The city of Roa breathed with life, but its scent was far from noble. A mix of warm bread, sweat, horse manure, and cheap alcohol hung in the air.
Paul walked, twirling a leather strap from a sheath between his fingers. Merchants bustled around, boys who made their living picking pockets darted between people, and guards chatted lazily as they watched the crowd.
At the massive gates of the citadel, two guards met him. One of them jerked toward his weapon, but his partner placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Relax. It's Paul." He nodded. "Go on in."
Paul smirked and walked inside.
The garden was quiet. Only the murmur of the fountain and a faint distant ringing disturbed the peace.
At the far end of the courtyard, in the middle of a green lawn, a man was moving. Bare‑chested, he spun his blade as if drawing invisible patterns in the air. His movements were smooth, yet carried a threatening precision.
Paul stopped, watching. Philip was good. Too good. It was irritating. A few servants stood at some distance from him. They watched their master in silent reverence, understanding that they were looking at a true master of his craft.
"Ha. You're swinging that sword like a woman with a laundry stick. My grandmother would do better," Paul said with a laugh.
Philip lifted his head when he noticed Paul but didn't stop. The blade in his hand traced invisible lines as he finished the last sequence. Paul stood with his arms crossed, observing.
"How long are you going to keep kicking up dust? Or are you waving that sword around to impress the gardener?"
Philip finished, exhaled, and ran a towel across his neck.
"Just waiting for you to open your mouth and mess up again."
Paul smirked. When Philip was done, he approached Paul and extended his hand. A handshake. His palm was covered in thick calluses.
"Good to see you."
"You too."
Philip hesitated for a moment, then continued.
"Still afraid of duels?"
"What would I be afraid of?"
Philip raised a skeptical brow.
"Seriously? After three defeats in a row you still have hope?"
Paul shook his head and took a step forward.
"No, Philip. I just want to remind you of one thing."
"And?"
Paul slapped him on the shoulder.
"If I fight seriously, you might get hurt..."
"Then maybe we should test that?" Philip tossed his sword and caught it, taking a step forward. "I wouldn't mind putting you back in your place."
Paul laughed.
"How about this. First blood. If I win, you're buying. And not that piss you serve in your place, but real stuff…" Paul pretended to think. "'The Red Lion,' for example?"
"And if I win?"
"You won't."
Philip smirked.
"You'll be unlucky if you keep underestimating me. After all, I'm still a Boreas."
"Then try proving it."
Philip struck first — a quick thrust toward the shoulder. Paul tilted to the side, his sword snapping up to divert the blow. Philip immediately shifted his stance, bringing down a diagonal strike from above. Paul barely managed to raise his blade; their steel met with a clang, the vibration running through his arms.
"You've gotten slower," Philip remarked.
Paul didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward sharply, breaking the distance. Philip jerked back, but Paul was already slipping under his guard, sending his blade in an arc toward the ribs. Philip blocked the strike hard and shifted into a counterattack.
"Want to play dirty?"
"I want a drink."
Their blades flashed. Paul shifted slightly to the side, trying to lure Philip into a convenient position, but he didn't fall for it. Instead, he suddenly changed tempo.
Three quick strikes forced Paul to retreat.
Philip suddenly lunged forward, his blade slicing downward. Paul barely parried in time. But Philip had no intention of stopping. He shifted his foot, twisted his wrist, his blade sliding along Paul's, and then with a lightning‑fast motion struck him.
"Looks like I'll be the one paying today."
Laughter rang out.
"Yeah. You will," Paul's voice came from the side.
Philip looked at his shoulder and saw a thin cut, red blood seeping from it.
The servants watched in silent astonishment.
They stood quietly for a moment, and then Paul lowered his blade and smirked.
"Have a pleasant evening, ladies. Don't forget your purse…"
He turned and walked away, leaving Philip alone. Philip watched him go, feeling a crooked grin spread across his face.
"Damn bastard…"
***
Walking down the mansion corridor, Paul let his gaze slide over the massive walls draped with rich tapestries and paintings. Everything here was just as it had been during his last visit.
