When they stepped out the heavy doors of the dorms half an hour later, Ema felt a bit self-conscious in the uncharacteristically tight clothing, constantly tugging at the hem of her t-shirt. Tomáš was sitting on a bench under a linden tree. He wore faded black jeans, sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead, and held a paper cup of coffee.
He stood up when he saw them. His eyes immediately fell on Ema, shining in pink sequins next to the equally color-coordinated Beata. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he pushed his glasses up in amusement. "Good morning, ladies," he smiled, giving them an appraising look. "I see Beata's unicorn syndrome is dangerously contagious. Should we put your room under quarantine?"
Ema rolled her eyes, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "Don't even start. I'm going shopping this afternoon before she turns me into a permanent disco ball."
Beata nudged Tomáš triumphantly with her elbow. "Actually, she looks totally stunning in it, Tom. You just don't know how to appreciate it. Anyway, I was just wondering if you've eaten yet, because we're heading to breakfast. You're paying, since you're in such a joking mood."
Tomáš just laughed, completely unfazed by her cheekiness, and fell into step beside Ema. "With pleasure."
They ended up on the sun-drenched terrace of a small café near the square. It was a crisp summer morning. Ema took bites of a hot, buttery croissant and sipped her cappuccino. "Matyáš and Ondřej drank so much alcohol yesterday that they completely passed out and fell asleep on the table," Ema brought up a thought that had been bothering her since she woke up. "It's actually pretty weird that alcohol affects us at all and can put us to sleep, considering we can't get hangovers."
Tomáš took a sip from his cup and shrugged. "When an Architect drinks alcohol, they are perceptually open to it—they allow the chemistry to affect their mind, to relax them or put them to sleep. But the power itself constantly maintains physical balance in the body. Your body is naturally resistant to poisons and diseases, and it has a massive capacity for cellular regeneration and nutrient replenishment. The aftermath of getting drunk simply doesn't manifest because your body flushes it out. If you downed two bottles of vodka at once, you might throw up, or it might just shut you down and you'd fall asleep, but it won't kill you like it would a normal person."
Ema stirred her coffee thoughtfully. It was a freedom, but also a strange detachment from normal humanity. "What about money?" she asked quietly. "If we can create matter... can I just conjure up a full wallet?"
Tomáš and Beata exchanged a look. "To a certain extent, yes," Beata nodded. "But you have to perfectly understand the principle and composition of the banknote. Its paper, the security features, the ink. If you manage that, your power will automatically integrate it into the world's system, so unlike a regular forgery, it won't be an anomaly. The universe will just accept it as a fact."
"But try becoming a billionaire overnight, and you'll hit a wall," Tomáš added, leaning his elbows on the table. "There is a limit. The moment your creation starts to affect the global economic balance of the world, the Order would step in."
Ema frowned. "The Order?" "The First Beings of this world," Tomáš said, his voice dropping an octave. "Some call them Angels. They aren't gods, because God, whatever form that may be, created them all just like He created us, but they are entities of pure power. Most of us will never meet one, and you should be glad for that. Their strength is on a completely different level."
Ema stared into her half-empty cup. If these First Beings are so incredibly powerful, it flashed through her mind, why haven't they stopped the Void long ago? Why do they let those dark thorns consume the world?
But then a chilling flash of memory crossed her vision. Azriel. She had met him right before that monstrous, forced wedding to Friedrich von Riese. Tomáš was right that the man radiated an absolute, almost incomprehensible authority, yet he hadn't acted like an angel of destruction. He hadn't saved her directly then. He hadn't kicked the doors down and wiped Friedrich's family off the face of the earth, even though it clearly wouldn't have been a problem for him. He had only intervened indirectly. He had moved the pieces on the chessboard of fate slightly, almost invisibly, and given her a chance to escape.
So the Order knows about everything. And they do intervene. But why so covertly? Do they have some plan, rules, or restrictions that human Architects simply cannot comprehend? Maybe they see the world in a context that a mortal cannot fathom.
