A firm, rhythmic knocking pulled Serena from the depths of blank, perfect rest. She opened her eyes to sunlight painting a bright rectangle on the floor. This body didn't require sleep, but she felt profoundly refreshed. She rose without human grogginess and opened the door.
Salih stood there. He was wearing a light blue simple kaftan and, perched atop his locs, was a hat with a ridiculous, drooping tassel—the kind of sleepwear she'd only seen in old cartoons. The juxtaposition of his severe morning expression with the goofy headwear was so unexpected she had to clamp down hard on a sudden, undignified urge to giggle.
"You're awake," he dryly stated.
[Is it time?] she sent, [I'm ready.]
"It is 8:15," he said, pointing a thumb at the small clock up the door. "You have forty-five minutes. Change your clothes. I am going downstairs to prepare breakfast." He turned, the tassel swaying, and descended.
Serena changed quickly into her new trousers and the turtleneck sweater. She laced up the new boots, noting that the stiff leather would need breaking in. The feel of proper clothing was still a novelty.
Downstairs, she found Salih at the stove. He glanced over his shoulder as she entered, and his eyes immediately narrowed to slits. He didn't speak, but his gaze dropped pointedly to her feet, then back to her face, radiating pure, unadulterated disapproval.
It took her a second. 'The boots. Inside.' She hurried back to the front door, putting them off and leaving them neatly on the mat. When she returned, sock-footed and penitent, the daggers in his gaze had retracted slightly.
He turned back to the stove without a word. He was frying sausages and duck eggs in a cast-iron pan, toasting thick slices of bread. The smells of sizzling fat, roasting grain, and something herbal—perhaps the eggs were seasoned with thyme—filled the kitchen. It was simple, but to Serena, it smelled like a sacrament.
She hovered uncertainly until he, without looking, placed a second wooden plate on the counter beside him. A silent invitation. She took the stool, watching him work. There was a practiced, efficient grace to his movements that contradicted the silly hat. The serious focus he applied to flipping an egg was almost comical.
He served her first: a golden-yolked egg, two plump sausages, a piece of toast dripping with melted butter, and a small heap of roasted mushrooms and peppers. He served himself and finally sat opposite her, removing the hat and running a hand through his hair with a relieved sigh.
The first bite was a revelation. The egg yolk was rich and creamy, the sausage savoury and spiced, the toast crunchy and giving way to a soft, warm center. The vegetables were sweet and smoky from the fire. It was profoundly, fundamentally delicious. Comfort made edible.
As they ate, Salih broke the comfortable silence with a casual question. "Your culture," he said, not looking up from his plate. "When I lived in university dormitories, I had roommates from almost every continent. Most removed their shoes at the door. The sole exceptions tended to be pale-skinned folks from the Light Continent, the Ice Continent, or this very country, Nordicenan."
Serena considered how to map her world onto his. [I lived in a country that was predominantly... pale-skinned,] she ventured. [But the city itself—the part I was in—was very diverse. Many people with skin like yours, like mine. Cultures from different continents mixed.] She thought of New York's glorious, chaotic tapestry. [I was born there. My parents were, and their parents.]
Internally, she scanned the memory of her own lineage: a wild mix of mainly
South American, Middle Eastern, and African heritage that paperwork had always struggled to categorize. Here, it was just her face.
Salih nodded, taking a bite of sausage. "Sounds similar to the city where my university is. Though the nation, and the Sun Continent itself, is predominantly Black." He speared a mushroom. "And in your diverse city, was it considered acceptable to wear boots across clean floors?"
The gentle tease landed. Serena stared at her plate. [No. It was not—I forgot. I'm sorry.]
"Hmph."
They finished breakfast in a more amiable silence. After clearing the dishes—Salih washing, Serena drying under his watchful eye—he announced, "I am going to make myself presentable. Do not touch anything. Do not put your boots back on until we are at the door."
By 8:50, he had returned, transformed. The kaftan and tasseled hat were gone, replaced by practical, fitted trousers, a high-collared sweater, and his usual fur-lined coat. His locs were neatly bound back. The scholar-mage was back, all traces of domestic lightness packed away.
Serena pulled on her own boots and followed him out into the bright, cold morning, the warmth of the breakfast and the shared, quiet joke still lingering pleasantly.
