Chapter 9. Magical Talent

"Come," the tall man in the white blindfold said curtly.

Without hesitation, Sumarel followed him, examining her hand. Despite the excruciating pain, it was completely intact, without a single scratch. Only periodic spasms made her fingers clench involuntarily, as if her hand were trying to grasp something invisible.

"Interesting," she thought, focusing on the sensations. Each spasm let her feel the fibers of her own muscles more keenly, their interweaving and tension. Years of training in her past life had taught her a simple truth: strength wasn't determined by muscle mass, but by the ability to contract muscles in a unified flow, achieving maximum efficiency. With her weak, untrained body, she could only rely on superior control.

They entered the central chamber, covered by a heavy tent. In an instant, all outside sounds ceased, as if severed by an invisible blade.

"Isolation magic," Sumarel noted to herself.

Behind a massive table sat a man whose appearance starkly contrasted with his posture. Tall and muscular, with a long red beard braided into three plaits and curly hair the color of burnt ochre. A loose robe of dark blue fabric with golden patterns hung carelessly open at his chest, revealing tattoos with strange symbols. But he sat with one leg crossed over the other with the grace of a woman of fashion, his long fingers deftly twirling a deck of cards between his palms like exotic butterflies.

"See, Dim boy? And you didn't believe me," the man said in a bass that made the glass vials on the shelves tremble. His smile was broad and genuine, like a child receiving a long-awaited gift.

"Just a coincidence so far," replied the man in the white blindfold in a tone that could freeze boiling water.

The bearded man turned his gaze to Sumarel, and his brown eyes gleamed with undisguised interest.

"How beautiful and delicate," he leaned forward, studying her like a rare curiosity. "But resilient. Not a common sight, except perhaps among the offspring of great families. Where did you come from?"

"Why don't you do your amusing tricks?" the man in the white blindfold interjected, a barely perceptible mockery in his voice. "Maybe they'll give us an answer."

"Listen, you're so rigid!" the bearded man exclaimed indignantly, throwing his hands up theatrically. "These are cards, not an artifact of the Gods!"

Sumarel froze, quickly analyzing what she saw. Her gaze swept over the details: how the bearded man unconsciously stroked the edge of the table when agitated, how his eyes lingered on the cards for a fraction of a second before each movement.

"Open-minded, dual and contradictory, emotional. Likes the mysterious and complex," flashed through her mind.

Her gaze shifted to the man with the white blindfold. Straight back, hands clasped behind him in military fashion, weight evenly distributed on both feet.

"Conscientious and consistent, but a rebel at heart," she noted, then, noticing how he avoided looking directly at his companion, added with a touch of irony: "Maybe not into girls".

"So, princess?" the bearded man leaned back in his chair, making the wood creak pitifully. "Where are you from?"

Sumarel raised her gaze, meeting his eyes directly. No hesitation. She knew—in moments like these, you had to be honest, especially if you were about to lie.

"Lower City. District of Dim Lanterns. No surname. Name's Sumarel."

The words fell like stones into a still pond. No intonation, no emotion. Just facts.

The bearded man's eyebrows shot up, giving his face a comically surprised expression.

"What'd you come for?"

"To overcome."

The man burst out laughing, slapping the table so hard that several bottles of unknown liquids jumped. Still chuckling, he began laying out cards with the exaggerated solemnity of a magician before his grand finale.

"Sit," commanded the man in the white blindfold, pulling strange instruments from a desk drawer. The metal gleamed in the oil lamps' light, casting unsettling reflections.

Sumarel lowered herself onto the offered chair, back straight, hands on her knees.

"Open your right hand and place it here," came the next command.

She obeyed, watching from the corner of her eye as the bearded man, with the anticipation of a child before a birthday cake, slowly and carefully laid out the cards. Each movement was precise, each card settling on the table with a quiet whisper, as if murmuring ancient secrets.

Suddenly her hand was gripped by invisible vises. Pain shot through her wrist, but Sumarel didn't even flinch. The man in the white blindfold brought a needle to her lifeline, which suddenly pulsed with multicolored lights, like a miniature aurora.

"Don't look," he warned.

But she didn't listen, watching mesmerized as after a small prick—no more painful than a mosquito bite—multicolored liquids began flowing in the syringe. They shimmered and mixed, creating patterns that made her dizzy.

"Don't look!" her face was grabbed by an invisible hand, forcibly turning it aside.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"Careful with the little one," came the bearded man's bass voice, and to Sumarel's surprise, it held genuine concern.

Finishing the procedure, the man in the white blindfold brought the syringe to a device resembling an hourglass made of black glass with silver runes. The liquid didn't flow down but remained in a small reservoir until it was completely full. The colors continued their hypnotic dance.

"Assumptions?" he turned to the bearded man, withdrawing the syringe and sealing the opening with wax.

"It'll be spectacular," the other replied, his smile turning predatory, "to see your face."

"Uh-huh," the man in the white blindfold responded without emotion. He cast a quick glance at the girl, as if measuring the distance, then activated the mechanism. A tiny gate opened with a soft click, allowing the multicolored liquid to begin its downward journey.

The next instant, the world exploded.

A flash of light blinded her. A roar deafened her. Sumarel instinctively jerked, covering her face with her hand, but from the corner of her eye she caught sight of the bearded man. His hand was raised, fingers spread in a protective gesture, but his face showed genuine astonishment.

