Book 2: Prologue (Patreon)

Book 2: Prologue

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Adepts of the Moon Path are quite rare birds. Both because of the difficulty of obtaining such a class, and because not many people want to get it. Even if they have the opportunity. Lunar Wanderers are practically useless in combat - the absolute lack of normal combat abilities is rarely taken positively. Yes, a strong and well-developed wanderer has many trump cards up his sleeve, allowing him to defend against spells and arrows, scare away evil spirits and monsters, and most importantly, retreat even in the most hopeless situation. The only thing is that it's hard to live up to the level where these abilities are revealed... problematic, to say the least.

Asmius was one of the few who had been trained for this role since childhood. Ridiculously impoverished over the past few generations, his family took advantage of the information in their archives and the Moon Shrine deep within their domain. The little boy was dedicated to the Wanderer from his earliest childhood. Of course, the servants of the younger moons are inferior to those of the Night's Guest, but they have their tricks, and many are willing to break their backs for them. Come to think of it, Asmius's parents were not wrong, for the class of their second son and the money and promised services he received from his current position paid off, interrupting, or at least postponing for many years, the family crisis that was brewing.

Right now their company was using the most famous and well-publicized trick in the wanderer's arsenal: the Moonwalk. To be able to travel across the kingdom in a few hours without disturbing the unwieldy and carefully monitored stationary teleporters is a very valuable opportunity. Especially when you consider the fact that there was no normal teleport in Kraj, and the available one was fraught with danger. Up to and including being transported in parts, for there were cases.

Varij reasonably suspected that his superiors had requested the assistance of one of the kingdom's best teleporters not out of risk, but only out of a desire to make their visit to the borderlands as abrupt as possible. He would have stressed Ser Darius too, but the only portalist of his rank in the kingdom could send far more powerful people than a single senior interrogator. Besides, Asmius owed Ser Pharans a lot of favors, so he had to silently shift the schedule and arrange a path for their group.

Arranged.

And Varij silently followed his master, habitually guarding his back.

As they emerged from the moonlit archway right in the middle of the central square of Kraj, Lawrence Farans was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the surrounding guards reacted to their appearance. They hadn't even fully manifested themselves in the real world yet, and they already had two dozen crossbows pointed at them, while the commander of those crossbowmen was yelling into the communicating amulet for help.

This is the Frontier, always watchful here, and after the recent events, even more so! Even though the official administration has tried... Not to gloss over, but to understate the problems caused by the Cult, while at the same time taking credit for them, but the Secret Watch also had its own informants. Even within the ranks of the Adventurers' Guild, which, oddly enough, also remained officially silent.

"Identify yourself immediately!" The tallest of the guards, the one flaunting level twenty-one, growled audibly. "And don't make any sudden moves, we're edgy!"

Protocol, of course, wasn't followed, but that's the way it is in the Frontier - efficiency is valued far more than strict adherence to formality. Given how quickly the guards had reacted to their arrival, Lawrence was prepared to let such a little thing pass his ears. Unless the guard himself was going to get in the way.

Instead of answering, he steps forward, slowly and carefully, so as not to provoke firing, displaying his service medallion. A gold medallion with red stones, the mere sight of which makes the impudent guard choke on another phrase and much more politely utter another, in a somewhat apologetic tone.

He looked again at the man who had come forward with a new look, assessing the sight that had unfolded. His clothes are modest but expensive and, importantly, practical; his noble features are well-groomed; his fingers are thin, clearly used to gripping a quill but not a blade; his back is straight as a pole; and he is perfectly calm, confident of his superiority and safety.

"I can't help but check, you understand." He had no particular piety, but whether it was the result of courage or stupidity, Lawrence did not yet know.

"Perform your duties, officer." He said just that, not the slightest bit worried.

The guards behind him would have time to protect him from an accidental blow anyway, and if they didn't, it would only mean that the military units, not the interrogators, would come to town. No such thing was needed - the officer's amulet of identification confirmed the authenticity of the badge. It's possible to fake such a thing, of course, but it's too complicated and risky... And to solve such problems is not in his competence, a mere guardian.

"Now, if you will kindly show us to your Burgomaster's house." As always the inquirer said calmly and kindly. "It may be nighttime, but I think he will forgive us our intrusion and interrupted sleep."

I'm sure he would, with all that authority. That's about as much as a guard could answer if he wanted trouble on his head, but he was not at all deceived by the seemingly calm and benevolence of a secret-watch official. Not for nothing at all, for Ser Pharrance could be called anything but soft.

