Chapter 1

The fleeting memory within the desert sand

The sands were calling to me, and I didn’t know why.

I leaned on the limestone-carved railing at the edges of the elevated dining terrace, the pride of the most luxurious hotel in Quathan, with a view of its splendid gardens. Yet instead of enjoying the sight of lush greens stretching out below me, my eyes kept escaping to the horizon marked by golden dunes.

The simple reason was that I chose the exotic over the mundane. I’d never been to the southern continent before, so endless sands were new to me, while I’d seen enough gardens back in my homeland and in the neighboring countries when I accompanied my father during his scholarly travels.

But those dunes… There was something so familiar about them, like a dream almost forgotten with the first morning light. Except that it didn’t feel like a dream, more akin to a long-lost memory.

A memory.

My breathing became shallow and rapid, as always whenever something reminded me of what I’d lost, and my fingers were tight on the stone railing as if my imbalance was physical in nature. I fought to steady my thoughts and kept reminding myself that I’d never been to Quathan—or anywhere else in the southern continent—so I couldn’t have lost that particular memory.

Slowly, the feelings of panic and confusion passed, and I gently breathed out with relief. My father was right when he said the recovery of the mind would take longer than that of the body. Three years in a coma was long enough for any wounds to heal, but it seemed that I’d need even more to regain my inner peace.

The family trip to Quathan was meant to ease the process of recovery. Away from places in which every detail, scent, and sound seemed to set off an anxious reaction like I’d forgotten something important, I could strengthen my mind before facing the gaps in my memory once more.

And the sands… The sands were crippling my efforts—calling, teasing, and shaking my composure with their grains’ subtle movements in the breeze.

They brought foreign thoughts to the back of my mind, images of my bare feet sinking into the warm golden desert. Flashes of their presence were like glimmer-scaled fish in a stream: enough to know they were there, but not enough to catch any detail that would prove their existence.

Perhaps my own imagination, fed with too many stories of Quathan’s vibrant history or shaken by three years of stagnant blackness, was playing tricks on me, telling me of things that didn’t happen… That couldn’t have happened. It seemed my mind was desperate to fill the holes in my memories with any images that could put my world back together.

“Sae, come sit with us!”

My mother’s voice urged me to return to the table. If I did, I could enjoy the richness of boldly spiced meals and the sweetness of exotic fruit in the hope of chasing my anxiety away, but doing so meant unwanted conversation.

I glanced at her over my shoulder. Brown-haired, in her expensive evening dress following the latest fashion that demanded a low waist and revealing cleavage, adorned with matching jewelry to frame her tall and gaunt body, she looked every bit the blue blood she was. She also looked nothing like her daughter, since I got my black hair and rounder face from my father’s side.

Beside her sat Philidert, and as always when he had my attention, he gave me a dashing smile of a confident, rich man. I had to turn away to conceal my grimace. I might have fallen for his charms when I was younger, making my mother hope for a beneficial marriage, but spending more time with that annoying braggart had cured me of any romantic affections. Other young ladies could fawn over his regular features framed by locks of carefully groomed golden hair… I knew better.

Unfortunately, no matter how much I expressed disinterest, my mother still nurtured plans for our future, having gone as far as informing Philidert about our family trip so that he could join us in Quathan. His loud and imposing presence was hardly what I would prescribe to a patient recovering from a prolonged illness, but complaining about it would achieve nothing except for increased attention under the guise of concern for my wellbeing.

So instead, I sought solace in making my own plans for the future that wouldn’t be dictated by my mother. No matter how much understanding I might have for her overbearing behavior, and no matter how compassionate I was about her three-year-long ordeal, I was a grown woman, and the accident hadn’t ruined my reasoning faculties… only some of my memories.

Yes, as soon as we were back home, I would have all the doctors proclaim me healthy and recovered, so I could take an extended trip around the continent or enroll in a university far enough away to keep Philidert at a distance. My father would surely support such plans.

I chanced one more look back at the table, but he still hadn’t shown up, which meant that instead of having an engaging conversation about Quathan’s history and culture, I’d be stuck making small talk about food and pretending to laugh at Philidert’s lousy jokes. Keeping away was a better choice, and I intended to stay in my self-imposed solitude for as long as it was appropriate, or even longer if needed. With most guests dining at their own tables, and no one seeking company beyond their immediate friends and family, there was little risk of anybody else bothering me.

I could watch the sands on the horizon and search for answers within them.

A man leaned on the railing right beside me, and I shifted to move away to a more acceptable distance. Judging from a glance I sneaked while in motion, he didn’t come from Kvesa or any other northern lands, so it seemed pointless to remark on how a gentleman should act.

“It’s an interesting world, isn’t it?” he asked.

His accent was heavy, though he didn’t speak in the way the local people spoke. Most of them knew my native tongue only well enough to sell wares and offer services. Yet his mistaking “world” for “country” or “land” suggested he didn’t have a perfect command of the language either, and he definitely didn’t know of proper forms to address a lady. His tone of voice was casual too, as if we were familiar with one another.

Engaging in a conversation justified a longer look at him, and I took in his features while sifting through my memories. He was tall and well built, though not muscular like the labor workers in the area, and as far as I could tell by the subtle wrinkles in his skin, he was similar in age to my father. His complexion was of that warm shade common of the local people, but his sharp features didn’t match their rectangular faces. Come to think of it, they bore no resemblance to any nation I knew of, civilized or not. Perhaps his parents were of two different cultures—an origin uncommon but possible.

His outfit mimicked what Quathani nomads wore, but its fine make and quality fabrics suggested he was both wealthy and confident enough to choose clothing according to his needs and taste rather than submit to the fashion that currently favored narrow-cut lounge suits. If one of my dear friends was around, they would likely describe him as having an aura of mystery or excitement, but I’d seen enough rich travelers and explorers to recognize the stranger as one.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” I offered the usual courtesy, even though my own heart kept insisting that I’d seen him before.

Alas, my mind did not support such a claim, even if the way he spoke and looked at me with his emerald eyes carried that genuine notion of acquaintance or even more—of shared experiences.

He arched his eyebrow as if unsure whether I was serious, but then his expression changed, his eyes narrow and inquisitive. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

I didn’t remember many things, and for all I knew, he could indeed be one of them, but such a personal confession was hardly suitable in the presence of a stranger. With his age and outfit, he could be a nobleman looking to charm a future wife, young and innocent enough to sweeten those autumnal years of life when travels and adventure had to be replaced with some other kind of excitement. Or he could be trying to swindle me out of my money, because luxurious hotels full of guests from the northern continent lured those kinds of charlatans.

