"Mistakes are inherent to the mortal condition. What matters is the reaction, and the conclusions drawn to prevent their recurrence."
Keyris-day
The morning passed in the familiar rhythm of the last few days. We dressed and went to breakfast. The dining hall was partially full: some students had already left, while others were just arriving. I chose a table closer to the central column, as it was the most convenient, considering that Ren and Nova would likely join us. Catherine sat opposite me. She did not look tired, but she did not seek dialogue either. There was a precision in her gestures, but her breathing was disturbed; her structure still remained unstable.
A few minutes later, Nova approached us. She wore a well-pressed academic uniform, neatly tucked in, without any personal details. She nodded and sat beside me—as if it had already been agreed upon and was not up for discussion. Catherine shifted her cup slightly—it was not a sign of hospitality, but rather a simple courtesy, so as not to interfere.
Nova thanked her with a simple nod and looked to the side, as if assessing the situation in the dining hall.
Ren appeared a little later—from the other side of the hall. She noticed our group, paused, and then headed toward us with an emphasized lightness in her step. The plate on her tray was almost empty, as if the food were merely a pretext to draw us into another conversation. She sat down in the empty chair next to Catherine and cast a light but tense glance at me.
"Good morning," she said with a polite carelessness. "What a stable company we have. Just like in the novels: a breakfast for four."
Catherine responded with a sip of tea. Nova limited herself to a nod. As for me—silent observation. Repetition is also a form of pressure, and if it becomes the norm, the structure can shift.
"By the way, yesterday I found another volume of 'A Collection of Tales from the Southern Gates of Riona,'" Ren continued, not expecting any additional reaction from any of us. "There's a scene in it. A girl sneaks onto the roof of a library at night and accidentally overhears a confession. A very… atmospheric scene. I almost cried…"
No one commented. Even Nova was silent, considering it superfluous to discuss such things. Perhaps that in itself was a comment on Ren's statement.
Ren, understanding that her attempt to start a conversation had been ignored, rested her elbow on the edge of the table, leaning slightly toward Nova, trying to create a more intimate atmosphere.
"You, as always, arrived before me. Did you miss me? Or did you just want to get a better seat?" her voice sounded like a game, but the words were arranged in a construction intended not only for Nova.
Nova, without turning her head, picked up her utensils. No answer followed, but from her movements, it was clear: she did not want to respond emotionally to her comments. After all, she knew perfectly well that they were being watched.
"Although, honestly, if we had a class on stage interactions, you would definitely be the lead. With a face like that, you don't even need spells," Ren continued.
Nova shook her head slightly and looked her in the eye. There was a delay in her gaze—like someone who wanted to say something personal but knows that any word can be used against her.
"You overestimate my expressiveness," she replied coldly and began to carefully cut her omelet into equal portions. A predictable, almost instinctive reaction to external chaos—the creation of a local, controlled order. She could not control Ren, but she could control the geometry of her food.
"No," Ren shook her head, not taking her eyes off her. "I'm just telling the truth. You are very expressive, even when you're just sitting." She reached for Nova's hand but stopped in time. "But… to be honest, I really miss how you show that expressiveness to me personally."
Nova sighed heavily.
"Ren, we've already discussed this," she replied almost coldly, trying not to be distracted from her food. "We are being watched, and you should thank Arta and Catherine for being willing to accept us into their circle, otherwise…" Nova paused briefly. "we would only be looking at each other from a distance."
Ren narrowed her eyes, then theatrically pressed both hands, clasped together, to her heart and, closing her eyes slightly, turned toward Catherine and said, "Thank you, my saviors. Who better than you to understand our difficult situation." This was another performance, aimed at Catherine.
I decided to intervene.
"Ren, we are here because Nova asked us to be," I said in an undertone. "If you sincerely think that such performances are beneficial to our company, you are sorely mistaken."
Ren shifted her gaze to me and, placing her hands on the table, she ground her teeth with slight disappointment.
"Arta, your icy heart is too pragmatic, too…" She tried to find another theatrical metaphor.
"Ren, please, that's enough," Nova interrupted her.
Ren puffed out her cheeks but restrained herself.
Catherine surveyed us all.
"It seems the atmosphere has become too tense. Maybe we should talk about something more down-to-earth?" she asked, slightly uncertain.
