Nico was exhausted. He hadn't slept a wink all night. Every time he was about to fall asleep, something would wake him up.

  Sometimes, in the darkness between wakefulness and sleep, he thought he could feel a presence. Not a noise, not a breath, but a thought that wasn't his own, a subtle weight pressing behind his eyes, as if someone, or something, had slipped into his head and was watching him from within. It was a feeling he couldn't explain, and it left him with a dull chill, deeper than the frost of the night.

  Probably, he told himself, it was just exhaustion, the kind that weighs you down and won't let you rest, and the anxiety of not knowing what time dawn would break. He and Leo had to be down in the kitchens before the first bugle call to help prepare the morning meal and everything else that needed to be done there.

  He sighed, staring at the boy who had woken them up in the large dormitory. It seemed as if he had closed his eyes only a moment before the boy, shouting like a general, pulled them out of bed. The child could not have been more than eight or nine years old, but he commanded them with the authority of a senior cook.

  The corridor that led them to the kitchens was freezing and full of drafts. Then, suddenly, the warmth of the fire and the smells of burnt soup, stale bread, and sour porridge enveloped them.

  Nico didn't have to serve food at the counter like Leo and Mark. At first, he thought he was lucky: that job seemed too humiliating to him.

  But when he found himself with his head half stuck inside a huge pewter pot, scrubbing greasy walls that stank of burnt soup and sour porridge, he began to think that maybe he would have preferred the counter.

  The smell rose to his throat and he almost threw up.

  Finally, the third horn sounded, summoning them to training. He quickly cleaned himself up and grabbed his bowl of porridge, half a ration, as punishment. He swallowed it cold: it was a sticky lump that almost looked like it could be cut with a knife, while the child stared at him angrily, the ladle clenched in his hand and a menacing expression on his face.

  He ran to the training ground, smelling of a mixture of sour milk and burnt pea soup, but his heart was ready for training.

  He received a few pats on the back from a couple of older boys and a “well done” from a shorter boy with a compact face and a nasal voice.

  Nico approached Leo, his eyebrows furrowed, and asked,

  “What's going on? Why all this murmuring of approval?”

  Leo laughed, looking around.

  “Rumors are flying,” he said, amused.

  “What rumors?” asked Nico, already imagining the answer.

  “What we did to the stuffed bear. Everyone knows about it now,” Leo replied.

  Nico's eyes widened. “How did they find out? I mean, how can they connect it to us?” he asked, fretting about the repercussions.

  “It was me, of course,” Leo admitted.

  “What?!” exclaimed Nico, growing increasingly nervous. “When did you have time to tell all these people?”

  Leo shook his head. Nico saw him exchange glances with a tall, thin boy with olive skin and a sly look in his eyes. Leo glanced at him, and the boy responded with a friendly nod.

  Leo turned back to Nico.

  “I didn't tell everyone. It was enough for me to talk to someone. You know how it is: there are certain gossips...”

  “Eh, I guess so,” sighed Nico. “And when would you have done all this?”

  “What?” asked Leo, greeting two boys with deep black eyes and ebony complexions who were watching them curiously.

  “Yes, it was us,” Leo murmured with feigned modesty as the two walked away.

  Irritated, Nico grabbed him by the arm and pulled him aside.

  “So? When did you tell them everything?”

  Leo adjusted his jacket, slightly annoyed.

  “Yesterday? No, during training,” he replied.

  “And it didn't occur to you, even for a second, that we're walking a tightrope here?” asked Nico.

  “So what?” Leo replied curtly. “What can they do? Expel us? Fine: we'll go and be vigilantes outside of here: Grampasso and Silver!” he said, raising his hand as if reading an invisible title. “The gentleman vigilantes.” Then he shook his head and looked back at Nico. “It's a working title. I'm still working on it.”

