The first sun was barely visible when Ethan went down to the training yard.
The night, cold and dark, had gripped the academy's bones like a fist of ice. The candles in the lamps flickered with the drafts of air, and the worn stone glistened with the dew of dawn. There were no clouds. No wind. Only the silence, and the first sun, pale and sad, illuminating the world that had once been brighter.
"Slave!" Ana's voice echoed off the stone walls.
Ethan turned. She stood at the dining hall door, her arms crossed, her dark golden hair falling over her shoulders. The mark of Anorys, red and bright, pulsed on her chest, visible even above her tunic.
"Slave," she repeated, approaching. "You came late."
"The sun hasn't risen yet," Ethan replied.
"The sun is dead. What does it matter?"
"The sun that remains. It counts."
Ana tilted her head. Her brown eyes, where fear and trust mingled, fixed on his. Then she smiled. The smile was small, but it had something perverse, amused, dangerous about it.
"You're handsome," she said. "Did you know?"
"I knew."
"You're arrogant."
"I'm honest. It's different."
"It's the same thing."
Ana took another step closer. Her cold fingers touched his chest.
"Hit me," she said, her voice low. "Not hard. Just to remind me."
"Remind you of what?"
"That you're mine."
Ethan hesitated. His hand rose. His open fingers trembled.
"I can't," he said.
"You can. You've done it before, the first time we met. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Then do it again."
Ethan sighed. His hand came down. The slap was light, almost affectionate, but the sound echoed in the empty yard.
Ana laughed. The laugh was sharp, loose, like a child discovering a new toy.
"Thank you, slave," she said. "I needed that."
"Needed what?"
"To feel. The world is so cold. People are so quiet. You, at least, still react."
"I react."
"You react well. That's why you're mine."
Ana stepped away. She sat on a stone bench, her legs crossed, her eyes fixed on the dark horizon.
"Come," she called. "Sit down."
Ethan obeyed.
"Did Irina speak to you?" asked Ana.
"She did."
"About what?"
"About Zirinos. About hell. About the war."
"And you? What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to train. I'm going to get strong. I'm going to help."
"Help whom?"
"Whoever needs it."
Ana touched his hair. Her cold fingers traced the purple strands.
"You're an idiot, Ethan."
"I've been called worse."
"Slave?"
"Slave already. Idiot is worse."
Ana laughed again. The laugh was lost in the wind.
"Annoy my sisters with me," she asked. "Sara is so serious. Ariny is so quiet."
"I don't want to annoy them."
"Yes, you do. You just don't know it."
"I know I don't."
"You're a liar, slave. I like that."
---
At the top of the north tower, Irina Graylor received the envoys of Decatry.
Her red hair with silver reflections shone in the faint light of the first sun. Her hands, behind her back, were calm. Her green eyes traced the map unrolled on the stone table.
"Duke Andy sends news," said the envoy, a thin, gray-bearded man. "The Krakeriares have been reborn. All four of them."
"I know," replied Irina. "Linda Lunos already informed me."
"The duke asks that the academy prepare. The worst is yet to come."
"The worst has already come. The second sun died. The masked one appeared. Zirinos is in hell. What could be worse than this?"
The envoy hesitated.
"The duke says the people are stoning the Aryster. In every village. In every city."
"The people need someone to blame. The Aryster serve that purpose."
"And Princess Livia? She is at the academy."
"Princess Livia is protected. As long as she is here, no one will touch her."
The envoy bowed.
"I will take your answer to the duke."
"Take it. And tell him the academy will not fall. As long as I am director, the academy will resist."
The envoy left. Irina stood alone.
She looked at the dark sky. The first sun, pale and sad, seemed smaller than the day before. More distant.
*The cycle begins again*, she thought. *And I don't know which side to choose.*
---
In the City of the End, the Pope had already made his decision.