Yet his posture and expression had nothing in common with the poorly concealed slyness I’d seen so often on the faces of lowly swindlers.

“I apologize.” When there were doubts, courtesy was always the best choice. “Was it one of my father’s seminars?”

Kithandar, my father, was a renowned historian, and I often accompanied him to guest lectures back home and abroad. Even if it was our first visit to Quathan, the stranger might be a scholar too, traveling for knowledge or leisure, and we’d crossed paths during some academic event. He could have spotted me in the hotel and decided to approach a familiar person, perhaps hoping I’d introduce him to my father.

He shook his head, and the way the corner of his mouth curled downward gave me a shiver. A piece of me recognized his reaction as if it were as familiar as my mother’s smile, and his disappointment resonated within me, bringing an unexpected feeling of guilt… and fear. My instincts demanded that I did anything in my power to shift his grimace into an expression of approval, and the strength of that urge pushed me to the brink of panic. My mind was reacting in alarming ways, but my memories remained as blank as they were before.

“What happened to you, Saeryn?”

Eyes wide, I took a step back. No common thief would know my name, and the way he spoke it, softly, like my father when he worried about me, sounded genuine and was hardly fit for a passing scholarly acquaintance.

All of a sudden, retreating to the table, to my mother and Philidert, felt more enticing than I’d have ever thought it would. The man in front of me might seem familiar, but it didn’t mean I was safe in his presence. He could pose threats I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“What are you doing here?” My father’s voice came like a last-minute rescue. He always had a way of appearing at exactly the right moment.

I turned to him with a smile of gratitude, but his full attention was on the stranger. An aura of hostility, unlike his usual composed demeanor, thickened around him, offering an unvoiced confirmation of my concerns about the encounter.

“I’m collecting the payment for my assistance,” the man replied in a casual manner, ignoring my father’s imposing stance.

“That has nothing to do with my daughter.”

My heart swelled at my father’s confident and protective manner. I could leave this situation in his capable hands and never think of it again, but the way they both spoke made it clear that they knew each other. There had to be more to the story than some swindle, and my curiosity forced me to stay.

“Of course it does.” The stranger’s posture didn’t change. Yet the longer I looked at him, the more convinced I became that he could match my father’s anger if he chose so. “She was the one who asked me to… visit her.”

Bewilderment wasn’t a ladylike expression, but it would be impossible to chase it off my face after such a claim. He might know a thing or two about me, but to be so bold as to claim that I had a part in whatever deception he was weaving… I had to put a stop to it. “Father, I—”

His gesture might have been one of calming, but when he spoke, concern rang in his voice. “Everything’s fine, my dear. Why don’t you join your mother? This isn’t something you should bother yourself with.”

I could tell a dismissal from a suggestion, and this once, arguing never crossed my mind. Courtesy demanding, I offered my rushed excuses and farewells, and turned away with a wave of relief that would drown me if I allowed it. My father would take care of everything, and I could indeed let myself forget about the incident. That one memory was probably better gone forever.

“She doesn’t remember me. Does she remember anything?” the man asked as I walked away.

At his words, I spun on my heels, inspecting him once more. The question alone mattered little, but the language… the language was everything. One of the forgotten dialects my father had studied so meticulously, passing this knowledge onto me. When I was a child, I thought vizari was a secret language I shared with him, especially since he also made me practice it when my mother was around. Even nowadays, as petty as it might be, we used it to keep things secret from her.

And now, a stranger met by chance in Quathan destroyed that childhood memory, though the more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether the meeting was indeed as accidental as I first assumed.

“Remember what?” I demanded in vizari, abandoning all pretense of proper behavior.

“So you do remember the language.” The stranger inspected me with renewed curiosity.

His command of words and grammatic structures in vizari left nothing to be desired, and his accent sounded perfect as much I could tell, considering it was a dead language.

My father stepped in front of me, his body like a shield. “Leave,” he said in a cold and unyielding tone. “Take your payment and use it as you see fit, but leave us alone. You’ve caused her enough harm.”

If my father thought I would let that last remark slip, he was mistaken, but it had to wait until we were alone.

“Perhaps I did.” The man smirked, his tone of voice dismissive and suggesting such harm, whatever it was, mattered little to him. “But she did ask me to come.” He lifted his finger before I could deny his claim. “Apparently, though, she doesn’t remember doing so, so I’ll take my leave.” He walked past us both, the slow and nonchalant stride of a man who left when he chose and not when he was told to. “Just one more thing…”

The way he turned toward me had something predatory about it, and the intensity of his emerald gaze, vibrant and timeless in his otherwise aged features, locked breath in my lungs. The smile that crept up his lips had nothing to do with warmth or friendliness. Only satisfaction lurked on his face, as if he’d found a way to get whatever he was after.

“Kneel before your master like a slave should.”

His words struck like a ram hitting the gates of my mind. I shivered. I could swear my body fought to act against my will, ready to drop to my knees. Only a firm grasp on the railing prevented me from making a scene by fulfilling his demand.

The stranger was already walking away and didn’t even look over his shoulder to check my reaction, but I had no doubt he knew what it was.

“Sae, are you all right?” My father’s hands supported my balance.

Any reassurance would be pointless, so I asked, “Who is he?”

As peculiar as it was, the stranger’s last remark conjured an image in my mind. I desperately clung to it, hoping that at some point I could make sense of it. Even without a clue of where or when, I had no doubt he’d spoken those very words before, and back then I was on my knees within a heartbeat.

“He’s… a rival from a long time ago,” my father replied, “but one who apparently still wishes us both ill. He’ll use mind games to unsettle you, so you shouldn’t trust anything he says.” He glanced back at the table. “Come. Your mother is looking suspiciously at us, so we should join her and that pompous youngster. If she asks any questions, just tell her you had a spell of weakness from the heat. We can talk later.”

He put on a smile and headed for the table, so I had to follow him. I’d rather barrage him with questions, but at least I had the promise that he’d tell me more after my mother retired for the evening. Approaching her and Philidert, I made the best impression of a carefree woman, even if my thoughts couldn’t have been further from.

* * *

I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother and Philidert conspired to put me in their conversational crossfire with the way they chose their seats at the table. Opposite each other, they left me no choice that would allow me to sit beside my father.