  Nico's stomach was in knots. He was annoyed with Leo for spreading those rumors and noticed that now some people greeted him reservedly, others with admiration mixed with an air that, to Nico, seemed to say, “I liked you, but I know they'll expel you.” Everyone, however, stopped him and chatted with him. He couldn't deny that he liked the notoriety, but it prevented him from concentrating. It seemed to him that Master Ardan was giving him frowns; he feared that he might suspect something.

  In addition, perhaps it was fatigue, perhaps the pain in his hands, still sore from polishing weapons and washing pots, but he couldn't pull the bowstring back properly. His fingers burned, and because of this, he missed the target two times out of three.

  And that made him feel bad. He liked archery, watching the arrow cut through the air and hit the bullseye.

  He shook his head bitterly when he saw his arrow stick in the ground, beyond the target.

  Master Ardan whistled to call him over. Nico approached him and asked, “Did you want me, sir?”

  Ardan nodded. “Let me see,” he said, gesturing toward his hands.

  The man looked at Nico's hands: calluses, blisters, abrasions, and cuts. Then he nodded again. “Don't be upset about the stuffed bear,”

  Ardan said.

  Nico looked up, horrified; Ardan was staring at him with a crooked smile. “And put some grease on those hands,” he added. With that, he turned and walked away.

  Nico smiled to himself and, returning to his position, resumed training.

  At lunchtime, Nico listened to Leo complain about how tiring their life was, how much effort it took to clean their weapons, and how much he didn't want to do it. As they chatted, Corvin, Mark, and Sylan approached.

  “I heard about your feat,” said Corvin. Nico noticed the tone of disgust in the word ‘feat’. “You won't get away with it,” he added, hissing angrily at them.

  “Why? What are you going to do, Varo?” Leo retorted contemptuously.

  “Well, I know that Master Don is fond of scones. And tonight, the cook, Iselda, will make them for him again... At my express request,” said Corvin, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as if to simulate money. “You'll all be cleaning your weapons alone tonight.

  Accidents happen, you know,” he added, with a threatening undertone.

  Nico jumped to his feet, his body tense from the fatigue of the last few days. “Come on, Varo!” Nico shouted into the half-empty hall. “I'm not afraid of you!”

  Corvin laughed, a snake-like smile. “Fine. See you tonight, then.”

  Nico, accompanied by Leo, left the Falcon Tower with his shoulders still sore from archery training. The courtyard was quiet before the afternoon training session. They had some time before their afternoon training with Gareth.

  They left the dormitory area, crossing the kitchen corridor. Nico could smell smoke and onions everywhere, permeating the air. They slipped through a side door, crossed the inner courtyard with its usual bustle of people, and finally passed under the stone archway.

  Nico noticed that the wind carried with it a breath of warm earth and, more distinctly, the scent of herbs: lavender, rosemary, mint. They walked along the gravel path with crunching steps, passing through the medicinal gardens; there, near the gardeners' shed, they had arranged to meet Kiah. From a distance, they saw the shed: little more than a pile of dark planks with a sloping roof.

  Nico noticed that Leo was looking around, his eyes squinting against the sun, which was blinding them from behind.

  “She's not here yet,” Leo murmured.

  “I'm here,” said a voice from behind a hedge. “Good observer,” he teased playfully.

  Nico saw Kiah sitting in the shade of the shed, her shoulders leaning against a tall green hedge. His friend had a mass of chocolate-colored curls, gathered up in a vain attempt, he thought, to keep them under control; as usual, she had a book on her lap.

  Nico sat down next to her and Leo followed suit. He took a deep breath and let the scent of herbs fill his lungs; the drowsiness in his eyes increased, lulled by the peacefulness.

  They sat in silence, broken only by the chirping of cicadas in the leaves. Then Kiah murmured, “Do you notice the way the light falls on the leaves?”

  Nico shook off his drowsiness, prepared to follow Kiah's train of thought, and yawned.

  “Did you sleep badly?” asked Kiah, frowning.

  “A little,” replied Nico, rubbing his eyes.