Turning the next corner, he noticed a young woman standing in a doorway. White hair. A bandage over her right eye. Sun‑darkened skin covered with scars, a thin web spread across her body.
A chill ran down his spine. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword before he forced himself to relax.
"Hi, Ghislaine. Long time no see."
Ghislaine, a sword master, raised her head and stared at him. Her lips were pressed together, her expression unreadable. Paul knew he was facing one of the few people who could turn him into chopped meat in seconds.
"Yeah."
Her left ear twitched. A cat's ear — because she was a beastwoman. Her voice was low and rough, but carried strength and authority.
"I was surprised to hear you agreed to work for Boreas. As the family's bodyguard, no less."
"Yeah."
The same bored expression as always.
The fact that she'd settled down surprised him. Ghislaine was far stronger than he was, but he never imagined she'd trade a life of adventure for guarding an estate. It was even a bit insulting — Sauros had never offered Paul that job. Though even if he had, Paul would've refused.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
She crossed her arms, tilting her head. Her ear twitched, her gaze remained lazily predatory — like a cat before a jump.
"How's life in the mansion?"
"Why the hell did you come? To bother me with dumb questions?"
Her words were as sharp as her blade. She never liked pointless chatter.
"I've got business with Sauros. Where is he?"
"Listen and you'll know."
Paul grimaced but obeyed. His aura stirred, his hearing sharpened, and the world filled with sound. He heard beating hearts, guards' footsteps, the rustle of servants' clothes, the creak of hinges, the hum of voices behind walls.
And most importantly — he clearly heard what was happening in the room.
"Come here."
Sauros' voice.
"Ah… o…"
A woman's voice.
Paul turned away from the door and looked at Ghislaine. She didn't even blink.
"Looks like he's very busy right now."
"Yes."
"When will he be done?"
Ghislaine glanced at him.
"Soon."
"So should I wait here? Or come back later?"
"There's enough space here."
Paul sighed, dropped into a chair, and looked around for something to pass the time.
"So how did it happen that you decided to work for the family?"
He expected her usual "yeah," but for the first time Ghislaine showed irritation.
"Fuck off."
"Got it, I'll shut up…"
Even though Paul wanted to respond, he knew that when she showed any emotion other than boredom, it was better to bite his tongue.
The door opened, and a cat‑eared maid stepped into the corridor. Bright blue eyes, twitching ears, a satisfied smile. She cast a quick glance at Paul and Ghislaine, then disappeared around the corner.
Another followed. Then a third. A fifth. A seventh…
All in different uniforms, but unmistakably — maids.
Paul snorted.
"Looks like the old man hasn't changed."
Ghislaine didn't even flinch.
"WHO'S THERE NOW?!"
Sauros' voice thundered through the corridor, as if he wasn't calling someone but chasing off a herd of bulls.
"Last time I came without warning, he threw a roast chicken at me. Hopefully this time there won't be bones flying." The thought flashed through Paul's mind as he pushed the door open.
***
The room smelled of sweat, wine, and some sweet incense clearly meant to mask everything else, though it failed miserably. Visually, the study looked as if a storm had passed through: pillows on the floor, an overturned jug under the table, and someone's stocking dangling awkwardly from a chair.
Behind the massive desk sat Sauros, flushed and pleased, a goblet in one hand and a huge piece of meat in the other. He was about to take another juicy bite, but when he saw Paul, he grimaced as if a fly had fallen into his wine.
"Ah, it's you…"
The old man set the goblet down heavily, wiped his greasy fingers on the edge of his cloak, and lazily waved a hand.
"What'd you come for?"
"Wanted to make sure you're still alive. They say old age begins when it takes longer to recover from a good night than the night itself."
Sauros snorted and slapped his palm on the desk.
"Bastard, tell me… do you show up on purpose whenever I'm in a great mood just to ruin it? Or is it something you were born with?"
"Probably born with it," Paul said, scanning the wrecked room. "Though I have a theory you handle ruining it yourself better than anyone else."
"Screw you…" Sauros muttered, stuffing another chunk of meat into his mouth. "Fine, since you're here, at least say something useful."
"I need to talk to you."
"As long as it's not about morals."
"Still trying to find one?"