Half an hour later, a thunderous knock sounded on the gate of the burgomaster's private mansion.

"What do you think, Bastian?" Lawrence inquired, questioning his personal errand boy and probably his apprentice. "About the whole situation, not just the conversation with the Lord Superintendent?"

The young man following in Lawrence's footsteps, barely eighteen years old, was sophisticated, too, but much less impressive. He tried to be like his teacher and idol in everything he did, but he didn't always succeed. However, he was kept on the team not for his ability to present himself beautifully in front of the audience, but for his uncommon intelligence and rare class.

"He wasn't lying, though he was trying to be coy about it." The boy started to answer immediately, losing all his subservience and becoming a focused and resolute young man. "Especially after a few remarks on your part. But... But if he was telling the truth, we should have a proper talk with the elite wing of the Adventurers' Guild. If anyone's not telling the truth, it's them. What kind of report is that anyway? 'The guild's battle threesome, supported by a top-notch outsider,' are just words about nothing. The third-party must be found out, for its presence is obvious even now, without further investigation."

"Words about nothing... Bastian, you've probably never been to a social gathering, nor have you read the tax returns for the gold squandered in the middle of nowhere." For the first time, there was a smile on the interrogator's face. "Bale was the epitome of sincerity, as were the adventurers' reports. As to the latter, I think you're right, though not entirely. It's worth going in, if only because they're clearly looking forward to it, wanting to talk face to face."

"But why, Mentor?" What he liked about the young prodigy was the ease with which he acknowledged his mistakes and retreated when defeated. In the future, he would be a truly dangerous adversary, loyal to everyone and no one but himself and his teacher. In fact, the boy's character was also one of the reasons Lawrence approached him rather than one of the hundreds of other candidates.

"Apparently, they have something they wouldn't trust to paper. It's too early to judge; we'd better get some sleep. We can't take them by surprise, not like Bale, no matter how early we get there."

So they went to the best hotel in town. They were followed by the rest of the inquirer's retinue, carefully guarding their superiors and quietly discussing the possibility of spending the next few days off in local establishments of various kinds. The usual working environment.

The epic class of the Master Interrogator, further enhanced by the legendary (albeit the lowest facet of legend) class of the Great Detective, is a real power from which almost nothing is hidden. Lawrence did not consider himself one of the best experts in the secret watch for nothing. The only thing that kept him from removing the prefix "one of" was a relatively low level of thirty-one - the legendary class was just beginning to develop, and he desperately lacked experience in using it.

On the other hand, even if he were the best, the secret watch is not detectives only. So the achievement would not turn out to be so great either. Lawrence himself didn't care about such trifles, for since childhood he had not cared about anyone who was not his ally or his subordinate. That same childhood goal had long been at the top of his list of priorities in life.

Returning to the advantages of the classroom, Lawrence had not without difficulty, but he was reconstructing the full picture of the carnage that had occurred in Kraj. First of all, a picture of the interference of the very third party that even his young apprentice had guessed.

The fact that the Cult had been kicked out into the world, and that it had been compromised and weakened before the final battle was fought, no one was hiding the fact. It's hard to hide a deformed mutant pinned to the wall, hanging in the middle of the living room of the city's chief smuggler and the mayor's kin. The latter, however, was of little concern to the inquirer, for he had not come here for the petty sins of those in power. This, however, did not prevent him from taking the proposed "gift," especially since the patrons of a couple of relatives had already made a similar, but larger, gift to his immediate superiors.

The Cult.
The Thugs.
The Adventurers.
The Guards.

And someone else, who had managed to set them all together and remained virtually unnoticed. Someone whose goals he couldn't understand even in his wildest conjecture, and he was beginning to feel some discomfort in his lower back. If one of the other worldlings had read his mind now, he would have commented on the situation with a reference to a burnt butt, but alas, he was not here.

That's why the legendary detective sat over a pile of papers, not even thinking about going for a break. In any situation, you have to look for someone who would benefit from what was happening, but right now he could not find that someone.

At first, he thought of the same smugglers - they were the ones who ended up losing all the competition in the criminal sphere and becoming even more entrenched in the city. And the mayor had rid himself of most of the few but troublesome nobles. It would seem - here they are, if not the culprits, then at least those who ordered it!

Except that the Burgomaster, his tame head of the shadow guild, and all their closest associates with any power or influence knew nothing of what was going on. It was beginning to look as if this dance with the cultists had been raised by pure accident...

