It had turned into a pretty enough day. Cracks in the low hanging clouds allowed silver streams of late afternoon sunlight to spill onto the town and Tsemes bay, the light dancing upon the grey waves. Ilya had a nice view of it from the hill that his neighbourhood was built upon. He fixed the red scarf that was wrapped around his neck as a cold wind blew from the mountains to the south. He liked coming out here; he was sitting in his favourite spot on a low stone wall that gave a good overlook on the town and the bay. There were no longer any pillars of smoke rising from the docks, except for the smokestacks of a handful of Navy destroyers chugging in and out of the harbour, leaving smooth wakes in the surface of the water.

He'd had a, thankfully, uneventful day at school. It was good to be able to return to relative normality, if only for a day. Sergei hadn't mentioned anything with regards to the day before, apart from the fact that he still got bollocked for not doing his homework. He decided to get up and start up the cobblestone footpath that led back to his house. After a three minute walk, he arrived at the door of the red brick building that doubled as his home and his father's watch shop. On the ground floor, as you walked in the front door, was the front counter, with a row of glass display cases lined up. Through the doorway behind the counter was a small kitchen and a workshop. Upstairs were a pair of bedrooms and a small living room that acted as a private space for Ilya's dad during his off hours.

It may have been a bit cramped and basic, but it was his home. And, to be truthful, he doubted he would rather have it any other way.

Opening the door, he stepped into the hallway that led to the shop and the wooden staircase. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the front desk unmanned, the display cases closed over. That was strange, usually his father would still be working for a couple of hours after Ilya returned from school.

"Papa," he called out. "I'm home."

Voices came from the kitchen. "Ilya," his father responded, "Could you come in here, please?" There was clear tone of concern in his voice. Ilya's pulse quickened slightly.

"Uh, sure." He stuck his coat on the hook by the stairs, before walking around the counter and into the confined corridor that connected the kitchen and the workshop.

"What's the matte-" He stopped as he saw a pair of officers in Air Force uniform sitting at the table.

The same officers he saw yesterday evening.

Shit. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying that out loud in front of Papa. The man turned his head and smiled at him. He was quite handsome; squared jawbones and a slicked, black haircut created a photogenic facial expression. Well, most pilots are good looking anyway, he thought.

"Ah! Here's the young pillar of society!" He announced theatrically. Ilya didn't like where this was heading.

"These two came in a few minutes ago, asking for you," His father started, leaning against the kitchen counter. His brow furrowed in bemusement as he ran his hand over his head, as if he still had hair left to run it through.

"Who are you, what do you want, and how do you know who I am and where I live?!" Ilya blurted out.

"Ilya! Watch your manners."

"It's quite alright, we're at fault ourselves for not introducing ourselves," the man said, standing up.

"Mister and Master Litvyak, my name is Lieutenant Colonel Marin Raskov, of the Imperial Air Force."

Raskov, Ilya thought. The name rang a bell.

The woman followed Raskov's suit, speaking for the first time. She faced Ilya.

"Hello Ilya, I'm Major Ivana Kozhedub, pleased to meet you." She extended her hand to him. She smiled slightly, however, there was a sincerity in her eyes that allowed him to relax a little bit. She took off her cap, revealing shoulder length brown hair. Hesitantly, he shook her hand.

"Well then, to what do we owe the visit?" Papa inquired, as the pair sat back down. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"Nothing for us, thanks," Kozhedub answered quickly, just as Raskov was about to open his mouth. "Anyway, we should get down to business, shouldn't we?" She nudged Raskov with her elbow.

"Quite," he said. "Would you care to take a seat, young man?"

"You're sitting in the only two chairs," Ilya replied dryly, as he leaned against the counter next to his father.

"Oh, my apologies," he went to stand.

"It's alright, stay where you are," Ilya said, sternly. "Now, down to business, like you said." His eyes bored into him.

Raskov chuckled slightly. Kid has balls, he thought.

"Young sir, you were observed yesterday evening at around a quarter to seven on the Main Street. You investigated a ruined jeweller's and took it upon yourself to rescue the shop's owner, who was trapped under the rubble, before carrying him outside and ensuring he received medical attention."

Papa's eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening. Ilya's blood chilled.

"Is that correct?" Raskov added.

Ilya swallowed, before speaking shakily. "I...I only did what anyone else would have done. He needed help."

"Anybody else would have asked for an extra pair of hands to help lift that pillar," Kozhedub said. "You lifted it off of him and hurled it off to the side, all by yourself."

Ilya's eyes shot down to the oak wood floor. He felt Papa's hand rest on his left shoulder.

"Why are you looking so accused?" Raskov asked. That was a good question, actually. "You saved a man, you should be proud of that."

Ilya let out a sigh. These two clearly weren't here simply to pat him on the back. He'd revealed himself in front of a pair of military personnel.

Raskov spoke up again, in a less formal tone. "Ilya, I assume you've heard of the 'Witches'?"

The question caught him off guard. Of course, most people knew of the Witches. He'd often heard the older boys at school talk about them. But why was he asking him that?

"Yeah, course I have."

"And?"

Damn it, what was he playing at here?

"They're people- well, girls- that are really good at fighting. They can do things like stop bullets and see into the future. They're really strong as well. They also fly using those, um, Strikers, was it? Yeah." He paused. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, there's one sitting right in front of you, to start with." Raskov chuckled again, nodding towards Kozhedub. Ilya's brow shot up in surprise. Their two names clicked in his head.

"I remember reading about you in the paper, a couple of months ago. Marin Raskov... You're that engineer, the first man to fly a Striker and bring down a...what do you military types call them again?...A Neuroi."

"Guilty as charged," he smirked, before adopting a more serious facial expression.

"I figured you two were a bit young to hold ranks like that," Papa grumbled. Both of them barely looked like they were going into their twenties. "What does any of this have to do with my son?"

The young colonel stood up.

"We think he has potential." Raskov's reply was blunt. "We think he might be able to fight the Neuroi."

"What?!" Papa almost shouted. "That's ridiculous. The only ones who have been able to do that are all women!"

"We both thought so ourselves, until recently," Kozhedub replied, standing up herself, folding her arms.

"Case in point; me." Raskov interjected. "And you're not the only one. We've been finding lads like yourself popping up here and there. Seven in total, eight if we include yourself."

Ilya had no idea what to say. He was struggling to find the right words, or the right thoughts even. Finally, he blurted out;

"What the hell are you saying?"

The two officers were silent for a moment, as Raskov formulated his answer.

"We think you're a wizard, Ilya."