"Ha! No, I understood long ago that morality is something poor people talk about when they want to feel better. The rich have money, warriors have swords, and whores have their job: sucking my dick. Philosophers are the only ones who keep whining."
"Solid logic. You just forgot to mention that aristocrats have taxes and servants who do everything for them."
"That's true. Only servants can't enjoy the drink and the women for me. Though…"
Paul rolled his eyes and sat across from him.
"My boy has talent. Magic."
Sauros froze with the goblet near his lips, then slowly set it on the table.
"You're lying."
"I wish. The kid took a grimoire, read something on his own, and bam — the attic looked like it got hit by swordsmen. Everything cut up, the boy elbow-deep in blood."
"Now that's what I like! A kid with spine. No sword, but who am I to judge?"
"Yeah, well, he nearly cut his arm off…"
"It happens." Sauros snorted and waved a hand. "If he didn't quit after that, he never will."
"Exactly. That's why I need a teacher who'll explain how not to die next time."
"And you came to me? I'm good at many things, but magic isn't one of them."
"But you can find someone who knows what they're doing."
"Oh, if that's all, then yes, that's me." Sauros smirked. "Let me guess: you want me to file an official request with the Mage Guild?"
"Exactly. But don't write who it's for. Just say you need a mage who doesn't ask questions."
"Oh, Paul, Paul… You want me to find you a teacher, but one who won't know who they're teaching. And won't ask anything. Do you have any idea what kind of people agree to that?"
"As long as they know what they're doing."
Sauros thoughtfully scratched his chin.
"You know, I like your style. It's like hiring a killer and saying, 'Listen, don't ask who to kill, just do it.'"
"Excellent comparison. You're quite the expert in that."
"Alright, you talked me into it. I'll send the request. But if your mage turns out to be a lunatic, don't come complaining to me."
Paul blinked. Then blinked again.
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, 'that's it'?" Sauros raised a brow.
"You just… agreed? No arguing, no yelling, no favorite speech about how you 'owe nothing to anyone'?"
"Well, if you want, I can shout that I owe nothing to anyone."
"No, it's just…" Paul winced slightly. "I was sure I'd have to spend half an hour convincing you."
"Yeah, normally I like being convinced," Sauros drawled. "But you know, Paul, you've been coming to me with all sorts of problems for so many years that I learned to tell when you're truly screwed. And when you come not for yourself but for someone else — that's rare."
Sauros sighed wearily and leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest.
He ran his fingers along his cheek, pausing for a moment, thinking about something that immediately put Paul on edge.
The old man narrowed his eyes, as if checking whether Paul was ready to hear something unpleasant, then slowly lifted his gaze.
"BUT…"
"But? Of course! And here I was, actually believing you just decided to help me…"
A mix of annoyance churned inside Paul. Though really, what was he expecting? The old Boreas lion never did anything for free.
"YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!" Sauros roared so suddenly that Paul jolted in his chair.
Bang! His fist slammed into the table, making bottles jump and wine spill from crystal cups.
"I'm not finished!"
The old man's aura pressed down firmly, reminding Paul that age hadn't taken away his strength or his habit of keeping everyone on edge.
"…I'm listening…"
Sauros continued:
"I will help you…" Catching Paul's look, he barked, "HEY! And don't stare at me like I'm squeezing your balls. I'm always happy to help relatives, relatives of relatives, anyone who's drunk with me, anyone who's drunk against me, friends of friends, even their dogs and bitches if it gets bad… And for you, Paul, I can spare some time."
With that, Sauros casually wiped the spilled wine with a broad sweep of his hand, then poured himself more and took a loud drink, spilling some on his chest.
Paul smirked, but unease twisted inside him. One thought circled in his mind: what would Sauros ask in return?
Maybe he'd want Paul to go back to that damned northern road and "deal with" the local cutthroats again. Or demand repayment of an old debt Paul hoped was long forgotten.
Or worse — the old man might ask him to watch over his family when he ran off somewhere again. Just thinking of Ghislaine and her temper made Paul's stomach knot.
After finishing his drink, Sauros looked at Paul and continued:
"You want a teacher? Fine. But the boy will work for me later…"
"Huh? What?"