Throughout the whole meal, I suffered their trivial exchanges while looking at the furrowed brow of the one person I wished to have a conversation with. My father didn’t meet my eyes, instead searching the terrace with a wary expression while I was bursting with questions.

Everything about the encounter with the stranger seemed eerie, but at the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity, as if it was only my lack of memories that made it so peculiar. And what sparked my curiosity even more was that as unsettling as the conversation was, it didn’t lead to the familiar reactions my body resorted to when facing my never-present memories. No hastened breathing, no panic… Nothing.

That alone made me believe the stranger could be what would bring them back, but I couldn’t help wondering whether I was desperate and thus falling for a charlatan’s manipulation.

My mother chatted away with Philidert, both of them glancing at me every now and then as if they expected me to join in the discussion of whatever trivial topic they chose to fill the silence with. I focused on my food instead. The sooner we got through the meal, the sooner I’d have a chance to talk to my father.

“Sae, is everything fine?” my mother asked. “You seem so quiet.”

I forced a smile. “Just enjoying listening to the two of you talking,” I lied smoothly. Usually, I’d claim weariness and excuse myself from the company, but I couldn’t risk that she’d ask Philidert to accompany me back to my room. I didn’t want to wait until the morning to speak to my father. “It’s so soothingly familiar, and I don’t want to disturb that feeling.”

Her expression softened as always when I mentioned, even indirectly, my condition. As she returned to her conversation with Philidert, now convinced it contributed to my wellbeing, guilt stabbed at me. She cared for me, even deeply so, but her misguided efforts made me deceive her more often than not. I couldn’t remember exactly when or why, but I’d lied to her like that before—my untruths so terrifyingly familiar, I had to question whether I’d ever told her any truth at all, and worse yet, what kind of person had I been before my accident to deceive my mother so frequently?

Over the table, I caught my father watching me, and he gave me an almost imperceptible nod, as if he approved of my lying to her.

That, too, felt familiar, and before I realized, my breath was hastening in a foretelling of the approaching anxiety attack that always came when I couldn’t recall any specific memory. I focused my eyes on the plate in front of me, food less appealing than it was moments ago. Unexpectedly, instead of spiraling into panic, my thoughts escaped to the stranger, and the fresh memory of his green eyes forced my mind to think straight again. And though I knew this image might bring more questions than answers, something told me that those questions were the right ones to ask.

The rest of the meal dragged, and as dusk set in, I’d had enough of waiting.

“Father, would you mind escorting me back to my room?” I asked. “I think I could use an early night. Mother, Philidert, please excuse my departure.”

“Of course, my dear.” He rose from his chair immediately, and I could only hope he was as tired of the family dinner as I was. “I’ll be back soon,” he added for my mother’s sake, though I caught no warmth in his voice.

For as long as we were within eyesight, we walked without a rush and in silence, me holding my father’s arm as if I needed this kind of support. He let go as soon as we left the terrace and looked at me, a clear sign that he’d seen through my deception.

I knew he would appreciate a straightforward conversation, so I bluntly asked, “Who was that man?” Since other guests, waiters, and hotel workers passed us by, I spoke in vizari.

“A rival from long time ago.” His words rang with the weariness of someone who had hoped the matter had already been resolved. “You were very young back then. I think you saw him once or twice, but I doubt you’d have remembered it. We had a fallout over research. Nothing worth your attention, really, just some clerical disagreements that caused a bigger rift than they should have, but ever since then…” He shook his head. “I didn’t think he’s still bitter enough to disturb your peace with lies.”

After all the stranger’s peculiar claims, it was a relief to hear my father’s reasonable explanation. Yet that comfort faded away, because no matter how much I wanted to believe him, his words didn’t ring true. With no memories of my own, I had to rely on vague flashes and feelings, and for some reason, they didn’t align with what my father was saying.

In the turmoil of emotions that demanded I call out his lie but offered no substance to support such a claim, I searched for any way to get more information. We were already in the corridor leading to my room, and once we made it to the door, the conversation would be over.

“And those words he said before he left?” I asked the first question that came to mind. Anything to get my father to share more.

“Oh, that.” He huffed, as if amused by a memory. “He had an assistant he treated quite poorly. One day, after the assistant—I think her name was Herrela—had failed at some task, they had quite a fight. At the end of it, he told her that she had no say in any of his work, and she was to obey him without question. He ended the argument saying that she should fall to her knees like a proper slave should. You’ve heard it, and for the next few days you walked around repeating his words and trying to mimic his tone and expression.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose he found it amusing enough to bring it up, or perhaps it was the only thing he remembered about you.”

If this was such a lighthearted story—save poor Herrela’s plight as an abused assistant—why did I feel the strong echo of fear and desperation whenever I recalled the stranger’s words? Right at that moment, I was almost convinced that my very life depended on meeting his demand, and even after his voice faded from my ears, becoming but a memory, it still elicited such a strong reaction.

I forced a smile. If this was the story my father chose to tell, he had his reasons, and he’d not reveal anything else.

“Thank you for telling me,” was all I said as we stopped at the door to my room.

I wanted to ask what he’d meant when he said that the stranger had already caused me enough harm, but I suspected he wouldn’t offer the truth on that matter either.

My father hesitated. “He’s a dangerous man, Sae. Given an opportunity, he’ll fill your head with lies, and nothing he says can be trusted, no matter how convincing it sounds. I fear that his presence here is not accidental, and that he approached you with vicious intentions in mind.”

I swallowed and nodded. No matter how much I doubted other things my father had told me, this one rang true, echoing my own emotions. Though nothing in the stranger’s behavior during our brief conversation stood out as malicious, save maybe for his last words, my instincts screamed of danger.

My father looked at me. “It’s best if you never speak to him again.”

I said nothing to that. To argue with him would be foolish, but I wasn’t ready to make any promises, because lies, no matter how improbable, often carried a grain of truth within so that they would root easier in reality, and those grains could be the key to my fractured memory.

“Have a good night, Father,” I said before the lingering silence made him force a promise out of me.

Thankfully, he allowed me to retreat into my room.

It was decorated in Quathani style, with soft carpets and muslin curtains. A hollowed shell of some local nut served as a vase and was filled with blooms of a tree I didn’t recognize. Its sweet scent carried throughout the room but didn’t overwhelm me. There was a continental-style vanity and wardrobe, but they were hand-carved in the local style of intricate floral patterns, and a small door led to the bathing area. The bed, though, was the highlight—so wide, three people could easily get a good night’s rest in it, and it had a plethora of pillows and a selection of light and heavier covers.