"It depends on what you want to talk about, Cat," Ren said, turning to Catherine. "If we imagine our table as a stage, then any dialogue will mean your place in the upcoming performance." She smiled broadly.
"And what if I don't want to perform…?" Catherine clarified.
"That is also permissible, but unusual. Though you know, Catherine, perhaps you and Arta are the two most unusual actors." She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
"Ren, we are not in a play," Catherine objected. "We are not actors."
"You know, that's a difficult question…" Ren smiled mysteriously. "But, I suppose you are right. Perhaps I really do get too carried away with reading." She smiled good-naturedly at Catherine, but I felt the pretense.
Catherine nodded.
"Alright, I think everyone will be calmer if our communication becomes more genuine," Catherine continued.
Ren looked at her plate and uncertainly began to pick at her small meal with her fork.
Nova, seeing her reaction, decided to intervene.
"Reina, haven't you ever thought that it's getting too crowded for all of us at the Academy?" Nova broke her usual neutrality. Her voice was even, but it held a friendly initiative. And she looked at Catherine and me. "Would you like to go to Eldenbridge? We could have a good time there. They say there's a big fair there now, with merchants from Arzanir, Tarvar, and even Anix. I won't even mention the locals."
Ren put down her fork and leaned back in her chair, then narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Crowded? Perhaps. Although it seemed to me that recently the Academy, on the contrary, has become… excessive. Too much space where one can get lost." Ren paused briefly. "Besides, all these spies, surveillance—it's so tiring. Perhaps the Fair in Eldenbridge is what we all need. After all, it's much better than another etiquette lesson." Ren shifted her gaze first to me, and then to Catherine.
"I suppose the decision should be a joint one. It would be interesting to hear your opinion as well. Arta, Catherine, what do you say?" Nova said, not taking her eyes off Ren.
Catherine placed her cup on the saucer and looked at Nova.
"I do not object. Although…" for a moment, her gaze rested on me. "…if we go, I want to know the purpose in advance. Just relaxation? Or do you need something from the fair?"
"Just relaxation," Nova replied, smiling slightly. But even from this short answer, it was clear that she wanted to spend time with Ren in an informal setting.
I decided to state my position. After all, if they decided to go only with Catherine, it would be my oversight.
"I am not against the trip. Eldenbridge… I suppose one can indeed have a good time there." I looked at Catherine and allowed a shadow of a smile to appear on my face, letting her know that I remembered our trips to this city perfectly well.
Catherine smiled back at me—and Ren could not help but notice.
"By the way, if we all go there together, then Catherine and I could look for an excellent novel from Anix there—'The Chronicle of the Flower Castle.' Oh, I'm already looking forward to how much fun we'll have," she said with a wide smile.
Catherine nodded nervously; she was clearly displeased with the pressure from Ren. She tried to change the subject of the discussion, asking a more general question.
"I suppose we need to decide on the time of the trip. I am not ready to skip classes, and besides, in the evenings, Arta and I train," she said, trying to defend her territory.
"Of course, on a weekend, don't even doubt it. There are too many things to do on weekdays anyway," Nova answered her question. "No violation of the academic rhythm. Rest is good only when it is deserved."
Catherine smiled, and Ren smirked crookedly.
"Skipping classes is sometimes more useful than attending them. Of course, in our case, such an action is not worth the potential risk, but if there were other circumstances…" She smiled. "I could show you how to really spend your time."
"Ren, I don't think we should even think about that," Nova remarked coldly. "It will not do any of us any good, not even you."
Ren raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Since when have you started to consider the outdated rules of the academy to be key?" she asked, looking at Nova.
"I have just rethought some things," Nova replied calmly.
I looked at Nova. It seemed she was really beginning to change and see herself differently, and as long as she was heading in this direction, I could hope that she would become more independent and less dependent.
"The fact of rethinking is a good sign. However, it is important not to forget that this is just a step on the path to true self-rethinking," I said, supporting Nova in her endeavors.
Ren cast a glance at me, then shifted it to Nova and commented, "You really have rethought yourself? Interesting. And are you sure that 'yourself' is not just a decoration that you were given upon admission? Perhaps you should look at the situation more broadly, and not as a set of facts that Arta talks about."
Nova looked at Ren with warmth, "Reina. Please, do not exaggerate. I respect Arta, and we are connected not only by our service to Evelina but also by friendship. Sometimes I think about what kind of mage-guardian I could have been, and then I look at her and realize that it is extremely difficult to reach her level."
