Naya and Art had turned thirteen. Naya had moved into the senior group and was now training on par with adults. It seed the Silver Age of mages, rising from the ashes, was beginning.
"Father!" Naya shouted, hurling fireballs at him.
Zenkhald, anwhile, just stared blankly at the sunbeams falling on the floor. The spheres dissipated before they could even reach him. Naya imdiately began to simultaneously create new fire spheres and explosive mini-golems about half a ter tall.
Zenkhald shifted his gaze to his daughter and smiled softly. In that sa instant, all her magic simply vanished.
"You've grown so much," he rely remarked. "It feels like just yesterday you were eating so bug, and today you've already learned to cast in parallel. If you keep going like this, by the ti you're eighteen, you might reach Alastia's level."
Naya leapt aside, creating earthen pillars under her feet to lift herself into the air. Once at the top, she began to bombard her father, but the fire simply enveloped Zenkhald, leaving not a single singe mark on him.
"Naya, you can do better. Don't hold back," he said.
THUD! Naya hovered directly above Zenkhald. A pillar of fire erupted from her hands with such force that the recoil pinned the girl against the very ceiling. After three minutes of continuous attack, she stopped and landed on the floor. Her father was still smiling softly. Nothing had happened.
"Naya, rember," he pronounced. "Morality is just chains invented by the weak to control the strong. Rember that."
Father often says things like that during combat, Naya thought. Every ti, these radical statents threw her off balance, sparking a sharp desire to argue and refute his words. But not now.
She created a fire spear in her hands and rushed at her father with a cry. And suddenly... she tripped? Naya tumbled to the floor and only then noticed that her father was already standing right next to her. It had been a trip. She hadn't even noticed him move.
"You were ready to risk everything, even your life, for that attack," Zenkhald began. "Never do that again. Evaluate the situation soberly. Do not rely on chance or luck; do not think that you will simply get lucky. But, in principle, it's a good start. You've mastered low-level fire magic, and you only started studying it yesterday."
He reached out and helped Naya up.
"And you, as usual, only humiliate ," Naya grumbled.
"Now, now," Zenkhald countered. "I am only pointing out your mistakes. If I wanted to humiliate you, I would have called you a weakling and comnted on every strike with insults."
"You're always like this!" Naya persisted. "Saying everything you think. You don't have to voice every single thought!"
"Really?" Zenkhald raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. By the way, what is that perfu you're wearing? It's repulsive; don't use it anymore."
"Hey, Father! A drop of respect, please! This perfu is actually..."
Zenkhald stared at the sun again. That ant he was no longer listening to her.
"Listen, how do we differ from ants?" he mused. "Ants live exactly the sa way. In an anthill, everyone has their task. Just like us, everything is so similar. Except ants, for so reason, don't ask themselves stupid questions like 'why' and 'what for'."
"Father, let's go already," Naya sighed. "I'm tired. We've been training for twelve hours, and I only started studying fire magic yesterday."
Zenkhald turned around. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
"Let's go," he answered so lightly, almost laughing.
I have absolutely no idea what is happening to my father or how to help him, Naya thought bitterly.
Art had turned fourteen. Two people were in the spacious training hall: Art, clutching a sword, and Zenkhald. The youth slowly drew the blade from its scabbard and took a deep breath.
"Cold that casts into the chill. Hurricanes that tremble before you..." Art began to chant a spell. Ice icicles materialized in the air around him and began to swirl in a vortex with a quiet hiss.
"Is it just , or are you making up words as you go?" Zenkhald interrupted. "I thought you had mastered non-verbal magic to so extent."
Ignoring his father's words, Art continued: "Fire, master of shackles, illuminate
with your light... GIVE
STRENGTH!"
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The blade of his sword imdiately erupted in bright flas.
"No, he's seriously saying this just for fun," Zenkhald sighed, watching his son. "How are those words even interconnected?"
The icicles flew at Zenkhald like hail, and Art himself lunged right after them, swinging the flaming sword.
"Slow," Zenkhald said boredly.
Using wind magic, Art created a directed explosion under his feet. Pop! The acceleration was powerful, and in the blink of an eye, he was only two ters from his father.
And suddenly Art heard: "What kind of girls do you like?" Zenkhald asked with a smirk.
"What?!" Art stamred.
He had just started to swing his sword for a strike when... bam! Zenkhald was inexplicably behind him and tripped him. Art went tumbling across the floor but imdiately scrambled to his feet.
"You still haven't answered, Art—what kind of girls do you like?" "What are you even talking about, Father?!" Art shouted, beginning to recite a new spell, but Zenkhald was behind him again.
"A-a-a-ah," Zenkhald gave a long yawn. "Either cast or talk, because I’m going to fall asleep. Seriously, in a fight, only strong people can afford to talk. And anyway, why did you challenge
to a sparring match, son? A regular teacher would do for you."
Art stopped, breathing heavily. His whole body was covered in sweat. For seven hours now, he had been rushing around the hall with a sword, trying to at least touch his father.
