"Zarla (Astonishing), you've gone bald overnight!" exclaimed Yaron. As usual, he was in a hurry to be the first to react, but this time his voice held not mockery, but dumbfounded admiration for the abilities of Ortahn's head. "Like a fat egg!"

  Yaron's cry was echoed by the guffaws of his cronies. Ortahn stood between the homunculi, his freshly shaven head catching the dim light of the light-weave. More significant changes were hidden in his eyes, but only those standing nearby noticed, except Yaron. He wouldn't have seen them even without the "fat egg" in the way—for him, eyes were merely a means of observation and a good target in a fight.

  "An interesting tactical move, Ortahn," came Tulila's mocking voice from behind him. "Practical. You've reduced your surface area for capture and become more aerodynamic. I used to wear my hair short on missions myself. Well, what are we standing around for, girls?" The owner of the voice threw open the lecture hall door. "I understand what a scandalous hairstyle this is, but you can stare at it all you want during the lecture. It's not like you have anything else to do."

  Ortahn gave her a short nod (an unprecedented sign of life from him) and proceeded to his desk at the front. A wave of whispers rolled through the class. Someone continued to laugh quietly, but most fell silent, looking at him with a new, wary interest. The bald Ortahn no longer looked like just a "walking wardrobe"; his appearance now had a detail reminiscent of ancient ascetics, warriors from the western peninsulas who had lost their mistress, or convicted criminals. It was frightening. Something in the familiar order of things had cracked.

  Tulila, meanwhile, waved a hand, and from her other hands, she wove a projection in the air resembling ancient tapestries with the silhouettes of majestic, many-winged beings.

  "Today we (I) will talk about the Nephilim," she announced in her usual cynical tone. "Or, as particularly dramatic ladies call them, 'Neo-gods.' The essence of their nature has been lost to the ages, but it is believed they were created by ancient alchemistesses during the Fall of Faith. Whether this was the cause of the old religions' collapse or whether they were created to sit upon the abandoned thrones of the goddesses—is likewise unknown. Our familiar homunculi are made in their image, but are markedly inferior in every way. Just like... well, I won't say it in front of the girls. Ugh, I had to create a test on this vague topic. You girls are thrilled, of course. Let's heighten your joy by beginning our favorite activity of squeezing simple, common knowledge out of you. Name our country's Nephilim."

  Tulila was an outstanding teacher and managed to squeeze (with a few hints in the form of first letters) a whole "Order," "Truth," "Abundance," "Cultivation," " Passion," "Power," and even the one-of-a-kind "Mystery" out of the men.

  "Yes, Mystery. I don't advise seeking her help, as for her, the formation and search for information is the knowledge itself. She sells not the water from the well, but a map on how to dig it. And that map is always thirteen times longer than necessary. Ortahn," Tulila suddenly addressed him, clearly testing his new state. "Do you know any Nephilim names? Or did you spend all your energy on your new style?"

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  "Law," Ortahn answered, his voice grim and clear.

  Silence fell. His classmates hadn't known he could speak until now, let alone get into context. They'd gathered enough impressions from this to last them a month.

  "Correct. Maybe I should shave the others too?" Tulila praised him and was already starting to turn away, but Ortahn wasn't finished.

  "Freedom. Duty. Void. Loyalty. Ardor. Valor. Protection. Feud. Honor."

  Slowly, like a stone homunculus, Tulila turned back to Ortahn.

  "The mythical male Nephilim? My lecture is on officially recognized history, not conspiracy theories. Such old granddads' tales are not part of our curriculum. Now, Law ensures compliance with what? Unbelievably, laws. Anyone can appeal to them, even a man, but it's best not to. A frivolous summons is a serious violation of the law," she concluded, glancing at Yaron as the most likely candidate for any act of foolishness. Yaron, in turn, was staring intently (as intently as he could) at Ortahn.

  Taking advantage of the pause, Ortahn raised his hand. He wasn't sure if it was proper procedure, but he wanted to ask a question and chose this silent way to get attention. He knew it would also attract the attention of the other men, but he was learning for two now and was obligated to extract every possible crumb of knowledge from Tulila.

  "Well, now. A student is raising his hand. In honor of such a momentous occasion, I suppose I'll answer."

  "According to your diagram, they are subject to Sayora's law of balance," Ortahn pointed to the projection the others had forgotten. "But the incident with the Golden Mask shows that the Nephilim have free will. That's a contradiction. You cannot simultaneously give a being an absolute law and allow it to choose."

  Everyone managed to grow even quieter, though it had seemed impossible. The men's gazes darted between Ortahn and Tulila, waiting for her to pounce on him, for he was obviously distracting her from her work by spouting sudden, insane nonsense.

  "Because it's a pile of megahoneyeater dung, that's why," she answered calmly and, for the first time in her teaching career, laughed out loud. Then, wiping away tears, she added, "It's a theater of security. Like the railings at the edges of the cantons. The thought that something can stop these beings is meant to lull our fear. But any law can be broken; the very root cause of law is to prevent frequent undesirable actions. Excellent point, Ortahn. I hope your enlightenment lasts at least a week, to give me the illusion that my work isn't in vain."

  A muffled hiss of astonishment went through the class. The lecture ended, and the test began. When the homunculi, spared by Esh-Faya today, brought in the stack of papers, Tulila waved a hand at them.

  "Look at them closely, girls. They are what's left of great ideas. The descendants of Nephilim. It's frightening to imagine what the next generations will create."

  The class buzzed, squinting at their papers, whispering amongst themselves. Ortahn, however, wrote quickly and confidently, finished the test first, and walked to the desk, placing it before Tulila. She ran her eyes over the lines, grunted, and tossed the sheet aside.

  "All answers are correct, and you even corrected some of the questions. Such audacity should be punished, according to regulations. But these are my lessons, and I make my own rules. I'm giving you a score higher than the highest," she smiled grimly and announced, "Congratulations. Now they'll all hate you even more. You're no longer 'fat-walker' and 'meat wardrobe.' You're 'smarty-pants' and 'show-off,' and those are the most dangerous things to be in this place."

  Ortahn was neither pleased nor saddened, simply nodding in acceptance of the sentence. Behind him, Yaron's smirk collapsed as a metaphorical shadow fell across his eyes.