The deep cut on Slavoj's chest opened again. Blood oozed slowly through his black shirt, warm and familiar like an old friend's embrace. He had been walking day and night, his numb feet tramping the ground and his tired eyes scanning the golden valleys in the countryside of Lika. Slavoj knew where he was, but knowledge meant nothing to him.

Guardian Helmut Wiegler once told him: "Gravity-switchers are like birds. We never lose our way." Slavoj hoped he was right. Helmut usually was. He used to say that their enhancement was no less tied to the Veil than the gifts of the Psychics. Slavoj never believed him. Now, when he was dead, it did not matter.

Helmut had dirty-blond curls, a German accent and a habit of clicking his fingers. Slavoj asked himself why those were the small details that he could never forget. Was it because unattainable things remained forever in your heart?

Slavoj's tired legs took him further than he had expected. His confrontation with Hrvoje Duančić, Tomislav Drašković and their allies left him breathless and disoriented. His thoughts wandered back to his ward: "What were Leudora and Svetozar thinking when they left Goran with me?"

Goran Gothar was born into a distinguished family. His destiny was to become Lord Gothar, inheriting the high-born status of his parents, receiving proper education and training. Instead, Goran survived a brutal assassination attempt and lost his relatives along with the privileges that nature had so graciously bestowed upon him. Slavoj kicked a rock out of his way: could anything ever turn out right in his life?

Slavoj first saw Goran in Helmut's arms, dark with thick and sticky blood. He could never erase the scene from his memory. Slavena and Ognjen lay in pools of blood with Goran's brother at their side – human islands in a tranquil red sea. Helmut crawled on the ground, clutching a breathless little body. When Slavoj approached him, he screamed, his face twisted with horror. A moment later, terror melted into dawning recognition.

"Slavoj? You are here...?" He managed a stuttering inhale. "The boy... is the only one immune to blood lilies."

Slavoj calmed him down, thinking Helmut was delirious from blood loss, but the German did not stop talking.

"Please, save him," he whispered in broken Croatian, switching to German midway. Slavoj seized his hand and squeezed it, almost breaking the fragile fingers.

"Helmut. You will not die. You cannot. You promised me."

"A promise I cannot keep."

Slavoj raised Helmut's head and stroked his curly hair. Silent tears ran down to his beard.

"I..." He could not bring himself to say anything. Anything at all. He stared at Helmut, gaping, swallowing air and shaking his head.

"I know, Slavoj. I know. You have told me before."

"I won't leave you." He kissed Helmut's hands, pressing those cold fingers to his lips. Helmut remained silent.

"Who is responsible for this horror?"

His hand touched Slavoj's cheek, brushing his beard.

"We didn't see it coming."

"What are you talking about? Helmut!" he pleaded with helpless anger. The German did not answer, only smiled meekly and closed his eyes. His last breath was shallow and quick.

"Save yourself."

His frame went limp in Slavoj's arms, head swaying backwards. Slavoj could not let go of him, kissing his curls and squeezing his fingers. The Alkari who arrived ten minutes later found him spattered with blood and clinging to Helmut's body as if it were a precious trophy. They were fast to blame him. They were fast to convict him for every possible crime, including the betrayal of his former apprentice Dragomir Drašković.

Slavoj did not remember how he escaped. He could not even recall how he managed to kidnap the dying child, smuggling him away. But he remembered Leudora's stern face and imploring her to help Goran, wriggling in the dirt on his knees. She saved Goran's life with her blood. It was a part of Leudora that sustained Goran long enough for the medics to reach him. Those friends of the Galburs did their best. Goran lived.

And now he was gone. Willingly or unwillingly, Leudora took both of Slavoj's apprentices away from him. "What will happen to Goran?" Slavoj asked himself. "Will Leudora allow him to join the Alka, knowing he will eventually turn against her? Leudora knows he can't walk in Dragomir's footsteps." He shivered, remembering the eerie ice-green crystals that were the eyes of the Dalmatian Serpent: "Detached, ruthless and relentlessly intelligent. A bastard of a man. No wonder Leudora's admiration for him shines brighter than lightning, brighter than love. We wanted to make a hero, but we summoned a demon. Was there any other way? Create a hero. Then face a demon."

A tiny abandoned village discovered by Slavoj consisted of shelled houses sprawled on golden fields. Slavoj forcefully straightened his back, searching for an appropriate place to rest. He doubted even the Alkari would search him in this deserted province. His lack of mental clarity troubled him, but Slavoj could do little to improve his mood. Slowly, he limped towards a building with a cracked façade and tall apple trees in the courtyard.