Ren froze for a moment—not in posture, but in reaction: as if Nova's words had passed through her deeper than she herself expected. Then she looked away slightly—toward the window, and, looking there, said, "I am not exaggerating, Nova. I am just making small accents. Perhaps if that duel had not happened, everything would have been better. For everyone."
Nova shook her head and finished eating her breakfast.
"Alright. I suppose there is no more time or opportunity to continue the dialogue. I apologize, but I must go to my rhetoric lesson. I suggest we continue our discussion at lunch." She smiled at all three of us and left the dining hall. Behind her, a silence remained—not empty, but formed, which Ren, above all, would be rethinking for a long time.
Ren looked at me.
"You know, we are an amazing company. I suppose we can become great friends." Ren smiled slyly and, rising from the table, waved to us.
Catherine looked at me, then at her plate, and then just sighed. Breakfast was drawing to a close, and we had to go to our rhetoric lesson.
***
Catherine and I headed for the rhetoric classroom. A spacious room on the second floor of the west wing of the academy. Everything here created a suitable atmosphere for such lessons: high windows, thick shutters, tables arranged in the form of a circular arena with a free center. They did not just teach here; students were taught to think and apply their knowledge in practice.
When we arrived, Nova was already sitting at her desk. Ren was nowhere to be seen. I sat next to Catherine by the west window. Students slowly trickled in for the lesson, and among them was Isa Lern, who sat directly opposite me. Her eyes attentively watched first me, then Catherine, and she periodically made notes in her notebook.
The rhetoric teacher was Lady Tiaren—a young and ambitious educator who, despite her young age, already held a rank. Her speech was clear and measured, her clothes subdued, and her gestures strict.
She addressed us without empathy, only outlining the topic of today's lesson:
"Today—modeling. A political scene. Each of you receives a position that you must defend. Convincingly. Not assertively. Not theatrically. With arguments."
There was no formal distribution. Lady Tiaren called out pairs in order, without announcing the criteria.
Lady Tiaren began with Isa Lern; she spoke against Nova's roommate—Beatrice Lenford. Their discussion of the foreign and domestic policy of Valtheim and their comparison with the policies of other states raised questions. They lacked factual knowledge about the functioning of political activity in Illumora; as a result, both students were far from the real state of affairs. Additionally, I noted how Isa's voice periodically trembled with tension and control, a possible consequence of the fact that she was not comfortable with the function imposed on her by her grandfather.
I was called in the third group; my opponent was Nova Kross. I received a role—a defender of the principle of the independence of current socio-political institutions.
Nova, on the contrary, had to prove the benefit of innovation in any political activity.
We entered the circle and stood opposite each other. Nova bowed politely, and I followed her example.
"Shall we begin?" she asked calmly, without challenge. Her voice held neither tension nor playfulness. Only restraint and a clear focus on the task.
"I suggest you begin," I offered. Not as a concession—as a method.
Nova took a step forward—not crossing boundaries, but emphasizing her readiness to move. She began to speak.
"Institutions are necessary. But without innovation, they turn into form without function. History knows dozens of empires, powers, and unions that collapsed only because their foundation was not revised in time. Innovation is not the enemy of stability. It is a form of its extension. Only a living structure can adapt."
I did not interrupt. I only listened. The words were clear, but not rehearsed. There was no acting in them. There was understanding.
When my turn came, I answered just as calmly, "Institutions are the bones of a state. They are broken not only by crises but also by reforms without rooting. Any innovation must fit into the already existing coordinate system. Not destroy, but rely. The independence of structures is a guarantee against collapse. Change without foundation is an impulse, not a trajectory."
Nova nodded. Not in agreement. But in acknowledgment that she had heard. This was a rare, almost forgotten quality.
"Your argument about the 'bones of the state'… it is elegant," she nodded, raising an eyebrow slightly. "But do not bones renew? Even a skeleton grows when old cells are replaced by new ones. Do fractures heal without regeneration?" Her voice remained calm, but a thrill of excitement flashed in her eyes. "Innovation is not destruction; it is… rebuilding from within. Like a snake shedding its skin: the skin remains, but under it—a new life."