Yet the sight of it reminded me that I was, in fact, not tired at all.

The hotel boasted modern amenities, so I was able to prepare a bath for myself without having to rely on their staff. I didn’t linger in the water. Once in my nightgown, I pulled the heavier curtains open and laid on the bed, looking at the stars and thinking about all that had happened.

The accident I suffered had not only put me in a three-year coma, it also took parts of my memory, some in bigger chunks, some smaller. Back at home, wherever I turned or looked, everything forced the same reaction, because it felt like someone had ripped random holes in my mind. Those memories weren’t blurry, and they weren’t vague notions of events. It was like they were never there. Yet I was still painfully aware of their absence. I knew I should be remembering something. I just didn’t know what.

Meeting the stranger had—for the first time since I’d woken from the coma—stirred something deep within me that seemed like it could fill those uneven, random gaps.

I had to figure out how to bring those flashes to the surface.

* * *

In the privacy of my hotel room, I could allow myself a yawn and gentle eye rubbing, both too unladylike for my mother to witness any other time. The sun shone straight onto my face. Of course, preoccupied with my thoughts and speculations the previous night, I’d forgotten to pull the heavy curtains closed before I drifted off to sleep.

Even upon my waking up, my mind still circled the stranger. Before succumbing to slumber, I’d kept replaying the meeting with him through my head as if it were a favorite song on a gramophone… as if it contained a secret key able to unlock whatever my memory kept hidden.

In the past, such attempts had proven futile. No matter how hard I tried, I was left with days of fractured existence and nights of restless sleep. I never found any answers.

Yet last night was different, and the very thought of it made my blood rush.

From the scattered visions that had been haunting my dreams so frequently formed a scene staggering in its coherence, even if the meaning of its particular details escaped me. I dreamed about the stranger, but in a different place and time… I was there too—a part of the story, not a mere observer.

Throwing on a robe, I walked onto the balcony. The nighttime vision was already fleeting, as if the morning had scared it off. I clung to its pieces, once more feeding my vain hope that they would reveal what my conscious mind denied me, even though I knew that so far trying too hard had never gotten me anywhere.

I needed a distraction that could help my thoughts wander in the right direction, piecing together the story hidden within the dream’s images.

It was still early, so I had an hour or even two before my parents would expect me to join them for breakfast. Enough time to enjoy a short walk along the palm-tree-guarded alleyways at the back of the hotel. Philidert wasn’t an early riser, so I didn’t have to worry about him imposing his company on me.

Yet I stood at the balcony undecided, as if still in the dream’s grip, and my eyes wandered across the landscape before me. Early in the morning, the hotel grounds were empty, so a lone figure leaning against the railing of the sun-soaked terrace drew my attention like honey lures flies—even more so the moment I recognized the man I’d met the previous evening.

Of course, seeking him out would mean going against my father’s wishes, but if I was to piece the past together, I needed the stranger’s knowledge. Even if some—or most—of what he’d tell me were lies and deception, I had to risk it for the grains of truth he might offer. Besides, prepared for his games, I could play one myself, and no matter what the stranger said, I could always ask my father about it later.

I quickly changed into an appropriate outfit, a mid-calf skirt and beige jacket, and rushed past the vanity, since promptness was in order if I wanted to talk to him. Besides, he didn’t come across as someone who’d be bothered with my hardly done hair or less-than-perfect clothes.

My soft shoes made no sound on the corridors’ thick carpets, so every now and then my hurried passing startled a maid or another guest. My heart raced to the rhythm of those steps, and I scolded myself for hoping the stranger would still be at the terrace when I reached it.

When I got there, he stood at the same spot, watching the desert dunes above the gardens’ green line. Relieved, I slowed down, both to catch my breath and to search for words. I had to ensure he wouldn’t be able to deceive me with any weaselly claims, and well-shaped questions would help me to pin the truth.

“Kithandar wouldn’t be happy that you came to talk to me,” he said in vizari, even though he’d never turned his head to acknowledge my approach.

Such a remark earned him only a dismissive huff. Had my father not been so evasive the previous evening, I wouldn’t have to seek knowledge elsewhere.

“You said I asked you to come,” I replied in the same language. Not only did it offer privacy, but I could also test his proficiency. “Where? When?”

Instead of a reply, he first granted me a long, unnerving stare. “How much has your father told you?” he asked finally. “About what you both are?”

It must be the second or third time when he’d mistaken one word for another—this time it was “what” instead of “who,” and those words didn’t even sound similar in vizari. With his perfect accent, such slips stood out, and perhaps his command of the language had more space for improvement than I’d initially believed, but it mattered little, as it didn’t offer any clues how he’d became familiar with it in the first place.

Besides, correct grammar or not, his question made little sense, so I kept my response simple: “I don’t know what you mean.” I wanted him to talk instead of forcing me to provide answers that would reveal too much about myself.

“Nothing, then,” he concluded lightly, as if he’d expected such a reply. “It makes me wonder whether he even wants you to remember.”

The way he kept watching me, like he was observing a peculiar specimen, must be an attempt to shake my composure, but I would play none of his games.

“Trying to turn me against my father isn’t going to work,” I said.

Despite my frustration with his evasiveness the previous day, I trusted my father more than anyone else in the world.

Unmoved, the man looked back at the desert as if he cared little about my accusations. “It’s you who came to see me.”

I knew he meant today, and pointing out he’d approached me the previous day would only bring a familiar grimace of disapproval to his face. Though I couldn’t tell how I knew it, his message was clear: just like I wouldn’t tolerate his games, he wasn’t going to tolerate mine. If I wanted to learn anything, I had to take the first step.

The step that, I had no doubt, would be my undoing.

“I…” A deep breath did little to steady my thoughts, and I leaped into the abyss of lies and deception that might be awaiting me. “The words you spoke yesterday… I had a dream about you speaking them.” Revealing even that much meant that I was already inviting a strike I couldn’t foresee. “But it wasn’t here. It was—”

“In a castle in the mountains,” he finished. “One of my warriors brought you to Kithandar’s study.”

“How…?” was all I could say.

I expected him to use my confession to manipulate me, skillfully collecting pieces of information to create an impression that he knew it all. Instead, it seemed that he actually did know it all. Such a precise detail couldn’t have been a lucky guess.

“Tell me of your dream. Tell me of that memory, and I’ll give you answers.”

