And Kors shudders.

“What will you say to Inness when you meet in the afterlife? How will you justify your selfishness? How will you explain that you broke the fate of your daughter?! You don’t really love Karina! And you don’t love Inness either! You don’t care about them!”

“I love them. And for them I am ready for anything!”

“Then let’s go to the city!”

Kors sits silently for a while and then finally quietly says:

“My life is broken, and I don’t care about any career, but you’re right, friend, I have to overcome myself, for the sake of Inness and… Karina.”

Varakh freezes in tension, never taking his eyes off his friend.

“Let’s go to the city,” Kors says.

And Varakh, in a happy gesture, folding his palms, raises his hands:

“Thank Gods!”

Dad! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!

Having inadvertently touched and knocked over the bottle, Kors awkwardly gets up from the table, staggers him:

“Let’s get out of here! To hell!”

“I will order the preparations to begin immediately!” Varakh hurriedly adds, as if afraid that Kors will suddenly change his mind.

“Let’s go,” Kors repeats. “The Black City has been waiting for us for a long time!”

Don’t leave…

Don’t leave…

Don’t leave…

Chapter 6

Kors woke from the haze of memories and sat up abruptly on his camp bed. Yes, he left then, succumbing to Varakh’s persuasions, he left for the Black City to start a new page in his life.

He had forgotten the past, and later didn’t match either the place or the time. He hadn’t even bothered to think that the white half-blood from Komra was just about as old as his lost child would have been at the moment. Kors had completely forgotten about everything, and, without looking at the boy, by an evil irony of fate, he identified his son in the trash. He branded him as a slave, dooming him to death, or at best to a humiliating existence as a living thing. And ten years later he made him his lover. Kors put his head in his hands. Varakh knew something, he said: “I didn’t want to upset you even more, you were already crushed by the loss of Inness!” It would be better if you upset me, stupid Varakh! Do you see what your silence has led to?

Dying Kamiel Varah, lying on the bed, looks at Kors from the black wells of sunken eye sockets, he looks, as if already from the other side …

“Vitor, I didn’t tell you then, I hid it… I didn’t want to hurt you even more, you were already crushed by the loss of Inness… Vitor, I don’t believe it, because I saw…”

“What did you see? Why didn’t you tell me?! Was it that terrible?”

Varakh caught up with the rider who was carrying the child to the witch. He caught up with him and…

“Vitor, I don't believe it, because I saw…”

What did you?

Kamiel Varakh was sure that Nik was not the son of Kors, and all the arguments that his former friend gave him couldn’t convince him. Because he saw with his own eyes something that left him in no doubt – Nik was not the son of Kors.

What did you see, Varakh? WHAT?

Kors remembered the morning at the inn near Prince Arel’s Estate, when Nik, Arel, and Lis had come for him. They needed the mercenaries that Kors brought with him, the victory of Lis depended on his soldiers.

And Kors at the beginning was glad that they came for him themselves. He was pleased, he longed to amuse his vanity and planned to make them long to persuade him. But things didn’t turn out the way he had hoped. Instead of begging and persuading, and preferably begging and kneeling down, Nik habitually impudent, as if he were under interrogation. Realizing perfectly well how much they need these soldiers and how important it is for him to agree with Kors, he didn’t ask for anything and behaved defiantly. Kors demanded that Nik take off his mask while talking to him, and when Nik, habitually snarling, nevertheless did so, Kors saw a “smile” painted on his face in black paint.

And how much it then pissed him off! It was Nik’s small revenge for Prince Arel, a reminder to Kors of his past. The shameful “smile” that went far beyond the contour of the lips, so bright on the white skin, still stood before Kors’ eyes, he had only to imagine it. At that moment, he barely restrained himself from hitting, throwing Nik out of the room. By some miracle he recollected himself and politely asked to wipe off the paint. Luckily, Nik stopped sneering and wiped off the dye. Kors remembered his pale, haggard face, “decorated” with tattoos and piercings. It was noticeable that Nik was seriously ill, his inflamed scar, roughly seized with iron staples, was frankly shocking.

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