"Shedding is only possible if there is a core that does not change," I replied, crossing my arms. "Without roots, even a tree with fruit falls. Innovations should be the soil, not the axe. You yourself claim that stability is the enemy, but if every reformer considers the old 'outdated'…" I deliberately paused, "who will preserve what already works?"
"And who will decide what 'works'?" She tilted her head slightly, as if pondering how far she could go in this discussion. "Let's say we preserve the structure, but its function is outdated. Like a temple where they pray to dust because the god has long been dead. You trust institutions, but should they not have to prove their right to exist?" She suddenly smiled. "Although… I like your thesis about the 'roots.' Even too much."
"I suppose in this case, you admit the weakness of your counterarguments?" I allowed myself a shadow of a smile. "Roots can be watered, but not torn out. Innovations are water, not a means of destruction."
"And what if the water stagnates?" Her voice became a little sharper, but still with respect. "Even a river changes its course so as not to become a swamp. I suppose too much trust in the 'core' is not beneficial. For example, in cases where the so-called 'core' is rotten?" She fell silent, as if throwing down a challenge.
"If the core is rotten, then what is required is not innovation, but restoration. Any innovation on an unstable structure will lead to the collapse of both the idea itself and the 'core' itself," I replied, noting out of the corner of my eye the fact that Isa Lern was engrossed in writing something down.
"In any case, flexibility is not a weakness," she concluded, extending her hand for a formal conclusion of the discussion. "Thank you. You have made me rethink my arguments."
I shook her hand.
"Your position was also strong."
Nova smiled at me and went to her place. I went to mine, registering how Lady Tiaren was making notes in her journal.
For the remaining time, I watched the uncertain presentations of the students until Catherine was called. Her opponent was Beatrice Lenford. This was an interesting configuration. Beatrice was the object of Ren's long-term ideological influence. This was not a duel, but a field test of two structures attacked by one chaotic force.
The verbal duel began casually. Beatrice attacked first, using not her own logic, but borrowed rhetoric from Ren's novels—cheap populism about the "people" and the "call of the heart." Catherine responded flawlessly, building her defense on the cold structure I had taught her, but the cracks within her were too strong.
When Beatrice struck, not with logic, but at a vulnerable point, appealing to emotions and the "common people," Catherine faltered and slowed down. This was another failure; she knew what to say, but her own emotions prevented her from countering the emotional manipulation wrapped in righteous anger. Catherine predictably lost in this emotional duel. As for Beatrice, I recorded the result: her internal structure had been successfully rewritten to Ren's template.
***
The next class was "Elemental Magic—Fire." Catherine and I headed to the east wing of the main building—to where the halls with high ceilings, arches reinforced with runic protection, and a natural system for dissipating heat pressure were located. The space was designed for elevated temperatures and potential fire outbursts. The architecture of the hall was functional without any frills, only targets for training, tables, and a large board on which the rules for using fire magic were occasionally written.
The lesson was taught by Magister Avaga—an elderly woman, strict with those who did not listen to her attentively, and loyal to those who were present at the lesson without being distracted from the essence. Her teaching style was minimal contact; every phrase was weighed, and the educational process itself strictly followed the internal regulations of the academy.
The goal of today's lesson was practical work with the "Fire Stream" spell. Unlike other elements, fire was a force in which emotions served unpredictability. However, in my case, I tamed the flame through direct structuring of energies. My flame was born even, cold, and obedient, a perfect geometric form without a single extra flicker.
Catherine stood nearby. But her fire was different. It either flared up fiercely and almost chaotically, scattering hot sparks like unsaid objections, or it shrank into a timid, barely smoldering flame that seemed about to be extinguished by uncertainty. Her gestures, usually increasingly precise, were now slowed and full of uncertainty. She knew the sequence, but she had lost faith in it.
Her gaze constantly returned to me. But it was no longer a search for approval. It was a check. She looked at my perfect, cold fire, then at her own—ragged and emotional—and in her eyes was a question she did not dare to ask: which one was correct?
I registered the failure. Her defeat in rhetoric against Beatrice, who had won not with logic but with a crude, borrowed emotional attack from Ren's novels, had shaken her faith in structure. She had seen that the "call of the heart" could be an effective weapon, and now her own internal structure had cracked. She was trying to follow my lessons, but her thoughts were poisoned by an alternative scenario that offered another, simpler, and more seductive path.