Her gaze slid back to Tomáš and Beata, who were already talking and laughing about something else. It would be too dangerous to tell them about Azriel right now. It was a fragment of her past that she had to protect for the time being. She swallowed that massive secret and just quietly continued to stir her coffee.
Tomáš quickly changed the subject and reached into the pocket of his denim jacket. He pulled out three slips of paper. "Anyway, tickets for the Friday gig at The Drunken Raccoon. I'd love to see you both there." Beata snatched them from his hand with an excited squeal. "We'll be in the front row, Přemyslid." Ema smiled, realizing she was actually really looking forward to it.
Two hours later, Ema was back in the cold underground of the Department of Experimental History. In her black uniform, she quietly fell into line alongside the others. An echo rolled through the vaulted hall. Vector Šimr shifted his stance in front of the line of students and swept them with a stern gaze. "I hope you gave our freshmen a proper welcome yesterday," he announced. "Yes, Vector!" rang out in unison.
"Excellent," Šimr nodded. "Because today we will not be focusing on shared power. Today you will train in individual creation and fine control. The goal of today's lesson is to create a golem." A murmur of excitement rippled through the hall.
Šimr raised a hand and silence instantly returned. "The principle of creating a golem is a two-phase process," he began, slowly pacing in front of the formation. "First, you will create a vessel. A physical form. If you fail to maintain a solid structure, nothing serious happens—the matter will simply collapse under your hands like sand, and you start over. But pay very close attention to the shape you imprint upon it."
He stopped and looked around at them severely. "The form must make biomechanical sense. If you create a vessel that is bizarre, unnatural, or incompatible with fluid movement, you are setting yourself up for disaster. The golem can go mad, even if you subsequently insert an absolutely perfect source into it. I would compare it to the human psyche. Imagine taking a perfectly healthy, vital mind and transferring it into a paralyzed body in a wheelchair that refuses to obey. That massive cognitive dissonance and frustration from the inability to move naturally will trigger a destabilization of the spirit, severe depression, and subsequently, aggressive madness. The rule here is that a quality form is just as important as the content."
Šimr returned to the center of the line. "If the vessel is sound, you move to the second phase: inserting the source. The source is a splintered, loaned portion of your own power, which you will fill with a specific cocktail of emotions. It is their precise ratio that determines the nature of your creation. There are thousands of possibilities and combinations. A balanced mix of conception will give you an obedient helper for simple tasks. A predominance of calm and unyieldingness will create a defensive protector. Add controlled aggression, and you have an offensive weapon. But remember—if you lose control and insert a bad, extreme ratio of emotions into the source, the golem will destabilize, go mad, and turn against you and your surroundings with massive force. Approach this with respect. Spread out! Freshmen and Tomáš, you stay with me."
Ema positioned herself a few meters from Tomáš. Šimr stood where he could keep a good eye on them. "Begin creating the vessel," he commanded. "Let yourself be consumed by a specific emotion. If you can't do it just with your mind, use your hands, speak. Gestures will help you focus your thought into reality."
Tomáš started first. He closed his eyes and reached out his hands, as if he wanted to grasp the very fabric of space. The centuries-old confidence of the Přemyslids radiated from his stance. The air in front of him immediately began to shimmer with an invisible heat. Ema felt goosebumps erupt on her skin. Tomáš began to pull in minute particles of metallic dust from all over the stadium. "That molecular fusion move... only masters can do that," Ema heard an awed whisper from one of the senior students behind her. "That kid is just on another level."
The air hissed as Tomáš's will crushed the atoms, forcing them to bond into perfect, crystalline lattices. It was as if he were shaping liquid fire, which he then flash-cooled into incredibly precise, sharp edges. Only when the heat dissipated did Ema realize what he had created. Standing before him was a cold, indomitable steel statue of a massive knight in plate armor. A masterful, physically terrifying piece of work.