Morning didn’t come abruptly.

  Dima woke to sounds—muted, steady, alive. Footsteps thudded somewhere beyond the window, wood creaked, people spoke quietly. Not alarming. Just the city waking up.

  He sat up in bed and froze for a moment, listening. The ceiling was real, the walls solid, the window an actual window. All of it felt unfamiliar after the road.

  Footsteps sounded outside the door.

  When he stepped into the common corridor, Stasyan and Dozhor were already there. Both looked better than the day before—well-rested, though still cautious.

  A girl waited for them by the stairs.

  Sholga.

  She gave them a quick once-over, lingering on Dima a moment longer than the others.

  “Sleep well?” she asked kindly.

  No one answered right away, but their faces said enough.

  “Good,” Sholga nodded. “Then let’s go. Grigory’s waiting.”

  Downstairs, the saloon looked different than it had the night before. Fewer people, quieter noise, simpler smells. Some were already eating; others were just setting out dishes. Grigory stood by the counter, no apron on, a mug in his hand.

  “Morning,” he said when he saw them. “Come on. The past doesn’t walk into the city every day.”

  “You’re not working today?” Dima asked.

  “Can’t work every day,” Grigory replied.

  He set the mug down, threw on some tattered cloak, and gestured toward the exit.

  Dima caught himself thinking that this was the first time since arriving here that he wasn’t moving because he had to survive—but because someone wanted to hear him.

  And that frightened him far more than the road ever had.

  “We could use something to eat before we go,” Stasyan drawled, scratching his neck.

  Grigory paused for a second, as if only now remembering ordinary things, then gave a short nod.

  “Oh. Right. Slipped my mind.”

  He turned toward the hall.

  “Lival, three bowls of porridge.”

  A brief acknowledgment came from somewhere to the side, and soon the warm smell of boiled grain spread through the room.

  All four of them sat at a table, waiting in silence.

  Sholga returned quickly, setting down bowls and mugs. The bowls held porridge—millet by the look of it, mixed with stewed meat. The mugs sloshed with cloudy carrot juice.

  At some point, Grigory noticed Dima grimacing as he took another spoonful.

  “You didn’t have food like this back there?” he asked, without mockery.

  “We did,” Dima replied, chewing. “I just usually ate very different things. Millet… not my favorite.”

  Grigory nodded, as if filing that away, but didn’t ask anything else.

  Once they’d finished, they followed him immediately. Grigory walked fast, not looking back, choosing shortcuts. Narrow streets, passages between houses, back alleys where old stone stood alongside fresh boards. It was clear—he wanted to get there quickly.

  Dima walked along, looking around. What surprised him was that everyone seemed busy. No one sat idle, no one slumped against walls, no hands were held out. Even in his own time, for all its abundance, there had been homeless people, empty eyes, lives that had fallen out of motion.

  Here, everyone was going somewhere, carrying something, talking to someone.

  The place didn’t look rich.

  But it looked collected.

  “You should probably know,” Grigory said, slowing his pace slightly. “The elder’s name is Pyotr. He’s a… peculiar man. Arrogant, yes. But not a tyrant—there have been worse before him.”

  “Then why are we in such a hurry?” Dima noted.

  Grigory smirked faintly.

  “Honestly? I’m just curious to hear what the two of you will talk about. He knows far more stories than I do.”

  Ahead, beyond another bend in the streets, something came into view—either a building or a tower. It rose above the surrounding houses, as if it had grown out of them. A square spread out before it, and at its very center stood a transparent crystal—tall, almost perfectly even.

  Stasyan stopped abruptly and raised a hand in front of Dima.

  “We should go around it,” he whispered. “Before we draw attention.”

  “Why did you stop?” Grigory turned back.

  “Well…” Dozhor said unexpectedly, “we’re afraid of that crystal over there.”

  Grigory looked at them with suspicion, clearly not believing it at first.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “What, are you some kind of mages?” he scoffed. “The kind that makes crystals explode?”

  “We’ve just had a bad experience,” Dima replied calmly. “With a mage. Since then, we prefer to stay away from things like that.”

  Grigory studied them for a few seconds, weighing the words, then shrugged.

  “Alright,” he said. “We’ll go around. No harm in that.”

  He turned aside, leading them along the edge of the square, farther from the crystal.

  Even so, as Dima passed by, he felt it—without even looking. A cold, hollow presence, as if something inside the stone was watching, but staying silent for now.

  “LOOK!” a shout rang out from the crowd.

  Everyone turned at once.

  A boy stood at the edge of the square, pointing toward the center without taking his eyes off it. The transparent crystal began to change. Something shifted inside it, flowed—and the stone filled with a deep violet light, thick and rich, as if the color were seeping from within.

  A whisper rolled across the square.

  That’s it, Dima thought. Now we’ll have to run from here too.

  He instinctively took a step back.

  “You clearly didn’t tell me everything,” Grigory said, no hint of a smile left.

  He looked closely at Dima, squinting slightly, then gave a brief nod toward the crystal.

  “This is because of you, isn’t it?”

  The crowd was slowly closing in—not aggressively, more out of curiosity. People craned their necks, whispered, pointed. Some looked uneasy, others intrigued.

  Stasyan tensed beside Dima, ready to bolt at any moment.

  Dima felt the familiar pressure rising inside him again—not pain, not fear, but the sensation of being recognized.

  And the stone had recognized him too.

  The crowd kept growing, as if the crystal were drawing the entire city toward it. People flowed in from every direction, filling the square, murmuring, pointing at the stone as it shimmered with violet light.

  Then, suddenly, a figure appeared on the balcony of the half-tower.

  “Break it up!” a sharp voice rang out from above. “And don’t listen to whatever it’s whispering into your ears!”

