I was let in. Turns out, the royal family was deigning to have breakfast. A polite guard offered to escort me to the dining hall.

  I looked at the staircase. Then at the guard. Then back at the staircase. "Do you have any idea how many steps are here?" I asked the empty air. No answer followed. Stairs are an invention for people who really love to sweat. I wasn't one of them.

  I just flew up. Second floor. Third. Fourth. Oh, and there's a massive panoramic window. Behind the glass—a long table, a mountain of food, and familiar faces. Sitting, chewing, everything all proper and noble.

  I knocked on the glass. Silence fell instantly. Forks froze halfway to mouths. The guards inside the hall grabbed the hilts of their swords so sharply, you'd think the literal end of the world had knocked on the window instead of me.

  POP.

  I teleported straight inside and landed at the edge of the table. "Hey everyone," I said, dusting off my jacket. "Why so gloomy? Just wake up or something?"

  Alexia jumped up first. The terror on her face vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by joy. "Greg! We were just waiting for you. Sit down quickly before everything gets cold."

  The King nodded at me—calmly, like the master of the house. As if guests casually dropped in through his fourth-floor window every day.

  Sitting next to Lianel was a little kid, maybe seven years old. Red-haired, scowling, wearing a doublet that clearly cost more than my entire last village, sheep included. Ryan.

  "I want to do that too!" he blurted out, staring at me with wide eyes. "Hey, kid, teach me how to jump through walls like that!"

  I pulled a plate of something delicious-smelling toward me. "Alexia," I asked without looking at the squirt. "How old is he?" "Seven," she smiled. "Ahhh. Got it. Well, hey there, kid."

  The little guy turned bright red. "I'm not a kid!" he shouted, straightening his back. "I am the Prince of this Kingdom! Show some respect!"

  SMACK.

  Lianel, without even looking up from her food, delivered such a solid slap to the back of his head that his little crown (or whatever was in his hair) almost slid down to his nose.

  "Ryan," the King spoke up. His voice was quiet, but heavy. "You do not speak to your sisters' friends like that. Behave yourself with dignity." "But Dad!" Ryan whined, rubbing the back of his head. "You taught me to do that yourself! To tell people who I am so they know their place!"

  The dam broke. "BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" I laughed so hard I nearly choked on a piece of ham. "Gods..." I wiped away a tear. "What kind of arrogance are you teaching him? 'I am a Prince!' Boy, right now you're just a piece of meat in an expensive rag."

  "It's not arrogance," Lianel replied. "He needs to assert his title from childhood. So that those around him know how to interact with him."

  I smirked. "Is a title really the measure of a person? In my head, it works a bit differently." "He's still little, Greg," Alexia said gently. "He will earn his own name eventually. But for now, his title speaks for him."

  I looked at Ryan. He was drilling holes into me with an angry glare, but after the smack to the head, he kept his mouth shut. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I muttered, digging into my food. "Status, titles... The main thing is not to lose the actual person behind all of it. Otherwise, he'll just end up walking around like a dressed-up mannequin."

  Breakfast continued. It was delicious. But I could feel it: this castle was too tight for me. Too many rules per square meter.

  The little kid started asking questions. Too. Many. Questions. He looked at me like I was some exotic beast that had crawled into his golden cage.

  "Why is one of your eyes black and the other pink?" he asked, pointing a finger at my face. "I'm in a good mood," I answered without looking up from my plate. "Pink is for dessert."

  He frowned, digesting the answer. "Why are you so small?" I nearly choked again. "What do you mean, small?" "Literally. You're really short." "Boy, I'm only fifteen years old."

  Ryan looked at me with genuine sympathy. "Wow. You're already an old man then. Practically a grandpa."

  If fifteen is old age, then I'm an exhibit for archaeologists.

  "And why are you dressed so poorly?" the prince wouldn't let up. "With powers like yours, you could afford anything. Even a golden cloak."

  The kid is sharp. Gets right to the root of it.