Hearing that was unexpected.
Paul froze for a few seconds, unsure how to react or what consequences it might bring. The words sounded too casual to grasp their meaning at once, leaving Paul unable to understand where this was headed or what choice wouldn't blow up in his face.
And while Paul was stuck in confusion, Sauros had only one thought swirling in his mind:
"That kid could become a weapon…"
Sauros knew nothing about magic — absolutely nothing — and didn't intend to. In his opinion, any respectable swordsman had no reason to bother with strange tricks.
But he wasn't stupid enough to overlook an opportunity like this. A rare talent, strange abilities… Paul himself might be useless, but his son…
"Better if that weapon is mine."
Sauros cut off Paul's internal turmoil:
"You know an aristocrat must have a personal mage…"
Paul nodded immediately.
His own family had a mage — officially trained by the guild, attached to the household by tradition. Someone useful for anything: teaching children, checking contracts, helping with crops if the master stooped so low. Paul remembered that clearly, even though he'd left home long ago.
But with Boreas things were different.
Sauros sighed, as if admitting a mistake:
"I don't have a mage right now. I kicked the last one out. Kicked him out! Too suspicious. Too quiet, too proper. I don't like people like that. Makes my skin crawl…" He rasped the last words.
"You kicked him out because he was too… quiet? That's… bad?"
"YES! Quiet ones scare me!"
He drank again, irritation clear on his face.
"And if you look anywhere else, the only option is Sharia. The guild of those damn mages. And I don't trust them. Same as half the nobles, to be honest. They stir the water and think we don't see they only chase their own goals. You won't find a decent, loyal, skilled mage even if you search day and night."
Paul frowned and leaned slightly forward, trying to grasp the exact meaning.
"Wait. You want my son to become your personal mage?"
Sauros snorted as if the question was stupid, but his voice carried its usual mockery.
"I said I'd help. But only if, when the time comes, you bring him to me. I want to see for myself what kind of talent you're raising. And then it's whatever — mage or maid! Ha!"
Paul fell silent, trying to piece everything together.
He weighed every word, searching for a hidden trap, but the more he thought, the more he realized he stood to lose far less than he feared.
Paul wasn't poor, but he wasn't swimming in gold either. They lived in a village where the only things people handed out were old rumors about who slept with whom and cheap booze. He didn't know any strong mages, had no connections, no influence beyond a few rare deeds.
And Sauros was the only one who could actually help.
Serving the Boreas family isn't that bad… maybe even good…
Sauros didn't let him finish the thought.
"Well? How long are you gonna squirm? I've been waiting here for a damn century, hurry up and spit it out!"
Paul exhaled, lifted his gaze, and nodded as confidently as he could.
"Alright. I agree. And… thank you."
"HA! Good enough…" Sauros leaned back in his chair and snorted with satisfaction. "Lately I've become so kind the Creator himself is obligated to let me into his realm first. Otherwise I'll show up myself and ask where the hell his eyes were."
He stretched, his neck cracking, and unexpectedly sighed.
"Or maybe I'm just getting old…"
Paul smirked.
"Don't say that out loud, you'll scare me."
"How could it get scarier than it already is?" the old man snorted. "Especially when there's a red‑haired hurricane living in this house, either chasing guards or swinging a sword till her arms fall off."
"Eris?"
"Who else? I tried making her into a proper lady, you know. Even sent her to a noblewoman's academy. They sent her back in a week. Sent a letter too — said, 'your granddaughter broke three students, two more are crying, please don't send her again.'"
Paul choked on a laugh.
"No way."
"Way!" Sauros protested, though with weary amusement. "Fine, I thought, I'll try at home. Hire tutors, let them teach her manners. Well, guess where the fifth one is now?"
"Ran away?"
"Yep. The fourth fled after she threw him out the window."
"And you wonder why you're going gray?"
"Don't remind me. If you thought you were the only one with kid problems — you're wrong. Yours blows up magic, mine is digging me an early grave."
Paul shook his head.
"Want me to give her to you? As a bonus?"
"Don't you dare."
"Then get the hell out before I change my mind!"