  “Strange. Personally, I've always found natural sleep inefficient: messy, chemically unstable, subject to a thousand biological and environmental variables. The visor, on the other hand, gives you real rest: programmed, optimized.”

  “What are you babbling about?” exclaimed Leo, emerging from his state of quietude. “We've only had a couple of nights' sleep in here and you already know everything?”

  Nico laughed, then looked at Kiah, who, with her usual know-it-all air, continued: “I read about it, you know? In a magazine. It's called the AlphaRem protocol, but I didn't believe they had implemented it until I tried this visor. Eight minutes in deep-sim do what eight hours in your bed can only dream of, literally.” She concluded with a smug smile.

  “Deep what?” asked Leo, staring at Kiah with eyes as big as saucers and his mouth wide open.

  Kiah raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Ugh, don't you ever read? It literally means ‘deep immersive simulation.’” She paused, probably, Nico thought, to give them time to digest the information: “It means that it intervenes in the neural and dream processes of the brain, producing effects equivalent to or greater than REM sleep. It's neuro-architecture, not magic. In the article I read, they tested it on people suffering from insomnia, with excellent results.” Then she turned to Nico and added, with a mixture of pedantry and affection: “If you still feel tired, trust me: the problem is you, not the visor.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Her friend paused briefly, then added, in a tone that mixed information with a hint of shame: “Celeste and I are meeting after dinner in the Arcanum Room. We've agreed to do some evening training.” She paused painfully, then continued: “Since that night at the Stuffed

  Bear, with Varo and his people... I'm still blocked.” Kiah paused again; neither Nico nor Leo knew what to say.

  Kiah continued, staring at the ground, her face embarrassed. “Celeste thinks that working on it calmly, without pressure and without an ‘audience’, might help.”

  Nico was bent over the table, rubbing a pumice stone on the blade of a sword so rusty it was pitiful. Not far away, Leo was rummaging through shelves and racks, looking for who knows what.

  A clang of iron and broken pots made him jump. He brought his injured finger to his lips: it was cut, and the taste of animal fat and iron invaded his throat, disgusting him.

  He looked up, staring at his red-stained finger, and shouted at Leo, “What are you doing? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  Leo was close to disaster: shattered terracotta pots lay on the floor and their contents, liquid or slimy, mixed together, seeping through the shards and pieces of armor. Among the fragments, Nico saw a door that had been hidden until a moment ago by the pile of tools.

  “Bingo!” Leo exclaimed, staring at the door. “I found a hidden area!”

  “What?” Nico asked, puzzled.

  Leo looked at him with eyes shining with excitement. “A secret area: a hidden place that may contain loot or bonuses... How can you not know that? Don't you play games?”

  Nico didn't answer. In fact, this was the first “real video game” he had ever played, and he still didn't fully understand how it worked.

  The armory door creaked: Nico thought that, as promised, Corvin and his two henchmen had arrived. The door slammed with a metallic thud, and for a moment Nico felt the air grow heavy, like a sentence: fight or succumb. They were trapped, just as Corvin had threatened. Nico's heart leapt, his hands trembled slightly, but there was no time: he had to stay calm.

  The room was in chaos: shelves and racks full of tools, broken terracotta pots near the door Leo had discovered, and a large table in the center, covered with rusty swords, separating Nico and Leo. Piles of armor and shards blocked some passages, making every movement risky.

  Corvin advanced, a snake-like grin on his face. “Ready?” he said, not expecting an answer.

  Nico clenched his fists: he had never been in a fight before. He looked at Leo, already on guard, and felt a little less alone, even though it was three against two.

  Behind Corvin was Sylan, whose smile, marked by a broken incisor, emerged from the shadows with a cruel, ravenous grin. Corvin advanced towards Nico, fists clenched, with the confidence of someone who thinks he already has everything. His blond hair, usually combed back, was disheveled, and Nico saw in it an almost childish anger. Nico thought that perhaps the ridicule his father had been subjected to had taken away his tough aura, that intimidating shadow he carried with him.

