Dragomir Drašković first realized the true value of power when he saw a Balkan horned viper lurk in the grass and heard his Aunt Korina Lovren squeak in fear, shifting gravity and jumping to the side. The swirling ribbon of shiny brown measured no longer than half a meter, and Dragomir leaned over the snake, staring into its' glassy eyes. He learnt something that day. He would never have the physical strength to beat his opponents or to prove his point. But fear could be spread with soft whispers. True power did not require an impressive casing.

When he came to the Alkari next year, the Magisters scrutinized him with mocking indifference, sitting in their chairs at the wall of the spacious Main Training Hall of the Tower. They could not refuse a request of Lord Domagoj Drašković's heir, but apart from strangely quiet Slavoj Kosar, nobody expected him to impress them. Their time was too precious to waste on a scrawny teenager with gangly limbs, a curtain of dark hair and eyes of artificial green that everyone, except his sister Gordana, found eerie and disturbing. When another contender sparred with him, Dragomir dodged and twisted, not allowing a single blow to reach him, yet the boy could easily withstand Dragomir's own punches. He was never a brawler. He could never win a fist fight. He never wanted to join the military. But he needed power.

"Is this all you can do?" Magister Lipót Kovács let out a tired sigh, leaning back in his wooden chair. "Twist and turn like a snake?" he chuckled, exchanging weary glances with Magister Fink. "It's not a dancing school, you know."

"I am aware." Dragomir steadied his voice, controlling his breaths and slowing the rhythm of his heart. He saw the Grand Magister rise from his seat and meet his eyes without hesitation.

"I do not doubt that you are a smart young man, Drašković. But the Alka is not a place for you."

"But..." Slavoj Kosar interrupted the Grand Magister, but was quickly silenced by Kovács's impatient gesture. Dragomir did not move, standing in the center of the main training hall bathed in bright light. Only his glassy eyes scrutinized the faces of the Magisters, expecting a change.

His calculations did not fail: Kovács was the first who started to cough. Squeezing out a smile, he asked for water and almost choked. Then Slavoj Kosar started rubbing his throat, fighting an unpleasant prickling sensation.

"Something... is wrong," Grand Magister Blažetin whispered. Slowly, measuring his every step, the lanky teenager approached the line of their chairs of black Setra wood. Silently, he pulled a tiny vial out of his sleeve, handing it over to Slavoj Kosar and ignoring the Magister's shocked yelp.

"You have all ingested a powerful enhancement-weakening agent, Magisters. I call it 'alanit'. It came with the water you have consumed at dinner," Dragomir said quietly. "The lack of proper security and the negligence of your intelligence officers allowed me to sneak in harmful substances that I used to incapacitate the high command of the Alka as well as my opponent, whom I have offered water prior to the sparring contest." Dragomir pointed at the coughing boy next to him. "I have also taken the liberty of bringing a counter-agent that can neutralize the effects immediately." He paused, seeing their expressions change from confusion to a mixture of terror and interest. "You have asked me how my service can possibly contribute to the Alka. Now you have my answer. I will make sure nobody ever threatens the Alkari outside the battlefield."

The Grand Magister took a small sip of the counteragent and passed it back to Magister Kosar. Now he stared at Dragomir with unquenchable curiosity.

"You have fused chemistry with the technology of the Ancestors, haven't you, Drašković? How?"

"I am a student of biochemistry. And I intend to continue my studies," he replied.

"You haven't mentioned that you were a scientist..." Kovács murmured.

"You didn't show interest," Dragomir said with cold indifference.

"We won't make this mistake again." Blažetin approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I hereby accept your service to the Alka, Apostle Drašković." Dragomir bowed, the words burning on his tongue – so simple and so terrifying: "With my heart and my blood."

Following his acceptance to the Alka, Dragomir never returned to the Lovrens, who had taken him in after his mother's suicide. His new status granted him opportunities that he used to the best of his abilities.

Years later, he asked himself if the 'best of his abilities' was ever enough. When his father refused to cede Svetozar Galbur to the Psychics, Dragomir barely raised an eyebrow. He did not expect stubborn Domagoj Drašković to understand his estranged son. He snapped, telling Dragomir he had no idea what sort of monster Svetozar Galbur was. But Domagoj was wrong: Dragomir knew exactly what they all were. They all considered him arrogant, and they were entirely wrong. He never thought highly of others. But he neither thought highly of himself. He only saw a little further than some did.

Domagoj's pale blue eyes burnt while he kept pacing around his study. Dragomir watched him silently, his hands clasped behind his back.

"These Byzantine Bloods are nothing like us! We need to slay the Basilisk before she poisons us."

Controlling the outward manifestation of his disdain, Dragomir approached the window.

