This is a fan translation of Wrong Time for Dragons (Не время для драконов) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy authors Sergei Lukyanenko and Nick Perumov.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Chapter 1

The lights went out.

When minor inconveniences were constantly hounding you, they were no longer minor inconveniences but a single Large System of Inconveniences. Exactly, "System", with a capital "S". Theory taught us that no truly Large System could exist without a truly Global Reason. And a Global Reason was something that one could neglect only once.

Victor felt his way to the door, to the fuse box that was built into the wall like a safe. Apparently, the furniture had decided to take this opportunity to wander around the apartment, appearing in unexpected places. One chair that had found its way onto his path he managed to trick, and the ambush failed, but another one happily hit him in the legs. Rubbing his bruised knee on the way, Victor carefully reached for it, only for the phone to ring suddenly. It wasn't so much a ring as a vicious and catty scream, even jumping up and down from the effort. That was probably the kind of call in case of fire or when someone died. The rings were frequent and short, maybe long distance, which might indeed indicate that something had happened. Mom would only call if a swarm of fire-breathing dragons were to descend on their small godforsaken town.

Fire-breathing dragons with narrow yellow pupils…

Victor shook his head, chasing away the sudden nonsensical thought, and hopped over to the phone, knocking over the chair on the way. It was probably the same one, which had viciously managed to return to the same place.

He ripped the receiver off the hook.

No one was speaking on the other end. He could only hear very slow raspy breathing.

"Hello? Hello, Mom, is that you?"

He already knew that it wasn't her. But he stubbornly refused to admit it to himself.

Whoever was on the other end continued to breathe. With a slight whistling, as if sucking in the air through slightly open (very sharp!) teeth.

"Hello…" Victor repeated, tiredly and obediently, holding on to the very edge of telephone politeness, which sooner or later turned into a stream of choice swear words, which cause one to feel awkward a minute later.

"Lay low…" a voice whispered from the phone. It did it forcefully, as if the unseen person would have liked to have said something far more offensive but managed to restrain himself. "Live… quietly… live… for now…"

Pressing the now beeping receiver to his ear, Victor stood there, staring into the opening between his curtains. It was night outside, darkness, the weak pale whiteness of streetlights from the next street over. No, humans hadn't become humans after inventing oil lamps and electricity. First, they'd invented the darkness, such opaque darkness that nature couldn't have foreseen.

"Bastards," Victor said. "Assholes."

He wanted to say something stronger. Except swearing alone in a dark empty apartment was just as stupid as it was for a poet to loudly recite his own work to himself.

"Idiots," Victor added, throwing the receiver back onto the hook.

Now he was moving to the fuse box far slower and more carefully than before. He didn't want to rush. Not that there was anywhere to rush to. A fuse had blown out in an old apartment, no surprise there. A drunken fool or a stoned kid had called. Happened to everyone.

But why was this happening so often? Huh?

The Big System of Inconveniences. Mom would probably say that someone had given him the evil eye. But he couldn't be so superstitious!

"Fuses, fuses," Victor said calmingly, leaning against the wall with one hand and feeling for the fuse box with the other. "Let's just press the button…"

He felt something cold, uneven, started to move his finger around, trying to figure out what it was. A loop, another…

An electric cartridge. It was empty. The fuse hadn't just shut off, it was simply gone.

His hands weren't surprised, unlike his mind. These hands carefully crawled away from the cartridge to avoid getting shocked and calmly opened the entrance door.

Lights were working there, as if nothing had happened. The fuse was lying on the floor, right at the threshold. It must have fallen out then. Unscrewed itself. Accidentally. Could it happen?

No.

Amazed at his own imperturbability, Victor picked up the fuse. He carefully screwed it into place, then pressed the button.

Lights came on obediently, the TV started talking, and the old fridge sighed furiously.

Yet another inconvenience. One of those things alongside a burst pipe, an exploded TV, a clogged drain, and other similar events. Although a little more exotic. Then again… there was a psychiatric term for such "unexplained" situations, when someone was absolutely certain that they did something but, in fact, hadn't. Let's say he got distracted while screwing in that same fuse yesterday. But then why had the lights worked? Had electrons also believed that the fuse was inserted?

