Chapter 2. The Middle City

A girl dressed entirely in gray with a hood over her head walked through densely packed streets, illuminated by the rays of the already setting sun. She was hung round with solitude that seemed to be her natural air. The fabric of her cloak, faded by time to the color of a dusty road, should have made her too conspicuous among the idle crowd of the Middle City, and yet no one seemed to notice her.

"Hello and goodbye," pondering the stranger's words, she replayed the brief dialogue in her thoughts over and over. "Was he hinting at something?"

Around her rose three- and four-story buildings of light brick with perfectly geometric seams. The facades gleamed with cleanliness, as if polished every morning—marble columns with fluting, strict pediments with bas-reliefs depicting scenes from ancient myths. Classical architecture reigned here absolutely: symmetry, proportions, harmony. Each building seemed to strive to embody the ideal of reason and order. Caryatids graced the corners of buildings, supporting balconies, while windows were framed with stucco garlands of acanthus leaves and grape clusters.

"Not everything bends to order," she thought to herself, occasionally glancing over her shoulder—a habit burned into her by time, or perhaps just by life in the Lower City. "Strange coin... why doesn't it reflect anything?"

Every so often she pulled out the coin, which she fingered in her pocket. At first glance—completely ordinary: on one side was the sun, on the other—a mirror surface in which, to her surprise, nothing was reflected. "A magical item?" she wondered, turning the coin, thinking about the possible effect and mechanism built into the object.

The citizens moved at a measured pace, their clothing reflecting the district's prosperity. Men in strict suits walked alongside those who preferred tunics. Women glided in those ridiculous floor-sweeping gowns, or in modern dresses with corsets and multi-layered skirts.

"Tasteless," covering her face even more, she turned the corner, avoiding the crowd. "What did he mean to say with this coin?" her stream of thought, ragged, constantly jumped from one idea to another.

The city's multiculturalism manifested in every face. A dark-skinned merchant from the south, whose features resembled the sun-scorched deserts, chatted animatedly with a pale northerner—blue-eyed and fair-haired. Nearby passed a woman with almond-shaped eyes and blue-black hair braided into an elaborate hairstyle with jade pins.

"And once, before all this diversity politics, it was more pleasant here."

She wasn't against diversity—rather, she was oppressed by the city becoming overcrowded. "The mages are surely planning something," she shifted her gaze to a representative of the Albion race, tall and graceful, walking toward her. Spiral-shaped voluminous horns growing from the temporal part of the head, curly bob-style hair—bright and eye-catching.

"Strange, they don't assimilate them in the city," she continued to ponder, hiding her face and stepping aside slightly, not so much out of fear as from the scent that felt like a threat.

For mages, race didn't matter—only qualifications, knowledge. She knew it was foolish to try to see through the eyes of those she only vaguely guessed about. Moving from one alley to another, in the shadows and away from the crowd, she felt more comfortable and her thoughts returned to their familiar loop.

"Drops of light scattering into fog," again and again her thoughts returned to herself, to memories of her lived life. "Maybe I shouldn't have pushed him away at the very beginning."

Greenery reigned everywhere—not just decorative, but lush, almost aggressive in its vitality, just like the sentient species that populated this bustling city. Along sidewalks paved with pink granite stretched flowerbeds with plants of all shades of emerald, malachite, and jade.

"I should have been gentler with him, or... punch him?" she smiled for a moment, bringing her hand to her lip. "So cute for someone who's going to kill herself," as if a reminder burst into her thoughts, and her gaze immediately, as if wanting to distract herself, slid again along the road she had to cross.

Along the wide avenues, where mechanical carriages on ether power rolled leisurely, grew outlandish trees. Their trunks twisted in spirals, the bark gleamed like copper, and the leaves changed color depending on the angle of light—from turquoise to amber. Some trees bloomed year-round with flowers resembling crystal bells that emitted a barely audible ringing in the wind. Others bore strange fruits—translucent spheres within which one could glimpse shimmering liquid.

"In this quarter they haven't cut them down yet," she shifted her gaze to the bells that barely sounded yet amplified the cacophony of sounds. "Though I'm definitely not his type."

Under the girl's hood, in moments when light broke through illuminating what she so wanted to hide, one could see smeared mascara—the only thing she still applied, as if wanting to remind herself that she was a girl, she wanted to be beautiful. Black streaks ran down her cheeks, leaving trails on pale skin. Her face expressed nothing, only detachment woven with despair. Only occasionally did her lips move silently, either voicing the stream of thoughts that couldn't be contained in her head, or smiling at another delirious thought.

