wings — real, black, feathered. A physical manifestation of the power accumulated over centuries.

  Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same: there was no way back. A single swallow was enough to permanently rewire a mage’s magical metabolism. A vampire remained a vampire to the end — and for an immortal mage, the end might never come at all.

  Lilith stood in the center of the hall, and the shadows behind her back trembled with her breathing. Centuries of daily blood. A deliberate choice, carried through to its conclusion.

  — Why did you come here? — Lilith asked. — The real reason. Not ‘control my power’ or ‘learn to use it.’ Why does the Minister of Foreign Affairs need to learn how to fight?

  Lelya was quiet for a moment. She could have lied, deflected with a joke, or simply walked away. But something in Lilith’s eyes — some ancient, guarded wariness — made her answer honestly:

  — Because I’m tired of being the one who needs protecting. — She clenched her fists, and her nails elongated for an instant into claws before returning to normal. — I want to be the one who protects.

  Lilith stared at her for a long time, expressionless. Then she turned away.

  — Tomorrow. Don’t be late.

  Lelya nodded and stepped into the elevator.

  The doors closed, and she let herself slide to the floor, leaning against the wall. Every part of her body ached. Tomorrow would be worse.

  But for the first time in a long while, she felt she was moving in the right direction.

  After a week of training, Lelya had learned two things: how to fall without breaking anything, and how to endure Lilith. The second was harder.

  The problem wasn’t the harshness of the sessions — Lelya was getting used to pain. The problem was the wall Lilith had built around herself. She taught Lelya techniques, corrected her stance, pointed out mistakes. But not a word about herself, not a single personal remark, not a hint of who she had been before special forces.

  — You’re thinking again, — said Lilith, sweeping her legs out from under her.

  Lelya crashed onto the mats, rolled, and sprang up — already automatic by now.

  — I’m trying to predict your movements.

  — Don’t predict. React.

  A strike from the left. Lelya dodged — almost. Lilith’s fist grazed her cheekbone, and she staggered back, blinking through the pain.

  — Better, — Lilith conceded. — A week ago that hit would have broken your jaw.

  — What progress, — Lelya felt her face, checking everything was still in place.

  Lilith snorted and walked to the weapons rack. She pulled out two training knives — wooden, but with weighted balance — and tossed one to Lelya. She caught it by the handle; a week ago the knife would have hit her in the face.

  — Today we work with weapons.

  — I thought shifters didn’t need weapons.

  — Shifters need everything that helps them survive. — Lilith spun the knife between her fingers, the wooden blade blurring in the air. — Claws are good. But claws can be broken. Fangs are good. But fangs can be knocked out. A knife… — she threw the knife at a target on the far wall; it buried itself dead center, — a knife can be replaced.

  Working with the knife proved harder than hand-to-hand combat. In bare-knuckle fighting, Lelya could rely on her shifter instincts — her body knew how to move, how to strike, how to dodge. The knife was a foreign object, an extension of the hand that didn’t always obey.

  — Keep it closer to your body, — Lilith corrected. — A knife isn’t a sword; you don’t swing it from a distance. A knife is an intimate weapon. To kill with a knife, you have to get close. Close enough to feel your opponent’s breath.

  — Have you killed many people with a knife?

  Lilith froze. Her face went blank for an instant.

  — Enough.

  — And with what else?

  Silence. Lilith returned to the weapons rack, her back turned.

  — Focus on your technique. Your grip is weak.

  Lelya understood the conversation was over and didn’t push. For now.

  They trained for two more hours. Lilith demonstrated techniques — how to disarm an opponent, how to use their strength against them, how to strike so the knife slid between the ribs rather than lodging in bone. Lelya repeated, failed, repeated again.

  By the end of the session her hands were shaking and the knife kept slipping from her sweaty fingers.

  — That’s enough for today, — said Lilith. — We’ll continue tomorrow.

  Lelya nodded and headed for the bench where she’d left her bag. Then she stopped.

  — Lilith.

  — What?

  — I know you don’t like me. And I know you don’t enjoy teaching me. — Lelya turned to face her. — But I’m not leaving. You can hit me as much as you want — I’ll come back every day.

  Lilith watched her without expression.

  — Why does it matter so much to you?

  — Because I don’t want to be weak. Not ever again.

  The pause stretched on. Then Lilith gave a barely perceptible nod.

  — Tomorrow we work on shifting speed. You’re too slow changing form.

  It wasn’t ‘I accept you.’ But it was a start.

  In the shower, Lelya stood under the hot water for a long time, washing away sweat and tension. Her thoughts kept returning to Lilith — to her silence, her guardedness, the shadow-wings behind her back.

  A Higher Vampire in Monolith’s special forces. That was strange in itself. Higher Vampires usually lived as hermits — too different a way of life from ordinary mages. Yet Lilith trained recruits.

  After the shower, Lelya went to the Alnar archives. She was the Minister of Foreign Affairs and had access to some documents — not all, but many.

  Lilith’s file turned out to be thin — just a few pages, most of the information classified or marked ‘unavailable.’ But Lelya found a few things.

  The People Who Followed the Sun. House of All Winds.

  Lelya remembered this from Academy lectures. One of the peoples that had broken away from Monolith millennia ago. They had gone east, toward the rising sun, and founded their own state. Then, several centuries ago, Monolith had absorbed part of them — by force, not negotiation.

  The file mentioned ‘terrorist activity,’ ‘attacks on government officials,’ ‘mass killings of Monolith servicemen.’ No specific numbers, but reading between the lines it was clear: Lilith hadn’t just been a fighter. She had been a killing machine aimed at Monolith.

  And now she worked for Monolith. Training its soldiers.

  Lelya closed the file and leaned back in her chair.

  What makes an enemy become an ally?

  The next day Lelya arrived at training earlier than usual. Lilith was already there, warming up in the center of the hall, her movements fluid and smooth as water.

  — You read my file, — said Lilith without turning around.

  It wasn’t a question.

  — Yes. — Lelya didn’t lie.

  — And what do you think?

  — I think there are a lot of gaps. — Lelya stepped closer. — And that I’d rather hear your version.

  Lilith finally turned. Her black eyes were impenetrable.

  — Why?

  — Because I don’t like judging people by paperwork. I prefer to listen to them.

  A long pause. Behind Lilith’s back the shadow-wings thickened — not physical, just a gathering of the air, a hint of power.

  — Maybe, — she said at last. — Someday.

  She raised her hands into a fighting stance.

  — But right now — training. Attack.