"How are you feeling, Sofya?"
The voice was gentle, but there was steel in it.
The question came from a balding man posed with ceremonial dignity. He looked down from above with the air of a kindly grandfather—one that didn't hide the hard lines of his face. His snow-white beard was neat and well-kept. Cheekbones sharp, lips tight, eyes watchful.
He wore the white garb of a high-ranking cleric. Heavy gold ornaments lay over it: a medallion set with red stones, a cross on his chest, a ring catching the sunlight.
Absolutely everything about him filled Roxy with revulsion.
The too-perfect posture, the groomed beard, the shine of gold on his chest. That downward gaze, as if at dirt underfoot. Even the genial old-man mask couldn't hide the cold in his eyes. Every gesture, every movement felt alien and hostile to her.
"I'm fine… thank you," Sofya answered simply, folding her hands before her.
"Splendid." He dipped his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching in the likeness of a smile. "I'm glad your fits no longer trouble you. Seems Master Valder did good work."
The girl gave a small nod. A thin smile flickered across her face and vanished.
"But tell me, Sofya, who is your silent friend?" His voice stayed mild, but his gaze grew heavy, sliding on and coming to rest on the figure standing aside.
"Ah, that's—" Sofya began, but didn't have time.
"My name is Roxy," she cut in, sharp, without hesitation. The hood slipped from her head, and blue hair spilled over her shoulders.
"Pleased to meet you. My name is Harry Grimoire," the man inclined his head; the snow-white beard flashed in the light. "Please, don't be put off by the surname. Long ago some very distant relatives of mine helped create the very technique by which all spell-books are now made."
"So your kin are the ones who figured out how to store spells in books?" Roxy tilted her head. A smirk slid through her voice. "How cute. A line of mages, keepers of charms, and you're—what—a candle-closet watchman. Whole civilizational decline packed into one name."
She narrowed her eyes, as if examining his grand cross and ring.
"I wonder if your forebears knew what their heir would end up doing."
Harry gave a slight chuckle, showing neither anger nor annoyance.
"They knew, my child," his voice sounded just as soft, just as insinuating. "Because their books, their labor, serve here, within these walls. I keep them no less than they once did. And believe me, candles are far more precious than you think. Without them, you can't read a spell, can't find a thing in a book."
He leaned his head a bit closer; his eyes glinted.
"Each of us keeps our own piece of the world. Mine is order."
"Order… sure. The kind where priests get their hands under boys' robes?"
Laughter.
Harry laughed loudly—too loudly.
As if he'd heard a good joke. His voice boomed under the vaults, gradually softening into a warm grumble.
But his face didn't change—the same motionless mask, the same cold eyes. The laughter came out of his mouth and touched not a single muscle.
It made him look strange, otherworldly.
"Ah, youth… always loves to spit at what it doesn't understand," he said, shaking his head kindly. "But you know, child, words like that are arrows. Easy to loose—and impossible to call back."
He leaned forward a touch, still in that mild voice, as if chatting about the weather:
"Arrows usually find a mark. And not always the one you aimed at."
He said it still bobbing his head, all geniality.
"But enough about me," Harry spread his hands. The smile settled back on his face. "Let's talk about you."
He tipped himself slightly to one side, his gaze settling on Roxy.
"A Migurd in the holy city… How long it's been since your feet walked here." Harry spread his hands gently, as if summoning old memories. "Probably since the Great Butchery… If I recall, your tribe was quite active then."
He narrowed his eyes slightly; the smile held.
"That's when they started calling your people Mind-Burners…"
Harry said it softly, almost with a smile, as if sharing a cute nickname. But each word rang with a heavy hint that made the room feel smaller.
Roxy stood still. Nails bit into her palm beneath the cloak. Her chest tightened, but her face stayed stone.
"That was three hundred years ago," she forced out, her tone even. "And I don't intend to answer for someone else's madness…"
She gave a slight shrug, as if shaking off his words.
"You wouldn't blame an infant for the sins of their forefathers, would you?"
Harry grunted; the smile remained unchanged, almost benevolent.
"An infant? No, my child," he spread his hands mildly. "But blood is a stubborn thing. It carries memory farther than years do."
He canted his head, as if sharing a joke:
"Sometimes you look at the grandchildren and see the very same obstinacy their great-grandfather had. Even if they haven't the faintest notion of it themselves."
