Dim moonlight faded behind thick clouds as Goran Gothar heard his mentor's voice. He leapt over a dirty puddle and quickened his pace, a book beneath his arm and a backpack flung over his shoulder. Goran slinked among the shadows, peering through the curtain of heavy rain at the grey contours of lavishly decorated buildings in downtown Rijeka. His mentor's massive frame and unkempt black curls obscured the view, forcing Goran to peek over his broad shoulders. Lithe and agile, he did not mind taking detours to explore the city.

Old leather raincoats covered most of their figures, hiding both Goran and Slavoj Kosar from curious onlookers. Like an overgrown bat, Goran landed on a Roman ruin and placed his hand on what used to be the corner of a military command center. He could do little but imagine what it would have been like if he had ever led a normal life.

"Goran! We need to keep going," Magister Kosar called to him in his sternest voice. Goran obeyed. He nodded weakly, clinging to the book beneath his arm.

"I'm coming."

Kosar shook his head and strolled forward.

"Stay alert, always. Your romance novels will not teach you how to survive. I will."

Goran gritted his teeth, hoping his mentor hadn't noticed him sulking. He knew he had to be worthy of the scimitar he'd been given. But how could he ever match the skill and heroism of the weapon's previous owner - Dragomir Drašković, the greatest Alkar to have ever dwelled beneath the Veil? 

"Why are we still hiding?" Goran had asked the same question countless times. He knew Slavoj's reasons and he never agreed with them. He could not.

"You have taught me everything you could. I can pass the Trial and join the Alka!" Goran persisted. "The more we run, the more they think we have a reason to flee! The more they believe you are a murderous traitor!"

Slavoj's sad smile made his heart ache.

"I have failed you, Goran. And for that I am sorry." Before Goran could interrupt him and refute his arguments, Kosar continued. "I don't know who killed your family and I don't know if they want you dead. Even if they don't, others do. When you join the Alkari, you will face something more terrifying than assassins. You will face politics." He stared at the pavement, his gaze bitter and troubled. "It is my experience that the most dangerous men hardly ever lift a finger to slap you. They make you slap yourself."

"I can change that," Goran said with grim confidence. "And I will, or I'll die trying. Like Magister Drašković did. I will be the next Dalmatian Serpent!"

"Ehh..." Kosar let out an exasperated groan. "Don't idealize a man you have never known." His face soured. For a moment Goran even wondered whether it was raindrops or cold and angry tears in his mentor's eyes.

The abandoned house overlooking dull grey city blocks did not strike him as remarkable in any way. When they approached the front porch, Slavoj started searching for keys in the depth of his pockets. A minute later, he gave up and hit the lock with his fist. The door budged open. Goran entered the house and prepared to switch on the lights, when a fresh smell alerted him of an alien presence. Subtle and deadly, it felt incongruous in a space filled with dust, wood and paper. It was the scent of jasmine and thunderstorm, northern wind and dewy flowers.

"Somebody is here," Goran whispered to his mentor, barely suppressing his excitement. Kosar held him back, lifting a cautious finger.

"An impressive magnetic field. I don't know many people capable of such a feat..."

Before Kosar could stop him, Goran twisted away and sneaked into the dark living room.

Scarce moonlight stained the carpet, turning it into an intricate silk brocade thrown over polished floorboards. Squinting, Goran distinguished a solitary figure in a swivel armchair and a pale hand holding a fragile purple rose. He rushed forward, raising his scimitar. It took him no more than a second to press the weapon's edge to the stranger's neck. 

"Goran, stop!" his mentor shouted behind him. Before Goran could strike, the intruder clicked her fingers, miraculously switching on an old glass lamp on a coffee table. The purple rose fell to the floor, leaving watery marks, and the stranger's head shifted. When light touched her oval face, Goran involuntarily loosened his grip.

"I would think first if I were you," the woman said, without a trace of fear in her voice. Her hypnotizing grey stare challenged him.

"How did you get in here?" he asked. Goran swallowed his initial surprise and assumed a serious posture, his menacing weapon still in his hand.

"Goran... stop it, for Ancestors' sake!" His mentor stepped forward, but the woman halted him with a deliberate gesture of her white hand. She did not wait for Goran to reconsider. Cold fingers touched his warm wrist, sending electrical impulses through his body, almost making him drop the scimitar. Almost. He quivered but did not lower the weapon. She was a Psychic, a Byzantine Blood. He should have smelled her, should have sensed her presence. To his shock, the woman remained still, radiating aloof confidence and ignoring the steel at her throat. It was his mentor's voice that forced Goran to back off.

"Leudora..." Slavoj whispered. The corner of her lip curled as she rose to shake his mentor's hand.

"I am pleased to see you well, Slavoj. I hope you appreciate the irony as much as I do."

"You've cut your hair..." He pointed at her unarranged auburn locks. Leudora lifted a strand, and there was dry blood on the tip of her ear.

"You haven't seen me for quite some time, Slavoj." Her gaze strolled from Kosar to Goran. As she observed him closely, her reaction changed from mild curiosity to utter bewilderment.

"You have grown more handsome than I have expected."