The stone house was small and surprisingly hospitable despite glassless windows staring at him like empty eye sockets. Slavoj took a deep breath. He could not shake off the feeling of uneasiness creeping in his bones. The stale air only enhanced his anxiety. Inside, he discovered an old wooden table with a set of chairs, empty bottles on the floor, graffiti on the wall, a dirty tablecloth and rusty cooking equipment. Slavoj lowered himself to the floor, stretching out his legs and tilting his head. His scimitar rested on his lap, and he was trying to suppress cold shivers that were uncharacteristic for his resilient kin. It could be worse. Overtaken by exhaustion, Slavoj dozed off before he could bring himself to check the wound. His slumber brought no relief.

He knew something was wrong the moment he heard the distant sound of footsteps. When the squeak of the door woke him up, he barely had time to brace himself. He should have known. But, as always, he did not. Tomislav Drašković and Hrvoje Duančić did not come alone. A violent gravity twist sent Slavoj plummeting towards the wall. Having lost both his balance and seismic sense, he barely managed to reverse the impact of Tomislav's attack.

"Kosar!" The triumphant leer on Tomislav's lips made Slavoj's stomach churn. "Did you believe I'd let you go?" Slavoj rolled on the floor, barely avoiding a braceter shot, his right hand searching for his scimitar: where was it? Slavoj spotted his weapon in the corner of the room and rushed out to grab it, but Duančić barred his way.

Gravity shifts and magnetic pulls shook the room, filling it with the sound of a coin dispenser. Slavoj's reactions slowed: there was no point in running and hiding. He was no longer afraid, only drained, exhausted and bitter. He had underestimated his enemies, and he was ready to pay for his shortsightedness. One way or another, his story had to end.

"You will answer for your sins, Kosar!" Hrvoje's voice trembled with disgust. The bold man with greenish eyes hadn't changed since their last encounter in Zagreb.

"You will pay, Kosar!" Tomislav bellowed behind him, unleashing his enhancement and crushing flimsy chairs into the wall. Slavoj's lips formed a condescending smirk: Tomislav's martial skills were no match for an Alkar's prowess.

"I will serve justice!" Tomislav shouted. Slavoj stared into his colorless eyes and shook his head.

"You are in no position to serve justice. Your hands are bloodier than mine."

Tomislav glared at him, waving to the three men standing in the entrance. He had not come alone.

"You can break all his bones, but make sure he still breathes when I get to him." He spat through gritted teeth.

Slavoj did not know the men. Strangely enough, he felt self-content rise faintly in his chest: Duančić and Drašković considered him impressive enough to bring along other Offcasts.

They attacked him head-on, demonstrating neither skill nor patience. Had Slavoj been in better shape, he would have sliced them from their shoulders down in three elegant moves: once he had taught Dragomir to perform the move, then he had passed it on to Goran. But now he could barely evade braceter shots with grace. Slavoj tossed rusty pans into the wells of twisted gravity and ducked his head to avoid their inevitable return, still hoping to reach his scimitar. One of the men yelped, horror twisting his otherwise pleasant features. After all these years, he could still instill fear in the hearts of his opponents. Not that it mattered much. In front of him, Tomislav picked his weapon from the floor.

"Comes in handy, doesn't it?" Tomislav asked, studying the edges of the scimitar, daunting him. Squeezing his fists, Slavoj lunged forward, avoiding deadly shots. Drašković snarled when their eyes locked for a split second. Then he turned to his younger companion, ignoring Slavoj's assault.

"Ah, Franjo, don't try so hard!" He gave the man a cruel sneer. "You're a snitch working for the Spy Guild. We know." Tomislav's hand halted mid-air. "That's why I brought you here. I am afraid you are not going to return to your light-mastering friends this time."

Slavoj was again too late to stop him. Tomislav pushed Franjo forward, anger clouding his pale gaze. Slavoj only just managed to catch the man's limp body, when Tomislav drove the scimitar through his chest. An awkward move. Deadly, nonetheless.

"Thank you, Franjo," Tomislav said with a smirk.

Slavoj's face went pale. "You have tainted my scimitar with the blood of my kin. You are..." he wanted to say 'abomination' but swallowed his breath. Tomislav shrugged insouciantly.

"I've learnt a lot from you, you know. But I still don't get it! Do you believe the lies you spin, or have you gone mad? I guess it's time I stopped caring." His words dripped venom, and Slavoj avoided his spiteful eyes. He felt dizzy when Tomislav pointed a finger at him. "You killed Ognjen Gothar, Kosar! It was your weapon. Once I and Hrvoje say so, it will become the truth."

"Let's finish it, Tomo!" Hrvoje stepped forward. "He doesn't deserve to live!"

"You're right." Tomislav tossed the scimitar away and tuned the braceter on his right wrist.

"That traitor and the Byzantine Basilisk cost my nephew his life. Absurd... when I think about it."

"You were terrified of Dragomir more than any of us," Slavoj spat the words at him, releasing his bright fury. It was a poor decision, but Slavoj never boasted self-restraint.

