"For even if the warriors of the gods did not come, the kingdom of my father-king would never be mine," he said. "He has so many sons and heirs that I will never live to be qualified to fight for power."

"Why would your master force you to do such a thing?"

"I used to think it was because he saw in me a flash of great potential, or potential beyond mortals," Vladimir sighed softly, causing a warm current and shiver up Maula's spine. "But a more plausible explanation is that he taught the pleasure of special tricks for lower pets purely for fun, just as a wandering entertainer teaches monkeys to dance around a stall to attract gullible customers."

Marula looked back at the man in the painting, and now she could see something darker in those eyes. It could be a hint of cruelty, or a hint of resentment brewing.

"What did he teach you?" Maula asked. She wasn't sure she really wanted to hear an answer, but there was a power in her heart to explore.

"My master almost has the power to refuse death – to shape flesh and bones into the most beautiful form," Vladimir continued. "He taught me some of these techniques, the magic that he used as easily as he breathed. But it took me all my intellect and will to master the simplest spells. I later learned that it was a death taboo to pass on their secrets to mortals, but my master just loved to show off the superiority of their race. ”

Vladimir's laughter echoed around her from nowhere, and there was no joy in it.

"He couldn't resist convention, and in the end, it was his demise."

"Is he dead?" She asked.

"Yes, one of his kind betrayed them, and their power over this world collapsed. My master was united in his enemies, and he asked me to lead his army to protect him. On the contrary, I killed him and drew a part of his power, because I never forgot the cruel wounds he had inflicted on me over the years. Taking his life was only the first step, and the long road that followed was far beyond my imagination. It was a gift of blood, both a grace and a curse. ”

Maula heard the aftertaste in Vladimir's tone, but also the sadness, as if the traces of this murder engraved on his soul never disappeared. Did he feel guilty for this painful killing, or was he just manipulating her emotions?

Not seeing him in person made it difficult for her to guess his motives.

"That's all for this painting," Mr. Vladimir said. "It's a matter of life, but it's only one of many times in my life. If you're going to make this life immortal, then you'll have to see the other lives I've experienced over the years before we can officially begin. ”

Maura turned to the staircase, the shadow at the end receding like a soft black tide. She licked her lips and realized once again that it was just her and Vladimir in the big empty house, and that the man had just confessed to murdering her father as well as the monstrous mentor.

"Hesitating? Are you sure? He said. You've come this far. And I have revealed so much of my soul to you. ”

Marula knew he was encouraging her to go up the stairs. That alone was enough to get her out of here and back with her friends. But even though she knew she should be scared, a part of her body was looking forward to being the center of attention for Vladimir, wanting to feel his powerful gaze fall on her.

"Come to me," he continued. "Find out what exactly I want you to do. Then, if you find the task too difficult and choose to leave, I will not stop you. ”

"No," she said. "I want to know it all."

The arch above the middle level of the staircase led to a wide hallway, the black stone of the walls was so cold that it almost froze Maula's breath. Rows and rows of lacquered wooden planks are fixed to the black stone walls.

Anchored to the planks are thousands of butterflies with their wings flattened.

Compassion touched Maula. "What is this?"

"One of my many collections," Vladimir's voice seems to have no source, and again seems to come from all directions. The voice led her down the hallway.

"Why did you kill them?"

"In order to study them. Or else? These lives are so short. Ending them a little earlier isn't much of a loss. ”

"Butterflies probably don't think so."

"But to see what every death has taught me."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you see those butterflies in the garden? They do not exist anywhere in nature. They are unique because I created their uniqueness. I used my will and knowledge to create a whole new species. ”

"How could that be done?"

"Because, like the gods, I choose which ones to survive and which ones to die."

Maula reached for the nearest butterfly specimen, this one with bright scarlet circles on its front wings. As soon as her fingers touched the butterfly's body, its wings immediately disintegrated, and the rest of it peeled off and shattered like ancient layers of paint.

A cold wind swept through Maula, and she nervously stepped back, and the ash smoke of debris fell like a waterfall like a tidal wave between the needle-threaded specimens. Dozens, then hundreds, of butterflies all turned to powder, raising smoke and ashes like a fire being extinguished. She screamed and rushed to the end of the hallway, frantically waving her hands to fan the dust off in front of her. She felt the dust burrow into her clothes, fall into her ears and eyes, and the granularity of insect corpses came out of her mouth, and she quickly spit out.

Finally she stopped, opened her eyes, and felt as if the texture of sound and light had changed. She wiped the dust off her face and found herself entering a wide, circular room.

Maura took a breath, looked around carefully, and then calmed down and cleaned the dust from her face and clothes. The walls of the room were cut out of stone, and she guessed she was standing on the ground floor of the ancient tower. The rough staircase on the inner wall spiraled upwards in a clockwise direction, and a strange ruby light fell from somewhere above through a faint curtain. The air was filled with the smell of red-hot metal, like the hot air of steel from the furnace of the Armament that fed the Empire's war cravings.

The circular walls on the ground floor of the tower are covered with portraits, and she carefully taps to the edge of the circular gallery, studying them one by one. No two paintings are the same, whether they are framed or painted, from the crude abstraction to the extremely realistic, even like a real face imprisoned in the interlacing of fibers on the canvas. She recognized the personal style of some of the paintings, which were masters from hundreds of years ago.