"The Alkari will not support a plan based solely on a personal vendetta."

Unexpectedly, Domagoj seized Dragomir's shoulder, forcing him to flex. Very few people dared to breach his personal space, and Dragomir was almost taken aback by his father's outburst of emotion.

"You must support me, Dragomir. You are my family. You are everything to me."

"I am an Alkar," he replied coldly. There was nothing else that he wanted to add.

"Should I remind you about the necessity of sacrifice?!" Domagoj exclaimed.

"I fail to see the necessity in this case."

"I will bring forty gravity-switchers to the forest, Dragomir! Even a lightning-bearer will fail to stop them!"

Dragomir did not answer. He stared at the crumbling stucco on the wall, the gears of his mind turning behind the stone façade of his long face. With his habitual feline grace, he pulled a flickering projector from the inner pocket of his sleeve and placed it on the table in his father's cabinet. Bright images started hovering over the surface, forcing Domagoj to squint against their glimmer.

"What are these?" Domagoj asked, frowning.

"Letters. From Lady Galbur." He paused. "She is a better strategist than you think. She has sent messages to every family supporting you, urging them not to take part in your charade."

"She can't intimidate them!" Domagoj scoffed with derision.

"She knows that," Dragomir replied nonchalantly. "It is a warning. And I would take it seriously."

"You?! What can a girl like her do?"

"People tend to underestimate her mind and overestimate her enhancement. Capable intellect paired with desperation is unstoppable. And I have reason to believe that she is desperate." Dragomir raised an eyebrow, watching his father's face turn pale. "Why is revenge more important to you than the outcome of the war?"

"You don't understand." Domagoj collapsed into his old chair. Dragomir watched him intently, his ice-green eyes focused on his father's face.

"Explain."

"I can't," Domagoj whispered. "I have been hunting Svetozar Galbur for years... I will make him pay for everything, for everything he has done to me. To us."

"What does Leudora Galbur have to do with your grievances?" Dragomir asked, his face remaining stern and concentrated. Only a slight twitch of his thin lips and a flicker of an eyebrow gave away deeper thoughts buried beneath his controlled exterior.

"I cannot let Svetozar go. And Svetozar loves her. If I hurt her, I will hurt him."

Dragomir nodded nonchalantly, clasping his hands behind his back once again. Silently, he turned around and walked away: his father was not going to change his mind, but in the end, he never expected his father to concede. Emotional attachments and grudges were best left for those who did not hold power. Dragomir could never allow himself such weaknesses.

"Dragomir... wait!" Domagoj called out, but he did not stop. He despised Domagoj and his methods.

When he left the glider in Zagreb, two other Alkari met him, saluting briefly. Dragomir only nodded in acknowledgement. They were Orjeta Myzeqari and Helmut Wiegler. He said nothing, following them to a simple ground car. Guardian Wiegler agreed to accompany him to the outskirts of the city, and Dragomir did not deem it necessary to shower the German with pointless questions. Orjeta joined him without any specific orders: it was easier to control the insufferable Myzeqari by his side than to let her roam freely. Dragomir was silent. He noticed Orjeta's curious stare focused on his long face but remained just as impeccably aloof as he had always been. He stopped the car in front of an old house - a half-ruined and abandoned construction on the outskirts of Zagreb. Orjeta fidgeted impatiently.

"I bet your aunt won't let you in, Red Leader." She grinned.

"I'm not giving her a choice," he replied, leaving the car. Orjeta followed him without waiting for a formal invitation. Helmut Wiegler stayed behind, following Dragomir's order.

Dragomir stopped at the door and forcefully clasped his hands behind his back: was it too careless of him to hope his migraines would give him a break? Detachment and self-control had a cost of their own, and it was high.

"Lady Lovren is neither smart nor useful." Orjeta grinned, showing her white teeth. "I wonder why you keep her around."

Dragomir gave her an almost bemused look, watching a golden sparkle twinkle in her dark-blue eyes and a black strand fall on her narrow forehead.

"I surround myself with those whose ideas and attitudes I despise, because no single man's vision is enough to circumvent the varied pitfalls of reality. Believing oneself to be always right is a dangerous mistake. And a very costly one."

Orjeta sighed, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

"And there goes my hope that you keep your ever-present discipline by punching bags and shouting in the dark..."

"That would be a waste of resources," he answered drily, before gesturing with his left hand and forcing a metal hinge to move.

Predictably, Korina Lovren did not express joy at the sight of her nephew.

"I am here to see Svetozar Galbur on behalf of the Alkari," he said, shooting her a speculative glance.

"He is alive," Korina spat out.

"I wish to make that conclusion myself."