At some distance from us, under the guise of practicing spells, Ren was quietly saying something to Beatrice Lenford. Beatrice was laughing, her fire just as bright and uncontrolled as Ren's. This was a demonstration. Ren was not just communicating with a friend—she was showing Catherine the successful result of her influence. "Look," her posture read, "this is what real power is. Not cold calculation, but a living flame." Nevertheless, there was another side to their chaotic conversation, which I partially caught. They were talking about Nova, who was not present at the lesson because she had been summoned by Evelina Valtheim.
When the practice came to an end, we headed to the dining hall. Catherine walked silently, but her silence was no longer filled with unsaid words. It was filled with the noise of an internal struggle. Her step was slower than usual, not from fatigue, but from the weight of her choice. As we left the hall, I noticed her fingers instinctively touch the golden hairpin in her hair—my gift, a symbol of Order. It was an almost unconscious gesture, as if she were searching for a point of support in a world that had suddenly offered her too many options.
***
We headed to the dining hall. Catherine walked silently, but her silence was different. Not calm, but dense, charged with the residual tension from the morning's debates. Her step was measured, but her intentions and actions differed; obviously, this was noticeable not only to me.
In the dining hall, Nova had already saved us a spot. She sat by the far wall, facing the entrance—a predetermined coordinate in the chaos of the dining hall. Catherine, without hesitation, approached and sat next to her. I chose the seat opposite, closing our temporary structure.
A few minutes later, Ren joined us. She sat in the empty chair next to me and cast a sidelong glance at me.
"And so we are together again!" she said cheerfully. "I was thinking, maybe we should get some common interests? Maybe we could write books? Imagine, four authors for one book, that would be an unconventional approach." She glanced at me again. "Especially when we have such different views."
Nova shook her head. "I'm a terrible writer; I can't even write a proper letter. So count me out," Nova said calmly.
"I'll pass as well," I noted dryly. "If I ever write something, it will more likely be a treatise on Order magic."
Ren theatrically placed a hand on her forehead and pretended to wipe away sweat.
"That doesn't seem like the genre I'd like to write," she said, shifting her gaze to Catherine. "And what do you think about writing?"
"Writing? It's interesting, but I have no time for it at all, so count me out, Ren," she answered reservedly.
"By the way, Cat, I was watching your debate with Beatrice carefully. You were magnificent. So… structural." She paused, enjoying the effect. "But you did notice that sometimes the strongest arguments are not the ones in your head, but the ones in your heart?"
Catherine flinched. It was a direct blow to her vulnerable spot. She did not look up from her plate, but her fingers tightened slightly on her fork.
"Beatrice was just… saying what she believes in," she answered quietly.
"Exactly!" Ren exclaimed. "She wasn't afraid to be… alive. Like the heroines from 'Petals on a Cold Blade.' Have you finished it yet? There's a part where one of them realizes that cold logic is just a cage."
Nova decided to interrupt this conversation, her voice even, but it held an attempt to change the vector. "By the way, about plans. Evelina wants us to discuss the transfer to 'Arcane's Blessing,' which will take place next year. And yes, Ren, Evelina is strict. If you don't bring your skills up to 85 points, she won't vouch for you."
Ren waved it off, not taking her eyes off Catherine. "I study all day as it is. What's another Veytra, more or less… We'll discuss this with Evelina, alright?" Ren said, trying to close the conversation. "But right now, I'm more interested in what Catherine thinks about the book. You did like it, didn't you?"
I registered that Catherine was trapped. On one side—my logic and structure. On the other—Ren's seductive, emotional narrative, which had just proven its effectiveness with Beatrice as an example. Her silence was the answer.
I finished my lunch and stood up from the table. "I need to go to the library. Catherine, are you coming?" I asked, in an attempt to pull Catherine out of the obvious trap.
She looked up at me, and in her eyes was bewilderment. She looked at Ren, who was smiling at her encouragingly, then back at me.
"I… I'll catch up," she said, not meeting my gaze. "I need to… clarify something with Ren. About the book."
I nodded. The decision was hers. She had chosen to remain in the sphere of Ren's influence.
When Catherine returned to the room later than expected, in her hands was a crumpled piece of paper, which she immediately put in her desk drawer. Her gestures became shorter, and her shoulders—tenser. She was not immediately ready to return to our honed rhythm. For the first time, I felt her slight, almost subconscious reluctance to go to our evening training. Nevertheless, after a short while, she gathered her strength, and we did go to the edge of the forest.