  "Listen, kid," I put down my fork. "There is less freedom in expensive clothes. I'd be afraid to get it dirty, because then it would stop being 'expensive.' You become a slave to your own rag. But this one..." I patted my worn-out jacket, "I can get this as dirty as I want. I feel better in it. It doesn't dictate how I should sit or where I should walk."

  Ryan narrowed his eyes. "How did you do that teleport? And how did you fly? You don't have wings." "I just have a really good imagination," I yawned. "If you imagine very, very hard that you're already there—you'll end up there." "But you don't look strong," the kid stepped closer, examining my arms. "It's weird. On the contrary, you look weak. Like a total weakling."

  I looked down at my palms. "I can't answer that question for you, squirt. Even if I wanted to." I pushed my plate away and looked him dead in the eye. "If you actually want to learn all this, you need a massive mana reserve. And a lot of patience."

  "Oh, don't worry about that!" Ryan proudly puffed out his chest. "My personal staff arrives tomorrow. Made by the best masters."

  I couldn't hold it in and snorted. "Are you serious, kid?" "What?" "A staff is for advanced mages. For those who already know how to control the mana flow inside themselves. A staff is a lens; it helps focus what you already have. Handing a staff to a beginner..." I paused, searching for the right comparison. "It's like putting a baby on a ram. Seems cool, he's sitting up high, the ram is running somewhere... But the baby will never learn how to run on his own. He'll just ride it until he falls off."

  Ryan opened his mouth to argue, but Lianel gave him a look that made him decide to simply swallow his words along with a piece of toast.

  Breakfast was definitely getting interesting.

  Ryan looked at me with a sort of fanatical hope. "Could you teach me something?" I lazily chewed on a piece of cake. "What can you do?"

  He immediately dropped into an important-looking stance and squared his shoulders. "My teachers say I am incredibly talented."

  The kid stepped away from the table, walked back a few meters, and started casting. It took a long time. A very long time. He puffed, turned red, and waved his arms around like he was trying to catch an invisible fly. Mana flowed from him slowly and reluctantly, like thick honey in the freezing cold. Finally, he started drawing water from the pitchers on the table. The water slowly took the shape of something remotely resembling a sword. Then he started freezing it.

  About ten minutes passed. I had enough time to finish the entire cake, study the patterns on the tablecloth, and yawn a couple of times.

  Finally, Ryan stopped. In his hands was a crooked, cloudy blade of ice. His family started clapping. Loudly, genuinely. The little guy began bowing gracefully to all four corners of the room, acting as if he had just defeated an army of demons, rather than just freezing a liter of water.

  "Hey!" he yelled at me, beaming with pride. "Well? Are you amazed?"

  I looked at Alexia. "Is that actually considered amazing around here?" "Well..." she hesitated. "Actually, holding the shape of water, defining its edges, and freezing it simultaneously—that requires an extraordinary amount of control for a child." "Exactly!" Ryan chimed in.

  I wiped my hands with a napkin and stood up. "What are you so happy about, Ryan? That's not even close to combat magic. Those are parlor tricks for a village fair." "Yeah, but I'm only seven!" he protested indignantly. "What do you want from me?" "That is a question for you. What do YOU want, Ryan?"

  I didn't wave my arms. I didn't puff or pant. In that exact second, right in the palm of my hand, an ice spear materialized out of thin air. Perfectly smooth, razor-sharp, and so cold the air around it began to smoke.

  "Attack me, squirt."

  Ryan looked down at his crooked sword. Then at my spear. Then at me. "Are you out of your mind? My sword is all crooked, and yours... you're an adult! You know I'm going to lose."

  I smiled. A very bad smile. "No, no, no. I'm not an adult."

  POP. I teleported right behind him. Ryan panicked, yelped, and quickly jumped to the side.

  POP. I was behind him again. "Come on, Ryan. Are you just going to run?"

  Liara (Lianel) instantly jumped up from her seat. Her face was carved from stone. "Greg, that's enough!" "What's the big deal?" I lowered the spear, and it instantly shattered into a cloud of snowy dust. "We were just playing."

