"Maybe they wanted to use you..." It didn't even sound like a question.
People confident in their ignorance can cause pain. But how can you be angry with them? After all, it isn't truly their fault.
To her even greater chagrin, she was not taken to the twins' house. She did not know the people she was brought to. Her hostess was a very beautiful woman with aristocratic manners. Later, when she met her sisters, she noticed that the best qualities of both seemed united in her, while the worst had somehow passed her by. Her host… it was strange — his voice sounded familiar, yet she could not connect it to any face.
They were kind people, somewhat similar to her foster parents in one particular way — they treated her impartially. That happens exceedingly rarely.
One day, in foul weather, she sat upstairs with a book in her hands — or rather, no fewer than five. She was in the mood to read, but nothing felt right. At last she gave up and stared out of the window, letting her mind drift over the blurred outlines beyond the glass. The shapes kept shifting as the rain alternately strengthened and softened. After a while, the uncertainty of it began to unsettle her. The unease slowly deepened. Her mind started searching for moving silhouettes among the wavering shadows, for whispers hidden in the sound of the rain. A few minutes later she found herself standing in the centre of the room, facing the window, waiting for someone to step out from behind the curtain of water.
It was panic — though she did not know where it came from, why it had begun, or how to stop it. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her eyes fixed on the glass. Her body was rigid, as if caught in a numbing spell, while her heart pounded wildly. She wanted to run, yet did not dare to move.
Suddenly, her father's face flashed through her mind — and the blond nape of a young man standing before him. The numbness broke at once. She rushed downstairs headlong, half-hysterical. Insisting it was a matter of her nephew's life and death, she demanded that the hostess contact someone from the Order — anyone — immediately.
The hostess called her daughter. The daughter called her mentor.
"This panic isn't mine — it's his! He's afraid! Whatever my father is doing, he doesn't want it! You have to stop him!" She paced the hall, nearly shouting, as the fear refused to release its grip.
"How can you know that?"
In this man's presence she no longer felt deception — that subtle sense when something in the room was slightly out of state it should be. And he no longer drank from his flask every now and then.
"I don't know it — I feel it. And I can tell my feelings apart from someone else's."
"Why can you feel it?"
His posture and expression still showed irritation — and disbelief.
"What?" She blinked, thrown off. "Why can your student transform? Because she can. Why can I feel this? Because I can! Because I care."
"Could it be a false vision?"
"This isn't a vision. It's a feeling. Feelings aren't fake. And even if they were — he would have needed to know about this ability of mine first. He couldn't have. I didn't even know it myself… didn't know I could sense someone from that far away…" The realisation distracted her for a moment. Then she looked up again. "You must stop him."
"That's what we're doing."
"No — now."
"And how exactly do you suggest we do that?"
"I don't know — you're the professionals!"
"We'll arrive in a friendly group, knock politely, and say: 'Listen, leave the child alone — can't you see he doesn't want to?'"
"Send the one they'll allow inside willingly!"
For the first time since the argument began, there was silence.
"Are you truly willing to risk your teacher's life for a frightened boy?"
She stared wordlessly into the single human eye of the man — a man marked by a dangerous profession, not only in body. Her lashes trembled, barely holding two heavy drops.
"No."
Her eyes closed. Two hot tears rolled down her cheeks.
"No."
It felt as if a stone had dropped onto her chest.
"Good."
The Old Warrior cooled a little. He slapped his knee — as if to signal the matter settled — yet did not rise. He remained seated, rubbing his leg, watching her with something like reluctant compassion.
"Calm yourself. The boy will be fine. He won't defy your father's will. His life is not in danger." He glanced around at the others. "We are not a child protection service. Parents are responsible for their own children."
He should not have said that.
"Parents? Parents?!" she burst out. "I have a parent too — yet you're not eager to return responsibility for me to him!"
"Listen, girl!" he snapped. "We all — including you — know perfectly well how his care would end. It nearly did once already — with your death!"
"His care will end with this!!"
She broke into laughter — as hysterical as the fear had been moments before. They stared at her in confusion, as though she were possessed. She could not stop. When the laughter dissolved into sobbing, she ran upstairs and slammed the door behind her.
No one followed her. They gave her time to calm down. After a while they checked that she was still inside and only then left. It took quite some time.
When the nerves finally give way and there is no strength left to hold everything in, all the buried grievances and fears break loose at once. They rush through the mind one after another, pushing out each emotion to make space for the next. Then they return for a second round — and a third — like a carousel that refuses to stop.