He ought to close the door…

He pulled the door towards him… suddenly, someone's thin, bloodstained fingers gripped onto its edge, right by the floor. The fingers were delicate. Long nails gleamed gold, a bright, cheerful nail polish, utterly inappropriate but beautiful next to fresh blood.

He probably ought to feel scared.

Maybe it was his professional skills or the anger he was still feeling, but Victor didn't feel frightened. Just as carefully and slowly as a minute ago, when pulling his fingers out of the empty cartridge, he started to open the door again. When the bloodied hand slid off, he carefully slid through the opening.

She was lying on the welcome mat, her knees pressed to her chest.

A teenage girl. Maybe thirteen, maybe a little older. Her red hair was short and unkempt. She was wearing narrow black pants and a dark sweater that was cut open on the side.

She's lost a lot of blood, was his first thought. Her face was narrow, with high cheekbones, extremely white. Not deathly pale, or even regular pale, just white.

Before bending down to the girl, Victor threw a glance at the rest of the floor. There was nobody there, not a single sound could be heard. As if the entire building had died out long ago, and the bleeding girl had appeared outside his door out of nowhere.

The girl groaned with a barely audible voice.

He picked up her light body, noting that there wasn't actually that much blood by the door. But where had such paleness come from then? There were no bloody trails either, the rest of the floor was clean. As if she's fallen onto his welcome mat from the ceiling.

Sidling like before, as if afraid to open the door wider, he squeezed back into the apartment. The TV in the room kept muttering something, always cheerful and calming.

"Does it hurt?" Victor asked. He wasn't even waiting for an answer, he just felt he had to say something while carrying the girl from the entrance hallway into the room and laying her down on the couch… screw the faded bright upholstery, already covered in brown spots. "Hold on…"

First, he had to call an ambulance. He didn't feel particularly hopeful about the speed of his colleagues, but that just meant that he had to do it first. Then he needed to bandage the girl. And shut the door!

"Don't," the girl spoke in a surprisingly loud voice. "Don't call anyone… Victor."

He didn't even pause, not even surprised by the fact that the girl knew his name. There was no point getting surprised by anything tonight. Victor reached for the phone and picked up the receiver. He dropped it immediately when a puff of foul black smoke came out of the microphone, melting away into the air.

"Don't call!" the girl repeated.

They were gathering slowly, in the Hour of the Grey Dog, the dullest time of the night, when everything was already determined, unchanging, and known ahead of time. This time was more suited to getting together with a group of old friends, start a campfire, open a bottle of good old Aetanne, pull out a well-used guitar, and sing something like, "Hey, walking on the stones, on black stones, when you can't feel the earth or the roots…" Then, after the sad song, sing something very cheerful, maybe even risqué, if there was no mixed company present.

But there was nothing to be done. The Hour of the Grey Dog, and sliding shadows were crawling at the very edge of the night, which was so dark that a blind man would be nimbler than a sighted one. No swords could be seen under their cloaks. The reason for their gathering would require different weapons. Not for ritual duels with those like them. Much would depend on how this meeting ended. Maybe not all of them knew the scale of the danger, none of them needed to be told to hurry. Trees parted slowly, the forest was growing sparser, having been seriously wounded by the axes of lumberjacks. Once there had been roads and houses here. But time spared nothing. The relentless time, with which no one wanted to agree. Even the saplings that liked ashes so much had grown and became decrepit. Even foundation stones were being turned to dust under the grass roots…

The road was dangerous in the Hour of the Grey Dog, but not as much as in other hours of the night. The Restless walked, the Flyings circled high up in the sky; hungry eyes of those, who had never managed to overcome their eternal fear and leave the thicket, stared from under the forest canopies. No, they had to fear others, who had once been their friends and comrades. They, having come from their native shores, were their greatest enemies here. The moment when they had stood next to one another without gripping swords had been forgotten, forgotten and cursed.