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  She looked at me not like I was a guest, but like a malfunctioning piece of machinery.

  I sighed and sat back down in my seat. "Ryan, you sit down too," his sister commanded.

  I felt strange. Heavy thoughts were starting to turn in my head again, and the noise of the city outside the window was becoming irritating. I rested my chin on my folded hands and stared at a single spot on the table, watching the others.

  And then Alexia placed her hand on my head.

  Oh... these feelings again. Her fingers buried themselves softly in my hair. Warmth flooded down my spine, immediately shutting off the anger, the boredom, and the memories. My eyes started closing on their own. The world began to slowly melt, turning into a pleasant gray haze.

  Through the encroaching sleep, I heard Ryan's bright, excited voice: "Father! Father, I want you to buy him! I want him to be my personal teacher! Let him teach me magic!"

  "Bought..." I thought lazily. "I wonder how much I cost right now?"

  And then I finally fell deep asleep.

  I woke up. Looked like the sun had already gone to bed. I was still lying on the dining table, but now it was perfectly clean. No crumbs, no empty plates, no people. Silence.

  Unbelievable. They just left and abandoned me here like a forgotten piece of furniture. They could have at least thrown a blanket over me.

  I stretched, listening to my spine crack, and pushed open the heavy doors of the hall. Outside, a guard immediately spotted me. He stood as straight as a pole, but his eyes were sharp.

  "The King is expecting you," he announced. "The King?" I yawned, nearly dislocating my jaw. "And what does he want at this hour?" "I don't know," the guard grunted. "Let's go."

  I trudged after him, sleepily muttering nasty things under my breath about people who don't let others get enough sleep. We wound through the corridors until we stopped in front of a massive door. The guard knocked, announced my arrival, and gestured for me to enter.

  The King was sitting in a deep armchair. The room was dark; only dying candles cast long, flickering shadows.

  "Sit down, Greg." I sat. I could tell by the atmosphere: this wasn't going to be a chat about cakes. We were about to dive into some grown-up tediousness.

  "You know, Greg," he began, looking somewhere right through me, "you've probably heard that the world is large. There are many kingdoms, but two of them are the most significant. Ours. And the Country of the United Nations." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Everyone lives there. Demonoids, humans, elves, dwarves, beastmen. A colorful tapestry of races and customs. But in our kingdom—there are only humans. Elves are such a rarity here that people mistake them for ghosts."

  The King fell silent, and then his voice grew harder. "All my ancestors hated them. Every single one. We lived for centuries in endless wars, steeped in thick, viscous hatred for one another. I grew up in that atmosphere too. To us, they are aliens. Enemies." He stood up and walked over to the window. "Legends say that the blood of a great mage flows in our veins. Whether it's a fairy tale or not—no one can prove it. But three centuries ago, he laid the foundation for peace in these lands. You'd think we would just live and be happy." The King chuckled bitterly. "But we never learned how to love. On the contrary, we started hating each other even more. Closed our borders. Built walls. Hid behind our statuses and fears."

  I listened to him, feeling a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. What does he want? Why is he starting from so far away? I thought to myself.

  The King fell silent for a moment, watching the flame of a dying candle. His shoulders, usually so broad and proud, slumped slightly.

  "I remember when I married Lianel's mother," he spoke in a quiet, cracked voice. "It was an arranged marriage. My father betrothed us to cement an alliance. For the first few months, we couldn't even look at each other." He smiled faintly, sinking into the shadows of the past. "And then... then I couldn't live a single day without her smile. I would leave on business and spend every minute dreaming of just one thing—coming back as soon as possible. She got pregnant. The doctors said it was a terrible case. They kept telling me: 'We must kill the child if you want the mother to survive.'"

  I sat perfectly still. The room was deathly quiet; only the crackle of firewood in the hearth broke the silence.