He flinched when her smooth cold hand ran through his brown hair streaked with auburn. "The Lascari color suits you." Goran frowned, scrutinizing her suspiciously perfect features, staring into the eyes of pure grey quartz.

"The Lascari color? Who are you?"

Magister Kosar exchanged brief glances with the woman and answered.

"By the time I found you in your parents' house, you had lost too much blood to survive and needed a transfusion. And... well... an energy-twister is a perfect donor. All Psychics are."

"What? I have cursed blood running through my veins, and you've kept it from me all these years?" Had Goran been less confused, he would have shouted. A sudden realization struck him: he knew who the beautiful woman was.

"You are the Byzantine Basilisk," he whispered, "You killed Dragomir Drašković." Goran darted forward. His voice was now sharp and confident, angry disgust sparkling in his glare. Without hesitation, he pushed the weapon to her chest. Goran expected her to burst into ominous laughter, but she did not. All he saw was a bitter sneer accompanied by faint amusement in her dark eyes, and mild annoyance in the furrow of her eyebrow.

Goran's body tensed as he prepared to strike her, but something about her – the haunting gaze, the tense posture, the set of her jaw, perhaps - drained his resolve. He could not stab her. She seized the edges of his scimitar, pulling it directly to her heart, nudging him forward.

"To the left." She almost leaned over the scimitar. "Go for the heart." There was no audacity in her voice, no fear in her eyes, only grim confidence.

Stupefied, Goran stood in the middle of a stuffy room, his hand stretched out and his weapon pressed to the Basilisk's chest. It was not his way. It was not fair. He had thought of killing an enemy before, but in his thoughts the enemy always resisted. The enemy never stood in front of him with gloomy acceptance and a stubborn sparkle in her eyes. The enemy was never a pretty woman.

"Do it!" she spat out. Goran did not move, staring at the blade of his scimitar, squeezed between her palms. She flung his weapon away with a powerful blast, its metal edges reflecting electric sparks. The instantaneous energy flash seared Goran's fingers, but he remained standing, blurred light flickering in his own charcoal eyes. She approached him closely, her fresh scent tickling his nostrils.

"Never threaten anyone unless you're prepared to carry out the threat."

Goran bit his lip, recoiling from her.

He froze in the middle of the room, unable to move. Kosar leapt forward and lifted the scimitar from the carpet, measuring Goran from head to toe with a hurtful stare. Goran recognized the bitter disappointment in those tired brown eyes.

"You lack discipline, Goran," he said. Goran lifted his chin with proud defiance.

"She killed him, didn't she?"

The Basilisk approached the window, rubbing her forehead with pale fingers. When he saw her face again, it was warped by a storm of powerful emotions.

"Do you expect me to coo platitudes and invent excuses?" she asked. "I will not."

Goran did not know what to expect.

"You killed many people. You don't sound as if you regret it."

"Will my regret resurrect the dead, or clear your mentor's name?"

He wanted to object, he wanted to shout at her, but instead he only swallowed an inhale.

"Magister Kosar never told me he knew you." And he should have. Weren't they family? Weren't they more than that? Kosar stepped forward, opening his mouth, but the Basilisk interrupted him.

"It's fine, Slavoj. He didn't need to know me." Leudora walked back to the swivel armchair. "There is bad blood between our people, and there's little we can do about it. None of this is the reason for my visit."

"I have assumed that much." Kosar's face became grave.

"You must leave Rijeka. Now. Find my cousin. Sava helped you escape once, he will do it again. And he will escort Goran to the Alkari. After all, he is the last of the Gothars."

"I don't need an escort. I can take care of myself!" Goran stepped forward. "My whole life everyone has been trying to save me from all sorts of different threats. It's time I do something!"

"You can start now by listening to what I have to say instead of rushing into battle." Virulent sarcasm tainted her voice, annoying Goran more than he was ready to admit. He had to respond in kind.

"I wasn't expecting to find the Byzantine Basilisk herself in Slavoj's old house, giving me advice. For all I know, you are the one who's hunting us."

"She's neither a spy, nor an assassin, Goran." Slavoj interrupted him. "Besides, she could not have sliced your parents so cleanly in half. She doesn't have the skill."

"I will find those who did it!" Goran balled his fists, feeling helpless again.

"You will, if they are not dead already. Forget about revenge." The Basilisk looked at the wall, her stare stern and blank. "Join the Alkari on your own terms. Now is the time."

"Have they...?" Kosar's voice trailed off. Goran could not remember his mentor ever looking that concerned before.

"Yes, they have. I can sense them snooping around." The Basilisk frowned. "Had I not been delayed on the border, I would've arrived earlier."

"You did all you could, Leudora. Now we must keep Goran away from those radicals."

She lifted a mocking eyebrow. "Hopefully he's old enough to make his own decisions."

Goran bit his lip, feeling annoyed.

"I am standing right here. Have you noticed?"

She barely looked his way. "If you reach the Alka safely, you will prove your Mentor's innocence. At the very least, you will contribute to his cause. You are no longer a child. From what I see, you know how to swing that weapon at your opponents."

