Darkness was everywhere.

  The moon hung low, illuminating only the silhouettes of trees. In the distance, lights flickered—of different colors, ragged, unstable. Student magic. Some were fighting, some hiding, some already eliminated.

  Rosalin looked around.

  “Were we late?”

  “No,” Hiro replied calmly. “We made it to the second stage.”

  The first stage had been about collecting items. Everyone decided for themselves how long to stay.

  Some left early… but with fewer points.

  He closed his eyes.

  For a second, it felt as if the world before him became transparent. Not a map, not an image—an ощущение. The pressure of mana. Movements.

  “Let’s not rush headfirst,” he said, opening his eyes.

  “We already have enough points.

  We’ll find shelter and wait out these five days until the gates open.”

  “Alright,” Rosalin nodded.

  They moved away from the center.

  They walked quietly. Pine needles and fallen leaves muffled their steps. The forest was too calm—and that was unsettling.

  Suddenly, Hiro sharply raised his hand, stopping her.

  Rosalin didn’t have time to ask.

  A cone-shaped stone projectile tore through the air centimeters in front of them and slammed into a tree with monstrous force. The trunk cracked—and the tree slowly, with a dull groan, collapsed sideways.

  Hiro didn’t even turn his head.

  He extended his hand toward where the attack had come from.

  Three ice spikes formed around his palm. Transparent. Sharp. Perfectly shaped. They rotated slowly, as if choosing a target.

  Then—they shot forward.

  Quiet. Almost silent.

  A moment later, a dull impact echoed from afar—then another.

  And then—a scream, cut off too quickly.

  Hiro lowered his hand.

  “Plus thirty points,” he said evenly.

  “One team. And one guy from another.”

  Rosalin exhaled.

  “Just like that?..

  Why ice?”

  Hiro shrugged and kept walking.

  “Ice magic is generally underestimated. One of my favorites.

  It’s easy to create.

  Lighter than stone.

  Highly maneuverable.

  Almost silent.”

  He paused.

  “And it cuts very well.”

  They continued on.

  Somewhere near the center of the territory, magic flared again. But here, at the edge, it was quiet.

  The path went on.

  From time to time, small structures emerged from the darkness—crooked huts, sheds, dugouts. Students lived and slept there, waiting out the trial stage.

  Near one such wooden shack, Hiro stopped. He quietly cracked the door open.

  Inside was cramped—no more than two square meters. On the floor, wrapped in cloaks, a boy and a girl slept. One team. Judging by their breathing—deep and calm.

  Hiro extended his hand.

  Ice needles instantly formed around his palm, rotating forward.

  Rosalin touched his shoulder. Light pressure. She silently shook her head.

  Hiro froze for a moment.

  The needles crumbled into frost and vanished. He closed the door as quietly as he had opened it.

  They moved on.

  Almost an hour passed.

  The forest grew denser. The night—thicker. Even distant flashes of magic no longer appeared.

  “There has to be a safe and… not crowded place somewhere,” Hiro said, more to himself than to her.

  And at that moment, Rosalin flinched.

  Warmth. Heat—right at her chest.

  She stopped and frowned, slipping her hand beneath her outfit. On a chain hung a key—the one she had found in the labyrinth.

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

  The rose symbol on it glowed with a soft light.

  “What’s happening to it?..” she whispered.

  The ground ahead trembled.

  Roses began to grow from the soil. One after another. Their stems broke through the earth, petals opening, glowing with pale pink light.

  The flowers lined up.

  A path.

  Hiro narrowed his eyes.

  “What is that thing you have?”

  “A key,” Rosalin answered. “I found it in the labyrinth.

  I didn’t know it was magical.”

  Hiro looked at the roses.

  “It’s a path. It leads somewhere.”

  He stepped closer to the first flower.

  “Shall we?”

  Rosalin hesitated for only a second.

  “Are you sure?”

  Hiro smirked slightly.

  “They didn’t grow like this for no reason.

  Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

  He stepped forward, walking between the flowers.

  Rosalin stayed where she was for a couple more seconds, watching him. Then she muttered quietly:

  “Like I was scared… idiot.”

  And ran after him.

  The rose path ended abruptly.

  Before them rose a mansion—dark, massive, having survived more than one generation. The stone had darkened with age, windows staring like empty eye sockets. The house stood as if it had been deliberately forgotten.

  Rosalin stopped. Her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.

  Hiro felt it immediately.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

  “N-nothing…” she answered too quickly. “I’m fine.”

  But her voice trembled.

  They approached the doors. In the center—a lock, perfectly fitting the key.

  Hiro looked around. No tracks. No paths. No signs of anyone else. It truly felt abandoned for years.

  Rosalin inserted the key.

  A dull click sounded. The doors opened by themselves.

  Cold air flowed out, carrying dust and something else—the smell of time. The smell of memories.

  Hiro stepped in first.

  “Clear,” he said after a brief check. “For now, we’ll settle here.”

  He moved his hands through the air. Mana obediently condensed, and a semi-transparent pink dome closed around the mansion—a protective barrier.

  The house was cut off from the outside world.

  Rosalin walked slowly down the corridor. Mirrors with tarnished silver. Paintings wrapped in cobwebs. Furniture covered in thick layers of dust, untouched for decades.

  “I’ll check if there’s food,” Hiro said.

  “Y-yeah…” she replied, barely hearing him.

  The house pulled her deeper inside.

  She entered a large room.

  At first she thought it was a living room. But after a few steps, she realized—it wasn’t.

  It resembled a small church.

  A long hall. Rows of chairs on both sides. At the front—a small stage and a lectern.

  And then—

  The image flashed on its own.

  Morning. Light pouring through the windows.

  To the left—a man. He looked frighteningly similar to the academy’s director.

  Rosalin’s pupils narrowed instantly. Her hand clenched into a fist.

  A second image. A little farther—a different man. He was on his knees, covering his head with his hands. His shoulders shook as if he were choking on sobs.

  “No…” slipped from Rosalin’s lips.

  She grabbed her head. Cold sweat broke out. Her breathing faltered, turning into broken gasps.

  The third image struck like a knife.

  A table. Almost in the center of the hall. On it—a body, covered with white cloth.

  And a hand.

  A woman’s hand. Pale. Cold.

  It hung down, uncovered by the cloth. On the ring finger—a ring.

  Her legs gave out. Her back bent on its own.

  “No… no…” she whispered, staring into emptiness.

  The image didn’t fade.

  “NOOO!” the scream tore out of her, shattering the silence of the hall.

  Tears poured out. Rosalin stood between the rows of chairs, hunched, broken.

  Hiro heard the scream.

  It was like an electric shock.

  He dropped the jar—glass shattered on the floor. Without even looking, he bolted.

  “Rosalin!”

  He burst into the hall.

  She stood there. Trembling. Empty-eyed.

  “Rosalin! What happened?!”

  “No…” she repeated. “No…”

  Her breathing tore apart. Her body shook.

  Hiro rushed to her and wrapped his arms around her tightly.

  “Easy, easy…” he whispered, pulling her close. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  She turned sharply and clutched him, as if he were the last support in the world. She shook violently in his arms.

  He stroked her back, her head.

  “Shh… it’s okay. I’m here.”

  The trembling slowly subsided.

  “Hiro…” she whispered and burst into tears against his chest.

  The sobs were loud. The sound of crying echoed through the mansion.

  The princess’s mask shattered completely.

  Rosalin sobbed, choking on words:

  “Ma… mom… mommy… forgive me…”

  Her voice broke, became childlike, helpless. Every word tore her apart from the inside.

  Hiro silently held her. His hand moved slowly, rhythmically through her hair.

  “Quiet…” he whispered. “My girl, calm down. I won’t let go.”

  He didn’t know how much time passed. A minute. Ten. An eternity.