"It is better to hear a sweet lie seven tis than the truth," Zenkhald blurted out suddenly, for no apparent reason.
"Where did that co from?" Art asked, struggling to catch his breath. "Just because. Why is the truth needed at all? I don't understand. Life isn't better with it. Seriously, if you know the truth, then what—will your life shine with new colors? Why search for it or live by this truth? There's plenty of it in this world already, but so little lies. Only fools seek the truth," Zenkhald finished philosophically.
"Father, I don't understand you. And I'll never be able to understand you," Art shook his head. "Our concepts are too different."
Zenkhald first smiled sadly, then his face spread into a wide grin. "You still haven't answered what kind of girls you like! Black-haired? Golden-haired? Green-haired? Just don't tell
you're into guys." "NO, Father! It’s just... I can’t tell you." "Wha-a-at?!"
Zenkhald straightened to his full height. "HOW DARE YOU GROW SO FAST?! Look at us, we're almost the sa height! A little bit more, and you'll catch up, or even beco taller. Such a little shrimp, growing and growing. You and Naya are growing at the sa rate. Unbelievable. By the way, when I asked Naya what kind of guys she likes, she answered calmly and without hesitation. What about you, Art? Why are you worse than your sister?"
"No, Father... It's just that it doesn't matter to . The main thing is the soul."
"The soo-ool?" Zenkhald deliberately distorted the word. "The soo-ool... Ugh, ugh, ugh, don't be like that, Art! Who the hell needs that? If a girl weighed 130 kg at a height of 1.60 m, but with a good soul—would you date her?"
"Father, what kind of questions are these?" the youth protested. "But you just said the soul is more important!" Zenkhald parried. "Look, Art. If there was a choice between a very beautiful girl with whom your relationship, let's say, wouldn't be the smoothest, and her soul was generally vile... or an ordinary, unattractive one, but with a good soul. Whom would you choose?"
"I... I don't know. Probably the second."
"WHA-A-AT?!"
"And you, Father, what would you choose?"
"The first, of course!" Zenkhald declared confidently. "You have to live with that your whole life. I can't even imagine it: I wake up and see that lying next to . Rember, Art: there is nothing better in this world than self-deception. You have to lie to yourself. Create illusions. That’s the only way you’ll live happily, without any problems at all."
Zenkhald paused. His gaze suddenly froze, as if he were looking through the wall, and his tone beca frighteningly detached:
"Art, there is nothing better than self-deception. And rember: mories are just an illusion. mories are the most pleasant lie in the world. Don't look back. You must live for... or for others? Hmmm... a difficult question."
Art stood silently, lowering his training sword, and looked at him with a heavy heart.
What is wrong with Father? the youth thought in despair. He's constantly talking nonsense and then starts arguing with himself. I absolutely don't understand what's happening to him. Mama doesn't want to help; she said point-blank that she doesn't even want to see Father. And I... I still haven't even reached Naya's level.
Naya and Art were returning ho.
"Yes, that was a good walk, it's been a long ti since we went out..." Naya began.
They opened the door, and suddenly they heard a whisper from inside. It seed very weak, but for so reason, every word sounded frighteningly clear.
"Life... Look at yourself. Who stands here? Who is this?"
Naya and Art cautiously stepped inside and saw their father. Zenkhald was standing directly in front of a large mirror.
"What are you waiting for? Waiting... waiting. Tick-tock, tick-tock," for so reason, Father was talking to himself. "You don't even understand who you are. You don't know how to feel. You only know how to imitate emotions. Never in your life have you loved anyone; you only mimicked by watching others. All your actions are a copy of others'. There is nothing of your own in you. You are pathetic. You pretend to be kind only so that you won't be rejected. But there is still no place for you among them; you cannot be with them. They are all afraid of you."
Zenkhald continued to stare fixedly ahead.
"You can no longer rember normally; you don't understand where you are or why. What happened to your acquaintances? Sowhere lies the end, sowhere the beginning, and sowhere the middle—and nothing can be sorted out. Why do you need all this? Why do you keep your mories, cling to them? You say yourself how bad it makes you feel."
At that mont, sothing eerie happened. The reflection on the other side of the glass seed to co to life. It began to reach out its hand. The hand erged directly from the mirror's surface and caught Zenkhald's clothes at the neck with a death grip.
"So what are you doing?" the reflection asked.
Zenkhald rely calmly intercepted this otherworldly hand with his own.
"I don't know, but I cannot do otherwise," he answered in a level tone. "No words will help or move
from my spot. For you are . And I am always right."
Having said this, Zenkhald smiled softly.
The reflection tilted its chin up arrogantly, smirked back, and pronounced: "Fool."
Naya, unable to hold back, ran up to her father and hugged him tightly: "Father! Father!"
Art remained standing in a daze, unable to move.
After this incident, when they told Mama everything, there were no more mirrors in the house.
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