Suddenly she stopped, her attention caught by movement in a side alley. There, among polished brass garbage bins, rats were scurrying. Not ordinary city rodents—these looked sick. Their fur was matted, sores showed on their sides, and their movements were convulsive, unnatural. One rat tried to climb the wall but kept falling, leaving bloody traces from its claws.

"Harbingers," flashed through her head.

She remembered lines from an old book she'd read in those few moments of her life when she was free: "Rats are the canaries in civilization's mine. When they start dying, it means the air is already poisoned, people just don't feel it yet with their imperfect lungs."

"Like myself—lost filth among the beauties and success reigning in the Middle City."

The girl moved on, trying not to think about why rats from the Lower City had appeared in the Middle.

Ahead appeared a bridge—one of hundreds spanning the artificial canals cutting through the city. The water in them was crystal clear, special filters and magical purifiers maintaining its transparency.

"Start everything over," surfaced in her consciousness. "And what did he mean? He didn't know anything about me before I told him," her gaze slid over the surroundings, immediately finding the most secluded passage. "... shouldn't have told him."

The bridges were works of art. Each—unique, each—an architect's attempt to surpass colleagues. The one she was approaching was made in the form of a bronze dragon whose curved body formed an arch. The scales gleamed with the green of patina, and jets of steam burst from its maw—decorative, but creating the illusion of a sleeping beast's breath.

Today the bridge was restless. A crowd of people with placards blocked the passage, though it was clear the protest was coming to an end. Police in perfectly polished dark blue uniforms with silver buttons and epaulettes methodically pushed back the demonstrators. The guards' movements were precise, almost mechanical—grab the arm, twist, put on steel handcuffs, and pass to the convoy.

The placards flashed with slogans: "Down with bureaucrat tyranny!", "Equal rights for all peoples!", "The Lower City is not a dump!" Someone was shouting speeches about injustice, about how people in the Lower City were dying from diseases while up here they spent fortunes on decorative fountains.

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The girl stopped, watching what was happening. An expression of contempt flickered across her face—not toward the police, toward the protesters.

"Pathetic," she thought.

The nearest walls of beautiful buildings were disfigured with graffiti. Over bas-reliefs with nymphs and centaurs sprawled crude inscriptions in red and black paint. Long columns were smeared with slogans calling for revolution.

"Maybe he'll appear again," for a moment a spark appeared in her eyes. "Though... illusions."

"Amigo!" a familiar voice made her turn around. "Ami de ouf, it's fate!"

A young man in a brown jacket and dark blue pants was smiling broadly, arms spread in a welcoming gesture. Her gaze slid over his figure, noting the color palette mismatch and the obvious tightness of the jacket on his large torso. Broad shoulders strained the fabric, pulling at the seams. If his build were a bit more defined, girls would surely be staring in droves.

"Special day, Ben?" she turned to him fully, putting barely perceptible irony into the words.

"Every day is special," his smile grew even wider, if that was even possible.

"Tell me," her gaze slid over his dark hair, cut short on the sides with a careless spike of strands on top.

"The Academy," he took a deep breath, as if gathering strength. "Took the entrance exams. Looks like I didn't make it again. But no matter! Come on, let's check out this little place not far from here—my treat."

"Well yes, could have guessed," she lowered her gaze, hesitating. She didn't want to go anywhere, especially on this disgusting day.

"Hey, your sad day could use a drop of... how you say... casualness," Benjamin squatted down, looking up at her face from below. "An old friend won't get lost in the company of a sad face, bad day, and tears."

His green eyes shone with a smile, presenting a stark contrast to her gaze—extinguished, devoid of emotions and desires.

"Not long," she answered, not understanding why.

"Let's go! I know this place, today something special—in the Middle City!"

Breaking out a bit ahead, he led her to the café. Benjamin was strange—massive and outwardly calm, but always running somewhere, even when just walking. Always hurrying, as if afraid to lose something or not make it in time.

"Haven't thought about cutting your hair?" she asked, filling the pause in conversation.

"What? I'm not that old yet! And it suits me!" he spat on his palms and smoothed down the sticking-up strands.

Before, she would surely have rolled her eyes at such a gesture, but now she just walked after him, allowing herself a fleeting smile.

"They didn't like your earring, did they?"

"Not really. They just stared. But I stood out! Everyone looked at me like I was some kind of loco, and they're all there so polished, suited up and proper," he laughed, stopped, and stood at attention, mechanically spreading his arms along his body. "Qué horror! They all stared at me... I'll never get used to it."

"But at least new people each time. You're probably the only eternal guest at their exams."

"That's for sure! They could give me a ticket for persistence already," he smiled again. "But compared to them, I look alive."