Only it wasn't an accident that dropped the cultist's body at Bale's house.

It was no accident that destroyed an inconspicuous store, leaving a whole bunch of bodies of fighters guarding it and, judging by the report of the senior city ritualist, destroying one of the centers of power of the Cult.

And it was certainly no accident that wore the mask, taking part in the final battle for Kraj and, in doing so, destroying the base of the creature whose name his retinue is right now searching for.

Every single one of the adventurers he'd interviewed was convinced that the fighter who had intervened in the battle could not possibly be human. Lawrence was now inclined to think of an elite emissary from the Order of the Last Covenant, for the style of battle described by the witnesses was generally very similar to the way the witches fought. But the consequences of this emissary's actions...

If Kraj ceased to exist as a result of his intervention, then Farens would not even question the authenticity of his version, but someone of the covenants, deliberately helping the Kingdom of Melareth, deliberately saving civilians? If he seriously suggested such a thing in his report, he would be sent to the healers without even reading to the end.

And the description from two of the three participants of the final battle between the unknown creature and the abomination in charge of the Cult was eloquent to the extreme.

Only questions and no answers.

In such a situation, the only thing to do was to ask the others, which was exactly what he needed his retinue to do.

Lacia was a commoner through and through - the daughter of a common clerk from a mediocre frontier town. He wouldn't have agreed for any money to bring a commoner near him (primarily because of the inevitable rumors) if it weren't for her class. Though the Librarian class was rare, it was in fact much rarer than other epic classes, on a par with legendary ones. To obtain such a class one must not only give up any combat effectiveness but also have a highly unusual character.

But there are a lot of benefits from them.

A librarian, in addition to various and not very useful little things, can register himself in any book repository of the world, and then read the volumes there at any time and in any place. Traditionally, holders of this class are tied to the country's main library. Lacia could at any time read any book that was stored in the Main Library, which is called the Royal Library. In fact, it had been founded by the second king of Melareth at the dawn of the nation's founding.

Of course, to gain access to the forbidden sections, Lacia herself had to get, pardon the pun, the right of access. The more sections available for reading, the more experience the librarian gets. At twenty-eight, the girl already had the twenty-third level, which spoke a lot - the librarian's grind is one of the slowest.

"I couldn't find anything that resembled the entity that lived here." Her voice was as flat and detached as ever. "Maybe if I still had a living sample with me, I could find something, but right now, alas, I'm powerless. I need more time to do a keyword search, but I can't guarantee it."

At times like this, Lawrence laughed at those who thought he had approached Lacia as a common bed-warming. He had a reasonable suspicion that the girl was not suited to making love at all, equally indifferent to both men and women. Though if one could seduce a bookshelf...

T.N. This is a reference to MCU quest???

After chasing the annoying image out of his head, he asked the next question. Also important, by the way, even if not necessary. Closer to mere curiosity, for Lawrence himself had no hope of an answer: "What about the unknown element?"

"His words were most likely an activator for an unknown artifact. The minimum grade is legendary, the maximum grade is also legendary. Even though most of the legendary artifacts are activated without words or in short phrases, even a quick search yielded at least three artifacts requiring a long and fancy phrase to activate."

One of Lacia's main drawbacks, besides her background, was her ability to turn any conversation into a small, large, or even very large lecture. At times she had to be reprimanded, but so far there was no need to be because she was talking business.

"The Poet's Blade, now in the possession of the Banit-Lesaar family, allows you to temporarily enhance up to multiples but requires you to recite a verse you've written yourself and never heard before to activate it. Blade may not like the verse and refuse to work. The Grade is Mythical. The Moon Goddess's pendant, in the possession of..."

Lawrence was no longer listening, thinking about something of his own, habitually disconnected from the chatter around him and giving his apprentice a head start. He had to train, too, and it would be hard for him to make a mistake now. And he, Lawrence, would back him up.

"Enough. Is there a match with the data you have" Still his Librarian gets carried away, too much of a drift, but it's a class quirk

"With a high probability I can assume that the artifact was a mask worn by the suspect, but, alas, I found no matches. In the part of the archive available to me, there were many mentions of such artifacts, but none of them had a similar appearance, and those that are similar in appearance do not have the declared abilities. I can only assume that the artifact is one recently found in some dungeon or brought from afar. That's it for me."

When she is reprimanded, she quickly recalls such a difficult speech technique as brevity. The only pity is that she does not always realize that she is being reprimanded.