By the time they had exhausted themselves and sunk back into the depths of memory, darkness had fallen outside the window. She was sitting on the floor in the far corner, hugging her knees, unable to focus on anything, her head throbbing with pressure. Her voice was worn out from strain, so when the door opened quietly and someone entered, she neither looked up nor spoke.
The person silently placed something on the floor beside her, sat opposite, and gently cupped her temples in his hands. The pain began to ease. Strange… the warmth and softness of his touch felt familiar too.
To make matters worse, the Headmaster sent her to spend the last couple of weeks of that summer at the twins' house — where the Boy was staying at the same time. The transfer took place in the market street so they could go shopping together.
"Is this a joke?!" The man — a former professor-werewolf — shook his head in sympathy. "I can't be near this person for more than five minutes!"
"Why is that?" he asked, concealing his irritation.
"Ask your boss," she shot back after a brief pause.
"Well, my 'boss' told me to remind you not to forget his instructions — and to review everything you were taught in last year's extracurricular lessons."
Her jaw dropped. Then she reconsidered — why was she surprised?
"Whatever it was," he muttered under his breath.
Four students emerged from the shop with a half-giant.
"Lucky you're still here," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Meet the reinforcement. From today until the end of summer, you're one team. Important: don't use her name in front of the driver. He only knows he's taking one more student back."
"Is this… a joke?!"
"A particularly cruel one," she added. It was a consolation for her to see she wasn't the only one unimpressed by the Headmaster's sense of humour
"No, it isn't a joke. And it isn't open to debate," he replied sharply, immediately raising a calming hand toward the Boy, who was beginning to lose his temper. "We will discuss it — later. I truly wish you all a good day."
The ex-professor departed, and they exchanged looks — first indignant, then resigned.
What was the Headmaster trying to achieve with this, she wondered? To show everyone that she stood on his side? Unfortunately, someone really did see them together that day. It made no one feel better.
The only thing she gained from spending so much time near the Boy was the ability to reconcile the two fragments of her father's soul that lived within them. She learned to sense them clearly and forged such a strong connection between the two that later she could locate the remaining fragment with ease, no matter how far away it was.
One day, after another such visit, she went to her father at once — first making certain he was not tracing her. From some point on she became a frequent guest within their shared mental space: to learn what each of them was doing, to share with the Boy what she had seen, to coordinate her own actions. Because of this, she followed the same mental routine before and after each contact with the Boy — a fragile safety measure, designed not to reveal his location. But there was always a danger in meeting a mirror — of looking into someone as they looked into you.
At the far end of the tunnel, she collided with her own face. She recoiled in fright — and the reflection swiftly changed into a pale, red-eyed visage with slit-like nostrils.
"For how long?!!" flashed through her mind.
"Did you... look into me?" He sounded genuinely shocked.
"Yes." She answered at once — before she could think of anything else, before a lie could form.
"Why didn't anyone tell me that you…"
"No one knows." Her attention remained fixed on his forehead.
"So — no one."
"No one."
"Oh… my girl… that explains a great deal…" His expression softened with satisfaction for a moment. "For how long — what? That I am looking into you? Have you been somewhere else?"
"No."
"Who were you searching for?"
"You."
"You're lying…"
"A tall cliff covered with grass…"
"Where have you been?!"
"The wind rushing through the air…"
"Who were you seeking?!"
"The ocean breaking in furious waves…"
"I have seen this landscape before."
"Yes! I like it. I was there — resting."
"I don't believe you. You're hiding something from me there. But I will find it. Find it — and destroy it."
The Headmaster had every move calculated in advance, as if he were playing a game of chess. To him, everyone was merely a piece on the board. She was thinking about this after a dream she had while under house arrest at the manor.
In the dream, the king — the Headmaster — stood in his starting position, surrounded by pieces of his colour — white — whispering instructions to them one by one. There was the queen — the Boy — a bishop — the Head, a rook — the school, a knight — the professor-werewolf, and half the pawns.
The pieces began to move. The bishop advanced. Under his cover, the queen moved next. One of the white pawns started forward from the far corner. A few more moves — and the queen put the black king in check. But then, for some reason, the bishop stepped back, and the exposed queen was captured. The white king castled with the rook to avoid the attack. Meanwhile, the pawn no one noticed advanced step by step deep into the black side of the board. It stood there alone — unprotected.
