Part 1. First Impression

  Roslava brought him without warning.

  Lelya was sitting at her desk, sorting through Radimir's reports on a trade dispute with the Coastal Union, when the door opened. Roslava walked in first — calm, businesslike, as always. Behind her stepped a young man, and Lelya forgot about the documents for a second.

  Handsome. Not just attractive — handsome in a way that was irritating. Chestnut curls down to his shoulders, tossed carelessly, as if he'd just rolled out of bed and hadn't bothered to comb his hair. Blue eyes, vivid even in the dim light of the office. A light stubble along his cheekbones, a sharp jawline. Dressed simply — a dark blue T-shirt, jeans, a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulder — but with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he looked in anything. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, by the look of it.

  He stopped in the doorway and surveyed the office with the expression of a man asked to rate a three-star hotel room.

  "Bogumir," said Roslava. "Your bodyguard."

  Bogumir turned his gaze to Lelya — slowly, appraisingly. It lingered on the wild red hair, the freckles, the wide mouth. The corner of his lips twitched — not a smile, but the hint of one.

  "You're the Minister of Foreign Affairs?"

  Not "Madam Minister." Not "pleased to meet you." Just — "you."

  "And you're the vampire who'll be trailing after me everywhere." Lelya didn't stand. "Glad we've established the obvious."

  Something flickered in his eyes. Not offense — more like interest. As if he'd expected a different reaction and was pleasantly surprised.

  Roslava moved to the window, giving them space. Bogumir took a few steps through the office — not toward the visitor's chair, but along the wall, studying the spines of books on the shelves. He moved smoothly, almost lazily, as though he was in no hurry and had never been in a hurry in his life.

  "Not bad for a mage who's been at it five years," he said, running a finger along the spine of some volume. "Your own office, your own ministry. Varvara the Northern, they say, doesn't hand out titles lightly."

  "Three years."

  He turned, raising an eyebrow.

  "Three years," Lelya repeated. "Not five. And Varvara the Northern values results."

  "Even better. At your age I could barely create a decent illusion."

  "I am a Weaver"

  There was no bitterness in his voice — more the familiar irony of a man who had long stopped taking offense at the obvious.

  "But now you're a vampire," said Lelya. "That makes you stronger, doesn't it?"

  Bogumir froze mid-step. Roslava by the window turned her head slightly.

  Lelya realized she'd hit somewhere she shouldn't have. But it was too late to back down — and she didn't want to.

  "It does," he answered after a pause. His voice went flatter. "And it makes me the kind of person who doesn't get many dinner invitations."

  "I'm not big on dinners. Too many forks."

  He blinked. Then — for the first time — smiled for real: quick, surprised, as if she'd said something unexpected.

  "Too many forks," he repeated. "That's an argument."

  The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His face became handsome and impenetrable again.

  "I read about the session in the Freeport League. Impressive. You wiped the floor with Wulf and didn't even break a sweat." Bogumir leaned his shoulder against the bookcase. "But you know what? That was a minor dispute. A children's game. Real stakes look different."

  "And you, of course, know what real stakes look like."

  "I've seen mages die." He said it lightly, almost cheerfully. "Not in conference rooms. Not from lost votes. For real. Blood, screams, the whole thing."

  Roslava by the window turned her head slightly — a warning.

  Bogumir ignored her.

  "So let's get something straight, Minister. I'm not here because I dreamed of a career as a bodyguard. I'm here because Roslava asked. And I don't say no to her."

  Lelya stood. She walked slowly around the desk and stopped two paces from him — close enough to see his pupils narrow.

  "Then let's get something else straight. I'm not here by choice either. I didn't ask for a bodyguard, didn't want one. Varvara decided for me. But since we're both stuck in this situation..."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She paused, searching for the right words. Bogumir waited — with the expression of someone used to hearing something unpleasant.

  "...we could at least not pretend it's torture," she finished. "You drink blood. I turn into a beast at night."

  Again — that quick, surprised smile. And again it disappeared.

  "You're strange," he said.

  "Is that a compliment?"

  "A statement of fact."

  Roslava stepped away from the window.

  "Glad you two are getting along." There was dry irony in her voice. "Bogumir, you've been assigned a room on the residential floor. Lelya, you have a meeting with Radimir about the Coastal Union in an hour. Don't be late."

  She left.

  Bogumir watched her go, then looked back at Lelya.

  "Know what surprises me?"

  "Enlighten me."

  "You're a Shifter. The most powerful type of mage. You could tear a person apart with your bare hands if you wanted." He tilted his head to the side. "And yet you work in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Talking, persuading, bargaining. Why not the army? Why not special forces?"

  Lelya considered several answers — and chose the honest one.

  "Because killing is easy. Convincing is harder."

  "Romantic."

  "Practical. Svarog can win a war. I can make sure there isn't one."

  Bogumir let out a sound — not mocking, more thoughtful.

  "One problem with your logic, Minister. Sometimes war can't be prevented. Sometimes the enemy comes at night, and he doesn't care about pretty words."

  "Then it's good I've got a bodyguard now."

  He opened his mouth — and closed it. Then he laughed: short, quiet, as though he hadn't expected it of himself.

  "Fine," he said. "Fine. Maybe this won't be so bad."

  He headed for the door, but stopped at the threshold.