Probably forever…

A castle stood on a ravaged land, where armor-clad armies had clashed countless times, in the middle of a cut up forest, where every tree was filled with arrows, on a steep cliff towering over a lake. Well, what was left of the castle anyway.

…The gate towers weren't crushed by cannons or rams, those had gotten stuck in sticky moss or fallen in secret holes far away; no, this was done by a wall-busting spell. All that was left were the foundation and piles of crushed stone, generously covered in grey dust, as the magic had pulverized granite slabs. Defensive hedgehogs had pulled together and sewn shut the gaping wound of the moat, created by rough spades.

They greeted one another silently, as there was no etiquette or proper phrases for such a meeting. The throne room had been destroyed more than the other chambers, this was the site of the last, most desperate battle between the attackers and the defenders. The remains of walls still held traces of the wards placed by the builders, which was the only thing keeping them from collapsing. The sole surviving spiral staircase led into the hall, which was stuck to the remains of the wall at the height twenty times that of a man, like a bird's nest.

This was not a place for playing with magic. Especially combat magic.

Which was why they were meeting here.

Those that had arrived first were standing at the base of the destroyed wall, volunteering for their silhouettes to be easy targets. A gesture of trust and peace. But such gestured had turned out to be traps, a means to lull others into a false sense of security, a vile ploy so many times…

And yet it was a gesture of peace.

"There is much for us to talk about," started a tall man, wrapped in a cloak, the leader of the ones to arrive first.

"In the Hour of the Grey Dog?" came a sarcastic reply from the darkness, where they could just barely make out the chunky figures of those, who had arrived second. Everyone knew that nothing spoken at this hour should be taken too seriously.

"There is no truth for us in the next hour," the leader answered evenly. "The Hour of the Waking Water is not our time. And definitely not yours. So let's not linger."

"We are listening, Ritor," the unseen voice agreed. As if admitting that there was no need for wordplay. "It was a long journey, and we haven't come here for naught, have we?"

Ritor left the question unanswered. He couldn't identify the one talking to him. That concerned him. Turning back, he threw a quick glance at his companions.

There were four of them, as had been agreed. The Klatt brothers, weak mages but excellent fighters. They bore the entirety of the guard duty in times when air magic was weak. Shetty, not yet old, but an experienced spellcaster, and a first-rank mage like Ritor himself. Even now, in the time of the Grey Dog, despised by all magic, one could feel the barest of breaths of Power from him. To the right of Ritor stood his nephew Taniel. The sixteen-year-old boy had already earned himself the nickname Wind's Favorite. The future hope of the Air Clan.

Some kind of foreboding, unclear and entirely without basis, for there could be no true foreboding when all magic was asleep, swept through Ritor like a chill. He should never have brought the boy! Even though, according to all customs, there had to be someone present at negotiations who was not yet a man, someone capable of watching and listening with the passion of youth. Still.

He should never have brought Taniel!

"What did you want to say, Ritor?" the leader of the other group repeated. Strange, he didn't seem to mind the delay…

Ritor shook himself.

The foreboding was nonsense. The Fire Clan had never been their enemy. And now, at the threshold of night, both were equally weak, which would keep anyone from betrayal.

"War is coming," Ritor said.

He said that the way he would leap into a cold airstream that began over mountain glaciers. Would someone believe his words? The people of the Fire Clan were the first he'd ever spoken them to.

The figures at the opposite wall remained silent. Their long cloaks were frozen in heavy stillness.

"War is coming," Ritor repeated. "And the clans are, as usual, not united."

"We know," came the rustling reply. "But we also know that there has never been true unity."

"After the war—" Ritor began.

"That time has long passed," the other man replied sharply. Ritor still couldn't make out his face. Not with his ordinary sight, and not with his magic, which was still useless now. "After the war, yes. But later… It is foolish to expect that the clans would not start settling old scores without a common enemy, Ritor. Strange to hear this from such a wise man."

Ritor sighed, wiped his forehead with his hand, trying to keep irritation away. The Fire Clan was known for its stubbornness. Ritor couldn't expect anything else.