  Mark advanced toward Leo: his nose was broken, his lower lip still swollen from one of the blows Leo had given him during sword training. They tried to separate Nico and Leo, taking them to opposite sides of the room, which would have been easier for them.

  However, Mark's path to Leo was blocked by a pile of broken glass and pieces of armor. Nico saw this and took advantage of it: he jumped over the table, landing near Leo. Since they had to fight, it was better to do it side by side, he thought. In the commotion, a bucket of water and ashes was knocked over, spilling onto Corvin and Sylan's shoes.

  Corvin roared a curse, his eyes sharp as a knife. “Now you've really pissed me off,” he roared. “Mark, this way: we'll beat them up together, and then we'll go find their little friend, the witch, that Pekkala with the coal-colored face.”

  “You won't lay a finger on her!” Nico roared.

  “Think you'll get out of here in one piece, Varo?” Leo added, almost simultaneously.

  The first blow came quickly. Nico slid sideways, felt hot breath close by, and struck Corvin's torso, enough to make him stagger back.

  Sylan's first blow landed on his cheekbone, a shock to his skull, but he gritted his teeth. He hopped, pivoted on his heel, and threw another hook: he was mostly dodging, just trying to stay on his feet.

  Corvin didn't give up, advancing like a boxer, looking for any opening. Nico was breathing heavily, hands in front, feet moving without thinking too much: short, quick blows to the torso, a few dodges, a spin to avoid a straight punch. Corvin's punches were well placed, but Sylan's hurt more.

  Leo was striking alongside him, but the three boys in front were more used to fighting. The pressure increased; the movements became frantic: each exchange of punches was a little harder to withstand.

  Finally, Corvin paused for a moment. He was panting, the grin gone, replaced by an irritated expression.

  Nico, exhausted and worn out by the fatigue of an unequal fight, lowered his guard for a moment. Sylan took immediate advantage of this: he grabbed him and immobilized him, holding his arms behind his back; Nico's body was involuntarily exposed to Corvin's blows.

  Leo, next to Nico, tried to hit Sylan, muttering something, his face a mask of blood, but it was a mistake. Mark, taking advantage of his exposed position, hit him in the jaw. Nico saw, as in the movies, Leo's face contort in a grimace of pain.

  Corvin, sweat beading on his face, roared with amusement: “Well, now we're having fun.” He pulled up the sleeves of his jacket with a slow, almost theatrical gesture: he looked ready to resume the assault.

  Nico waved his arms under Sylan's grip, breathing like a bellows. He felt strange, exhausted, as if he had fought a thousand rounds.

  Corvin raised his fist; Nico hardened his face, his eyes fixed on Corvin's cruel and wounded ones. Then, like a lifeline, the door creaked again.

  The armory door swung open suddenly. Dan entered as if he didn't need permission: bag thrown over his shoulder, brown, worn cloak, lute slung across his chest swaying. Nico saw the smile, framed by his unshaven salt-and-pepper beard, disappear, replaced by a nervous grin. Dan took three steps into the room and shouted loudly, with that minstrel's voice that seemed to fill the room even when he didn't mean to:

  “Hey! What's going on here?”

  Corvin flinched, turned around, and for a second seemed undecided. Then something about Dan, perhaps the way he smiled, perhaps the fact that the room was filling with other noises, triggered his cowardice. Corvin pulled Mark and Sylan back with a rough gesture and, without explanation, turned on his heel. “We'll see each other again!” he blurted out, his voice short. The three slipped out, their footsteps heavy on the uneven floor, like rats.

  Nico was left breathless, his heart still pounding in his throat. Dan took two quick steps, placed his bag and lute on the table in the center of the room, and knelt before them without wasting a moment.

  Leo opened his eyes wide, as if to clear his mind. Nico noticed that his lip and left cheekbone were bloody, but he said nothing. Nico saw the strain on his friend's face and felt the same way himself, with a metallic taste in his mouth and his chest aching with every breath.