When she lowered her hands, hundreds of tiny glass shards floated in the air around her. They circled in a slow dance, reflecting the lamplight in thousands of rainbow glints. Beautiful but deadly.

The man in the white blindfold stood motionless, turned toward what had recently been the magical artifact. Now only a twisted base and a scattering of black dust remained of the hourglass.

Not knowing what any of this meant, Sumarel froze. Any movement could provoke an unpredictable reaction. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the soft chiming of the floating shards.

The man slowly turned around. Thin streams of blood ran down his face in several places—shards had pierced his defenses and embedded in his skin. But he paid no attention to this, his blindfolded eyes directed straight at her.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell us?" his voice was calm, but steel rang in it.

"Clarify the question," she replied, not looking away. Everything inside had tightened into a hard knot, but outwardly she remained impassive.

"Leave her alone," the bearded man intervened, his previous merriment gone from his voice. "She was telling the truth."

"What do we do?" the man in the white blindfold turned his gaze to his companion, still ignoring the blood dripping onto the white fabric.

"The cards say send her through standard procedure," the bearded man leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands over the laid cards in a theatrical gesture.

The man in the white blindfold approached the table, studying the spread. The shards still hung in the air, creating bizarre shadows.

"You'll trust this to chance?" ice mixed with disbelief sounded in his tone.

"Chance?" the bearded man smiled, and there was something disturbing in that smile. He gathered the cards, shuffled them right in front of his companion's face, demonstrating the absence of tricks, and began laying them out again. "Watch."

The cards fell one after another. Sumarel didn't understand their meaning, but she saw how with each card the face of the man in the white blindfold grew more tense.

"How is this possible?" he asked, finally.

"I don't know," the bearded man frowned, pressing down on the cards with both hands, as if trying to push them into the table. "Devil's work. Believe it or not, no matter how many times I recast—the result is the same," he looked up, and primal fear flickered in his eyes. "As if an evil God ripped play of chance from this world."

The man in the white blindfold turned sharply to Sumarel. In two steps he was beside her, and suddenly the air around her thickened. An aura of terror washed over her like an icy wave, paralyzing her muscles, not allowing even a breath.

"You saw nothing," he spoke slowly, hammering each word like driving nails. "We'll record ordinary abilities on your card. This is for your own good."

He leaned closer, and Sumarel smelled herbs and metal emanating from his clothes.

"Kindness," he continued, each word heavy as stone, "is repaid with kindness. Remember that."

His gaze, despite the blindfold, bored into her, as if trying to penetrate the most hidden corners of her consciousness. Sumarel knew about the existence of mind-reading magic—a high-level spell available to few. Just in case, she concentrated on recent events: here she enters the tent, here she sees the bearded man, here she extends her hand... Let her thoughts circle in this small time segment, not revealing the main secret.

Finally the pressure vanished. Sumarel could breathe, but immediately decided to seize the moment. Since he'd shown kindness, why not ask for a little more? Fortune favors the bold.

"What about my magical talent?"

"Insane," the man answered curtly. With a wave of his hand, he gathered all the shards into a single stream, directing them into a metal urn. The wounds on his face began to heal, leaving only thin pink lines.

"Any advice on surviving?" she continued, ignoring the warning look.

"Enough questions. We're leaving," he cut her off in a steely tone.

But the bearded man unexpectedly spoke, his bass filling the room:

"Don't waste a single minute. Every moment must work toward your survival," he stood, and his height proved even more impressive. "But most important—gather a group capable of defending itself. In group conflicts, if necessary..." he paused, "and it will be necessary—kill. But the most useless one, as a demonstration of intent."

He came closer, and Sumarel had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

"Remember: it's not the strong you should fear. Fear the insane," he pronounced each word deliberately, investing them with the weight of personal experience. "I'm Kiarien," with an elegant gesture more suited to a courtier than a warrior, he indicated the man in the white blindfold. "And he's Dim boy."

"Four thirty-three," the man in the white blindfold corrected, completely ignoring the nickname.

"Names grant great power," Kiarien winked at her, returning his former grin to his face. "If you know them," he emphasized the last word particularly, seeing her to the exit with a wave of his hand that looked more like a blessing than a farewell.

"I'd like to leave this here," Sumarel pulled a book from her pants, "found it lying in the street, but it's strange."

Before she could finish, the book tore from her hands as if caught by invisible palms and flew straight to Kiarien. He caught it with the grace of a magician plucking cards from the air.

"So our little girl has a heart," he smiled, opening the worn cover. "Not right for a book to be lying in the..."

The words stuck in his throat. The mage's face, radiating good-natured cheer a second ago, froze in a mask of shock. Sumarel didn't miss Four thirty-three's sharp movement either—he turned his head to Kiarien so fast the air whistled.

"A magical artifact?" the thought flashed through her mind.

Kiarien turned page after page, his eyes racing over blank pages. What could possibly interest a mage, possibly an extremely high-ranking one, in empty pages?

"You didn't see anything inside this book, did you?" Kiarien looked up at her, and his voice held a strange anxiety, nothing like his previous carelessness.

"No," she answered dryly.

"Good, good," he muttered, hastily hiding the book in the folds of his exquisite robe. Four thirty-three turned toward Kiarien, and something unspoken passed between them.