"What…"
"How…"
They both choked, unable to utter another word.
"Matt, what are you doing he—"
"YOU FUCKING MORON!" Matt exploded.
Such uncharacteristic fury made Cassian grip the chair arms until his knuckles whitened.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH, WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! You pushed me forward, fell yourself, and probably thought you saved me from certain death. But you clearly didn't account for all the variables. The moment I was shoved forward, the floor collapsed again. You just accelerated my death… or maybe delayed it? Point is, don't ever do that again. I doubt I have any extra lives left," Matt finished resentfully, narrowing his eyes.
"Ah… it collapsed anyway… So what was the fucking point…" Cassian whispered pensively.
"But Matt, what else could I have done? It's because of me you were delayed in the first place. If you'd just left me—"
"Just fucking drop it. Remember this once and for all, Cassian. YOU ARE NOT A HERO! And you don't need to be one," Matt stated, staring blankly at a fixed point.
"I came back for you because I wanted to. And imagine how it feels when I risk my life for someone I care about, only for that someone to sacrifice themselves right in front of me. That's not heroism, Cassian. That's idiocy. Idiocy that devalues the efforts of the person who came to drag your half-dead ass out of there—namely, me. Fuck, I'd be less pissed if I'd been the one who fell instead."
"Haa, sorry. In that moment, I thought it was the best choice," Cassian sighed.
"But honestly, I was useless. I was—"
"Cassian…"
"What?"
"Please, stop acting like a fucking dumbass."
"What do you—"
"Oops, slip of the tongue. I meant, stop acting like a fucking useless, worthless whiner. No, seriously: the one thing that truly pisses me off about you is your abysmally low self-esteem. Dude, you grew up in a healthy, loving family; you got things when you asked; you had top grades in school; you graduated with honors from a damn prestigious university; you even got an interview at a top company—yet you'd rate a homeless bum higher than yourself. So my question is: what the actual fuck?" Matt asked incredulously, locking eyes with Cassian.
"Well, the homeless part is a stretch… but overall? It might not seem like it, but I genuinely have no talents. I'm not athletic, musical, or artistic; I screw up even the simplest tasks. Even studying? All I did was monotonously cram information for hours, while some people just opened the textbook for the second time in their life and got the same grades as me," he exaggerated, shooting Matt a contemptuous glance.
Matt silently raised his hands in surrender, as if saying, "Not my fault."
"Still, despite always being surrounded by better people, I was always held up as an example. That gave me this… inferiority complex. I was terrified people would realize I was worse than the image they'd built up, that they'd mock me for being worthless… heh, funny—I'm even ashamed to complain about something so trivial."
"You seriously believe that? You think you were held up as an example by mistake?" Matt questioned, crossing his arms and gazing at the ceiling.
"Buddy, no matter how much trash you think you are, one thing remains unchanged: you're fucking hardworking. No, seriously. Every time you tackled something, you gave 120%, not 100%. Even when you failed, you tried to understand why and not repeat it. Maybe you're not talented, but with that trait, you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with those 'gifted' types. At least, that's what I think."
"I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, that's not the point now. Since you're here, it confirms my suspicion: I wasn't the only one brought to this world."
"You think others who died with us that day are here too?"
"Exactly. It makes sense. I doubt we're the only… lucky ones who got a second chance. Besides…" Matt eyed Cassian appraisingly.
"Your appearance here is similar to your old one."
"Huh, really?" Only now did Cassian realize he'd never seen his own face here.
"Very similar, but your features are slightly finer… sharper, maybe? Hair's a bit lighter too. And your eyes—gods, it's like two blazing suns staring back at me."
"Is that so? Unexpected. You look almost identical too, though… prettier than before."
"Any downsides?"
"None whatsoever, sir. Anyway…" Cassian started, but the door to the prophecy teller's office swung open. The red-haired boy emerged, his gaze steely, fists clenched tight. "Seems it's my turn."