  “Sit down,” said Dan, quickly handing them a couple of chairs. Nico saw Leo collapse into a chair like a boulder and, when he finally sat down, wondered how he had managed to stay on his feet for so long.

  Dan looked them over, feeling and turning their faces and arms, then sighed with relief.

  “Good. Nothing that requires healing magic or drastic measures. Just bruises, cuts, swollen knuckles, and contusions,” he said, giving

  Nico and Leo an unconvinced smile. “I've been worse off than this on more than one occasion, and look at me now, a flower,” said Dan, opening his arms and bowing playfully.

  Nico laughed softly, but it was a mistake: his lip felt like cracked glass and his right cheekbone contracted in a painful spasm.

  With his face in his hands, Nico watched Dan rummage through his bag.

  “I'll wash it and then apply a compress,” said Dan, pulling out a flask and a jar filled with a dark yellow gelatinous substance.

  “Sorry, Dan,” Leo hissed. Nico thought he was pressing his tongue against a sore spot, which was why he was speaking like that. “I trust you, of course,” Leo continued as Dan pulled a small packet of compressed leaves and a jar containing a whitish substance dotted with black specks out of his bag. “But I'm more of a modern medicine kind of guy,” Leo concluded in a hiss.

  Dan laughed. “What does that mean?”

  “How should I know,” hissed Leo. “Maybe you'll take us to a doctor, a healer... what do you call them around here? I mean, someone who doesn't treat us with handmade concoctions.”

  Dan laughed. “These are the same remedies anyone would use to treat wounds like these. See this?” he said, lifting the jar with the yellowish liquid. “It's honey. And these,” he added, pointing to the small herb cabinet, “are plantain: perfect for cuts, scratches, bruises from punches, abrasions from armor or weapons. And this is comfrey, better known as ‘warrior's herb’: perfect for chest contusions, swollen hands, blows, and closed traumas.”

  “And that?” asked Nico, pointing to the jar which, now that he looked at it more closely, seemed similar to the grease Ardan had recommended for his chapped hands.

  “This?” asked Dan, as he took a clean linen cloth and wet it with the liquid in the flask. “It's grease mixed with dried herbs.”

  "Hey, hey,“ Leo muttered as Dan approached his face with the soaked cloth. ”This?“ he said, staring at the cloth with a terror he hadn't shown before, while fighting with Mark. ”It's not that stuff you made us drink last time, is it? If it burned in our throats, imagine what it would do to an open wound," Leo muttered, agitated.

  Dan laughed. “Relax, rookie: I'm not wasting my liquor on a few cuts. This is just water.”

  Nico watched Dan firmly wipe the cloth over Leo's knuckles; his friend fidgeted and whimpered softly, like a frightened puppy, repeating like a mantra: “It burns, it burns, it burns.”

  Then Dan, after treating all of Leo's cuts and abrasions, moved on to Nico. Dan took a clean cloth and began to rub; it really did burn, but Nico tried to resist: he didn't want to look like Leo.

  “I know, it stings a little, but that's because there's a drop of vinegar in the water to disinfect it.” As Dan cleaned the wounds, the stinging turned into relief.

  “There, that's it, finished,” said Dan, throwing the dark bloodstained cloth on the table. “Now a little honey on top: honey keeps it clean and helps the wounds close. Go on, do it yourselves: put it on your cracked knuckles.”

  Nico, immediately imitated by Leo, took some dark honey from the jar and spread it on the abrasions: the substance was sticky and pulled up a shiny thread.

  Nico saw Dan perform the operation himself on the cuts: he applied a compress of medicinal plant and brushed on a light layer of cream dotted with black. “The grease,” said Dan, treating Leo with expert hands, "is to prevent the skin from drying out. Oh, and don't eat anything hard for a while,“ he recommended. ”And no kissing," he added with a half-smile—which elicited a hint of amused anger in Leo.