A memory… At first, I was ready to dismiss such a notion. But if my father had told me the truth, then I’d seen this man back in my early childhood, and parts of the dream were real. The other parts, all the impossible imagery, were likely nothing more than embellishments my mind had conjured. With so many years having passed, I wouldn’t even have remembered his face, but he could still have appeared as familiar as he did the previous day.

I flexed my fingers, on the verge of walking away. Nothing good would come from giving the stranger more information. I should have consulted my father instead of foolishly rushing into another distressing encounter, driven by a dream and my father’s lack of candor.

The man in front of me stood motionless and silent, as if he intended to wait out my doubts rather than disperse them.

He might be a charlatan. He might be my father’s enemy. He might be a threat to both of us. But the calm gaze of his emerald eyes and the ageless wisdom within them drew me in. No matter what it might be, I wanted to hear his part of the story.

So I recalled the dream-memory for him.

Chapter 2

The Sorcerer from the Desert

The armor-clad man who dragged her through the stone hallway wasn’t gentle. His rough fingers crushed her forearm, and Saeryn fought him only enough to give the impression she was trying to free herself. With her life at stake, she couldn’t risk being cut down in an attempt to escape, but she had to resist, since he likely expected her to.

It wasn’t long before they reached her father’s study, and the confidence with which her captor pushed on the heavy wooden door told her what to expect as they entered.

Kithandar stood by the window, his plain gray robe so unfitting for the master of the castle, though at the same time matching the bare stone walls of most of its interiors. He looked so different without his usual outfits: stylish jackets and trousers in dark but vibrant colors, contrasted by snow-white shirts and discreet jewelry. Even though she’d been a frequent visitor to the castle throughout the years, she still couldn’t get used to that change. Yet the local people expected him to wear scholarly robes, so wear them he did. Even her own outfit matched the local fashion—a simple long skirt and a plain tunic that back at home no lady would allow herself to be seen wearing publicly.

Saeryn’s attention shifted to the others in the chamber. Accompanied by two more warriors in iron-plated armors was a tall man. She had never met him before, but she knew his name. Malatrius—the Sorcerer from the Desert, as many called him—had arrived to reclaim his property like she and her father expected.

She drew a cautious breath. The game that could cost her life began.

“I told you we’d find her.” The sorcerer’s intense green eyes locked on Saeryn, but he spoke to her father. “Maybe now you’ll be willing to talk.”

Kithandar sighed and nodded, much like a man ready to surrender. “I’ll make a trade. My daughter’s life for the scroll… and my library.”

The concern in his voice reminded her that they were treading a thin line, but she refused to give in to doubts. The time to change her mind had long since passed. Either she succeeded, or she died.

Malatrius shook his head. “What use would I have for a library so far from my lands? And why would I leave an enemy’s daughter alive? But if you give me back my property immediately, you’ll both die a painless death, and I’ll spare your servants.”

Saeryn shivered in the guard’s grip. Malatrius’s detached voice suggested he didn’t cherish cruelty but simply sought the best solutions. In a way, she couldn’t argue with his reasoning. To let her live, to risk that she’d wait for an opportunity to strike back, was a fool’s choice, and the sorcerer was not a fool.

She’d hoped her father would manage to change Malatrius’s mind, but now that she’d met the sorcerer in person, it seemed much less likely than back when she first considered the possible outcomes of their confrontation, and cold sweat ran down her spine.

“You can tear the castle down stone by stone, and you won’t find the scroll,” Kithandar said with confidence. “The library is hidden in the prism cube, and only my daughter and I know where it is. You spare her life, and she’ll take you to it. She’ll also carry it wherever you want to nest it again.”

The mention of the powerful artifact made no impression on Malatrius, or he concealed his thoughts well. Without a rush, he walked over to Saeryn, and the warrior beside her took a step back, releasing her.

“I could make one of you talk.” Malatrius cupped her chin with his hand as he looked into her eyes. “I wonder if your daughter is as determined to keep your secrets as you are.”

She jerked her head free, responding with a defiant stare. The prospect of torture and pain was a paralyzing one, but so was the prospect of death if she submitted.

The sorcerer burst out laughing, but she caught no cruelty in his voice, as if he was sincerely amused by her response.

“Saeryn, isn’t it?” he asked. “Your father stole something from me, and now he’s ready to beg me not to take something from him in return. At least what he offers in exchange has some value… Though I’m still not certain it’s worth the risks.” He smiled knowingly. “If I spare your life, proud daughter of a proud father, how long will your gratitude last? How long will it take before you attempt to kill me in revenge?”

Silence and clenched fists were her only response. No matter what she said, he wouldn’t believe her, and rightly so. After all, what kind of daughter wouldn’t dream of avenging her father? She knew the answer: the one who not only wanted to live, but also had to live, and the one to whom her father’s death meant little. Yet she kept her mouth shut. Such a reply would encourage questions and even more distrust, and she had to convince the sorcerer that she wasn’t hiding anything.

“You’re wise for your age.” Malatrius gave a nod to her silence. “I’m curious how much pain you can endure before you or your father breaks… With your own life at stake, and if you are as resilient as you seem wise, it would take some time—time I’m not willing to waste.” He sighed, looking her up and down. “Very well. I’ll generously accept your father’s bargain.”

Relief washed over her, but she couldn’t help being suspicious. Malatrius had agreed too quickly.

“Swear it,” Kithandar said. He must have arrived at a similar conclusion. “Swear on your powers and the gods you worship that you won’t kill her or have her killed, and that you’ll keep her from harm.”

“Gods?” Malatrius snorted, and that reaction made him almost approachable, almost humanlike. He reached for the ritual knife in the jeweled sheath on his belt. “Do you know the binding oath, girl?”

His words left her gaping, and even the subtle insult of calling her a “girl” went unnoticed. When broken, a binding oath would bring much more dire consequences than calling higher powers for witness. After all, gods could ignore or absolve an oath breaker if they chose to, but blood never forgave.

Mustering a nod in response was all she managed.

The confident and—dare she say—slightly smug smile that Malatrius offered made it clear he knew the weight of the oath. Without hesitation, he cut his palm, just by the wrist, and droplets of blood bloomed on his brown skin.

He held the red-stained knife between them as the ritual demanded. His voice softened when he began the oath, reciting melodic words in a language of ancient sorcerers. Saeryn joined in, matching the pace of his incantation, but her mind raced in search for an answer. Choosing an unfavorable ritual that left him no way out seemed like a madman’s choice, and Malatrius was far too cunning. There had to be more to it.