  The crowd froze. People turned, murmured, looked up. Some nodded, others hesitated—and part of the crowd began to disperse, reluctantly but without protest.

  “And why shouldn’t we listen?!” someone shouted from below.

  “And what do I keep telling you about that crystal?” the voice from the balcony shot back.

  “That it’s pretty!” Grigory yelled before he could stop himself.

  “Try joking again,” the figure snapped. “Move along. Now.”

  Most of the people obeyed. Still, a small group remained near the crystal—standing in silence, watching as it slowly pulsed with violet light, as if hypnotizing them.

  Grigory wasn’t smiling anymore.

  He turned and led them toward the building. Up close, it looked ordinary—stone walls, solid doors. Only the wooden tower on the roof stood out from the rest.

  “Well,” he said as they walked, “you’ve already seen the elder. Now I’ll introduce you properly. Let’s go.”

  Inside was a small hall. A man sat at a table—tall, gaunt, with a heavy gaze. He looked at the newcomers with clear displeasure.

  “After what just happened,” he said coldly, looking at Grigory, “he wouldn’t want any meetings.”

  “I think I can shed some light on what happened,” Grigory replied calmly.

  The man looked at him in surprise, studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod.

  Without saying another word, Grigory led them toward the stairs.

  “You clearly didn’t tell me everything,” Grigory said, the hint of a smile gone.

  He studied Dima closely, squinting, then gave a brief nod toward the crystal.

  “This is because of you, isn’t it?”

  The crowd was slowly closing in—not aggressively, but out of curiosity. People craned their necks, whispered, pointed. Some looked uneasy; others intrigued.

  Stasyan tensed beside Dima, ready to bolt at any moment.

  Dima felt the familiar pressure rising inside him again—not pain, not fear, but the sensation of being recognized.

  And the stone had recognized him too.

  The crowd kept growing, as if the crystal were drawing the entire city toward it. People flowed in from every direction, filling the square, murmuring, pointing at the stone as it shimmered with deep violet light.

  Then, suddenly, a figure appeared on the balcony of the half-tower.

  “Break it up!” a sharp voice rang out from above. “And don’t listen to whatever it’s whispering into your ears!”

  The crowd froze. Heads turned. Voices hushed. Some nodded, others hesitated—and part of the crowd began to disperse, reluctantly but without protest.

  “And why shouldn’t we listen?!” someone shouted from below.

  “And what do I keep telling you about that crystal?” the voice shot back.

  “That it’s pretty!” Grigory called out before he could stop himself.

  “Try joking again,” the figure snapped. “Move along. Now.”

  Most of the people obeyed. Still, a small group remained near the crystal—standing in silence, watching as it slowly pulsed with violet light, as if hypnotizing them.

  Grigory wasn’t smiling anymore.

  He turned and led them toward the building. Up close, it looked ordinary—stone walls, solid doors. Only the wooden tower on the roof stood out from the rest.

  “Well,” he said as they walked, “you’ve already seen the elder. Now I’ll introduce you properly. Let’s go.”

  Inside was a small hall. A man sat at a table—tall, gaunt, with a heavy gaze. He looked at the newcomers with open displeasure.

  “After what just happened,” he said coldly, looking at Grigory, “he wouldn’t want any meetings.”

  “I think I can shed some light on what happened,” Grigory replied calmly.

  The man looked at him in surprise, studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod.

  Without another word, Grigory led them toward the stairs.

  “As you may have noticed, our city lives peacefully,” the elder said, pulling something out of the desk as he spoke. “We don’t kill each other. We don’t tear at one another over trifles.”

  He took out a large folder—thick, worn, clearly old. Slowly, he opened it and began flipping through the pages, occasionally glancing at Dima, as if comparing him to what was written inside.

  “This is probably the safest place I’ve ever been,” Stasyan said, looking around.

  “We do our best,” the elder nodded. “And I hope my son”—he gestured toward Grigory—“will someday stop joking around and learn to rule properly after me. If, of course, he gets elected.”

  Everyone turned to look at Grigory in surprise.

  He only gave a crooked smile and shrugged slightly, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.

  “Excuse me,” Dima spoke up. “What do you know about these crystals?”

  The elder snorted, still focused on the folder.

  “Other than the fact that mages know how to…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “…embrace them? Almost nothing.”

  He looked up.

  “I suspect you yourself haven’t fully realized yet that you’re a sorcerer.”

  “There can’t be any magic,” Dima frowned. “I’ve already seen too much here, but still… the world couldn’t have changed that much.”

  “I was told,” the elder continued calmly, lowering his eyes back to the folder, “that crystals reacted roughly the same way to almost everyone from the past.”

  He turned a page.

  “There was a case—one man touched it, and a beam shot out of the crystal. Straight into the sky.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “A group was sent in that direction. My predecessors went with that man.”

  The elder closed the folder.

  “No one returned.”

  Silence fell over the room. Only the faint rustle of pages could be heard as he opened the folder again.

  “Am I correct in assuming,” the elder said slowly, “that you know about this?”

  “Following the direction of the beam is how we reached the city,” Dima replied.

  “Interesting…” the elder murmured.

  And suddenly his eyes began darting rapidly between the folder and Dima. A flash of joy crossed his face—sharp, almost childlike.

  “I found you,” he said. “I have… small photographs of people from the past.”

  The joy instantly turned into shock.

  “Wait. You…”

  Dima jumped up and hurried closer.

  Inside the folder was his photograph. Taken several years before the transfer—faded, edges worn—but the face was unmistakable. Beside it was a short description, written in someone else’s hand.

  “What did you see there?” Grigory asked.

  The elder slowly raised his head and looked at his son.

  “Grisha…” he said quietly. “You have no idea who you brought here.”