That pawn was her.
After the dream, she spent half a day in bed, once again blaming the old wizard and brooding over the injustice done to her.
"The only person he truly cared about…" she thought. "…but no — that isn't right either. Chess… two kings… My father… he was the only one." Then her thoughts snagged on something wrong — something in the game did not fit. She sat up and replayed the dream in her mind. "That's it — the Headmaster couldn't be the king. If he were, the game would already be over — he's dead. And the Boy can't be the queen — he's still alive. It must be the other way round. The Boy is the king. The goal is to defeat one king and protect the other. But that doesn't make sense either, because we know that… Stop. I'm going mad. It was only a dream. Am I really going to draw conclusions from a fantasy? Still… could he have seen a way? No — stop."
She sat a while longer, her mind blank. Then the idea arrived on its own.
"Thus, I reached the far side of the board. I crossed the line. Now I can become any piece that was lost. I think I'll become a queen. I'll move where I want — and how I want."
Her father kept asking why she had come to him.
"Why are you here? Have you come to join me?"
She heard his voice in her mind while she lay unconscious after his first torture - physical one.
"No. I came to kill you."
"Ambitious. And why do you need that?"
"An eye for an eye. You tried to kill me — remember?"
"And yet you're alive. And I am very glad to finally meet you. You did splendidly today. I was pleased to discover that my daughter is such a powerful witch. Would you have become one, if not for that night? Let us forget the past and unite for the future."
"I can't. I don't see the future the way you do."
"Oh, let me guess. A world full of love, diverse and free from prejudice. How childish — and dull. Such a world is nonsense. It cannot exist. That is the delusion of the old mad wizard. He is the one who turned you against me. He saw how alike we are — and didn't want me to have you. So he planted that ridiculous idea in your mind — that I wanted you dead. How can you trust him? Did he ever trust you? Look where he is now — dead. And we are still here. Isn't that proof he was wrong?"
People… He had won her agreement about the impossibility of such a world. And yet she strongly doubted he would have received the same answer from the old sorcerer. Had he asked instead of assuming, she would have told him that she saw no other future precisely for that reason. She had seen both worlds — and could accept neither.
In either of them, wherever intelligent beings exist, there is room for both suffering and happiness — and both are achieved only through loss. Neither world abolishes fear: fear of death, fear of life, fear of being different, fear of being the same. Both give rise to those who believe themselves superior to others — and therefore entitled to decide the fate of other lives, whether in the name of evil or of good, openly or in secret.
It will always be so, because in truth it is the same world. A world already full of love — but not only love; free — but not free of prejudice; diverse — and therefore divided. Otherwise neither he nor the Headmaster could have arisen within it, each bringing pain to some and relief to others — nor would their war have existed.
Rivalry, in one form or another, is the condition of its existence. Rivalry is a natural conflict — a consequence of blood and culture. Some still struggle simply to live; most struggle over how to live. It is hypocritical to call this conflict evil, when it is rooted in the very values we declare. It cannot be outlived. No one can win it forever — because to win completely is to remain alone.
It cannot be eliminated, only artificially restrained. Yet it is just as hypocritical to call this system of counterweights goodness, since it relies on violating the very values it claims to protect and maintains itself through pressure upon the many. Conflict will always take the shape corresponding to imbalance.
We want what we're not ready to face the consequences of. At the same time, we judge and condemn one another without shame — when the only good truly available to us under such conditions is support and forgiveness.
How is one meant to live in such a world? With eyes shut, running as fast as possible, hoping not to collide with anyone?
If he had asked, she would have said she would destroy all their little worlds — gather every urge to kill, to humiliate, to rise by lowering others — gather them all into a single poppy-box, press them down until the concentration became unbearable, and then set a wand to it. It would save time and nerves — and lead more quickly to where her father himself was heading.
"And the circle would begin again. How many times already? What would make it turn differently — chance? Is that the current answer? That is no solution."
Without the third path, she was forced to choose among those offered. Was it worth it? She was never meant to belong to any of their worlds.
And yet…
"Everyone in this world is mortal. His death proves nothing. He is gone — but his world continues, because he was never its cornerstone. With your death, however, your world collapsed. And it will collapse again. Isn't that proof that you are wrong?"