  Then he moved on to Nico's chest. He had him lie down: Dan's hands immediately located the sore spot, below the sternum, a dull pain that increased when Nico breathed.

  “Probably a bruise,” Dan murmured. He made a cold, wet linen compress and held it there for a moment. Then he wrapped a large cloth around his chest, just enough to limit the jolts of his strongest breaths and provide support.

  “Don't run, don't laugh loudly, and take small breaths for now,” Dan advised. “If it gets worse, if you get a fever or wheezing, go see a healer.” His voice was practical, without alarm.

  “What are you doing here?” Leo asked as Dan worked.

  “They kicked me out of the Stuffed Bear,” Dan said in a low, quick voice.

  Nico sat up, surprised, but Dan gently pushed him back down with a steady hand, inviting him to lie back down.

  “What?” Leo whispered.

  “Irina, one of the assistant cooks, a good girl,” Dan said with a sigh, "told the owner that I helped you play that prank on Varo. She talked, and the boss didn't take it well: he fired me."

  Nico and Leo exploded with indignation.

  “Shh, it's okay,” Dan said; he paused and looked at the boys one by one. “There's no point in me staying here anymore. I heard what the king said: it's better to leave before the issue with Varo escalates.”

  Nico listened to Dan; he felt the warmth of the man's hands under the cloth and the stickiness of the honey on his fingers. Something tightened in his stomach besides the pain in his chest.

  “And now... what will you do?” asked Nico, his voice slightly hoarse.

  Dan shrugged, adjusting his bandage. “Travel, as always. There's always room for a minstrel in an inn, whether in a village or a big city.”

  He gave a half-smile. “But first I wanted to say goodbye properly... and give you something,” he concluded, winking at both of them.

  Nico, with his bandage in place, slowly pulled himself up. Leo helped him to his feet; a sharp pain shot through Nico's chest, but it subsided as soon as the effort was over.

  Dan deftly pulled two packages out of his bag: one larger, covered in blue cloth, and another wrapped in a rough cloth.

  “This is for Serafina,” he said, handing her the larger package. “A little book: songs, some nursery rhymes that I know she likes. Since she didn't get to hear much from me, at least this way I can make it up to her.”

  Then he took two bracelets out of the cloth bundle, like wristbands, made of dark leather, as wide as the palm of a hand, sturdy but flexible. A small brass buckle was used to adjust them around the wrists. At first glance, they looked like simple forearm protectors.

  Then Dan opened them: inside there was not a single compartment, but several narrow, flat channels, each with a small thin blade that glinted in the pink light of the sunset filtering through the few windows of the armory.

  Dan handed one to Nico and one to Leo, showing the bracelet casually. "They're five throwing knives. Lightweight. You'll need them," he said, glancing down at the two of them, his gaze sweeping over their fight wounds. Nico felt his hands tremble a little as he slipped it on.

  Nico put the bracelet under his sleeve; he felt the cold metal against his skin and a strange physical reassurance that calmed him a little. Even the pain in his chest seemed to recede.

  Nico didn't know what to say: he was stunned by the blows, by the news that Dan was leaving, and by the thought of the gift Dan had given him. He wasn't used to receiving gifts, and this shook him deeply.

  Dan rearranged his cloak on his shoulders, picked up his bag and lute, then said with a crooked smile, holding out his hand to Nico,

  “Well, that's everything.”

  Suddenly, distant screams could be heard coming from different parts of the castle.

  “What's going on?” asked Nico. Then, from the towers of the royal palace, the sound of bells reached them: a series of metallic, shrill, frantic chimes.

  Dan, his hand still outstretched toward Nico and his gaze fixed beyond the clanging of the bells, murmured: “That's not a normal sound.

  Bells like that... are a warning signal. We have to move.”

  Author's note

  Log updated: subject status N_01 (irregular heart activity, stress levels above operational threshold)

  Log closed: Alarm detected. Estimated threat level: 0.78 on a scale of 1.0