In a closed room, the torches fixed to the walls cast shadows that seemed to dance in silence, projecting distorted figures of warriors in combat onto the floor. The heavy air, thick with smoke and burnt iron, seemed to compress the space, as if the room itself bore witness to too many secrets. Ivan stood motionless at the head of the oak table, fists clenched on the worn surface, watching the young man in front of him.
Hans looked very different from just a few days ago. His face no longer bore the same inexperience; the innocent glow had been replaced by a hard, almost obsessive determination. Ivan knew how to recognize it — it was the mark of someone carrying a burden greater than they should.
"Hans."
His voice rumbled deep, like distant thunder rolling over snow-covered mountains.
"I do have influence in the Fort. But in Svarog, the Feodorovna family has ruled for generations. That doesn't change, no matter how favorably the wind blows."
Hans took a deep breath, his hands restless on the armrest beside him. The sound of wood echoed in the room, like a call of anxiety and disbelief.
"I understand, dear friend…"
His tone was firm, though a tremor hid in the last words.
"But I think we've finally found him. He might be the key to everything… or our downfall. You need to protect him."
Ivan's eyes narrowed. For a moment, the silence was broken only by the crackle of a torch. He was assessing Hans not as a friend, but as a general sizing up an enemy on the battlefield. Every word the young man spoke seemed to carry more than mere concern: it sounded like an armed prophecy.
"I protect all the people of the North, not just one individual."
Ivan's voice rose, reverberating against the stone walls of the room.
Hans opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated. Even so, he murmured:
"I'm on your side, you know? There are rumors spreading through the palace… strong rumors… that the Emperor has managed to corrupt one among you… I'm talking about a traitor."
The sound that followed was like a cannon blast. Ivan slammed his palm against the table with such force that the echo reverberated through the hall, shaking ashes from the torches. Hans instinctively recoiled, like a soldier feeling the pressure of enemy cavalry charging.
"There are no traitors in the North!"
Ivan roared, his eyes flashing like burning steel.
"We are mountains, Hans, not worms crawling for filthy coins. And I will not allow you to speak of my people as if they were cockroaches sold at market!"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Hans felt his heart race, his throat dry. As much as he loved his homeland, he knew: conspiracies and coups had always existed. To him, that was a law of the world. But for the people of the North… that was nearly blasphemy, a direct affront to the spirit of a nation forged in ice and blood.
"Perhaps…"
The word came out slow, heavy as lead.
"…there are people who believe the North's path needs to change, and that what lies beyond the ocean can be conquered.
My lady fears that may be the fate everyone chooses. But there… there is nothing but death and desolation."
Ivan slowly rose, and his shadow grew, stretching like that of a giant ready to crush the enemy. The tension in the air felt like the prelude to a battle — not of blades, but of ideals. Each sentence was a strike, each pause a duel fought without swords.
"Tell your lady to control the foolish son she put on the throne."
Each syllable was spat like a blade.
"Nothing bad will happen in the North as long as I draw breath.
But I would like you to remember — as I do — that it was one of her sons who tried to destroy the ceasefire we built.
And it is thanks to him that we are now governed by people whose interests contradict everything she claims to defend."
"And all of this… why?"
He leaned forward, his eyes burning like embers.
"To be remembered."
Hans finally had to yield.
Ivan's words were like walls: firm, ancient, unshakable — and above all, true.
Much had happened that never should have — veiled betrayals, cursed choices, frozen bodies — and it had all come at a high cost. Perhaps it had cost everything.
Still, a spark of hope burned deep within him: a new piece of information, a possibility that reignited the impossible.
He took a deep breath, his eyes restless.
"I'll have to return tomorrow…" — he murmured, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. — "I wish I could speak to the boy, he might be…"
"The boy is in good hands."
Ivan cut him off with the firmness of an axe coming down on wood.
"You can always return, whenever you wish. After all, the Triad has already expressed its gratitude for the gift you brought and is seriously considering your lady's proposal…
If there's one thing I know, it's that they're always looking for more."
Hans bit his own tongue, the taste of iron spreading through his mouth. That meeting was costing too much — and even while following the script, he felt like he was losing.
He had been so close — so close — and suddenly the moment was slipping away like sand through his fingers.
He stared at Ivan, his voice coming out in a near-feverish whisper:
"You saw that light. You know that's not normal."
The shadow of the giant of the North seemed to waver for a moment. Ivan was not a man to admit surprise easily, but the memory of the previous day— the brightness tearing through the monotony like a divine blade — still burned in his eyes.