The training passed almost without any violations. Her technique remained flawless—her body remembered the lessons. But her gaze wandered, and her strikes lacked their former absolute concentration. She acted structurally, but her internal structure was already poisoned by doubt. She continued to grow as a warrior, but as a person—she was beginning to stratify. I learned the true reasons and the scale of this stratification only before sleep.
***
Closer to night, when the footsteps in the corridor had quieted and curfew had begun at the academy, we were already preparing for bed. Catherine sat on her bed, I on mine, and only my magical lamp illuminated the night space of the room with a cold light. Her cheeks were flushed; it was clear she was trying to maintain an outward composure, but she was too tense... I did not ask any questions. Instead, I opened my bag and took out a velvet box. The silver watch was cold in my palm. Its perfect, predictable form was the antithesis of the chaos I felt emanating from Catherine. Why was her structure so vulnerable?
"Arta…" She looked at how I was holding the watch in my hands. "I want to talk to you about an important problem." Catherine sighed, stood up from the bed, and, going to the table, opened a drawer and took out a crumpled piece of paper.
She approached me and handed me the sheet. Her fingers, clutching the crumpled paper, trembled almost imperpreceptibly. She was not just handing me a note—she was handing me her vulnerability, her chaos, packaged in someone else's careless words.
"This… was left for me. I don't know who the author is, and I don't understand why… But I think you should see it."
I placed the watch on the writing desk and unfolded the sheet—the handwriting was distorted and careless. It had neither a salutation nor a signature, only a provocative text:
"I see how you look at her. Just stop her in the corridor. Kiss her on her cold lips. Or admit that you don't need her. You already have plenty of admirers who would gladly offer you their heart. Surely, you feel it."
It was obvious that such letters are not written just like that; they call for actions for which the authors of such notes themselves do not want to bear any responsibility. The structure of the pressure in the letter was familiar; there was too much spontaneity and carelessness in it, characteristic of few at the academy.
Catherine stood nearby. Her cheeks were flushed; it was clear she was trying to maintain an outward composure, but she was too tense for someone who had ignored the message.
"This… you don't know who wrote it?" I asked, checking if Catherine truly understood what such letters meant.
She shook her head.
"No. But I… I thought you should know. Or… I don't know. It's just…" she fell silent.
"I suppose this letter is from Ren. I won't say for sure, but it's her style," I replied, shaking my head slightly.
Catherine sighed.
"I suppose I could have guessed…" Catherine's face relaxed. "But here's the thing, Arta… rereading this letter… I thought. Do you really not care who I'll be with? You said I should have my own choice, my own path. If I…" Catherine sighed. "If I marry for convenience, you won't be against it, will you?"
I looked up at her, understanding that the last question only served to shift the vector.
"What matters is not only what you choose, but also why you do it." I deliberately paused. "For me, it is important that you be strong and free, and if you suddenly decide to do as you said, I will not object. It is your path, Catherine. I am just a guest on this path."
"A guest…" Catherine repeated. "Arta, for me, you are not a guest. You are the light to which I fly like a moth." Catherine looked at me, an internal plea in her gaze.
Her words were a pure, concentrated emotional impulse. I braced myself for the consequences—for that internal glitch, that alien, cutting vibration that always arose when I encountered her sincerity. I waited. But it did not come. Inside—silence. Absolute, sterile silence. Another anomaly, within an anomaly.
The absence of the itch allowed me to focus on answering her question. "Light." In her attempts to make sense of my actions, she had chosen the most incorrect of all possible analogies. Her conclusions were still being built on a distorted logic, borrowed from those primitive stories. She saw what she wanted to see, not what was actually there, calling ordered darkness light. This was a fundamental error in her coordinate system.
"I am not light, Catherine; I never have been. I am the silence that exists between words, a space that demands nothing of you. Be yourself. It is not the path that matters, but the choices you make upon it."
Catherine stood for some time longer, then quietly nodded and sat on her bed.
"I will think about it, Arta. Good night."
I stood up from the bed and extinguished the light. The room plunged into darkness, into my true element. In this predictable, physical darkness, it was much easier than in the one that now reigned in Catherine's soul. Everything was clear without words.