Date: August 21, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
The forest began to thin, and ahead, beyond a low hill, the first buildings came into view. Kazai walked a little behind the group, keeping to the shadows of the trees.
The city revealed itself gradually. First—neat walls of light stone, not high but sturdy, with small towers at the corners. Then—the roofs of houses, tiled, red and brown, peeking over the walls like curious children. And as the group drew closer, Kazai saw the streets—wide, clean, paved with even slabs. There was no filth on them. No puddles. No stench, the kind he had been accustomed to since childhood.
Here it smelled of bread, flowers, and something else for which he couldn't find a name. The houses were solid, with carved window frames and flowers on the sills. People they encountered didn't shy away, didn't look on with hatred or fear—they greeted them, nodded, smiled. Smiled. Kazai couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so many smiles.
"This is Crownhall," Garrett said, noticing his gaze. "A small town in the south of the kingdom of Erdenia. It's quiet here, peaceful. Almost never any trouble with wild beasts… almost," he corrected himself, nodding toward the forest.
"Erdenia?" Kazai repeated. His voice was level, but inside, curiosity stirred. He had never heard of such a kingdom. That meant the portal had taken him far. Very far.
"Yes," Garrett was surprised that someone might not know the name, but he chalked it up to the traveler's ignorance. "One of the southern kingdoms. Small, but sturdy. We have good, fertile lands. The people are well-fed and content. There hasn't been a war in fifteen years."
"A small kingdom," Kazai repeated slowly. His eyes swept over the clean streets, the solid houses, the smiling faces. "And this isn't even the capital?"
Garrett chuckled, missing the subtext.
"No, the capital is Erden City. It's four times larger. And much wealthier. There are palaces, parks, and the Academy of the Ruling, where they train councilors and administrators. But this… this is the provinces. The backwoods, by local standards."
Kazai said nothing. In his soul, a heavy, cold wave was rising, one he could barely suppress. The backwoods. The provinces. And his people lived in swamps, in filth, in perpetual fear and stench. Even a place these people called "the backwoods" would be an impossible dream for the Kingdom of the Rejected.
*We will rise again,* he thought, clenching his fist. *I will make sure my people live no worse than these. Perhaps even better.*
They passed through the entire town. Garrett, a natural instructor accustomed to explaining, pointed out the significant buildings: the town hall, the main temple, the market. Kazai listened with half an ear, memorizing names and details, but his thoughts were far away. He was comparing. Analyzing. Noting what could be put to use in the Kingdom of the Rejected.
At last, they came to the main building of the academy.
The "Silver Spring" greeted them with massive wrought-iron gates, beyond which opened a spacious courtyard paved with light stone. Along the perimeter of the courtyard stood the academic buildings—three stories tall, of dark brick, with tall windows and tiled roofs. In the center of the courtyard, a fountain played—not tall, but elegant, with bronze figures of some animals. The water in it was crystal clear, and in the rays of the setting sun, fine rainbow spray scattered from it.
When Kazai stepped through the gates, the conversations died.
It didn't happen all at once—first, a few students standing by the fountain noticed him. Then their gazes were passed on to others. And within seconds, the entire courtyard, dozens of young men and women, froze, staring at the stranger.
Kazai wore no uniform. He had on a black traveling cloak, under it a simple but sturdy armor of black leather reinforced with steel plates. A sword hung at his hip. His face, pale, with sharp features, showed nothing, and only his eyes—pale, almost transparent—roamed over the students' faces, assessing, memorizing.
He was an outsider. Too dangerous. And his aura, even when he tried to suppress it, pressed on those around him, forcing the weakest to lower their gazes.
Whispers spread:
— Who is that?..
— Doesn't look like a teacher…
— Look, he's with Garrett… and Garrett's wounded…
— But he doesn't have any wounds…
Kazai ignored them. He was studying the academy.
His sharp gaze picked out details an ordinary person would have missed. Over there, above the entrance to the northern wing, hung an artifact—a sphere of dark glass the size of a grown man's head. It glowed faintly from within, and Kazai could feel barely perceptible waves of energy emanating from it. Some sort of protective field, or perhaps an alarm system.
By the fountain stood two stone pillars, and at their tops, in special recesses, lay crystals—transparent, with silvery veins. They, unlike the sphere, did not glow, but Kazai knew: these were energy accumulators. He had seen similar ones, though much weaker, at the Seer's hut.
And on the walls of the main building, if one looked closely, barely visible runes could be made out—not like those in the cave, others, simpler, but still ancient. They fortified the structure, making it more resistant to magic and physical impacts.
*All of this can be used,* Kazai thought, memorizing every detail. *Defensive spheres. Accumulators. Fortifying runes. If I can replicate this in the Kingdom of the Rejected…*
The whispers died down. Kazai felt a gaze.
It was unlike those the students were casting at him. It was heavier, more saturated, more experienced. Kazai slowly raised his head and looked at the tallest tower of the academy—the one that rose above all the other buildings, with narrow lancet windows and a tiled roof topped by a weathervane shaped like a bird in flight.
There, in the depths of a window, stood a man.
He was old. Very old. His hair, white as snow, was combed back, without a single dark strand. His face, carved with deep wrinkles, resembled the bark of an ancient tree, but his eyes… the eyes were young, alive, and they looked straight at Kazai. There was no fear in them. Only cold, appraising interest.
Kazai felt his aura instantly. Even at this distance, through layers of stone and walls, it pressed on his Vessel, made it tense. This was a Herald. Not a novice, not a weakling—a true one, seasoned, who had been through dozens, if not hundreds, of battles.
The headmaster.
Kazai didn't avert his gaze. He looked into the man's eyes the same way he had once looked into the eyes of death. With challenge. With cold, icy calm. The man in the tower withstood this duel of gazes for only a few seconds, and then his face twitched, almost imperceptibly.
For a brief instant—just a moment—involuntary goosebumps ran down his spine. He had seen much. He had met adepts, negotiators, politicians, warlords. But such a cold, empty abyss in a person's eyes he had never seen before.
"Well, I'll be," he said quietly, so no one could hear. "I didn't think monsters like this roamed our lands."
He watched as Kazai slowly shifted his gaze and continued his inspection of the academy as if nothing had happened. And in his head, thoughts were already spinning: who was this young man? Where had he come from? And what did he want in Crownhall?
Kazai didn't know what the headmaster thought of him. He wasn't interested. He stepped forward, into the shadow of the main building, and his black cloak vanished into the darkness of the corridor. The students kept whispering, but their voices grew quieter, more uncertain.
And in the tower, by the lancet window, the old headmaster stood motionless, his gaze still fixed on the spot where the strange traveler had just disappeared.
"Keep an eye on him," he said into the emptiness. No one answered. But he knew his words had been heard.
The shadows in the corners of the room shifted, almost imperceptibly.