He knew the deviants, their unique peculiarities, gifts that defied logic and explanation. He himself was a living exception, an aberration to the rule. But not even a deviant should fly, nor walk on water. His gift, at most, gave him strength to surpass his equals. What Hans was suggesting, however, went beyond the human and brushed the divine.
Hans, breathing rapidly, stepped halfway over the table, almost pleading:
"Have the boy's results already reached your hands?"
For a moment, he seemed hopeful, taken by a flame that lit up his tense features. But Ivan's expression — cold, pragmatic, inflexible — quickly extinguished that light.
"Inconclusive."
The giant's words echoed like funeral bells.
"We found a high red trace in the first analysis. After that… divergence, other colors, confusing spectrums. You know what that means."
Hans turned pale. The ground seemed to vanish beneath his feet. Reason screamed, emotion pleaded, and both crashed against the unbreakable wall of truth. Nothing made sense. Nothing he could accept without breaking himself in the process.
Ivan laid his heavy hand on the table — not harshly now, but with the gravity of one sealing a fate.
"I'm sorry, my friend. But… not this time."
The torches crackled, as if confirming the sentence. The silence that followed was not empty: it was the silence of a battlefield after the final trumpet, when all that remains is to count the dead.
Then Ivan added, almost casually:
"But perhaps your students might shed new light on this answer."
He arched an eyebrow, letting a half-smile escape.
Ivan looked toward the half-open door with the calm of someone who had long known the secret.
No one fooled Ivan easily — and certainly the two girls perched behind the door, trying to eavesdrop, were the worst spies in the North.
____________________________________________________
"Frida, are you hearing anything?" — whispered Lena, losing her balance.
"Shhh! I'm trying… but with you on top of me, it's hard!"
The two of them were pressed against the door, hair disheveled and eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Their patience had long run out. Being kept in the dark, after everything they had faced — especially the look from the woman who had thrown them out of Svarog's top floor — was torture.
They deserved an answer. They needed one.
Fate, however, had no mercy: the door suddenly swung open, and both of them tumbled awkwardly into the room.
"Hello, girls."
Ivan crossed his arms, his voice laced with cruel irony.
"I think it's time to pull you out of the shadows… and into the light."
Hans covered his face with his hand, embarrassed. The situation, already tense, now took on an almost comical tone.
"We can explain…" — Lena tried, stammering. — "Well… actually, no we can't."
She wanted to apologize, but the agony of being kept out gnawed at her. So she took a deep breath and blurted out:
"What's going on? Why is that boy so important?"
Hans straightened up. The young woman's words sparked an idea in his mind. He turned to Ivan with renewed determination.
"My friend, I have something. Maybe… just maybe… this will bring clarity to what you saw."
Ivan narrowed his eyes. He admired that stubborn resolve; even when Hans seemed to cling to the improbable, his logic often illuminated hidden paths.
"Very well. Go on."
Hans adjusted his vest, cleared his throat, and then turned to the one responsible for the spark of inspiration.
"Lena Vogel. Tell me: how is it determined who is worthy of becoming a Blessed One?"
He paused, catching Ivan's confusion.
"Sorry… here you don't call them that. Inquisitors."
Lena froze. The question hit her like ice cracking over a lake. She did know the answer. But she also knew it was classified information, guarded as one of the Empire's darkest secrets.
"Sir… I don't know if it's a good idea to—"
"Don't worry."
Hans cut her off firmly.
"This could clarify a lot."
Lena hesitated. She brought her hand to her lips and finally spoke — her voice trembling, as if stepping onto forbidden ground:
"According to the Benefactors' rules, the receptacles must have certain characteristics. The main one… is to be as unprismatic as possible. The purest. Almost… untouched.
Honestly, I don't think anyone's ever seen a clear example — the selection is done with very few people, and things aren't as open as they are in the North.
But what the rumors say… is that it's something beyond common understanding — like all the colors blending in a unique, incomprehensible way."
She paused, swallowing hard, realizing where Hans was trying to lead them. Ivan was also beginning to connect the dots.
Hans left no room for doubt:
"Exactly. All our Inquisitors are chosen for their purity.
Now tell me, Lena and Frida: among everyone who took the test yesterday… did anyone show a color you'd consider pure and incomprehensible enough to be considered an Inquisitor?"
The silence hit like a blow. Even Ivan, the skeptic, began to grasp the weight of the deduction.
"What you're suggesting…"
His voice came out deep, almost hoarse.
"…is that that boy could be a receptacle for some Benefactor?"
Hans leaned forward, his eyes gleaming — torn between fear and awe.
"A receptacle, yes. But not just any."
His voice lowered, solemn.
"Inquisitors are made for entities that, to us, are like gods.
So the real question is: for whom would the boy be a receptacle?"