"Shyngys?" Bastian followed the standard pattern of questioning, moving on to question their priest, who had been sent to examine the sites of the cult's battles.

The priest of Ansham-Nar, the God of road dust and forgotten legends, was able, among other things, to look into the past, albeit with considerable loss. He would throw such a handful of dust imbued with divine power, and that dust would gather into indistinct silhouettes that would echo the movements and words of those who had been there before. Really strong priests, it is said, can see into the past centuries even without additional prayers. It is a pity that Shyngys is not one of these unique men, even when drunkenly bragging.

"What about Shyngys? I walked around those places, but everything is stained with filthy blackness, and even trampled over. No, I found out some things, but there's so little, and it's been a long time since I got a bonus, and besides, it's boring here."

If Lacia he tolerated for her usefulness, the priest only because of his highly influential patrons in the department. As a young man, before he went into religion and gave up the use of his previous classes, this man had been one of the most successful assassins in the secret watch. Lawrence at times did not know whether such a man had been given to his command for encouragement or punishment.

Fortunately, at times like this, when the former agent lost all his shores, there was always someone to put him in his place. Nevertheless, Farens suspected that this priest was just letting them all think he was being put in his place.

"Shyngys, are you out of your mind?" Varij, faithful and unperturbed, could convey in a few words the whole palette of indignation and the promised trouble, in case the indignation did not take effect.

"Okay, fine, especially since there's not much there." Admitting "defeat," the former First Blade raised his palms. "All I can tell you is that our man who loved to provoke carnage was a Shadow adept and a very, very strong one at that."

Shadow...

The shadow is both good and bad at the same time. It is good because the strong adepts of this branch are very few and most of them are very well known. Or rather, not so. Maybe no one knows the names and faces of individual Shadow Masters, but the handwriting is quite easy to guess. And a newcomer in this field is quite difficult to develop without being shown to the wide public.

"He's also definitely not one of ours. I know all assholes well - even if they've trained someone new, that's another case." The priest's speech suddenly improved, and he almost looked like a normal human being instead of a black-footed thief. "Not at all like our style, or the style of the Sorcs or the Pereans."

"A Hero?" Bastian suddenly suggested, causing Lawrence to fall out of a kind of trance and think to himself. And at the same time, he promised himself a proper reprimand in private. Though there were no outsiders present, and Shyngys and Lacia were no doubt aware of the problem of the Summoned, it was a touchy subject. Perhaps the apprentice should have been briefed on it a bit later.

"Hardly." He interrupted his apprentice. "There hadn't been a class of that sort for a long time, and the survivors... Shamian Vorticum would do, but he's tied to the Sorc nobility, and they wouldn't do anything to save the city for money or power, they'd rather destroy it. As delusional as this idea seems to me, we must now begin to work out a version with the interference of the Order of the Last Covenant. Yes, I know how silly it sounds, but by finding disproof of this nonsense, we'll be able to pick up the necessary strings..."

All his work is to unravel such threads. Unlike clairvoyants and prophets, the detective cannot see the past or the future, but his class skills allow him to piece together seemingly insignificant facts into a coherent picture. Whoever sent such an extraordinary executor here has already made a mistake-at least in that he has exposed that executor. He, Lawrence Farens, knows how to wait and think, which means the unknown player will fall into his net. Earlier, later - what difference.

Discussions went on for several hours, during which the version with the Order was defeated, but they could not come to a new one. After the head of the detective group had scolded his apprentice, the apprentice stared thoughtfully into the fire of the fireplace, pondering once again what was going on.

The nineteenth-level Intuit Investigator stared into the fire for almost an hour, but he still couldn't find an answer there. If his teacher, a man whom the young man sincerely admired, could create in his mind a whole multidimensional network of facts and conjectures, he could intuitively choose just the right thread. With mistakes, with his own ways of fooling the detective, but still, but still.

And now the young man was looking at the fire as if it were some old and terrible riddle. But he couldn't find the answer, and then he got ready for bed.

"Still, I'm sure you're wrong, Mentor." That's all he said.

And then he left in silence.

* * *

The ancestral stronghold of House Lanorsk inspired respect and awe in those who entered its walls. Even though there was plenty of openwork stucco and beautiful stained-glass windows around when you looked closely, you could see that the stucco hides thick walls of enchanted stone, and stained-glass windows, even though made of real and very expensive colored glass, are located directly on the walls, and the landscapes depicted behind them are a simple illusion, although fully consistent with reality (on the outer wall hang amulets, transmitting images - at the same time and another line of defense).