  Gradually, the sobbing softened. Convulsive breaths turned into uneven breathing.

  Rosalin went limp in his arms.

  She fell asleep.

  Hiro carefully lifted her. She was light, warm.

  He climbed to the second floor. The floor creaked under his feet.

  One of the rooms was better preserved than the others. A bed. A wardrobe. A nightstand. Everything dusty, but intact.

  Hiro gently laid Rosalin down. Before covering her, he shook the blanket—a cloud of dust rose and slowly settled.

  She murmured something in her sleep but didn’t wake.

  Hiro lingered for a moment, looking at her. Her face was calm, but pain lingered beneath.

  He was about to leave when his gaze caught the nightstand.

  A photo frame.

  He picked it up.

  The photo showed a man in expensive, perfectly tailored clothes. Beside him—a woman with silvery hair, elegant, strict, beautiful. Between them—a girl.

  Silvery-lavender hair. The same smile. The same eyes.

  The background—the walls of this very mansion.

  Hiro slowly exhaled.

  He set it back down, then turned it face down.

  Quietly, almost inaudibly, he said:

  “Sleep… Rosalin.”

  And left the room.

  Hiro returned to the kitchen.

  Shards glittered on the floor. A broken jar. Jam had spread into a dark, sticky stain, sweet even by smell.

  He looked at it for a few seconds…

  and did nothing.

  He simply sat at the table. Hunched. Pressed his fist to his forehead. Closed his eyes.

  The mansion’s silence wrapped around him again—heavy, viscous.

  He thought. About Rosalin. About the key. About the house. About what he had seen in the photograph.

  His thoughts flowed slowly, shapelessly, as if he allowed himself a rare weakness—to simply stop.

  After a while, he exhaled and stood up.

  Work always helped him more than thinking.

  He cleaned the house.

  Lit the fireplace—dry logs cracked, fire came alive, casting warm shadows on the walls. Washed the floors, erasing decades of dust and traces of Someone else’s past. Found dried meat in the pantry—the smell was sharp, unpleasant.

  “Definitely not fresh…” he muttered.

  But food was food.

  He went up to the second floor.

  Rosalin was sleeping. Calmly. Breathing evenly, lips slightly parted like a child’s. Her chest rose and fell softly.

  Hiro stepped closer. Carefully, as if afraid to disturb even the air.

  He brushed a lock of hair from her face, his fingertips touching her cheek. Warm.

  As he turned to leave, he noticed a sheet of paper in the wardrobe.

  It stood out immediately—too clean, too neat for this place. Hiro took it and skimmed it.

  “Star Lake”

  Below, a note:

  “West of the family estate”

  The handwriting was Someone else’s. Not Rosalin’s.

  He frowned.

  As much as he wanted to stay, there was almost no food left. He needed to go out. Find something fresh.

  Hiro put the paper back, wrote a short note, and left it beside the bed.

  “I’ll be back soon. Don’t leave the house.”

  Then he left the mansion.

  The forest greeted him with cold air and rustling sounds.

  Along the way, he marked landmarks, memorizing paths, turns, strange stones—the map of the area formed in his head on its own.

  Off to the side, he encountered wild boars.

  The fight was short.

  Soon, Hiro was returning, carrying his Prey.

  In the kitchen, firelight burned again. He cooked silently, focused. In the basement, he found several bottles of red wine—sealed, having survived time better than anything else in the house.

  As he bent down for a knife, something suddenly struck his head and fell onto the table with a soft clang.

  A ring.

  Silver. Cold.

  A rose symbol was engraved on its surface.

  Hiro picked it up and narrowed his eyes.

  Looking closer, he noticed an extremely fine pattern—tiny script, almost invisible. A spell. Protective, judging by its structure. The language—Elvish.

  “A family heirloom…” he said quietly.

  It seemed the ring had been passed down through generations.

  He slipped it into his pocket.

  The food was almost ready.