San opened his eyes.

  The light was seeping through the window, shy, soft. It wasn't the harsh dawn light he had grown accustomed to at the academy, that light that used to wake him to the sound of sirens and the screams of the wounded. It was a different light. Slow. Warm.

  It took him seconds to realize where he was.

  The ceiling above him wasn't the ceiling of his modest room. It was high, carved from dark-colored wood, through which faint golden veins flowed like ancient rivers drawn by the hand of an unknown artist. The bed beneath him wasn't the solid wooden bed he was used to. It was sunken, soft, enveloping his body in layers of luxurious fabric that resembled silk but was softer, reminding San of those clouds he had read about in children's books from his previous world but had never seen.

  The quilt was white, pure white, bearing silver embroidery at the edges in the shape of olive branches.

  San looked at the window.

  It was large, rectangular, its frame covered in dark oak wood. Half of it was covered by an ancient tree, its trunk thick and wrinkled, its dense leaves touching the glass as if trying to enter. And in the folds of its branches, there was a nest. A small nest made of straw and dry twigs, and in it, sparrows.

  They were chirping.

  Their chirping wasn't random. It was rhythmic, like a morning melody repeated every day since. The mother stuck her head out of the nest, her beak carrying a small worm, and her three chicks opened their small orange mouths, screaming with hunger.

  San rose.

  Shin was not in his bed. The sheets were neatly folded on the other side, as if someone had arranged them right before leaving.

  San left the room.

  The corridor was long. The walls were of smooth sandstone, topped by a wooden frieze carved with a hunting scene: horsemen chasing a two-horned beast, their dogs pouncing, their spears poised. The corridor floor was of white marble interlaced with grey veins, gleaming as if wet despite its dryness.

  San began descending the stairs.

  The staircase was spiral, wide, each step carved from a single piece of marble. The railing was black iron, topped with twisted botanical ornaments, gleaming at every turn like a sleeping serpent.

  He reached the dining hall.

  The window there was from floor to ceiling, overlooking the palace garden. Through the glass, he could see dew glittering on the leaves of the trees, and a marble statue of a woman carrying a water jug, and real water flowing from the jug into a small pond where orange fish swam.

  The table was long,

  Upon it, the dishes were scattered as if an oil painting.

  There was a large plate of cake, its top surface covered with a layer of thick white cream that rippled gently with every slight movement of the table. The cream was decorated with equally thick slices of strawberry, and blueberries scattered like stars. The eggs were cooked in ways San couldn't count: eggs fried quietly, their golden yolk rippling like a miniature sun; soft scrambled eggs topped with melted cheese; a green omelet from which parsley emerged like a small meadow.

  The glass of milk was tall glass, white, water droplets condensing on its outer surface. The glass of tea was delicate ceramic, its color light green, a light fragrant steam rising from it. The glass of coffee was small, dark in color, its surface covered with a light foam.

  San sat.

  The servants began to move like skilled shadows. Not one of them made a sound. A clean plate was placed before him, then silver tongs lifted a piece of cake with utmost care, then a silver ladle poured the cream in a precise circular motion. The cup was moved slightly to the left, and the small plate for desserts was placed on the right.

  The sight was astonishing.

  Shin began to speak, his voice breaking the faint hum of the dishes.

  "The sparrows' voices are strange today."

  Elena looked at him, then at San, and smiled a small smile, faint, as if she didn't want anyone to see it.

  San didn't understand. He continued eating.

  Then Shin made a sound. It was a strange sound, somewhere between a snore and a snort, which he emitted while chewing.

  "It reminds me of my grandfather's snoring," Shin said. Then he looked directly at San.

  San stopped chewing.

  He remembered.

  In his previous life, in the hospital, in the crowded doctors' lounge, in the small apartment where he only slept a few hours. He remembered his colleagues complaining, remembered a nurse who once told him: "Doctor, the walls here are soundproof, but your snoring knows no boundaries."

  San looked. A faint look of embarrassment, like a simple ripple on the surface of still water. He tried to appear confident, so he slowly raised the corner of his mouth.

  "You mean me, you rascal, hahaha." His laughter sounded somewhat forced. "Well, yes. Maybe my snoring is loud sometimes."

  Elena extended her hand. She was carrying a small plate. She placed it before San.

  "Try it," she said.

  The plate was different. At its base, a small golden pastry, thin, almost transparent at the edges. Above it, a layer of honey that was not ordinary. It almost glowed, small trapped air bubbles forming on its surface. Small roasted nut crumbs were scattered over it.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  San took a bite.

  It was astonishing.