"You can't order me around. I am not one of your Alkari." Korina made her discontent perfectly obvious.

"You are most certainly not. An Alkar would understand the importance of duty," he remarked pointedly.

"He is dangerous," Korina snapped. She knew better than to argue with him. It took her years to learn, but in the end she started fearing him like everyone else.

"I assure you my training is adequate enough to handle one weakened Byzantine Blood." He replied coldly, passing Korina.

"I give you five minutes!" she shouted behind his back. Then she sighed, bringing her hands to her eyes and nodding at Orjeta. "And that Albanian goes with you. Just in case."

"Five minutes will be sufficient."

He proceeded into the house, moving past two other gravity-switchers, whose curious glares he ignored. Orjeta followed him to the basement concealed behind a heavy metal grate in the backyard. Effortlessly removing the lock, Dragomir stretched a hand to Orjeta, who dismissed his courtesy with a loud scoff. He did not insist: she was a better martial artist than half of the Alkari, including himself. And she owed half of her spectacular abilities to Dragomir's carefully crafted potions.

The cellar was a huge maze of branching tunnels and abandoned halls propped up with wooden rods and wrought iron pieces. Hardly noticeable water trickles ran down the walls, tiny waterfalls creasing the grey surface. Dragomir proceeded further. While Orjeta stared at a set of underground passages, he wondered how the Lovrens had previously used the hideout. His relatives obviously knew how to take precautions in the case of an attack: all the pieces of machines, equipment, furniture and weapons available in those crumbling halls were notably made of twisted Ancestor materials.

The room where Svetozar Galbur was kept contained three metal stools and an old wooden table. Dragomir found the Byzantine Blood chained to the wall with handcuffs around his wrists and long black hair sticking to his forehead. One glance was enough for him to determine that Lord Galbur had been drugged with alanit – his own enhancement-suppressing agent. He stepped forward, ignoring Orjeta's loud warnings.

"You can't stay away, can you?"

"He has enough alanit in his blood to put half of the Offcasts present here into a comatose state. If they do not stop overdosing him, he will die in a few hours."

"How do you know that?"

"Blue lips," Dragomir replied. "The first sign of severe alanit poisoning." He had tested the drug on himself, but he could not let them know.

He moved swiftly in the darkness, drawing closer to Svetozar Galbur. A solitary lightbulb trembled above their heads, sending scarce rays of light to their faces

"The Dalmatian Serpent himself," Svetozar murmured. Dragomir lifted an eyebrow at the unexpected firmness of his voice. He had thought Svetozar Galbur to be hateful, arrogant and proud. Instead, he sounded snarky and sad. Dragomir leaned forward, willing his face to its usual blank expression. He knew how to look intimidating: his appearance consisted of sharp angles and disproportionately long lines, while his narrow eyes resembled artificial green crystals. His dispassionate demeanor only contributed to the terrifying image that he had cultivated over the years. Orjeta wisely stayed behind Dragomir, keeping her distance.

"Lord Galbur," Dragomir addressed him, scrutinizing the blood stains on his shoulders, "Your niece has offered my family the star heart in return for your life."

Galbur smiled wryly – either his senses were dulled by pain and drugs, or he was testing Dragomir's patience. Either way, he averted his gaze as soon as he locked eyes with Dragomir.

"Leu..." he whispered, squinting against the light and desperately trying to discern Dragomir's features, "Your people are very stupid if they try to kill her. You know that, don't you, Dragomir?"

He frowned upon hearing his first name. There were few people who dared to call him by name. And even those who did usually spat it out as if it were a curse. Galbur, on the other hand, carefully savored every sound. After a long pause, Dragomir finally spoke.

"If my family accepts the conditions of the exchange, Lady Galbur will not be harmed."

"And you believe that, pray-tell?"

"I don't use faith as an argument," Dragomir retaliated coldly.

Svetozar did not seem to care for his response. He grimaced, suppressing the pain. Dragomir felt his eyes tracing the outline of his jaw and focusing on his dark hair. A leap separated him from the prisoner.

"Your father will not approve of you being here," Galbur murmured, shaking his head. "You should leave."

"I am the envoy of the Alka. Should I remind you that I do not answer to Lord Drašković?"

"So... you're the envoy? I thought you were their tame alchemist." Svetozar chuckled, "I am an old fox, Dragomir, why not tell me the truth? You and Blažetin are not as stupid as the rest of your cherished people. The war has drained you. It has drained us too." He sighed, "We are all done and gone if the news of my capture reaches Tijana and my cousins. Eventually the rumors will spread. My son and niece cannot keep my sudden disappearance a secret from the rest of my kin forever. And... what then? You know, don't you?! You may be too young to remember the blood spilled in the First Balkan War, but the consequences... Oh, you know well enough!" He tilted his head to the side, staring into Dragomir's unchanging face.

