Chapter 9, part 2: Concessions to a Friend

***

The park on the western embankment, where Catherine had insistently invited me, was a neat garden with trimmed bushes and wrought-iron gazebos. One could not help but note the tastelessness of the place; the chaos of nature, ordered by man, was the quintessence of the absurdity of human rituals. However, the most ironic thing for me was something else—I myself was increasingly falling into the very human rituals that Catherine so diligently set up like traps.

The exhibition she had talked so much about was long gone—only withered stems, like needles, stuck out of the ground.

“Looks like we’re late,” I surveyed the bare flowerbeds.

“Nothing new,” she sighed. “Just don’t start a lecture about how it’s not our fault.”

“Objectively, it isn’t,” I countered. “But you know, I have a better idea.”

I approached a clearing and, gathering together the magic of Water, Wind, and Order, touched the dry stems. Beautiful ice flowers immediately grew from them. Glimmering in the faint autumn sun, they resembled crystal sculptures. Each petal caught the light and scattered rainbow glints on the withered grass. Catherine froze, her breath formed a small cloud of steam.

“That’s… incredible,” she whispered, reaching for a flower but not touching it. “They’re so fragile.”

“Like everything related to Order,” I replied, watching the wind sway the frozen stems. “Beauty requires control. The slightest weakness—and everything shatters.”

Catherine turned. Her gaze was a mixture of admiration and annoyance. “You always talk about strength, about control… But can’t you just enjoy the moment?” She stepped closer, and the frozen ground crunched softly under her feet. “These flowers… they’re like you. Perfect, but…”

“Cold?” I finished for her.

“No,” Catherine shook her head. “Mysterious. And lonely. You create something beautiful, but always—in complete solitude. Why?”

I turned away, choosing my words. “Loneliness is a long path. And it’s not always beautiful or mysterious. More often—dangerous and cruel,” I replied with a feigned smirk.

“Or it only seems that way…” Catherine murmured, as if trying to find the key to my nature. She was wrong. Order and Darkness demand sacrifices unknown to other forces.

“I suppose it’s time to go,” I changed the subject, forcing a smile. “The pastry shop awaits us. ‘The Silver Pretzel,’ I believe?”

“Yes, but dinner will probably be at the academy. And don’t think you’ve gotten rid of me so easily!” she replied, smiling and wagging a finger playfully.

We left the park and headed west along the embankment. The river shimmered under the pale sun, its surface disturbed by the cold autumn wind. Carriages rattled on the cobblestones, their wheels echoing off the stone mansions nearby. The streets were busy—students, workers, and merchants, their voices blending into an uneven chorus.

Catherine walked at my side, swinging the scabbard on her hip as if it were part of a carefree dance. At times she would glance at me, as though expecting I’d scold her for stepping too close.

“You know, walking with you feels strange,” she said suddenly.

“Strange?”

“Mmm. Everyone’s staring. Probably wondering how the coldest Tarvarian girl in the academy ended up as my companion.” Her lips curved in a mischievous grin.

I kept my gaze straight ahead. “Attention is an unnecessary distraction.”

“And yet, you still let me walk here with you. Shoulder to shoulder. That means something, doesn’t it?” She leaned in just slightly, her sleeve brushing against mine.

A fleeting contact, which I registered as a deviation from established parameters. I didn’t answer. It was simpler to focus on the rhythm of my steps than on her warmth pressing through the autumn air.

“But tell me,” she went on, tilting her head, “are you this cold and unreadable back in Tarvar too? Or is that your special academy disguise?”

“In Tarvar,” I replied evenly, allowing a faint, calculated smile to touch my lips, “my presence is considered… appropriate.”

Catherine blinked, then laughed, her voice bright against the stone walls. “Organic? Gods, I’d pay to see that. ‘Miss Proper Tarvarian,’ standing there all composed while everyone else melts around her.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Her hand rose suddenly to adjust my collar, which the wind had tugged loose. She did it casually, almost absentmindedly, but the gesture lingered a moment too long.

“You’re careless with details,” she said lightly, though her cheeks reddened when our eyes met.

We turned onto a quieter street lined with bakeries and lamp posts already lit for the evening. The smell of roasted nuts and sugar drifted in the air, enticing and cloying. Catherine inhaled deeply, her expression brightening.

“It smells like freedom,” she declared.

“Freedom smells of sweat and blood,” I corrected. “Not sugar.”

She laughed again, shaking her head with that same steady warmth. “Then maybe I’ll choose sugar.”

The street carried us onto Eldenbridge, its massive granite arches rising above the slow waters of the Luren. The stone parapet, worn smooth by centuries of hands, came up nearly to Catherine’s shoulders. She stopped midway, leaning against it, her eyes bright with a fleeting melancholy.