The inhabitants and masters of this place, even bathed in luxury, did not forget for a moment that it was originally a stronghold, designed to withstand long sieges and battles. The Dukes of Lanorsk have always been rich - fertile and populous lands, and also very advantageously located at the intersection of several trade routes, brought considerable income to their masters. And after they found gold in these lands...

However, the miraculous discovery was now seen by the Lanorsk not as a joy, but as a harbinger of misfortune. To think that such an ancient clan had almost miraculously escaped total annihilation. The simultaneous assassination of the house's only heir and his father forced the former to travel incognito through half the kingdom, and the latter to lie dormant and barely make it out of this world. What good fortune, however, that when Frederick of Lanrsk, old and graying, awoke from his long treatment, he learned that his son was alive and well and back home. The son himself was glad that the attempt on his father's life had failed, though he was saddened by how near death had come.

While poor Sigismund and his two guards made their way through the deepest corners of Melareth, life in the ancestral fortress was boiling and bustling. One fine morning, Duke Lanorsk stepped out onto the terrace of his private tower to drink his favorite and carefully recommended healing herbal concoction, and then caught two enchanted and poisoned arrows with his chest. Each arrow carried one curse and one poison, each different. The duke was saved by his amulets and clothing of enchanted spider silk, which only gave him a single scratch.

If you believe the claims of their family's personal healer, both poisons interfered with each other's effects: treating one aggravated the effects of the other, and treating both, you cured neither. It was the same with curses, except that they also dissipated the healing spells so that they were guaranteed to kill the victim.

Had the duke received both blows, death would have been imminent, but he received only one. Even that nearly killed the old man, who had lost the health of his former youth. But there were many interesting things in the vault that could get you out of even the most hopeless situations. The founders of the family were amateur collectors of all kinds of magical trinkets, and the descendants continued this endeavor to the best of their abilities.

"That's it, son of mine. Now we have no more phoenix tears, we had to use up both vials." Barely audible, as he was still recovering from the effects of the treatment, said the head of the house. "Even so, I can hardly feel my left arm, and my voice does not want to come back. I am old now, just a wreck."

His son only shook his head. Before, he would have tried to cause a scandal, to yell because his person was in danger, to convince everyone around him that he was owed everything. That was how his only son used to be - his headache and his shame about his teaching talents. He had concentrated too much on affairs at home, leaving the child's upbringing to his mother. Too late had he noticed that his pride, his heir, had grown up a parody of a real man - cowardly as a hare, petty as a moneylender, and used to solve all problems with a capricious face half hysterical.

Not the kind of heir old Frederick wanted for his family.

He returned from his journey completely different.

The duke had already been briefed on their adventures - the remnants of Sigismund's entourage had reported - and he could not help but feel mixed feelings. On the one hand, they had been betrayed by seemingly reliable allies, they had lost a troop of loyal warriors, his son had almost died several times in a row, but on the other hand... On the other hand, he now saw that he was no snot-nosed crybaby who couldn't stop looking behind his back at every rustle, but a real man, albeit a young one. And if you take into account the existence of the epic class, and taken by the very first, at the tenth level, then one can only imagine what this young man will grow up to be.

The Heir.

His successor...

"Perhaps, son of mine, I would like to hear about your wanderings. This time from your lips. Tell me the story, especially the part about the strange "bastard who should have his dick and balls ripped out and stuffed in his mouth". Do me a favor and make the old man happy." It was still hard to speak, but his voice was gradually becoming as clear and sharp as ever. Maybe even the hand would start to work again.

"Let me guess that you, my father, have already had a conversation with Shaal." With a faint smile, the boy stretched out. "Still, that man managed to make a lasting impression on her, for I'd never seen her so enraged. She could barely contain herself back to our home estate. Twice she started a fight for petty reasons."

At that moment, a shadow flickered across Sigismund's face, and he clearly remembered something... not dangerous or even unpleasant, but unnerving nonetheless. It was a small detail, seemingly unimportant, but it wasn't.

"The first time she simply beat up a few overly talkative plowmen who allowed themselves very frivolous comments about her, the next time she almost started a fight with a really dangerous opponent." Somewhat unsure, as if he didn't know how to feel about that fact, the young man said. "Those two were strong, and I'm not sure that fight could have ended without casualties."