The envoys of Lirius and Elisa had left the day before, each with a letter sealed with red and gold wax. The content was the same for both: "The throne is not inherited. It is conquered. If you wish to be king, show the world that you deserve it."
The Pope was tired. Tired of politics, of alliances, of letters that flew from castle to castle without ever reaching anywhere. Tired of the first sun, pale and sad, that now illuminated the world without warming it. Tired of waiting.
"Your Holiness," called the councilor. "The nobles ask when the tournament will be."
"In one month," replied the Pope, without turning from the window. "In the capital. On the battlefield of the ancient kings."
"And the winners?"
"The winners will fight each other. The last one standing will be crowned king."
"And if neither accepts?"
"Then there will be no king. And the kingdom will burn."
The councilor did not answer. The Pope stood alone.
The letter he had sent to Lirius and Elisa was the same, but the words he wrote to himself, in the silence of his office, were different.
---
In the academy yard, Ethan and Ana trained with wooden swords.
Ethan's strikes were slow, clumsy, but not as clumsy as on the first day. Ana, on the other hand, moved with feline speed, the precision of one who has already killed and is not afraid to kill again.
"Slave," she said, blocking a blow. "You're slow."
"I'm tired."
"Tiredness is no excuse."
"It's the only one I have."
Ana lowered her sword. Her bright brown eyes fixed on his.
"Give me a kiss," she asked.
"What?"
"A kiss. On the mouth. I won't bite."
"You bite."
"I bite, yes. But not now."
Ethan hesitated. Ana approached. Her cold lips touched his. It was quick, dry, almost chaste.
"You're an idiot," she said, stepping back.
"I've already been called that today already."
"You deserve it."
Ana attacked again. The wooden sword hit his shoulder.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"It hurts."
"Good. Pain teaches."
"What does it teach?"
"That you're alive."
Ana laughed. The laugh, sharp, loose, echoed in the empty yard.
Ethan felt the urge to hit her. His hand rose. His open fingers trembled.
"Hit me," said Ana. "You'll see you like it."
"I won't hit you."
"You will."
"No."
"Idiot."
Ana stepped away. The wooden sword dragged across the stone floor.
"Let's train again," she said. "This time, for real."
"For real how?"
"For real with pain. For real with blood."
"I don't have blood to give."
"You do. Everyone does."
Ana attacked again. Faster. Harder.
Ethan blocked. Stepped back. Blocked again.
"Good," said Ana. "You're learning."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
The blows followed one after another. The clatter of wood echoed off the stone walls. Sweat ran down their foreheads. Their gasping breath mingled with the cold wind.
"Enough," said Ethan, finally. "I can't do any more."
"You can."
"No."
"Idiot."
Ana put away her sword. She approached. Her cold fingers touched his face.
"I like you, slave," she said. "Did you know?"
"I knew."
"Do you like me?"
"I don't know."
"Liar."
"Honest."
"It's the same thing."
Ana stepped away. Her dark golden hair swayed in the wind.
"Let's eat," she said. "I'm hungry."
"Let's go."
"And you pay."
"I have no money."
"Then go into debt. It's the same thing."
Ethan almost smiled.
She's back, he thought. The unpredictable woman, the sadist, the one who called me slave and hit me and asked me to hit her back.
And I... I like it.
Even though I shouldn't.
---
In hell, Zirinos walked toward the exit.
His healed legs were firm. The demonic energy, black and cold, ran through his veins. The sword at his waist shone with a red, pulsing light.
Enyo, on his shoulder, squeaked softly. The small creature, still fragile, still trembling, clung to his tunic with tiny claws.
"We're getting out of here," said Zirinos. "I promise."
Enyo squeaked.
The tunnels of hell stretched before him, black, infinite. The smell of sulfur, of blood, of death, still burned in his lungs. But now, there was something more. A light, in the distance.
The portal.
The exit.
Zirinos quickened his pace.
Hell was not the end, he thought. It was the beginning.
And I will return.