I do not know how many days have passed.
The light does not change. There is no morning, no afternoon, no night. Only the eternal brightness, which enters through the cracks of the tree‑house and settles in the corners like a disease.
I wake, as always, with my eyes burning. Zirinos is already standing, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His gold‑and‑blood hair shines even in the non‑existent twilight. Mira still sleeps – innocence protects her, perhaps. Or tiredness.
"Didn't you sleep again?" I ask.
"I sleep when I need to." His voice is dry, but not irritated. I have learned to tell the difference.
"You need to sleep more."
"I need to get out of here."
"That too."
---
The days, if they can be called days, follow a rhythm: wake, eat what the elves give us (pale fruits, fresh water, a bread that tastes of earth), walk through the city, return, train.
Zirinos teaches me low‑cost spells – Clairvoyance, small illusions, a trick to heat the blade without spending mana. I teach him to channel heat into the sword, as the warriors of Daransu did.
"Focus on the inner fire," I say while he practices the movement. "Not on the flame. On the heat that comes from the bones."
"My bones are cold," he replies, but he tries anyway.
The blade glows, reddish, warm.
"It worked."
"It worked."
He sheathes his sword. His hair shines.
"Why did you come with me?" he asks suddenly. "When you fell, you could have stayed. The elves would not have harmed you."
"You are my only way out of this world."
"Is that all?"
"No." I hesitate. "You are the only person here who does not look at me as if I were a stranger."
"You are a stranger."
"You too."
He almost smiles.
---
Sometimes, at night – at the *hour* when night should fall, but does not – we sit at the entrance of the tree‑house and look at the horizon. The plain stretches, infinite, white, silent.
"Your world," I begin. "What is it like?"
"Z?" He shrugs. "Big. Violent. The galaxies are always at war. The rich rule. The poor die."
"And your family?"
"My father was king. My mother… fled. Or died. I don't know."
"Do you have siblings?"
"Two brothers. One sister." His voice changes, becomes lower, less certain. "I don't know where they are. The masked man promised to protect them. If he kept his word… I don't know."
"Masked man?"
"A long story." He falls silent. "Another day."
I do not insist.
---
I speak of Daransu.
Of the red sun, of the double‑star nights, of the heat that turned into power. Of Emperor Dárius – the cruel man who redeemed himself in his final years, of the brother who succeeded him, of the longing I cannot erase.
"You liked him," says Zirinos.
"I did."
"He died."
"He did." I look at my hands. "He was good, in the end. He apologised. To those he had hurt. To me."
"And you forgave him?"
"I forgave him."
He falls silent.
"My mother did not apologise to me," he says finally. "She never had time."
I do not ask what happened. I do not want to know.
---
Mira wakes up and comes to us.
"What are you talking about?" she asks, sitting on Zirinos's lap.
"About distant worlds," I reply.
"My world is the academy. I like the academy."
"I like it too," says Zirinos. "But I have to go to other places."
"Why?"
"To kill monsters."
"You already killed Trussum."
"I killed a part. The other part remains."
Mira does not understand. But she hugs him anyway.
"You have to come back," she says. "Professor Lara misses you. And Fenísia… Fenísia misses you too."
The name weighs. Zirinos holds the girl against his chest.
"I will come back," he promises. "I swear."