Quite disturbing news, in fact. The old duke is used to his maid being a perfectly reliable instrument, but such outbursts of rage, though not questioning her fidelity, raise legitimate apprehension. Still, she is very old, despite her young appearance. She was old when she was a caged slave, and it's been many, many years since then. Is there any chance that her mind has begun to give up where her body, reinforced with non-human blood, still stands?

"This is... not good, son." Finally, the head of the house answered to say something. "Perhaps it's time to send her to rest, to a place where her disruption won't harm you and everything you own."

He did not propose to kill her, at least because fighters of that rank are not wasted. And there was no need to plan an assassination - if anything happened, it would be enough to give her a vial of poison directly into her hands. He had never doubted her absolute loyalty.

But there is no need to rush, for one breakdown is far from a verdict. He may not like the fact that this particular servant girl is in his son's bed, but that, as said before, is no reason to waste resources. In addition, she has, in this uncomplicated way, removed the issue of the heir's more... delicate training. You can't send him to a brothel (especially not the way he was before his abrupt change of character), and any hired professional, even of the highest class, will always be a risk. One could choose someone from the plethora of servants for this role, thankfully there were enough beauties, but there was no confidence in their professionalism.

The problem is not only in-bed pleasures, but they will work them off with a guarantee. Hiring a professional mistress is necessary because it is such lasses who can both teach and not bind the trainee, breaking up without pain, suffering, and unnecessary complexes. But the risks have been crazy lately, and he didn't want the heir to get a poisonous needle in the neck right in the middle of... training.

The old maid's participation was, he thought, a logical choice, so he did not interfere with her or indicate his displeasure when she began to enlighten Sigismund in adult wisdom. She might have been an assassin, but she had originally been trained as a lover, and she had not lost her skills - he had had a couple of occasions to set Shaal up for different people. And she did not always eliminate them after.

After her breakdown, which put the ward at risk, sending her to a non-dusty position in a far corner, as a military reserve, would be the most merciful and sparing solution. Any other person he would have ordered to be put to death without a second thought. Probably the same Shaal would have ordered it.

The Duke's heavy thoughts were interrupted by the words of his son, also thinking about something of his own.

"I don't think so." Still quietly, without the hint of indignation or hysteria that surely would have been thrown earlier when he realized that his toy was being taken away. "Her behavior is not the consequence of approaching madness, as it might seem. She's just very scared, to the point of insanity, father. Fear is what makes her throw herself at everyone and everything, in an attempt to prove to herself that she is still strong and her power enough to keep me out of harm's way."

Involuntarily, trying not to show his attitude in any way, Frederick was truly delighted by the words spoken. Not because his son was justifying his first woman, but because of the way he was doing it. Truly, the lost men and the feud with the Lorays was worth it, three hundred times worth it! Who cares about fallen servants and fighters - they can be raised new ones - but the way his heir finally fit his role, the way he began to hold himself and feel his power, would have been worth five times the loss as well.

They hadn't lost much - the escort squad was certainly one of the best, but by no means the most numerous. Strong warriors were needed here, in the ancestral castle, and the heir's parents had to take care of his former bride's protection. Most of the ancestral artifacts came back with the alive Sigismund and the servants... It is their role, their vocation, and their destiny - to live for their master and, if need be, to die for him. It will be difficult to replace McLean, she was great at keeping almost all the castle servants in her fist, but she can be replaced by Martha or even young Celeste.

And he has only one son.

"If that's your opinion, I won't argue with it, son. But since you have spoken for her, make sure she does not repeat her past mistakes." Stiffly, hiding his joy, Frederick answered.

Not a bad task, requiring the young duke to show toughness and the ability to command, along with sensitivity and the right message. If he can do it, then we can finally begin to train him in earnest. Until then, all that was left was to hope for his personal errands, who should, if anything happened, at least properly educate the grandchildren, since the son had come out so badly out of it.

And Shaal, for what it's worth, won't have to be culled.

He loved Shaal's black skin, no matter what his father thought about it. It was the exotic color of that very skin, especially when the woman was completely naked, that had once fascinated him enough to take an interest in her. Whether it was his stiffness that prevented him from making a normal acquaintance with the girls of his circle, or whether it was the faithful maid's complete accessibility or the way she took the initiative, literally igniting passion in his heart.

In any case, Sigismund was not against her intentions, though he was well aware in his heart that if she had wished to seduce, she would not have expected even the hint of initiative that he had shown then. But he really liked her skin, liked to touch it and liked to see how it contrasted with his own. There was something about it that just blew the young man's mind, preventing him from thinking about his fears or his worries or his grudges. That was what was important, not her beauty or his sudden taste for the exotic.