"Yes, you may win, Dragomir. You may – you've proven your capabilities more than once. Only there won't be anything left for you or for Blažetin in the end. My relatives are insane and insatiable. And... what if you don't win? You're not infallible, you know. So... what then? If you think that I will hunt down your father and kill him, you are bloody right! I will! He deserves it. He deserves much more than that. He is a monster."

"It is remarkable that your assessments of one another match so perfectly."

Svetozar ignored his comment, staring at him. For the first time someone consciously sought his unnatural eyes.

"You are not Domagoj, are you?"

Dragomir unclasped his hands, tapping his temple briefly – the migraine returned, and he had no way of stopping it. He frowned: why would Svetozar Galbur ask such an obvious question? If he attempted to divide the father and the son, he was thirty years late for that.

"I am not," Dragomir replied. Svetozar sighed with relief.

"Even with all that poison in my veins I can still sense energy – it comes from you and the girl." He nodded to Orjeta, who snorted with disdain. "Why are you here, Dalmatian Serpent? To make sure I am alive? To make sure my niece gets what is left of me if she is not killed by Domagoj's lap dogs? Or is there something else?"

"Nothing else," Dragomir replied coldly.

"Well, I'm still breathing!" Svetozar trembled. "They have not beaten me to death just yet." He managed a stuttering inhale. "Get the hell out of here!"

Dragomir's thin lips tightened, as if he wanted to say something, but did not. He nodded to Orjeta, preparing to leave the room, but Svetozar called out to him once again.

"Wait!"

Dragomir stopped but did not turn around.

"Could you step into the light? Your hair - is it black?" Svetozar asked him. Dragomir lifted an eyebrow, trying to figure out his intentions. Without uttering a word, he approached Svetozar once again, allowing the light to fall on his narrow face flanked by strands of his almost black hair. The scattered rays touched the strands, highlighting their strange reddish undertone. Lord Galbur's lips revealed an intensely unsettling smile.

"It's a lovely color."

"Interesting," Dragomir said after leaving the cellar, "Very interesting."

"What?" Orjeta looked mildly perplexed.

"A man I have never met before was sure that he knew me better than I know myself," he elaborated with a barely noticeable twitch of an eyebrow.

Orjeta frowned.

"Psychics know things. That's why they are dangerous. Besides," she paused, "he was right about one thing."

He tilted his head, casting her an inquisitive glance. Orjeta snorted.

"It's a lovely color."

Dragomir gave her an icy glance, almost forcing Myzeqari to choke on her words. Orjeta looked away, stumbled and stopped in front of the door, bumping into Korina Lovren.

"I told you he's alive!" Korina broke the flow of his thoughts with her squeaky voice. He frowned, his thin lips pressed tightly together. That was the most obvious expression of discontent he could ever let someone witness. He was most dangerous when his tones were measured and his face focused. Korina knew that and so did Orjeta.

"He will die in less than an hour if he gets another dose of alanit," Dragomir said, his eyes piercing Korina.

"It's a precaution..." she tried to explain. Dragomir did not wait for her to finish.

"Your people are painfully unaware of how alanit works. And it shows."

"They are neither chemists, nor doctors!"

"Precisely," he cut her short. "But I am. And I cannot ignore that fact that Svetozar Galbur will most certainly not survive another dose. He has had enough for more than 5 days. You are killing him for no other reason but your ignorance."

"But..."

"Svetozar Galbur's dead body is of no use to you, my father or my uncle. Should I spell out the consequences of his untimely death for our people?" Dragomir's glassy stare could freeze her blood and sear her soul. Korina gaped at him unable to speak.

He gestured to Orjeta and headed toward the exit, hearing his aunt murmur something offensive behind his back.

He drove back to the Tower, leaving Orjeta brooding about something. She was uncomfortable with Dragomir's actions, but she never questioned them. That suited him fine.

"Is Galbur's family as screwed up as yours, Red Leader?" she asked after a long pause. Dragomir shot her a perplexed glance.

"That is one way of putting it."

"Fantastic! And both you and Magister Kosar chose to negotiate with them. Never pinned you for a dreamer!" she chortled. "If you win, the Grand Magister comes up on top. He always does."

Orjeta was a bright woman with unique talents, but she feared him like the rest. Part of Dragomir was grateful that she had never taken a liking to him.

"The price of attracting too much attention is high," he uttered quietly. "Sometimes it is blood. Sometimes it is death. The Grand Magister knows that."

Orjeta sighed, bringing her hands to her face. "It's not surprising that Guardian Jurčević keeps his distance from you."