  "But her mother flat-out refused," the King continued. "I remember how, during the birth, she... and then Lianel was born." He went quiet again, wiping his face with his hand. "Later, I met Alexia's mother. A woman of unprecedented beauty. Silver hair, silver eyes... The doctors said everything was going well. But complications arose. And she... she passed away too. When I look at Alexia, it physically hurts. They are so alike. She has the only silver hair in my entire bloodline."

  I looked at the King. His entire life was soaked in this sorrow. "I was cold to my daughters," he confessed. "I saw in them the ones I had lost." "After some time, I fell in love again. Ryan was born. But his mother died immediately after childbirth. That time, I promised myself I wouldn't let the grief consume me. I promised to be a good father. But still..."

  The King lifted his gaze to me. "Over the years, I started forgetting their faces, Greg. Their voices grew quieter, their images blurry. Just faint echoes in the dark of my memory. I was terrified that one day I would wake up and not even remember the color of their eyes." He leaned forward, staring intently at me. "But then you arrived. When I looked into your black eyes... into that bottomless darkness... I was suddenly back there. As if I was living through it all over again. Your emptiness became a mirror. I remembered what they looked like. I remembered how they laughed. I heard their voices again."

  He let out a breath, and it was the sound of a man who had finally had iron shackles removed from his chest. "Thank you, Greg. For that memory."

  I stayed silent. I didn't know how to respond to that. What do you even say to that? "Wash your hands more often?"

  The King straightened up, and his voice regained its former firmness, though the echo of his pain still lingered. "I do not want my children to live this kind of life, Greg. I don't want them spending their days in anger, hatred, or the eternal fear that a war will start tomorrow. It's a swamp that sucks down entire generations."

  He walked over to his desk and unrolled a map. "Recently, I opened the borders between our countries. And, as always happens, the world split in two: half the people are thrilled, the other half is furious. There are those who feed on war. Those who do not want peace to prevail."

  The King looked at me, and the steely glint of a politician flashed in his eyes. "To show everyone that my intentions are pure, I am sending my daughters to them. To the Academy of the United Nations. They say it is the largest and finest educational institution in the world. But..." He paused, a shadow of anxiety crossing his face. "The hands of my enemies can reach them even there. And beyond our borders, I won't be able to protect them. My royal guard over there would just be a walking target."

  And then he suddenly smiled. Broadly, almost joyfully. This abrupt transition from funeral melancholy to sheer enthusiasm made me tense up.

  "That is why, Greg, I am sending you with them. You will be their bodyguard. Or a secret agent. Call it whatever you want."

  I stared at him and thought: Wow. How quickly he changed his tune. Just a minute ago he was crying on my shoulder, and now he's issuing orders like I'm his loyal dog. And he isn't even asking—he's just stating it as a fact.

  "You will go with them," he repeated, as if sealing a deal I hadn't even agreed to yet. What a strange man. First he thanks me for his memories, and a minute later he signs me up for a shady adventure in a foreign country.

  "Alright," the King began. His mood had shifted so drastically it was like someone had flipped a switch. He was positively radiating optimism now. "Listen to the plan."

  I braced myself for the worst. Usually, when kings "radiate," ordinary people get dragged into problems.

  "Alexia and Lianel already know everything," he continued cheerfully. "Well, almost everything. I didn't want to scare them with talk of conspiracies and assassins. I just told them to be careful. But you... you are going with them just for company. Someone has to keep an eye on our 'poor, distant relative.'"

  I looked at him. Now it made perfect sense where Alexia got her venomous sarcasm from. The apple didn't just fall close to the tree, it calculated the trajectory.

  "Your cover story, Greg, remains the same," the King steepled his fingers. "You are our very distant relative. And, let's just say, not the brightest. A simpleton. And I—a man of virtue and pure heart—simply decided to help an orphan and give you an education. How does that sound?"

  "Hey," I protested. "I actually have a personal life too, you know." The King raised an eyebrow. "What life, Greg?"

  I thought about it for a second. What did I actually have? A dusty jacket? A brain full of holes? A handful of candy in my pocket? "Umm... well, I have friends. Yeah. Exactly. Friends." "Oh, you mean those two?" he waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry. They will be coming to the exact same Academy through a student exchange program. Just... a month later." "Then why not just wait a month and send us all together? Why the rush?"