"Go on. We still have a lot to discuss. Especially about what's happened to us lately," Matt said, leaning back and closing his eyes.
Cassian nodded and stepped through the open door.
…
A dark, spacious room. The windows were curtained, and the only light came from a dim desk lamp. For some reason, Cassian's nose began to itch the moment he entered.
"You must be Cassian Moruway? Am I correct?" a woman's voice stated.
Only then did Cassian notice the figure seated at the desk. Though the dim light obscured details, he could make out her features: a woman in her forties, with long black hair, blue eyes behind gilded spectacles. She wore the same dark-blue robe edged in silver thread.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a chair.
Cassian silently obeyed, sinking into the chair opposite her. The oak back dug into his spine—uncomfortable, but tolerable. His full attention was fixed on her. Her blue eyes behind the gilded lenses studied him with icy detachment. The air thickened with a scent—not just herbs, but something sharp, ancient, like tomb dust and dried blood.
"Cassian Moruway," she repeated, not asking, just stating a fact. Her voice was low, flat, devoid of the clerks' inflections outside. "Sixteen years old. Structure: Unknown. The evaluators failed." She scanned the paper Van had given him at the circle. It seemed a pitiful scrap in this near-darkness.
She set the dossier aside and folded her hands on the table. Her fingers were long, slender, nails clipped short. On one finger sat a ring with a murky dark stone that swallowed the lamp's meager light.
"Tell me. What did you see?" she commanded, not asked. "During the evaluation. In detail. None of that 'inverted cross' or 'sphere' nonsense. Everything. From start to finish. What did you feel? What did you see in your mind?"
Cassian swallowed. A sudden fear for himself gripped him. Does she know? What if she knows I'm not from this world? What will happen if she exposes me? Execution? Experiments? He forced himself to focus, to quell the storm in his mind.
"First, white threads," he began, his voice hoarse. "They… pierced me. Like white-hot needles straight into my brain. Pain. Agony." He rubbed his temples reflexively. "Then… darkness. But not empty. There… a sign was being embroidered. Slowly. Like an invisible hand stitching on the black fabric of my mind."
The prophecy teller didn't blink. Her gaze was a drill.
"Go on. And?"
"A cross. But… not just inverted. It was… alive?" Cassian fumbled for words, feeling foolish. "Dark, no—almost black, swallowing light. And it pierced… not a sphere, but an orb. Bright. Blindingly bright. Golden? White? Hard to say. It pulsed and shimmered. Like the sun… no, it was the sun. But…" He trailed off, grasping at an elusive sensation.
"But what?" Her voice cracked like a whip.
"But the cross… it wasn't just piercing it. It seemed to… feed from it? Suck out its light? Or rather… devour it?" He shook his head, despairing at the paradox. "It was destroying it and… holding it together at the same time. Preventing it from shattering or fading. It felt… repulsive, and… right. Simultaneously."
Silence fell, broken only by a faint crackling from a corner—perhaps an object, perhaps an insect in a jar. The prophecy teller didn't move. Her face was a stone mask. But Cassian caught it—a barely perceptible tension in her pursed lips. Her fingers tapped lightly near the ring.
Suddenly snatching the paper and a fountain pen, she began sketching, making notes simultaneously.
After a few moments, she finished, gave the paper a final glance, set the pen down, and showed the sheet to Cassian.
"Reversed Sun," she finally pronounced.
A chill ran down Cassian's spine. On the paper was an exact replica of what was etched in his consciousness. The inverted cross piercing the sun—or rather, the "Reversed Sun." The name grated. How could a sun be reversed? Like the moon's dark side? But a sun has no dark side. Absurd… yet it perfectly captured the unnatural symbiosis of darkness and light he'd witnessed.
"Reversed Sun…" he echoed in a whisper. "What does it mean?"
The prophecy teller slowly raised her hand, ignoring his question. The ring with its dark stone hovered before his face. The stone looked like a bottomless void.