They finished the incantation, and she looked at him, waiting. Before she sealed it with blood, he had to set the terms, and the words he chose could be a trap leading to her death.

“I swear to neither bring you harm nor ask others to do so in my stead as long as you stay loyal. Any disobedience, disloyalty, or betrayal I see or suspect will set me free from this oath.”

He opened his hand, offering the knife to her, and Saeryn hesitated.

He might be the one who’d be bound by the oath, but he was also the one to decide what dissolved it. Accepting it meant he could find her disloyal on a whim, even as soon as she’d led him to the prism cube library.

Kithandar stirred. “Saeryn, my daughter, no.”

He understood the risks too, and he was right to advise against entering such a binding, but they had gone too far already to consider alternatives. Her father might claim to be a match for Malatrius, but open battle always posed risks. Besides, if she wanted the plan to succeed, she had to trust that the preparations she’d made and her own wits would suffice to keep her alive.

She gave her father an apologetic glance and then took the knife. It was her life, and the decision was hers as well, even if it turned out to be her death.

She cut her skin and held the blade between them. Malatrius placed his hand on the hilt, over hers. They spoke the last part of the oath together, and magic flowed between them like a gust of a summer wind, dry and warm.

Malatrius smiled with satisfaction, and she loosened her grip on the knife, letting him take it. Behind the sorcerer, she glimpsed her father and his tormented expression by the window, and this once, she couldn’t help her frustration. No matter how dangerous this oath might be, she could make it all work. The lack of Kithandar’s trust in her skill and cunning, which he displayed by behaving as if she were already dead, grated on her composure. She’d spent months preparing for this moment and for what could come after. She was ready. Kithandar had to know she was.

“You’ll fetch the prism cube now.” Malatrius gestured at one of the warriors, and the man moved to Saeryn’s side without a word. “There’s no need for you to watch what happens next.”

Saeryn shot one last glance at her father. They both knew that stealing the scroll, one of only three in existence, from a sorcerer like Malatrius would bring consequences, and they said their goodbyes before they even set their plan in motion. Yet she wouldn’t mind one last hug, one last reassurance that everything was going to be fine… that she was capable of seeing things through.

But Kithandar made no move and said no word. He stood motionless by the window, and she’d remember him like that forever, however short that “forever” might be. Then she headed for the door.

“Just one more thing…” Malatrius’s voice held her mid-step. “Kneel before your master like a slave should.”

* * *

His name was indeed Malatrius, just like my dream suggested. While I recounted what I saw in my slumber, he filled in many details he couldn’t have known if he wasn’t there and if it wasn’t a memory—one we shared. Such a notion affected my calm more than any mind game could. If all of it were true, how much more had I forgotten?

“That’s all there was in the dream,” I said.

I didn’t bother mentioning magic and peculiar outfits. As a child, I likely perceived a casual event as more fairytale-like, or perhaps the dream warped my memories, adding its own surreal flavor.

I kept other things to myself as well. He didn’t have to know that his arrival at the castle was part of my father’s plan. The dream suggested I’d partaken in it as well, but likely I would have been too young for any elaborate schemes.

Whether it was true or just part of the dream setting, this wasn’t something I would share with Malatrius. No matter how helpful he might seem, he offered me little information, save some details that only confirmed we’d met before. And if my father told me the truth, this man held a grudge against him… perhaps even against us both.

“I don’t know what happened next,” I offered when Malatrius remained silent. “I don’t even know how old I was back then, or the place where it happened. I can’t recall ever visiting such a castle…” Until I shared that memory with him, I had been convinced that the scenery was part of a dreamscape, but his words suggested that it was as real as it felt.

He looked me in the eye. “You know what happened next. You know what I did even if you never saw it.”

I did know what he was talking about. In my dream, I was certain that my father was about to die, and that there was no way to avoid such a fate. But if it was a memory, my father should be dead, and I struggled with reconciling those two notions. For a moment, I let ridiculous theories swarm my mind, even questioning whether my parents were truly my blood relatives, but the way Malatrius was watching me made me rein in my wild thoughts.

This wasn’t the time to indulge in speculation. If, instead, I played along, I could learn what he thought was true, so I asked, “How is it possible?”

He glanced at me with curiosity and perhaps even suspicion, as if something in my voice or behavior warned him that I wasn’t being sincere, but he didn’t bring it up.

“Since your father didn’t tell you anything, I’ll give you a simple explanation,” he replied. “We first met in another world, in your father’s castle there. What you believe to be a dream was quite a detailed memory of those events. Then, after you died, you were reborn, or I should say reshaped, in this world, just like your father was after I killed him.”

It wasn’t what I’d expected, but for the first time since the beginning of this conversation, concerns abandoned me, and I burst out laughing. I’d heard about the concept of rebirth, popular deep in the uncivilized south and among one or two Quathani sects. It couldn’t explain how Malatrius knew so many details of my dream, but I wasn’t aware of all possible ways to set up such elaborate traps. Hypnotists, hallucinogenic substances… They must be common enough in a land that didn’t condemn any quackery and resisted the reason of the modern world. Curiosity demanded I learn how he achieved his deception, but with a claim so absurd, I could do so from a position of confidence.

I stifled the chuckle that still refused to die and looked at him. “So you say it was all in another life? That we were… How do they call it around here?” I didn’t know if there was a vizari word for the concept, so I used a sanedian one. “Reincarnated? And maybe you’re also going to tell me that back then we were in love, and that’s why you sought me out through time and death?” A little mockery could goad him into a reaction that would reveal more than he intended to share. “I commend your skill, but your games end now.”

His posture remained one of confidence and calm, but his slight grimace suggested he didn’t like what he heard. “You were my slave, not my lover.” His voice was cold, so when he smirked all of a sudden, it caught me off guard. “Though I did kiss you once… Now, that would be an interesting memory to restore, but I don’t think you’re ready.”

I let out an unladylike snort at the clear bait, a surprisingly comfortable reaction around the man, as if I knew he didn’t bother with what society considered proper. As if… we’d interacted like that before.

I didn’t give into that feeling of familiarity. “So, a slave, not a lover. And you promised that slave you’d come and find her once you were both reborn? A strange thing to do. Not to mention that you’re the only one to have a clear memory of everything that happened.”

He huffed, amused, in response to my veiled accusation, but his reply carried seriousness and honesty—both of which I found unsettling given the circumstances.

“I don’t know why you forgot it all, but your father did recognize me. That means he remembers. As for me… I wasn’t reborn. I traveled to this world shortly after you died. Three months ago.”