"All right," he said. "All right. Let's forget unity. For now. I only want to say that the Naturalborn have not forgotten or forgiven anything."

"Can you prove your words? If so, then why did you insist on a secret meeting, why did you not summon all those with Power?"

A cold stream of fear touched Ritor's forehead. The Fire Clan had to understand… Then again, they were known for their unpredictability, just like the capricious element fueling their power.

"Because a Grand Assembly would inevitably end with a grand quarrel," Ritor replied acidly. Why did he have to explain such obvious things? "As for proof… They, the Naturalborn, they remember everything!" Ritor was surprised at the desperation in his own voice. "I know… all children of the Air know! The southern wind from the Hot Sea whispered of ships awaiting at the Fault, it brings the smells of steel being forged and potions being brewed! And the wind of the north is gathering strength to fan the flames over our cities! Birds are flying west earlier than usual, vultures are coming from the eastern deserts expecting a feast. The Naturalborn are gathering an army!"

"It's not the first time, is it, Ritor? They already tried. Immediately after the great war, and again seven years ago. What's left of their armies, Ritor? Do your winds remember the dying screams of the Naturalborn?"

There was no doubt in the speaker's voice. No fear either. The rising sun was illuminating the figures, wrapped in dark orange cloaks, standing still like grim unwavering statues. Ritor felt hopeless.

"After the war we were still united," he whispered. "And seven years ago… can a dozen ships really be called an army? A scouting mission, a test of our strength… We have gathered all the evidence we could. Now we need your help, Fiery Ones. The winds see much… but only Fire can tell us what exactly is being cooked in the cauldrons atop it."

"I see," came the reply from the darkness. "But think about it, wise Ritor, the Naturalborn have tried to end us twice. Twice. With different forces, different means. Both times we managed to fight them off. But… We understand your concern. However, were you not the one to rid us of our defenders? No one would say that they were paragons of goodness and justice, but the Naturalborn shuddered at the very sound of their name! Did you not cut down their kind?"

Ritor lowered his head. The leader of the Fiery Ones was telling the truth. Ritor noticed Taniel's wide eyes. Poor boy… although, why poor, war was coming, it was time for him to become a man.

"You cut down their kind…" the other man went on softly. "It is difficult to call that a wise decision, isn't it, Ritor?"

There was something in those words that made Ritor wary again. Once more, he couldn't tell what had alarmed him. The Fire Clan had always been their ally… or, at the very least, not an enemy. Which was no small thing.

"You couldn't gather enough evidence to convince a Grand Assembly, could you, wise Ritor? And now you're asking for the sons of Fire to do what the sons of Wind cannot? You, who have killed the last of those whose name you refuse to speak? Who have brought calamity on our heads?"

The reproaches were striking him like a sharp water whip. Ritor lowered his head. Yes, Taniel, yes. Once he, Ritor, had ended the greatest curse of their world. And, at the same time, its greatest defense. That was how it almost always happened, dear boy. No one could have too much power.

"Why are you speaking these words, Fiery One?" Ritor raised his head and clenched his fists. "What's done is done."

"Who knows?" came a mysterious reply from the darkness. "Who knows, wise Ritor… who has slain the last of those whose name is cursed?... So, you think that war is inevitable?"

"Yes," Ritor replied firmly. He was once more starting to feel the ground beneath his feet… or the airstream beneath his wings, as it were. "War is coming. It's inevitable. And if the clans do not unite like before—"

"And what do you want to do with the united clans?" came a spiteful question. "If the Naturalborn do indeed step off their eagle-headed ships, we will unite regardless. What do you want to do, wise Ritor, by uniting us before the war even starts? You have rid us of our most reliable defender… by killing He Whose Name Is Unpronounceable to You, by going against the opinion of many wise men, and now you wish for all of us to obey you? You're hiding something, Ritor. It's time for open words, in case you haven't yet figured it out. Stop weaving like the spring wind and answer directly, if you want our help."

The Fire Clan was known for its stubbornness. One couldn't expect anything else from them.

Ritor sighed.