  "See you at the meeting, Minister."

  "Lelya."

  "What?"

  "My name is Lelya. Not 'Minister.' If we're stuck together — let's drop the formalities."

  He looked at her for a long time — studying her, as if seeing something new.

  "All right," he said at last. "Lelya."

  And left.

  The door closed behind him.

  Lelya stood motionless, staring at the dark wood. The irritation in her chest was slowly cooling — and something else was rising. Not curiosity. Something simpler and stranger: the feeling that this conversation had been easy. That she'd said "too many forks" — a stupid thing she would never have allowed herself in a meeting — and he'd understood. Hadn't judged, hadn't been surprised. Just understood.

  Strange, she thought.

  She opened Radimir's report and made herself read. The letters blurred before her eyes.

  Who are you, Bogumir?

  Part 2. Shadow

  He was everywhere.

  The next morning Lelya stepped out of her apartment — Bogumir was leaning against the opposite wall, scrolling through something on his phone. She went down to the cafeteria — he took a table by the window, with a view of the whole room. She headed to a meeting — he walked three meters behind, never closing the distance, never falling back.

  By lunchtime Lelya felt like an exhibit under glass.

  "Do you have to follow me literally everywhere?" she asked as they left the conference room after a two-hour discussion of trade sanctions.

  "Yes."

  "Even to the bathroom?"

  "I'll wait by the door." He smiled. "Don't worry, I'm a gentleman."

  "What a relief. I was already picturing you standing behind the shower curtain with a notebook. 'Ten thirty-two, subject used the restroom. No suspicious activity detected.'"

  Bogumir snorted — a sound he clearly tried to hold back.

  "You have a strange sense of humor."

  "I have an excellent sense of humor. Most people just don't appreciate it."

  "Most people are boring."

  Lelya glanced at him. He was looking ahead, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

  They walked down the corridor of Alnar. Other mages passed them — most paid no attention to Bogumir. One nodded to Lelya, his gaze sliding indifferently over her companion.

  Only a young battle mage from security — Lelya had seen him a couple of times during training sessions — smirked slightly as he passed.

  "Hey, Bogumir," he said under his breath. "Hope the Minister doesn't forget to feed you on time. We know how your lot get when you're hungry."

  Bogumir didn't even turn his head.

  "Thanks for the concern, Zlatomir. Say hi to your partner for me. Has she found out yet about that healer from the west wing?"

  Zlatomir went pale and quickened his pace. Bogumir kept walking as if nothing had happened.

  "What was that?" Lelya asked.

  "Nothing special. Small joke, small answer."

  "He knows you?"

  "Yes. In passing." Bogumir shrugged.

  They turned toward her office. Lelya opened the door but didn't go in. She leaned against the doorframe, looking at him.

  "Does that happen a lot? Jokes like that?"

  "Sometimes." He stood opposite her, scanning the corridor with his usual gaze. "Vampires aren't the most respected category. Most people don't care, but some like to show off their wit."

  "And it doesn't bother you?"

  He looked at her — long, searching. As if deciding whether to answer honestly.

  "After one thousand year?" He smirked. "I've survived worse than bad jokes."

  "Like what?"

  The question escaped on its own — before she had time to think. Lelya expected him to deflect with a joke or snap back. Instead, Bogumir froze for a second, as if her words had caught him off guard. Not painfully — just unexpectedly.

  "That's not part of my job description," he said at last.

  "I'm not asking about your job description."

  Bogumir was silent. He looked at her — and Lelya saw something shift in his face. The mask didn't disappear, but it grew thinner. More transparent.

  "Maybe later," he said.

  "Later?"

  "When I decide whether I can trust you."

  "And you haven't decided yet?"

  "For now you're work." He smiled slightly, softening the words. "Good work. Interesting. But work."

  Lelya nodded. She understood. She treated most people around her the same way — until proven otherwise, everyone was just a function.

  "Fair enough," she said. "Then I'll wait."

  "For what?"

  "'Later.'"

  She stepped into the office and closed the door.

  But she caught a glimpse of his face — surprised, almost bewildered. As if he wasn't used to someone being willing to wait.

  The rest of the day passed in the usual rhythm — meetings, negotiations, documents. Bogumir was silently present in every office, every corridor. He didn't interfere, didn't comment. He was simply there.

  By evening Lelya caught herself getting used to it. His presence no longer irritated her — it was more calming. As if an extra layer had appeared between her and the world. Not protection — something else.

  A strange feeling for someone who had relied on no one but herself her entire life.

  She returned to her apartment. Bogumir stopped at the door.

  "That's all for today?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  He nodded and turned to leave.

  "Bogumir."

  He turned back.

  "That idiot in the corridor. Zlatomir." Lelya paused. "Did you really know about the healer? Or were you bluffing?"

  A long pause. Then — a slow, almost conspiratorial smile.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you were bluffing. But so confidently that he gave himself away with his reaction."

  Bogumir looked at her — and something new appeared in his eyes. Not surprise. Recognition.

  "Not bad," he said. "Not bad, Minister."

  "Lelya."

  "Lelya," he agreed. "Good night."

  "Good night."

  She closed the door and leaned her back against it.

  He'd been bluffing. And she'd figured it out. And he knew she'd figured it out.

  For some reason, that felt important.