  The honey wasn't just sweet. It had a faint floral flavor, as if it recalled spring. The pastry was fragile, melting on the tongue, leaving behind a warm, buttery taste. The nuts added a soft crunch.

  San began making sounds as he ate.

  He didn't intend to. It was an involuntary sound, a hiss of satisfaction, a sigh of pleasure.

  Elena smiled.

  San looked at her, the food still in his mouth.

  "Thank you," he said, his words somewhat muffled. "This... is wonderful."

  He thought to himself. This thing. This comfort. We haven't lived it in days. No, in years. Perhaps we have never lived it at all.

  It was summed up in one word:

  Comfort.

  Clarissa stood.

  Her movement was sudden, swift, like someone cutting a taut rope.

  "I wish you a pleasant meal," she said. "After you finish, join me in the training hall."

  —

  Minutes later, the group stood before the door of the training hall.

  The smell here was different. It was not the smell of food, nor flowers, nor perfume. It was the smell of stone, sweat, and metal.

  They opened the door.

  Clarissa was standing in the center.

  She wore armor. It was not the shiny, engraved palace armor that the guards wore at the city gates. It was used armor, worn, its front surface scratched with deep scars. Intersecting white scratches, small dents from old arrow strikes, and a slight depression on the left side. She held her helmet in her left hand, a simple helmet, covering the face entirely, the eye slits narrow.

  "I will supervise your training," she said. Her voice was calm, monotonous, like someone reading written instructions. "My duty is to teach you the basics. We will find the best way for you to use your abilities. Additionally, I will make you control your energy well."

  She looked at them one by one.

  "Today's lesson is easy," she said. "Attack. All three of you. However you wish. So I can evaluate your performance." She paused briefly. "We will do this for hours."

  San thought. I'm not joking. She really can do this for hours. Her speed, her strength... we cannot compare to her at all.

  "Take whatever weapons you wish," Clarissa said. "And attack."

  But no one took a weapon.

  San began to plan.

  Every few seconds, he recalculated. Attack angle, Elena's speed, Shin's strength, Clarissa's reaction distance. Every attack, every failure, every time she knocked them to the ground like autumn leaves.

  Dozens of times.

  Fatigue began to increase. San's muscles burned, his breath grew short. Barely could they scratch her armor. Sometimes.

  The plan was: Shin's attack from the front, a heavy, slow blow to absorb her focus. Elena runs to the left, firing small needles from her blood, needles swift as bees. And behind them, San throws several daggers with force, targeting the gaps between the armor plates.

  But Clarissa was not there.

  She launched forward at tremendous speed.

  Not like an arrow. An arrow has a trajectory. She did not.

  She vanished between Shin and Elena, like smoke, like a shadow, like something that did not belong to this place. Then she was behind San.

  She was annoyed. He felt it in the motion of her hand. She didn't strike him hard enough to break his bones, but it wasn't a light blow either.

  She struck his side.

  San fell onto one leg. He held his side in pain, and felt something break inside him. Not a bone, but something else.

  "Perhaps I've learned all I need about you," she said, and in the middle of her speech, San was still on the ground.

  But he remembered.

  Millions of times.

  Millions of times someone had looked at him with disdain. Millions of times he had been on the ground, looking up, seeing eyes that told him: You are nothing. You are unworthy. You are less.

  He stood.

  He was holding his side, in pain, but he was angry. Angry, fiercely.

  "One more time," he said. "But give us a minute."

  Clarissa looked at him.

  She agreed.

  She went and stood before them. Waiting.

  —

  The minute ended.

  Elena launched first.

  This was different. This is what Clarissa thought.

  Elena carried a bow. She raised her hand, and in her palm, a sphere formed, twice the size of a fist.

  Red.

  Serrated.

  She threw it upward, toward the position where Clarissa stood.

  Shin struck the sphere with a wave from his hand.

  The sphere fragmented into dozens of small heads. Dagger heads made of frozen blood, sharp, swift, darting toward Clarissa from every direction.

  Clarissa raised her hand.

  Elena fired an arrow. San threw a dagger with force.

  Clarissa deflected them with her hand. A punch to a dagger head, a punch to another, then she raised her hands and began to move like a machine.

  She was collecting every falling dagger head, evading it, diverting it, destroying it. Her movements were economical, no waste, every muscle knew its task.

  "Now," San said.

  Shin unleashed a very powerful strike from his hand.

  It was not like his strike against the red sphere. It was far stronger. Energy gathered in his palm like a small storm, compressing itself into a narrow space, waiting to explode.

  Clarissa thought: Not even two seconds have passed since his first discharge. How?

  She increased her speed.

  She deflected all the daggers. The real daggers, San's daggers, Elena's daggers, all fell to the ground like extracted teeth.