"The winds bring different news. Pieces of spells fly across the Hot Sea like dry leaves. The Naturalborn are preparing something… something terrible, which can only be stopped—"

"By the one you killed?" came a cutting reply from the darkness.

"Yes," Ritor admitted dully. "Yes. Which is why—"

"You once again desire the power of all the clans… why?"

Ritor squirmed. Indeed, now was the time for open words.

"Based on what the wind has brought, the Naturalborn want to create a Dragon."

Silence fell over the ruins. The stones, already tortured by long-ago magic, seemed to become even deader from the fatal name.

"To create a Dragon?" the other man said slowly. "To create… a Dragon? Is that even possible?"

"Who knows?.." Ritor lowered his head. "We didn't believe in their ships, remember? And when they did appear, it was too late. Do you remember how much blood was shed on that shore?.. Remember?"

"I remember," came the reply, rustling like fast-moving water. "But you will agree, wise Ritor, that ships are one thing, and a Dragon is something completely different. But… you did not surprise us."

"How?!" Ritor asked in amazement.

"No one knows the true limits of the power given to the Naturalborn. We do not believe that it is possible to create a Dragon… but you are correct that we also did not believe in their ships. What then, Ritor? What do you suggest? Do you want to stage a comeback?" There was mockery in that voice.

The main question, the reason why Ritor had done all he could to prepare this meeting, was finally voiced!

"The time of the Dragon is coming," Ritor said.

The other man laughed in a quiet gurgling manner.

"The time of those who are gone? What is going on with you, wise Ritor?"

"A Dragon is coming," Ritor repeated.

Silence fell. He heard Shetty sigh behind him. The spellcaster was also alarmed by something.

"I see," finally came from the darkness. "You can't let go of the memories of the great war. These hopes and fears are from your youth, Ritor. Ritor… the slayer of the Last Dragon."

He gritted his teeth, holding back. The Fire Clan, which had stayed neutral during the war, had a right to rebuke him. And yet…

"We can't hold back a Naturalborn invasion. Especially one led by a Created Dragon."

"But is a Dragon not always followed by the arrival of a Slayer into our world?"

Strange, the leader of the Fire Clan didn't seem to be surprised in the least. And he had to be. Had to. If the Last Dragon had been slain… then even the Naturalborn couldn't re-create such a marvel.

"Were you not yourself such a Slayer, Ritor? Did you not go through initiation by Fire, Water, Wind, and Earth, were the wisemen of all the clans that had believed you not performing rites on you? If the Naturalborn are led by a Dragon… then we will send the Slayer against it."

"There is another way."

"There is no other way," the leader of the Fiery Ones said firmly. "And what's wrong with the way I just described?"

"The Naturalborn can do something else," Ritor said slowly. "Maybe they don't really need a Dragon. What are they going to do to it after winning? Killing a Dragon is not so easy. Even one created for that purpose. It's far easier to cause strife among the clans… to start a fight… then they won't even need anything to beat us. We will kill one another for them. Is the Water Clan not ready to go for our and your throats? Is the Leopard Clan not quarreling with the Tiger Clan? Are those same Watery Ones not searching for the last of the Unknown Clan, for a reason that is just as unknown?! Are you not doing everything you can to annoy the Earth Clan?"

The latter came out far too harsh. But it was too late to take those words back. And yet the leader of the Fire Clan didn't seem to be offended in the least.

"Let's leave the arguments and the quarrels," he said casually. "If I understand you correctly, Ritor… you believe that we are the ones who need a Dragon."

"Yes." There was thunder from beyond the horizon, or maybe that was just a figment of Ritor's imagination. "In order to repel the armada… to defeat the Created Dragon."

"So it is possible to bring back a Dragon." The Fiery Ones were stating, not asking.

"If the Dragon doesn't come, our world will die."

"Really?"

"The wars—"

"We've handled all the wars ourselves. The time of the Dragons has passed, Ritor."

What was happening to the Fire Clan, which had stood behind the defeated overlords of the world to the end?

"We need a Dragon," Ritor said. "And it… it will come."