In her arms, he hardly ever saw his nightmares. Strong ones, at least, he hadn't. Now that what was hiding in his dreams had been erased from the face of the world, he could admit to himself that he simply frankly liked his black maid. Not as a bride, he was well aware that he would have to marry one who was worthy of it. But Shaal was still something more than a passing passion... Some might have laughed, but to Sigismund, she was a comrade-in-arms, just like in the books his Aunt Maclean sometimes read to him. True, she could not only protect him in battle, but she could take him to heaven itself with just a few movements of her hips or lips, which only added to the strength of such a strange relationship.

Once he'd promised that he wouldn't leave her, the fear in her heart disappeared, vanished without a trace, like circles on water. In truth, it was almost completely gone, once they'd reached home, learned the latest news, and realized that his father's condition had been stabilized. But it was almost, because somewhere in the depths of her soul, that fear was still there, continuing to put its stinky roots into the very essence of the always calm and collected woman.

Fear of becoming unwanted again.

His first class may have allowed him many things, but it did not make him a miracle doer, nor did it allow him to heal wounds of the soul with a few words. Nor did Sigismund possess the strange ability that the nameless mercenary had to find the exact words he needed. Perhaps neither the wise Nigel nor the experienced Shaal understood it, but now, after a long time, the heir to House Lanorsk understood how precise and sharp the man's phrases were.

Why did he set out to help him?

Why was he messing around with a boy he didn't know and who was obviously unpleasant to him?

His father would have assumed that this was another long-running scheme by someone in high places in the kingdom, perhaps even a neighboring kingdom. That years from now he might be required to pay this debt at a very inflated rate, but Sigismund did not believe that. He was fully convinced that this meeting was really an accidental and not a deliberate intrigue. Yes, and the help of the unknown man had already been paid in full - those measly eight dozen coins. He used to spend more than that on a day's entertainment in the Capital! Albeit not every day, but still. It was almost an insult - saving his life, the Crown Duke of Lanorsk, and, to all appearances, his soul, had been valued at such a ridiculous sum.

But the proud heir himself did not doubt that if there were another meeting with this man, then no one would remember that payment, having long ago erased from memory the episode of his life that had become the key to the young aristocrat.

Nor did he doubt that the encounter was yet to come. He may not have had the skills and abilities to increase intuition and foresight, but he had no doubts about his suspicions.

That meeting is yet to happen.

* * *

There had been no sunlight in the place since it was built. Despite this factor, there was no smell of a damp and gloomy dungeon - the magical lights dispersed the gloom and illuminated every corner of the strange dwelling. However, the tenant was the same as the dwelling, and the tenant was a very extraordinary person. So extraordinary, in fact, that a disgruntled, wrinkled middle-aged man, who was only missing the signature "very noble aristocrat," had to come here in person to hear what the man had to say to him.

Not to say that the guest was afraid of the man, or at least feared him, but he preferred not to quarrel over trifles, which included the pathological dislike of the old fart to leave his house. And the guest was absolutely certain that the owner of this house was a pure-blooded man, and not some bloodsucker of the night or other creature. Just some kind of mania, though the guest did not exclude class restrictions.

The old craftsman's room looked extremely unusual and ascetic. There was only a chair, a table, and some blankets on which the inhabitant slept. But what was abundant there were his strange amulets, covering all surfaces, hanging from the ceiling, and walls, and just lying on the floor. The ceiling and the floor themselves were, if you looked closely, enormous amulets as if serving as a base and amplifier for the rest of the trinkets. All of the amulets looked similar to a strange web stretched over a carved circle. The materials varied widely, from simple harsh thread and willow twigs to expensive veins of epic monsters and pure gold.

Amulets that catch nightmares.

Long, long ago, the father of the father of the one who came to visit today found this old man. Even then he was old, decrepit, and seemed to be living his last days. That ancestor brought the strange master closer to him, gave him everything he needed for his labors, receiving in return... not loyalty, no, but cooperation.

The Dreamcatcher collected nightmares, fears, and sorrows caught them in his net, and forged from them perfect assassins, spies, and scouts, capable of penetrating any defenses, striking the victim in the heart, and taking their very souls. Despite the whole complex of the rarest artifacts, now slowly beginning to glow from just being in this place, the guest felt extremely uncomfortable. Primarily because he did not know the limits of the old man's power, but he could no longer refuse his services - too much was tied to this man, too long ago the plans launched with him in mind, too late to turn back.