Silence stretched.
"But it seems this touched you rather little," Harry went on in the same easy tone, as if discussing the weather. "You differ to the point that you don't even possess telepathy—the inborn trait of your people."
The words lay down quietly, but the barb was true.
Roxy twitched almost imperceptibly; her eyes widened for a heartbeat. Surprise flickered and vanished behind a mask of calm. She evened her breathing, pressed her lips together, and pretended it hadn't stung.
"Is that so?" Roxy's voice broke into a dry little laugh. "And what makes you think so…?"
"Please, Roxy," Harry spread his hands slightly, as if begging a small favor. "Let's not pretend otherwise. You wouldn't be behaving like this for so long if you could peek into my head."
The smile on his face didn't change, but the words shut off every path to evasion.
Harry inclined his head, and his voice rose louder, as if in jest, though every syllable landed with weight:
"Curious thing… If you did have telepathy, Roxy, you'd already know what I think of you." He smirked, almost fatherly. "And you'd likely have gone pale. Might even have tried to run."
He chuckled softly, yet his face stayed the same, unchanged.
"As it is… we have to speak it all out loud. Tiresome, don't you think?"
Harry leaned forward a fraction, his smile as warm as if he were chatting with a beloved granddaughter:
"You know, Roxy… I've always had a special respect for your people. Telepaths—such a rare gift. But the risk to them is special, too."
He tilted his head, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur:
"Peek where you shouldn't, and that's it. The brain burns like a candle, the soul slips into the dark. I knew one myself… curiosity did him in."
The pause hung thick; then he suddenly smiled wider, gently:
"Funny, isn't it? And here you are beside me, still on your feet."
Roxy flinched. Her lips trembled, and she ground out:
"Yeah… I can't read minds."
Harry patted the armrest lightly, as if joking:
"Let me guess, Roxy…" his voice stayed warm, almost teasing. "Born weaker than the rest? Or did your parents hide you away, to spare you comparison with the stronger?"
He paused, leaned in slightly; the smile didn't waver:
"Or did you refuse to learn? Afraid that other people's voices would drive you mad?"
He spread his hands, tossing the game on the table:
"So which is it?"
"Congenital deafness," Roxy said evenly, though her fingers curled into a fist. "It keeps another telepath from entering my head… and keeps me from reading as well."
She lifted her eyes and met Harry's.
"Rare, but it happens. To anyone. Most never even suspect it—since they've never met telepaths or been born with the gift."
"How terrible," Harry drawled in that same soft, sympathetic tone, as if speaking of someone's illness. "You must have had it rough in a tribe where everyone around you is a telepath?"
He tilted his head slightly; the smile didn't change.
"So that's why you left?"
Roxy only gave a meaningful tilt of her head, offering no direct answer.
"I understand," Harry nodded, as if he'd caught an entire story in it. "But you should know… in a holy place like this city, many don't care for those who are different. Those like you."
He spread his hands, smiling paternally:
"But I am not like them. That's precisely why I head the faction that stands for accepting all races. Even yours, Roxy. I'm not going to keep you here by force," Harry said gently, folding his hands over his chest. "You can walk out right now, perfectly free."
He added a slight smile, as if offering an innocent clarification:
"So long as you're within these walls, no hand will touch you. Here, you are under my protection."
He tilted his head; his gaze stayed steady:
"But beyond that door… the city is itself. The order of streets, the crowd, the guard, the laws. All of it lives by its own rules. I'm not master of every step outside."
He spread his hands again, as if laying out a choice:
"That is why I say—decide for yourself, Roxy."
"And what exactly am I deciding?" Roxy's voice was dry; her eyes narrowed.
Harry inclined his head slightly; the smile on his face didn't change:
"Only this, my child," he said softly, as if offering candy. "A person like you would do me no harm on my side. You're strong, stubborn… rare qualities. Work with me—and everything will be just fine for you."
He paused, toyed with the ring on his finger.
"And if not, no one will hold you. The door is open. Go where you will."
Roxy gave a short nod, committing to neither yes nor no.
"Wonderful!" Harry exclaimed, flinging his arms wide as if greeting good news. "Then we have an understanding."
He turned to Sofya; his smile grew wider still:
"Roxy will stay with you. I think that will be the best arrangement for you both."