He waited for a new wave of mockery, bitter irony, rebukes. After all, everyone knew that the Dragons were gone for good.

In large part, because of him.

"I know," the other man replied. "You didn't kill the last one. You banished her instead."

The words had been spoken. Ritor heard the others waver behind him. Only the mage was staying calm. Maybe because, unlike the soldiers and the children, he knew how many faces the truth could have.

"Yes," Ritor spoke. "I couldn't kill her because—"

"I know, I know," the other man answered with a soft, gurgling whisper. "No need to explain. You let her go… and now the last Dragon is awakening. But we don't need him!"

"The only defense for our world—"

"We are its defense! Ritor, we will not allow the Dragons to return! If a Dragon is awakening, then the same is happening to the one who will slay him. The same thing happened to you once. It will happen again. And once again there will be war, more frightening than the fight with the Naturalborn you're trying to scare us with. Did you forget everything, wise Ritor?.. Or not? And yet, despite everything, you have summoned the Dragon, haven't you?"

"No one can summon a Dragon. It comes on its own. I can only sense it… there is too much of their blood on my hands."

"But we can summon the one who will stop the Dragon. We have done so."

Ritor sensed Shetty sigh behind him. Something had changed around them. The space around them shuddered when power had started returning into the world. The Hour of the Grey Dog was ending, and magic was coming back. Maybe still weak, the Hour of the Open Sky was still too far away. Ritor felt streams of winds weave around his fingers, heard the air whisper behind him, inside the wall gap.

"Strange to hear this from children of Fire…" he whispered.

"There's no Fire here!" the mage behind him spoke emphatically. "Ritor, there is no Fire here!"

Ritor raised his hands, pouring all his strength and reaching for the group wrapped in cloaks. The gust of wind passed through the hall, still weak, but it was enough to push back the hoods from their faces. Even that effort had taken a lot out of him.

The faces of the men were pale. Far too pale and clean for the Fire Clan.

"Betrayal!" Ritor shouted, his hand trying to grip the sword that wasn't there.

The one he'd assumed to be the leader of the Fire Clan laughed.

"Why? They didn't betray you, Ritor. We spent a long time convincing them to tell us the location of the meeting…"

The Klatt brothers took a step forward as one, they didn't need words to understand one another. The sabers and pistols had been left in the forest, a hundred paces from the ruined castle, as demanded by the rules. A mage could still sense a hidden weapon even in the Hour of the Grey Dog. But the long knives in the brothers' hands could still be deadly. Taniel also tried to cover Ritor and the mage with his own body, but the clan leader elbowed the boy back. He wasn't much help in a fight.

"We're leaving," Ritor said. It was a statement, not a question. He tried to put the confidence he didn't feel into it.

There was no open quarrel between the Air and Water clans. At times, they'd even been friends… like in the days of the great war. Maybe they would be allowed to leave?

"No," said the one commanding the children of Water. "I'm afraid you aren't, Ritor."

It was their hour. The moment of their ultimate Power. And they weren't afraid of showing it.

All five of them raised their hands, throwing foreign cloaks off their shoulders. Only now Ritor could see that the orange fabric had been torn in some places and had brown spots in others. Pale blue tight-fitting jackets could be seen under the clothes taken off the dead.

It was the hour of their Power, and no one in the world could have stopped the Water magic.

The Klatts rushed into battle, trying to make it in time. Ritor could see far more clearly that he wanted to how the older brother tripped, staggered, and gripped his throat. His thin, flexible body started to bloat, fabric ripped, silver clasps clanged to the floor. The now clumsy warrior collapsed, and his screams were ear-piercing. Then the older Klatt burst. His skin ripped with a disgusting sound, his blood, which was now unnaturally light and clear, was spraying in all directions.

After all, blood was water.

The younger one lived a few seconds longer. All magic needed a counterbalance, so his flesh was drying out rather than bursting. He even managed to strike, with his blade sliding along the chest of one of the enemies. The blow was probably non-fatal, and yet the man groaned and jerked back, breaking the uniform line. The mummified body collapsed at the feet of the children of Water. Moments of confusion were brief, and yet…

"Leave, Ritor!" Shetty shouted, taking a step forward. It was his turn to die, and the mage knew it.