Instead of a greeting, the old man just silently threw one of his works at the guest's feet. One of his best works, for that matter. The guest remembered the finest threads of blood-red and charcoal-black, remembered the cost of the two twigs that made up the base of the circle, remembered the cost of the exotic birds' feathers hanging down, and knew how hard it had been to get a lock of hair of the Lanorsk heir from the Lorays. As if it were difficult for their girl to get that hair from her fiancé! But the price they charged, the two-faced bastards, as if they were selling their own mothers.

Then, however, the situation had to be sharply readjusted, when the discovery of the gold mine in the territory of such an intractable house was no longer a secret to all concerned. He did not even interfere with the plan to kill the whole family, even though he had his views on the boy, infected with the fear that came from dreams. All the more so because it was even more profitable in many ways, at least in terms of immediate profit.

But the young man somehow escaped the trap, proving once again that the old weasel Frederick knows how to pick up his staff, and he has plenty of good fighters and bodyguards. Not a problem, since the guest left no trace of his involvement in that mess. Even the elite eliminators were not sent by him, and the eliminators themselves will not tell anyone whose orders allowed them to agree to the proposed order.

That, too, was a good outcome - for now, that Frederick had suffered from the poison, he could take his boy in earnest. A couple of years, and that asset would be in his pocket, as would the Lanorsk and the mine on their land.

That is why the guest looks with such disbelief at what was once an expensive and practically trouble-free weapon but now is just melted and smoky garbage. As if someone had chewed it long and diligently with red-hot fangs.

"Look at that, such a mess." The old man's voice didn't sound threatening at all, it was just an old rattle. "My messenger has been destroyed. Not banished, not even killed. Destroyed."

"What could be the danger? Could the boy get rid of the nightmare on his own? You mentioned that it is always possible to conquer fear." The guest didn't let his irritation erupt, concentrating habitually on solving the problem instead of furiously blaming everyone around him

"A person with a strong will can... fight back." Squealed the old man. "But I've seen my little one's work, seen what he's already turned the puppy into. I could believe that by some miracle he had warded him off, I could. But for total destruction... It was beyond the pup's power, even with the Weaver's blessing. Whoever had helped him was able to bind my child, to shackle and destroy it before it could even cry out in pain, before it could even sing its last song."

Now the guest felt really uncomfortable - the kind and harmless old man had disappeared without a trace, sliding off the creature in front of him like a wax mask in the sun. Under the light of the many lamps, something much older and scarier, much more dangerous was peeping out from under his thin and decrepit skin. He had not yet seen the occupant of this house like that. He could no longer see him as such. The amulets under his clothes were already heated without any embellishment, making the clothes (fireproof, just in case) emit light smoke.

"Someone who was no weaker than I am, and on my field, had covered the boy." The anger was fading, making the old man look his usual self, and what I'd seen earlier would have seemed a mere illusion of sight because the light was too bright, but the amulets were still red-hot. "I think you can see the danger of that, too."

He understood, he understood very well.

"I'll try to find out more." He turned on his heels and left the house. To hell with it! He won't be coming here for six months... year, he won't be coming here.

"So will I... try to... find out." The old man said into the void, and then all the lights in the room, and the whole house, went out at once, plunging the surroundings into complete darkness.

In the darkness, there was the rustling of the amulets in the wind, and any visitor who was here now would have cursed the day with the blackest curses, for those brief moments, until he would have suffered a fate worse than death. The old man pretending to be human was weeping for his child and woe to whoever heard that weeping.

Woe to the one who caused it.

"I'll find out, I'll find out for sure."

* * *

Authors note:

Happy start, Captain!

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1QzQsaF7npRTpGeObqONmvn0MIJ6MDOOt/view?usp=sharing - Shyngys.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Am8kDOF00wU--nb4n8o-did_zbeOpFGx/view?usp=sharing - Dreamcatcher.

The Dices were thrown just before the end of the first part. In fact, that's why it all came out so quickly.

In the prologue, I highlight the interest of PART of the forces that our Kostik has set in motion. It is not all of them, but the most affected by his appearance.

There is also a motion among the orcs, but there is still too much shouting and beating the chest, but no action, so I did not enter it.

And the part with the entertainment of one saleswoman and her helper went to zero. (((

As is the scene of the torture of one sadomasochist by two beauties.(((

This series has no luck with PwP. As it is unlucky.(((