A sharp pain in his shoulder and Hrvoje's pleased smile forced him to withdraw. Hrvoje shot him, and Kosar clung to the wall. He remained on his feet, stretching his enhancement to its limits. He knew he'd fall. To the floor, to the ceiling – it did not matter much. His limbs went cold, and he saw the Veil coil around him – a soft blanket that brought no peace but promised silence.

Exhausted, he leaned on the wall, his tousled hair falling like a curtain over his eyes: he'd prefer not to see Tomislav and Hrvoje, least of all in his final moment. Was it too much to ask for?

"My nephew underestimated the Psychics," Tomislav said. "I will not make the same mistake. He may have died a hero, but he was a fool."

Death never frightened Slavoj, but the mere idea of perishing from the hands of the man he so deeply despised made him wince with apprehension. He could not let Tomislav defeat him. Never. With one desperate gravity twist he gained his scimitar back and lunged forward, murderous fire burning in his brown eyes. Duančić snatched Tomislav away in the last moment, letting Slavoj slash through thin air. Slavoj's boiling rage subsided as quickly as it had taken hold of him. Why was he still so vain, trying to prove his valor? Goran and Leudora were safe. And his Helmut was dead. Nothing else mattered.

There was something in the air that startled him. It felt like a heavy coat tossed over his shoulders, a mist of cotton – thick and soft. He recognized the tremors within the Veil. "Alkari?" he wondered. A bitter laugh creased his features, "That bastard! Oh, he is the Red Leader now, isn't he?"

The door opened swiftly, jolting everyone to a halt. Slavoj glanced at Hrvoje and Tomislav, reading astonishment and irritation in the set of their jaws and the line of their pursed lips. A black-haired man flanked by two women barged into the room – all clad in the familiar red-and-black uniforms with intricate knots across their dolmans. One of the women leaned over Franjo's body, touching his pulse. "Beyond our reach," she said.

The young man remained unfazed. To Slavoj's surprise, Duančić almost tripped, stretching out his hands to him.

"Mladen..." he whispered, "What are you doing here?!"

Slavoj stared at Mladen's round face and spiky hair: "So that must be what Apostle Duančić has grown up to be. Thankfully, he doesn't take after his father." Slavoj's gaze pondered on his stained hands clutching the scimitar's hilt: "He thinks he's good at playing the Serpent, but his anxiety gives him away. Too young for all that rubbish."

"I am executing the orders of the Magisters of the Alka." Mladen Duančić had a sonorous voice that Slavoj found strangely calming.

"You are late, Guardian Duančić!" Tomislav crossed his arms on his chest, assuming a defensive pose. "The criminal has already killed an innocent man, and he would have stabbed me had your father not interfered. I'm glad he did." Tomislav pointed at Franjo's dead body sprawled on the floor.

This time Slavoj laughed. "I now understand why you hate the Byzantine Bloods so much! You're afraid of them, Tomislav! They can catch parts of your thoughts and see you for what you are."

"Keep your mouth shut, traitor!" Hrvoje shouted, his high-pitched voice assaulting Slavoj's hearing. Slavoj could barely suppress that sick laughter that strangled him. Whatever he said, whatever he did, whatever tapestry of lies he could weave, Tomislav Drašković would still come out on top. Slavoj had hoped to die in peace. Hopes were stupid - pleasant dreams feeding treacherous reality and nothing more.

A tedious charade followed. Mladen approached Slavoj and nodded to the women: his expression showed neither pity, nor satisfaction. Slavoj lifted his hands, feeling electric handcuffs squeeze his wrists.

"Slavoj Kosar," Mladen addressed him by name, "you stand accused of high treason and murder. As an Alkar, you are to be handed over to the Alka and transported to the Tower, where you will await your judgement." Did he learn the words by heart? "With the authority invested in me by the Grand Magister, I request Lord Drašković, Lord Duančić and their companions to leave the house immediately."

Any Offcast crossing the path of the Alka was either foolish or dangerous. Tomislav and Hrvoje were both. Hrvoje Duančić waved his hands in desperation.

"Mladen, have you heard Lord Drašković? This man needs to be killed!" he exclaimed.

"That does not explain your presence here." He paused, "You will have a chance to speak against the suspect during the Trial." He turned on his heels, ignoring his father's outbursts of anger.

"You are my son! You must believe me!"

"I am an Alkar. I follow orders."

Was that all they did – followed orders? That desperate sparkle in Malden's eyes told a different story: Mladen Duančić was terrified of losing his cool demeanor, of facing his father. He pushed Slavoj through the doorway, holding his hand on Slavoj's shoulder. "I hope Goran does not become an Alkar," Slavoj whispered to himself. "If he doesn't become another Dragomir, I would not have lived in vain."