  Shin's technique arrived. It was half a meter from her.

  Clarissa placed her hands forward.

  No problem, she thought. But no use. At the same time...

  —

  I know everything you possess, San thought. Indeed.

  He remembered.

  He asked Elena to continue drawing blood from her hand. Not as small needles, but to form a large sphere. A sphere capable of fragmentation, capable of shattering.

  He asked Shin to release his technique. But not to direct it at a specific place. Only to gather it in his hand. To pack it with energy, charge it, compress it. As Clarissa had done against the curse.

  He gave Elena a bow.

  He gripped a dagger.

  He readied himself.

  —

  He returned from his memory.

  The plan seemed to have applied pressure. It seemed it would succeed. But it would fail. He knew that.

  He raised his hand.

  "I'm returning the blow to you," he said.

  And he activated his technique.

  An instant before impact, Clarissa's arms returned upward. Her eyes widened.

  She was struck.

  Shin's charged technique hit her with immense force. The shockwave sent her more than thirty meters backward. She landed on her feet, standing, steady.

  But San smiled.

  Her armor had cracked.

  A small part of the breastplate had detached, dangling like a broken wing.

  No need to see her beautiful face, San thought. I know her features when she is angry. Even behind the helmet. Hahaha.

  San stepped forward.

  "The training is over now," he said.

  Clarissa walked.

  She removed her helmet slowly. She removed her worn armor. She did not appear annoyed, nor angry, nor impressed. Her face was calm, like a lake untouched by wind.

  "Okay," she said. "Well done."

  Then she turned and went toward the door.

  —

  San was not pleased by this.

  He caught up with her as she walked.

  "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

  She looked at him with bewilderment.

  "Are you still upset because I hit you?" she said.

  "Perhaps," San said.

  "I will not apologize to you." Her voice was calm, decisive. "For I do not respect you."

  San stopped.

  "Nor do I think I will respect your thinking," she continued.

  "Clarification," San said. His voice was cold. "I want clear clarification."

  Clarissa looked at him. For a long time.

  "All your plans," she said. "Even the last one. You send your friends forward. You place them in danger, while you are in the back. In a safe place. In a less dangerous place."

  She paused.

  "From the academy, as well. You did this."

  San said nothing.

  "You were always ready to sacrifice them," she said. "Perhaps unintentionally. But you are not stupid. You know that with your plans... you make them absorb the danger from you."

  She raised her hand, pointed to the window. To the tree outside.

  "You are like a bird building its nest on a tree," she said. "And they are the branches with which you build your own nest. If the nest falls, or if the branches are not good... you leave the nest. And build another. Simply."

  She fell silent.

  "Do I need to explain more clearly than this?"

  San did not answer.

  He looked at her with cold eyes, empty, like a winter sky with no promise of rain.

  Clarissa turned away.

  She left.

  —

  Hours later, Baelor returned.

  San walked with him to a dedicated room, distant, in the palace cellar. The atmosphere there was cold, damp, San breathed faint mist.

  The corpse was on a stone table.

  San began working.

  His hands were steady, precise. He placed components on the corpse: white powders that absorbed moisture, clear liquids that killed bacteria, aromatic oils that hid any odor. He had taken the supervisor's blood type in advance, and brought blood of the same type.

  He placed drops.

  Inside the corpse's heart.

  Every few minutes.

  Preventing coagulation, preventing decomposition, preventing time itself from leaving its marks.

  The palace physician looked at the corpse. He was an old man, his glasses thick, his fingers slightly trembling.

  "Sir," he said to Baelor. "This... might succeed. I see no signs of decomposition. I do not see that he has been dead for more than a day."

  Baelor nodded.

  He called San. He walked with him outside the room.

  "Thank you," Baelor said.

  He was silent for a while.

  "After three weeks," he said. "I will inform them of what happened. Matters may become good. And they may become bad. That depends on the extent of their thinking. And the extent of the plan's success."

  They stopped at the end of the corridor.

  "In addition," Baelor said. "I have assigned one of the guards experienced with energy, along with my daughter, to supervise and teach you the basics of energy control."

  He looked at San.

  "Are matters to your liking so far, San?"

  San looked at Baelor. His face was calm, but his eyes were deep, thinking of things he did not say.

  San thought: Everyone here... I feel I am superior to them, except this one before me. I can exploit him, but for one reason only: that I am useful to him. I cannot exploit him except through truth. I feel that if I deceive him, I will die. He recognized my intelligence from the beginning, but when? From the death of the supervisor? Or from the academy? He knows my worth. He needs me, and I need him. Let us see where this matter will take us...

  "Yes, Mr. Baelor," San said. "It is very good."