  The King's gaze instantly turned cold and dead serious. The cheerful mask slid off. "The Academy is a vulnerable place. A transitional period, the opening of borders... Enemies will try to strike exactly there, and exactly now. We cannot wait."

  I sighed. "Yeah. You're a terrible king. And a pretty mediocre father too. Even..."

  Before I could finish, he cut me off. His voice was steady, void of offense, but laced with a terrifying exhaustion. "A terrible king because I cannot guarantee the safety of my own children inside my own home? Do you have any idea, Greg, how many times I've heard provocative and stupid quotes like that?"

  He stood up, signaling that the audience was over. "Go, Greg. A new country awaits you soon. And a new Academy."

  I walked out of the study feeling like I had just been sold, but no one had even bothered to tell me the price.

  Since no one bothered to give me a room key or at least show me where my bed was, I just wandered the corridors. A guest, a bodyguard, a "distant relative"—and yet, practically homeless. What a wonderful status.

  Muffled strikes echoed from behind one of the doors. Rhythmic, persistent. I pushed the door open.

  It was a small training room right inside the castle. Not as massive as the ones at the Academy, but cozy. Ryan stood in the center. The kid was taking this seriously: he was methodically bashing a wooden dummy, trying to hit the pressure points with pinpoint accuracy.

  The second I crossed the threshold, Ryan spun around and, without saying a single word, hurled his training sword straight at me.

  Terrible child. Aimed right for the heart.

  I twisted my torso slightly to the right, caught the flying piece of wood under my armpit, and began to slowly, theatrically slump to the floor.

  "Oh no..." I groaned, rolling my eyes. "I am your first victim. The light is fading... tell Alexia she is... a meanie..."

  I collapsed onto the mats and went completely still, playing a top-quality corpse.

  About five seconds passed. I cracked one eye open. Ryan walked over, loomed above me with a face carved from stone, and simply yanked his sword out from under my arm.

  "Hey!" I protested, sitting up. "Why are you so emotionless? I just played the victim for you. I put in the effort, I fell. Where's the applause? Where's the sheer horror in your eyes?"

  "You're supposedly so strong," Ryan measured me with a cold glare, "and supposedly an adult. But you still play childish games."

  "Oh, whatever," I grumbled, lying back down on the floor. "You're such a buzzkill, Ryan. Being this serious at seven years old is a medical diagnosis."

  I stayed on the floor, hands tucked behind my head, and watched him return to the dummy. I accompanied his every strike with commentary:

  "Where are you poking? Do you want the enemy to gut you immediately? You strike—and immediately pull your weapon back. Don't stand still. Strike, then break the distance. Don't be afraid to throw combinations longer than three hits, but remember the dynamics. You have to apply pressure, Ryan. Keep pressing him so that he only has one thought in his head: 'How do I not die?' instead of 'How do I counterattack?'"

  Ryan froze, lowering his sword.

  "What are you even talking about? What dynamics?"

  I reluctantly got up. My sleepiness vanished as if wiped away by a hand.

  I dropped into a classic frontal boxing stance—square and stable.

  "Look. In the past, when people fought in arenas or engaged in fistfights, they stood exactly like this. Torso straight, square stance. Lots of power, lots of stability. Powerful? Yes."

  I sharply shifted my position, turning sideways and extending one arm forward. I became narrow, almost flat.

  "But they say a certain man once showed up to a fencers' duel. He looked at those hulking 'wardrobes' and stood sideways. Do you know why?"

  "That way you become flat. There are half as many target points on your body. You're harder to hit, and you can lunge faster," Ryan said.

  "That man was the first to make this stance popular. He defeated everyone with his new technique while the rest stood there like clumsy oak trees," I said.

  I looked at the little prince.

  "In a fight, the winner isn't the one with the more expensive sword, but the one who knows how to think... or the one who is simply faster."