"I'm your bargaining chip now, am I not?" Goran scoffed, feeling betrayed. They talked about him the way some discussed useful tools – with cold calculation and little kindness. Slavoj needed him to testify on his behalf, and the Byzantine bloods, he assumed, needed him to locate the disappeared blood lily stone. Goran wondered why he was special to so many unknown people, and none of the explanations satisfied him. He lifted his hands in exasperation.

"I am a Gothar. Apparently, I am resistant to blood lilies and their effects. Great. I wish I knew why that blessing brought death to my family." His glare shifted to Leudora. "Maybe you could tell me."

"I'm not certain."

Goran could not interpret her glazed stare, but his mentor could. Slavoj grabbed her tense shoulder and pushed her into the corridor.

"How many?"

"Difficult to say. Nine, maybe ten. Is there another exit?"

Slavoj cursed and shepherded her through the pitch-black of the corridor.

"The backyard. There's a fence there."

Following them, Goran felt a strange pang of excitement and anxiety he could not describe.

"Whoever is out there, they cannot recognize me. Nobody knows I am the last surviving Gothar." Leudora and Kosar did not hear him. Stumbling over old rags, Slavoj crushed the backdoor with a swing of his enormous arm. Leudora recoiled, her fragrant dark hair brushing Goran's cheek.

"We will escape," she whispered, leaving the house. Goran followed her into the empty backyard surrounded by an old wooden fence. When they stopped in front of it, Goran stared at her straight narrow skirt and wondered how exactly she was planning to outrun other gravity-switchers.

She squeezed Slavoj's shoulder and gave him a knowing smile. Slavoj sighed and shook his head. Reluctantly, he hoisted her up like a potato sack, and jumped over the fence, agile as a leopard. Goran leapt forward, twisting gravity to his will and squinting against the heavy curtain of cold rain. Then he stopped in the middle of a narrow street behind Slavoj's house.

"Slavoj, there're at least ten of them," he said, counting transparent figures in the mist. Perhaps these men knew Kosar would use the backdoor. Perhaps they came prepared.

"I will take down the first two," Slavoj said, covering him and Leudora. "You both need to get out of here."

"I will buy you some time." Leudora stepped forward, shaking the water off her coat. The relentless rain was finally receding, yet the street behind Kosar's house remained wet and smooth like a water slide. Leudora closed her eyes and kneeled, pressing her hand into a muddy pool beneath her boots. Before he could react, Goran saw five men slip on sparking asphalt and collapse to the ground.

"How did you do that?" He stared at her in shock. "I thought no Byzantine Blood could control energy impulses well enough to aim..." He never finished the sentence, ducking his head to avoid a braceter blast. Leudora's hand trembled, and scarlet tears trickled down her cheeks. The energy waves intensified so abruptly that Goran had to drag her away from the street, while his mentor reflected quick braceter shots. They turned left, then ran forward and stopped near an old socialist block with flimsy balconies that threatened to collapse on their heads. Behind them someone cursed and screamed.

"What is happening? What was that thing?!"

Swift and deadly, Kosar knocked two of his opponents down, sneaking up on them from the corner. Relying on his years of training, Goran twisted gravity to lift himself and his mentor in a gust of cold wind. Catching Leudora's arm, he pulled her along.

"I see you can't wait to tear my limbs apart..." she said, awkwardly landing on the balcony of the second floor, her voice hoarse and her eyes still bleeding.

Kosar nodded, smiled at them both and then began to walk down the wall supported by his own enhancement.

"What are you doing?" Goran lunged forward, switching gravity once again. Slavoj stopped him in his tracks.

"I can take them down and escape," he said. Goran prepared to follow him, but the Basilisk caught his arm and squeezed until it pained him.

"No. You can't."

"I won't leave him!"

"You will."

"No!"

Slavoj's fist touched his shoulder in an Alka salute.

"Trust me, Goran. Perhaps it's more than I deserve, but please, trust me. I can handle Tomislav Drašković and his cronies."

"What if it's not them? It's not fair!" Goran objected, but his mentor did not hear him. Slavoj Kosar disappeared in the darkness, enveloped in a thick blanket of grey mist. Behind him, Leudora leaned against the building, her expression cold and enigmatic.

"You know he's right," she said. "If you go out there, you will expose yourself before you're ready to face the consequences. You may win one battle, but you will lose the war. Slavoj is buying us time." The contrast between the measured tone of her voice and the shouts of unknown people who were trying to kill his mentor, sickened him. He glared at her and lunged forward.

"I am not leaving my mentor behind! Never!"

He barely felt Leudora's smooth fingers glide down his sleeve to grab his wrist. He never expected a wave of electricity to travel through his veins. The last thing he remembered before passing out was a feeling of pure and vibrant anger, mixed with despair.

"I cannot let you die," she said. "Too many have died already to save you."

If Goran was ever to wake up, he would not hesitate to strangle that pretty monster. 

                                                                  --------------------------------

The author has something to say: Leudora does not yet know just how much trouble young Goran can cause. She will soon find out. Oh, she will. 

Thank you for reading my work. Stay tuned.