“You know, Arta… if I were here with a maid, I’d probably be wheeled along in a chair. I wouldn’t see any of this.” She pressed her palms to the cold stone and tilted her head toward the horizon, where an island clung to the river’s middle. A slender lighthouse rose there, catching the last glimmer of the sun. “Look—how beautiful. I wonder what it’s like at night. Don’t you want to find out?” She smiled, hopeful.

“Going there would mean breaking curfew. And expulsion,” I replied evenly. “At night the academy prefers us in bed, not wandering the river.”

“Arta!” she huffed, half-laughing, half-indignant. “Why can’t you just imagine it?”

“No.” My tone was as dispassionate as the word itself, designed to sever the possibility before it could form.

“Fine,” she muttered, resting her chin briefly on her knuckles as though to hide a pout.

Below, a flat-decked trading barge slipped through the arches, its hull braced with thick timber logs. The creak of wet wood and the bark of sailors echoed up the stone. Catherine straightened, her expression softening as she followed the vessel with her eyes, as if it carried away the dream she wasn’t allowed to voice.

“Wouldn’t it be fun to take a ride one day?” she asked suddenly, her voice lighter but edged with genuine longing.

“No,” I said again, just as firmly. “Enough for today. We’ve already wasted too much time. Your training awaits. You must become stronger.”

This time she didn’t sigh or laugh. Instead she turned sharply, walking ahead with deliberate steps, her scabbard swinging against her hip like a banner of protest. “Sometimes you sound less like a friend,” she tossed over her shoulder, “and more like a sword-master.”

I let the words trail into the evening air. The river faded behind us, the glow of bakeries ahead, and the sign of the Silver Pretzel soon came into view.

***

The “Silver Pretzel” pastry shop, which Catherine had praised so highly, was conveniently located next to the noble mansions. One had to admit the enterprise of mortals: the owners knew their audience and perfected every detail. The establishment was surprisingly spacious and easily dwarfed the cafe where we had just been.

The displays, bearing the shop’s silver crest, were filled with various sweets that held no interest for me, unlike Catherine, who pressed her face to one of the display cases to choose pastries for us to take on our journey.

“Catherine, if you can’t do without sweets, you should have gotten candies. They last longer. Or do you plan to eat all this in one evening?” I asked, seeing that she was ready to buy half the inventory.

“Oh, come on, Arta. It’s my first time in the city without my parents and governesses, and you’ve decided to replace them,” she threw over her shoulder, not looking away from the display case.

I just shook my head. She still had much to learn before she became a powerful mage. For now, all I could do was offer advice and wait.

“As you wish. Just don’t complain later about gaining weight or getting sugar sickness.”

But Catherine was no longer listening to me, chatting animatedly with the saleswoman—an elderly woman in a pristine white apron and an overly stern face.

“Is this a cherry confiture pastry?” she pointed a finger at the glass.

“Our signature ‘Bloody Dawn,’ young lady,” the woman smiled, picking up the dessert with tongs. “For special occasions.”

I moved to the wall, observing from a distance. Catherine, like a child at a fair, flitted from one dessert to another, as if afraid they would disappear at any moment. Perhaps I was being too strict with her. After getting the prosthesis, she was as free as a bird and was now rediscovering the world.

“And what’s this?” her finger pointed to a multi-layered dessert that resembled a miniature castle.

“The ‘Arcane Tower.’ Chocolate, caramel, and gold glaze,” the saleswoman rattled off, packing the order. “For connoisseurs of luxury.”

“Are you planning to feed the entire dormitory?” I asked when the box was tied with a silver ribbon.

“It’s for motivation!” Catherine declared, handing me the box. “When will we get to come here again?”

“I think if you came here more often, you’d completely forget about training,” I remarked coldly, following her to the exit.

On the way to the carriage station, Catherine chattered nonstop, enthusiastically commenting on every little thing. I remained silent, feeling her cheerful voice drown in the noise of the city—alive and utterly foreign to my nature. The long carriage ride passed in the same way. She deftly deflected all my attempts to remind her of the importance of her studies, changing the subject to trivial matters.

At the very gates of the academy, she suddenly stopped.

“Arta, what if you could choose: strength or… this?” she shook the box.

I slowed my pace. Ahead rose the buildings of Duality, where the useless routine called studying awaited us. But even there, discipline reigned, which Catherine seemed to have completely forgotten about today.

“Strength is not a choice. It is a necessity,” I replied, shifting my gaze to her.

“But even so, you can still allow yourself a pastry sometimes,” she slipped a small chocolate triangle wrapped in parchment into my hands. “Here. ‘Shadow of the Night’—dark chocolate, pepper, and sea salt. Almost like you.”

I unwrapped the wrapping, breaking the dessert in half. Bitterness hit my palate, but then a sweetness mixed with something sharp came through.

“Primitive,” I said, leaving the dessert unfinished.

Catherine just laughed, walking ahead with the air of someone who had won a duel. And I, feeling the remnants of salt on my tongue, thought that perhaps even I sometimes needed to loosen the steel grip of order.