His tone, filled with genuine regret, made my blood freeze. Even if his claims were pure fantasy, he clearly believed them true. With delusions driving him, he might be more dangerous than my father thought.

“This can’t be true,” I said before considering playing along with his madness. After the mockery I’d dished out, my denial could push him into rage.

Less confident, I looked around. It was so early in the morning that the terrace was empty, but in the distance, waiters began setting breakfast tables. If the conversation went horribly wrong, I could seek help from them.

Malatrius shrugged. “I have no answer for you. But humor me… Where were you, let’s say, four months ago? Or for the last three years, for that matter?”

If blood draining from my face could have a sound, I would have been deafened by its rush. I took a step back. My father had claimed they kept the accident private, but it didn’t mean Malatrius couldn’t have found out about it—via servants, friends of the family, even the hospital staff.

No matter how he’d obtained that information, he was quite skillful to use it the way he did. Three months earlier, I was waking up from a coma, and he’d woven that event into his own story of my supposed death and rebirth.

To my surprise, he didn’t take the opening my silence gave him. Instead of a barrage of questions to throw me even more off balance, he held out his hand, palm up. By his wrist, a silver scar stood out against the warm brown of his skin.

“With your death, I’m free of the oath, but this scar will never fade, and I believe you have a matching one. Possibly others as well. Three wide ones across your back. Scars you likely can’t explain if you don’t remember me.”

The thought of how he might have come to know this about me was already terrifying, but what made my blood turn cold again was his guess that I, indeed, had no idea of how my scars came to be.

My father had told me they were related to the accident, but this explanation confused me even before I met Malatrius. I couldn’t imagine how I could have gotten them during hiking, and, of course, I was unable to recall any details of what happened. My father refused to tell me, unwilling to bring up such a traumatizing event, even though I insisted it could help me regain my memories.

There were more oddities too, from before we’d arrived in Quathan. Ever since I woke up, my body had seemed perfectly healthy. No matter what the doctors said about taking good care of me when I was in a coma, I’d expected that such a drastic event, followed by years-long immobility, would result in pains or weakness lingering in my bones and muscles.

Yet I felt no ill effects at all. I was missing only some of my memories, perhaps even more of them than I’d thought, and until I met Malatrius, their absence had sent my mind in endless spirals of sudden panic whenever I struggled to recover them.

“But you could explain them.” I hid my unease. Asking Malatrius for help meant that instead of staying lost in the black hole of forgotten events, I could be stuck in a maze of lies and half-truths forever.

“I could try to help you remember,” he corrected me. “But your father was right when he said I caused you harm. Those might not be memories you’d like back. It might be better if you take whatever explanations Kithandar has for you and live your life peacefully… with that man by your side, if I’m guessing his intentions correctly?” He gestured over my shoulder.

I looked around and almost grimaced at the sight of Philidert approaching. The conversation with Malatrius was difficult enough without my unwanted suitor’s overbearing presence.

“There you are!” Philidert’s loud voice only confirmed what I expected of his behavior, and the stunning smile that followed must have been an attempt to dim the other man’s presence, as if he didn’t notice that Malatrius was at least twice my age and unlikely to be a romantic rival. “I knocked on your door, and when you didn’t answer, I thought you were still sleeping.”

“The sun woke me up,” I offered the first excuse that came to mind, “so I decided to go for a walk before it gets too hot.”

“I guess I should thank the sun, then,” Malatrius chimed in smoothly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of such an interesting conversation.” He stretched his hand out toward Philidert. “Professor Mal Atrius, pleased to meet you. I’m here for a series of guest lectures on ancient languages, and it was delightful to have an opportunity to talk to a fellow linguistics enthusiast.” He sent me a smile.

I couldn’t help arching an eyebrow at that. A believable lie like that stemmed from extensive knowledge… No matter who he really was, Malatrius must have taken his time to learn as much as he could about me and my father. At the same time, no one could become fluent in vizari over a few weeks, so that wasn’t a part of his deception.

“I’m sure the conversation must have been fascinating.” Philidert’s expression made it clear he thought otherwise. “I’m Philidert Asnu-Thigai. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He shook Malatrius’s hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to get ready for breakfast.”

As soon as he reached for my hand, I moved away, glaring at him with ire. He might have my mother’s favor, but if he thought it gave him any right to make decisions for me, he was mistaken. One thing he had right though—if I wanted to avoid uncomfortable questions, I couldn’t go to breakfast underdressed. Not that it meant he didn’t deserve a bit of harsh treatment to put him back in his place.

So, ignoring Philidert, I turned to Malatrius and asked in vizari, “And what if I want to remember?”

Philidert, of course, pouted. It might have been a bit too blunt of me to exclude him from the conversation like that, but I wasn’t about to let him hear even the tiniest piece of it.

“You’ll need your father’s permission, then. I won’t start a war with him,” Malatrius replied. Then he smiled to Philidert and switched back to sanedian. “You have to forgive me. The sheer excitement of being able to have a conversation in the very subject of my studies makes me forget my manners.”

“Then you should speak to Kithandar Alrothi-Mara instead.” Philidert’s tone was verging on impolite. Usually, he was subtler when he looked down at others, so being excluded from the conversation must have hurt his pride—and since he couldn’t take it out on me, he’d chosen Malatrius as the target for his spoiled mood. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to oblige when it comes to conversations in ancient tongues.”

“Oh, yes, Kithandar.” The corner of Malatrius’s mouth curled ever so slightly, showing that Philidert’s crudeness, though not unnoticed, had no effect. “We’ve met before, but we don’t seem to share the same connection as the one I’ve found with Miss Saeryn.” He rubbed the edge of his palm in a casual manner, and I could swear my own scar responded with a slight burning sensation. “But I have no doubt I’ll get a chance to talk to him as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I won’t be taking more of your time. I’d hate to stand in the way of your… social obligations.” He looked at me. “Should you have any questions on the topics we’ve discussed, I’m certain the hotel’s receptionist can direct you to me.”

Without waiting for any farewells, he walked away.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Philidert said as soon as we were alone. “I hope he didn’t bore you to death with some linguistic details nobody really wants to hear about. No wonder he doesn’t feel like talking to your father. They probably can’t show off their knowledge to each other.”

Not that Philidert would ever know, but my chuckle wasn’t at his joke. It was at the thought that the animosity between my father and Malatrius was much more personal. If I were to believe the supposed sorcerer, death marked their mutual past, and that was something my father would hold a grudge for, no matter who provoked the situation or what had really happened.