All the time she spent with her father, he tried to turn her against the Headmaster, believing this would secure his victory. But he was mistaken — the Headmaster had long been discredited in her eyes. At times she even hated him. For believing he alone knew how everything ought to be. For the way he treated people — how he pressured them, manipulated them, drove them to do what he required, and still would not release them afterwards. As he did with the Head. As he did with that poor blond lad now sitting at the centre of the courtroom. As he did with the Boy.
Why did her father have to be destroyed entirely? Was he the only dark wizard alive? Would the world truly become kind and beautiful once he was gone? As she once told that old doll in pink — danger does not require anyone's return; people create it themselves, one way or another. Why not leave him within them and let them struggle against him for the rest of their days — which might have been many?
Ah yes. The Boy's prophecy. She knew of it — she had seen it in his summer nightmares. And yet — they had managed to live all this time.
Why do we need heroes to be dead?
As she walked along the ruined school walls, past the bodies of those who had chosen to become her enemies, past the pale, motionless faces of those who had once been her friends, she kept thinking. All that valour sung in hymns and novels. All those heroes of legends and paintings. With what delight people read about them, imagining themselves in their place, dreaming of becoming them. And no one imagines being among the defeated — because no legend is written about them.
If you are not named in a prophecy, if you are not a close friend or sworn enemy of the one who is, you become simply one of the many who died.
Why all these illusions? There is nothing sublime about death — it is sickeningly empty. Only the romantics' words about it are sublime. Anyone who has witnessed it once would never wish to witness it again. Heroism is merely a side effect of confronting evil. It is not something to strive for. It is something that should not be required.
"Maybe they wanted to use you…"
"No, I was not offered to participate in any revolutionary actions. But when my father went on the school, they secretly organised my escape, and themselves went with him."
"No. I was never asked to take part in any revolutionary action. But when my father came to the school, they secretly arranged my escape — and went with him themselves."
"So — the defendant was meant to deliver you to his master, yet you came of your own accord; he and his family were meant to keep you in their house, yet they released you on the eve of his most important battle?"
"Yes. That is how it happened."
"Do you believe they knew their master was in danger?"
"Yes. They knew enough to understand that."
"Well… well…" The Chairman studied her without looking away. "But why did you go to your father?"
"Well-well… who do we have here? In the end, you came to me of your own free will. I admit, I did not expect it. I remember your resistance five years ago. And now you arrive to celebrate my victory."
He was there. Her father. At some point, meeting him had become an obsession. She wondered how he would look, what she would feel, what he would feel. Would he try to kill her again — or be her father? Would he recognise her? Would he want her at his side? Would she want that?
She was terrified — but his followers were present, and she could not show it. She had one strong protection: so called innate immunity. The real constraint was time — enough time to explain.
And he was a true snake: careful in movements, coiled, ready to strike at any moment. She stood before him as if entranced, unable to look away from his eyes. He regarded her with a sneer — like a foolish admirer desperate for attention at any cost.
Or as the Headmaster did with her.
"Why are you here? Have you come to join me?"
"No. I've come to kill you."
"You do understand that in order to kill me, you would have to die yourself."
The Headmaster provoked her, drew her forward, but never let her come close — stretching her nerves to breaking point. Her only way not to become like her father seemed to lie in his death. Yet his death was impossible without her. Which meant his death would have to become more precious to her than her own life.
It amused her, in a bitter way, to realise that the final step that brought her here was not hatred of her father, but resentment towards the Headmaster — their difference in vision, her anger at him.
"So why am I here? To give my life for people who do not believe in me? Or to join my father and become what they already think I am?"
"Excuse me, sir. I will answer that question when — and if — I stand trial myself."
She attended every hearing — before and after giving her testimony. When the acquittal was announced, she exhaled in relief, smiled at the boy, and left the hall — just as his life left him.
"It looks like it's over. My father lost."
She walked from courtyard to courtyard, through the ruined school, across broken glass and shattered stone.
"We must find the survivors. He has to be among them…" She tightened her grip on the young man's hand. "He must… he promised."
At last they reached the gathering crowd. She scanned the first rows quickly, then pushed forward, scanning every figure. One glance at the clothes was enough — not him. Again. And again. And…
The young man felt her fingers loosen as her hand slipped from his. His heart dropped, but he did not try to stop her. Not because he did not want to — but because he knew it would be useless. Not from fear of humiliation — but from the courage to let her go.
Watching her disappear down the corridor carved open by her cry, he realised how much he had lost — lost despite the fact that he had never possessed it.