"Do not move. Do not think," she whispered. The stone in the ring shifted. Not physically. The darkness within it seemed to swirl, forming a tiny, eerie vortex.
Cassian pressed back into the chair. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He didn't see the sign, but he felt it—that dark axis piercing the sphere of light in his soul. It seemed to surge forward in response to the stone's call, becoming momentarily more… real.
The prophecy teller abruptly lowered her hand. The whispering ceased. The vortex in the stone vanished, becoming just a murky spot again. The oppressive presence within Cassian receded, leaving icy emptiness and trembling knees.
The woman leaned back in her chair. For the first time in their conversation, her face showed something beyond cold interest. Weariness? Anxiety? Disgust? Cassian couldn't tell. She removed her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
"Your Structure…" she began, pausing briefly, her eyes drifting past him to a dark corner. "…is difficult to classify under the four primary Structure types. Not Combat, not Divine, not Utilitarian. It leans towards a Support-type Magical Structure, which by all tenets should indicate you're a Healer, but…" She paused, choosing her words with uncharacteristic care. "If it must be assigned a class… you would be called a Sacrificial Guardian."
Cassian froze.
"What… what does that mean?" His voice cracked into a whisper.
The prophecy teller put her glasses back on. Her gaze became unreadable again.
"It means, Cassian Moruway, that you are a living shield; you save others by suffering in the process. Your case is highly unique. Not only are Structures falling under this class extremely rare, but they typically…" She hesitated. "…belong to the Tank archetype, classified as Combat or Divine Structures." Her eyes flickered towards the dark corner where something crackled softly. "But I reiterate: your case is unique."
"So I have to suffer to use my powers. A living shield… hahaha, what irony," Cassian laughed bitterly, covering his eyes with his palm. Matt had just lectured him on valuing his life, and now this bombshell.
"Based on all my experience, I can say this: the assigned class matters little. If your Structure's nature directs you towards a certain function, that is its function. Which means…" She paused.
"It means…"
"That you are a Healer who embodies all the traits of a Sacrificial Guardian."
"Got it. So I will suffer after all," Cassian said with a bitter smile.
"Though it's beyond my authority to advise you, I suggest you listen," the prophecy teller said.
Cassian leaned forward curiously.
"Though your class dictates you be a shield, I strongly advise you to act in the exact opposite manner," she stated sharply. "Your abilities will not fortify or protect your body. With all the inherent weaknesses, you become an easy target. My advice? Find someone you can rely on when things get hard… Ideally, I'd tell you to avoid the battlefield entirely, but in these times… that's unlikely." Finishing, she turned to his dossier, inscribed his Structure's name and class, stamped it with the blue Amnicia seal, and scribbled something else.
"You are dismissed," she said, looking away. "Form 12-J – 'Psychiatric Evaluation for Influence of Unique Structure' – is considered passed. Diagnosis: 'No potential threat to perceptual stability detected.' You may leave… and send in the next one, Matthew Carrow. He's asleep."
As she spoke, she was already looking at scrolls on her desk, clearly considering the conversation over.
Cassian stood up, his legs like jelly.
He nodded mechanically at the prophecy teller's stony back and stepped into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind him with a dull, final thud. Matt, drooling in his sleep, jolted awake. Seeing Cassian, his face lit with curiosity and concern.
"So? What'd they say? What's your Structure? Are you okay? You look like you got run over by a train."
Cassian looked at his friend. At this face, unfamiliar yet deeply familiar. The prophecy teller's words echoed: 'Find someone you can rely on…'
He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a weak smile.
"Everything's fine," he lied, his voice sounding alien. "I'm just… tired, Matt. Just… not now, okay? Later. I need to process this. Anyway, go on. It's your turn." His voice was faint as he gestured to the door behind him.
Matt said nothing but seemed to understand. He nodded and disappeared through the door. Cassian, feeling his legs give way, staggered to a chair and collapsed onto it. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he muttered with a bitter smirk:
"Suffer, huh? Heh. Funny. We'll see who ends up suffering."