I furrowed my brow. The dream revealed no reason for the plan we’d supposedly conceived together. I only caught glimpses of what must have been my own thoughts from the past, and such broken strands told me nothing. As far as I could tell, Malatrius was unaware that he’d been played in some way, and it seemed better to keep it from him. While I had no idea what he was truly capable of, his confidence and mysterious aura suggested he was a dangerous man who wouldn’t take being someone else’s pawn lightly.

Either way, I had to speak with my father, but this time I was armed with the right questions to ask. He’d have to tell me the truth.

He and my mother would be up soon, which meant I had little time to prepare for the conversation, and Philidert’s company was the last thing I needed.

“I need to get ready for breakfast.”

Not waiting for his response, I headed inside the hotel.

The meal dragged painfully. My mother kept going on about sunsets at riverbanks being unforgettable and romantic, suggesting in so many ways that Philidert should take me for a walk in the afternoon. Of course, the only person delighted by the idea was Philidert himself. My father seemed as absent-minded as usual, and I hardly paid attention to her blabber as well, busy with my own thoughts.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation with Malatrius. I tortured myself with endless speculation of what bits could be true in his rather implausible claims.

“I’d ask your father to take me as well,” my mother said to me, “but I think that over the years he’s lost that last bit of romanticism he was saving up for our thirtieth anniversary.”

I nodded without paying much attention to her, but my father tensed. His face became a mask that hardly concealed anger, and it couldn’t have been in reaction to my mother’s remark. Her vitriol never bothered him, no matter how directly she applied it. I followed his gaze, and the source of his aggravation became clear.

Malatrius was just sitting down at a nearby table. As the server brought him coffee and listened to his order, he seemed to pay no attention to us, but he was undoubtedly aware of our presence. I held my breath when I realized that if my father confronted him, and Malatrius left the hotel, I’d have a hard time finding him on my own.

I hoped the conversation with my father would play out in a different way, but the circumstances sealed the decision for me.

My mother was still talking, and Philidert encouraged her with eager nods and exclamations, but since I wasn’t an actual participant in that exchange, I didn’t wait for her to finish. As bad as such a habit was, I’d picked it up from my father who tended to ignore her in my favor whenever he saw fit.

With little remorse and with a daring idea, I said in vizari, “It must be difficult to be in the presence of a man who killed you.”

Even if I didn’t exactly believe Malatrius’s claims, the remark made excellent bait to get my father talking. A bold statement could yield better results than any questions, as he would have to correct my claim and, at the same time, reveal what actually happened.

Both parents glanced at me with disapproval, though each for different reasons, and I paid no attention to my mother’s discontent, my focus fully on my father.

“You talked to him against my advice,” he said coldly, “and let him fill your head with lies.”

I should have expected he would avoid giving me any answers, but I was far from giving up.

“Is this a lie too?” I stretched out my hand, demonstrating the scar, but I needed something more to win. “His odd words yesterday… They made me remember. I dreamed about the events in the castle.”

His eyes wide, he leaned forward, hopeful and ignoring my mother’s and Philidert’s curious glances. “What did you remember?”

“Not much. Only what happened in your castle study, that’s all. The bargain we were making for the scroll.” His reaction reassured me that at least parts of my dream were real. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gave me a smile lined with sadness. “Would you have believed me? The last thing I wanted was for you to treat me like some madman. I hoped that in time you would remember on your own.”

I took a deep breath, taking the opening he gave me instead of allowing myself to ponder how much of last night’s dream might be true. “Malatrius said he could help me remember more.”

My father tensed. “He’s not our friend, Sae. If he’s offering help, he must have his own reasons. I tried everything to restore your memory and failed. If he can do it with such ease, it makes me wonder if he made you forget in the first place.”

I didn’t reply immediately. Whatever the reason my father disliked Malatrius so much, their squabbles meant little when compared with the prospect of regaining pieces of what could be the life I wasn’t aware I had, but I couldn’t argue that Malatrius was trustworthy.

I chose another approach.

“He claims he doesn’t want to start a war with you, and he won’t do anything unless you agree to it.” That earned me an arched eyebrow, so I pressed on. “I think we should at least talk to him. If you’re with me, you can help me uncover what’s true and what’s deception.” I tried to make it sound more like a plea than a threat that I would go behind his back if he refused. “And if he has some hidden reasons, making him help me could reveal something of what his real scheme is.”

His hesitation made me hold my breath. His next words could smother the hope glimmering in my heart.

“Are you talking about that linguist?” As usual, Philidert didn’t like being left out, and having caught our glances toward the other table, he butted into the conversation at the first moment of silence. “Professor Mal something-or-other? I forgot his name,” he added with the shameless smile of someone who didn’t bother burdening his mind with anything related to commoners.

To me, it sounded like an attempt to win my father’s favor by belittling another scholar, and I grimaced, but my father would have none of it anyway.

“Indeed, we are.” He gave Philidert a cold glare he reserved for people who’d violated the privacy of others. “But it’s hardly courteous to talk about him while he’s sitting a table or two away. Since we’re done with the breakfast, why don’t you do me a favor and invite him over to have coffee with us?”

I almost chuckled. He didn’t share my mother’s fondness for the young aristocrat and wasn’t beyond letting it show. Sadly, it had little effect on Philidert. Taking offense for such treatment and leaving for good would be granting a huge favor to my whole family—save maybe for my mother.

“Maybe it would be more reasonable if you joined him instead,” Philidert replied. “The ladies wouldn’t get bored with all the academic talk. I’m sure that I can entertain them with more lighthearted stories.”

He threw my mother a dashing smile, undoubtedly seeking her support in the matter.

“I’ll do it.” I stood up before anyone could protest. “Professor Mal Atrius seems to be a knowledgeable scholar, and I’d love to learn his insights on ancient linguistics.” With that, I walked away from the table.

When I approached Malatrius, he arched his eyebrow in a mix of polite interest and slight amusement, and that expression felt so familiar… like the beginning of yet another game between us.

“My father is wondering whether you’d join us for coffee.” I didn’t bother with empty pleasantries.

He rose from his chair, amusement now clear in his expression and his breakfast left unfinished. “I’d never pass on such an opportunity.”

As we made it back to our table, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d indeed delved into a game I didn’t understand, and found myself desperate to hope—contrary to what my memories suggested—that it wasn’t the game in which my life was at stake.

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