Ritor looked back. It was impossible to make a break to the stairs past their enemies. That left a single way out. The broken wall, beyond which was the brightening sky and the altitude.

A little more power! Just a little more!

"Taniel!" He pulled the boy with him. He was fear in his eyes. In their hour, the boy could do much, but now… "Taniel, the alternative is death!"

Wind struck in their backs. The mage was probably giving away all his strength in this final fight, a brief and hopeless one. The children of Water were thrown back to the staircase by a roaring air current. Their leader grabbed his throat, the same way the older Klatt had done a minute ago. The mage was dealing him the strongest blow, sucking out the air from his lungs, trying to suffocate him. Were it not the Hour of the Waking Water, Shetty would've been able to do it.

"Jump!" Ritor shouted to his nephew. The boy exhaled, not taking his scared eyes off him, and stepped into the void.

A water whip whistled behind them.

Jumping, Ritor turned around, just in time to see the flexible blue whip, surrounding by a halo of droplets, cut the mage's body in half, from the right shoulder to the left hip, then glimmer when flying up to the hall's ceiling, and dash in his direction. The attacker missed by only a little, as the mage's wind hadn't yet died down, so the whip reaching out from the attack's hand was shaking, trying to feel its way through a foreign environment.

Ritor was already falling.

Air struck him in the face, gently and confusedly, as if to say, "This isn't your hour, Ritor, what are you doing, Ritor…"

He was falling from the height of twenty men. Taniel's body tumbled below him. The boy gathered himself and spread his hands, lying down onto the air. A weak glow surrounding the boy's figure when he tried to fly. Glimmering magical wings spread out.

"No!" Ritor shouted. But the wind carried his shout away.

Not even the strongest of the children of the Air would be able to fly in the Hour of the Waking Water. But Taniel believed in himself too much, in his power, in his native element. His age did not recognize compromise.

He believed it so strongly that for a moment Ritor thought that the boy was going to manage it…

The aura surrounding Taniel flashed brightly, before fading. The air wings never straightened out.

There was no time to feel pain. Falling was quick. Ritor closed his eyes, his entire body feeling the aerial ocean around him, pulling out the thin strands of Power, scattered in the environment. He wouldn't be able to form wings. But it wasn't the only way…

The air compacted, squeezing under him like a firm pillow, a transparent lens. It was child's play, one of the first magical exercises. Who could stay the longest on an invisible support, who could jump the highest after starting off on the firm air mattress… How could Taniel have forgotten such a simple spell? Or had he remembered but preferred to make use of the more serious, mature skill of flying?

The air lens burst from the impact against the ground. The magically restrained air rushed out in all directions in relief. And yet his fall had been cushioned. Ritor bounced a little, rocked on the rapidly contracting support. His ears popped from the change in pressure. Then he touched the stones, but without the lethal speed. He rolled down the slope and froze when his numb fingers managed to grab hold of the shrubs that had grown at the edge of the moat that had dried up long ago. The castle hadn't been assaulted from this direction, so the moat wasn't full of hedgehogs, managing to retain its depth and the sharp spikes on the bottom.

It was very quiet. Or rather it felt as if everything was gripped by silence. Only blood pounded in his temples. Ritor got to his feet, swallowed, and made a few chewing movements. His eardrums returned to normal.

Taniel's motionless body lay near him. A single glance was enough to confirm that the boy was dead. His back had struck the rocks, and there was no more life left in that mangled body.

And yet Ritor stepped towards him. If he hadn't been able to save him, at least he could take the body away…

The earth shook and flowed under him. Cloudy water sprayed from under his feet. Ritor looked up and saw the children of Water staring down at him through the gap in the wall. Damnation!

He ran. The earth under his feet flowed, turning into soup. But he was too far away, and his enemies could no longer see him under the trees. It wasn't so easy to kill the best of the Air Clan.

Even in the hour hostile to him.