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They entered an unremarkable café hidden in an inner courtyard. Four buildings in classical style formed a perfect square—strict lines and symmetrical facades.

And in the midst of this triumph of order—a café that looked thrown together by a tornado. A bright sign hung crookedly above the door, painted with chaotic patterns in all colors of the rainbow. Mismatched chairs crowded the window display, not a single one had a pair. The walls were hung with paintings and just scraps of fabric, no order to it.

"You found a dive here too," she wasn't surprised, knowing his tastes.

"It's very BEAUTIFUL!" he spread his arms wide. "It's got life to it! My place!"

Expectedly, not a single customer inside. She quickly led him to a corner, knowing his habit of sitting in the center and starting conversations with every newcomer. She wasn't pleased by such sociability and barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes when Benjamin started telling his life to the waitress.

"Well, salud!" he raised a glass of alcohol.

"No drinking today," she answered dryly.

"Then for you!" with a quick movement he knocked back the contents, not trying to persuade or pressure her.

"Aren't you tired of it?" she asked.

"You have to try again and again. And if it doesn't work..." he smiled, "try again!"

Light music played in the establishment with sharp transitions and breaks that distracted the ear. The melody seemed to be in eternal motion, with drops that never ended.

"The Academy definitely set an increased difficulty coefficient for people like us," she shifted her gaze to him, distracted from the music.

"Even so!" he poured a second glass. "The world of magic... If with it we can change the city—I'll keep trying again and again," he raised the glass. "Especially while there are people like you in it."

With the same quick movement he drained the glass, chasing it with lemon.

"Take care of yourself," she shifted her gaze to the bottle.

"If I can't get into this Academy the smart way, I’ll do it the hard way!" he pushed the bottle aside. "They're executing her today, sí?"

"Yes," the sharp change of topic didn't surprise her, just made her lower her gaze.

"And you buried your brother?"

"Yes," she answered dryly, but her lip twitched for a moment—whether in indignation or disagreement.

"You never talk about your problems. And you don't ask for help," he took a deep breath.

"Yes."

Benjamin leaned back in his chair, looking somewhere upward, and began to recite:

I die of thirst beside the fountain,

Hot as fire and trembling cold,

In this strange land I call my country,

Near the fire, yet shivering still.

Naked as a worm, I wear a fur coat,

Laughing in tears, hopelessly hopeful,

Comforted in sad despair,

Cheerful, without a single joy,

Strong and powerless,

Warmly welcomed, and spurned by all [1].

"You're a poet now?" she asked without surprise, knowing her friend's interests.

"This time not mine. Someone else's. Read it by chance. Beautiful, verdad?" pleased, like a cat after a hearty meal, he awaited praise.

"Not bad," she shifted her gaze to the waitress, noting her anxious look. "Tell me about magic."

"Art! The greatest of arts, gathering all others into one!" his eyes lit up. "Grants amazing abilities—to fly, shoot fireballs, levitate objects..." he poured another glass. "But most importantly—to create and craft, to reflect the soul in all its magnificence!"

"You wouldn't know it from the Lower City."

"It will work! It will change, you'll see!" he answered with unshakeable confidence, as if he knew the future.

"Joined the fanatics?" she asked casually, moving her fork around the plate with a dish for which she felt not the slightest appetite.

"I just know. It's faith. This is how it should be."

"Good conquers all, right?" for the first time that evening she smiled, mockingly lifting the left corner of her lips.

"Good conquers all," he confirmed confidently.

"Maybe poverty, death, disease are the kindness deserved by the residents of the Lower City? The pinnacle of justice that you, fool, want to change by going against God?" unexpectedly for him, and for herself, she burst, focusing her gaze on him.

"God, if He exists, forges and bends people, often breaking them, but always leaving a path they will inevitably walk," he met her gaze without looking away. "That's in your people's scripture."

"I'm not part of that people," contempt flickered across her face. "Is your head alright?"

"You're not covering your face," he suddenly said, looking away.

To her surprise, her right palm mechanically reached for her face, covering the scar by her left eye and her lips.

"I’m leaving, Benjamin," she rose from the table.

"Amigo..." he looked into her eyes. His lips were closed, and in his gaze was something elusive—an emotion that simultaneously conveyed everything and conveyed nothing. "For the soul. Yours and this great city's."

This time slowly, he drank everything to the last drop and lowered his head, lost in thought.

She left the café, leaving him sitting alone among the chaotic interior and music that continued its ragged dance.

"Better for you to get drunk and not know what will happen this evening," flashed through her thoughts, and her hand reached for a solitary red rose that grew, standing out, near the café.