———
The training yard was a patch of earth and snow behind the blacksmith's forge. The size of a pasture, it was already buzzing with activity. Hunters of all ages and genders were moving through drills, cleaning rifles, or practicing hand-to-hand throws.
Serena noted teenagers with serious expressions alongside men and women with greying hair and movements that spoke of decades of experience. It wasn't desperate mobilization; it felt like simple community readiness. Age or sex was a minor determinant of combat capability here, she remembered. Especially since magic existed.
Living beings could, theoretically, extend their lives for millennia through cultivation. At least in theory. In practice, it required absurd discipline and resources. For humans, it meant a natural, gradual physical enhancement—strength, resilience, slowed aging—though it didn't automatically sculpt muscle. That still required physical work, or temporary spells.
She wondered what the average lifespan was now. In Virgil's era, the concept was meaningless. Under his tyranny, most perished early from violence, famine—while a privileged few hoarded resources and power, thus longevity. Some came from common backgrounds, yet still survived. People like Mei, who went on to change the world. It was a reality of extremes, not averages.
Salih led her to a group of five hunters who had been observing the yard. They had a quiet, focused air that set them apart. The elderly woman from the square, Marta, she overheard—was among them, her flinty eyes appraising.
"These are the assessors," Salih said, joining their ranks. "You will demonstrate your magical capabilities. We will evaluate power, accuracy, and, most importantly, control. I will be analyzing your spells."
Serena looked at the simple straw-and-wood dummy set up thirty paces away. [What parameters would constitute a high 'score?'] she asked Salih directly, wanting to be efficient.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you cannot discern what is appropriate between 'useless' and 'cataclysmic,' then this test is already failing. Demonstrate. We will stop you if necessary."
'Practical, then.'
She focused. At her fingertip, a marble of ice condensed and shot forth, striking the dummy's chest with a solid thwack. She followed with a dagger of ice, then a short sword, then a spear, each striking the same point with identical, precise force. She watched their faces. The assessors were attentive, but their expressions were neutral.
'Unimpressed.'
'Perhaps volume?' She held out a hand. Five ice marbles materialized above her palm, then ten, then twenty, orbiting slowly. With a thought, they all streaked toward the dummy in a tight cluster, peppering it with a rapid tat-tat-tat-tat. Then, she tried the same thing, but with ice spears. The dummy was decimated. Her control was excellent—each one independent, none colliding—but she knew directing them in complex, separate patterns in combat would require practice. She could imagine them moving like tentacles, but that was a future skill. Maybe.
The assessors exchanged glances but didn't call a halt. Their silence felt like waiting.
'Still not enough?'
She was confident in her control. After yesterday's practice and the hundreds of hours of subconscious experimentation during her travels, ice felt like an extension of her will. The ocean freeze had been a panicked eruption. She felt it—she was now capable of deliberate craftsmanship.
She moved to a wider, empty section of the yard. If they wanted a demonstration of scale and control, she could provide that. She envisioned a random form, pulling from the vivid mental archive. Mana flowed from her in a steady, sculpting stream. Ice rose from the ground, flowing and coalescing. In moments, a giant cat poised in a dynamic crouch, twenty meters from nose to tail-tip. She poured attention into the details—the texture of fur, the powerful musculature beneath. Even the eyes were faceted ice, catching the light with a mischievous glint. It was art, not a weapon.
The yard had fallen completely silent. The assessors stared, their neutral masks finally broken by speechlessness.
Serena interpreted the silence. 'Too much power? Too flashy?' Worried she'd overdone it, she quickly dissolved the giant cat into a shimmering mist. From the mist, she conjured a new shape: a bouquet of ice flowers.
She pulled memories from Earth—roses, lilies, tulips—and from Virgil's world—spiralling blooms. Each petal was veined, each stem thorned or smooth with perfect botanical accuracy. She formed it in seconds, a frozen masterpiece of life.
Holding the glittering bouquet, she turned and presented it to the stone-faced assessors, her own expression now one of confusion. She'd shown power, precision, scale, versatility. Why were they just staring?
After a long, awkward moment, 'Maybe I fucked up,' she thought, disappointment bitter in her throat.
Finally, the elder hunter cleared her throat. Her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant, as if unsure she was addressing a person or a natural disaster.
"Are you," she asked slowly, "quite finished?"