The stunning light of the twin stars radiates behind the azure glass window that illustrates the calm waves caressing the numerous coral reefs of the city of Atlantis, partially covered by the king's throne, positioned in front of it, where Damon sits reclining with his hand resting on its side, looking as indifferent as the clouds travelling across the sky as he observes the arrival of Cassander and Orion, who are escorting a prisoner with his hands and feet chained.

The three kneel before the king, bowing to him, and stand up. Damon's attention is only on the Merchant; he makes eye contact with the prisoner, as if he's thinking about something or has forgotten what he should say to start the dialogue.

Although he doesn't show it, Orion is very unhappy with the king's excessively long silence, where Damon doesn't even seem to blink as he stares into the Merchant's calm, enchanting emerald eyes, without even realising that part of his face is covered by a technology that hides his pearly irises and scar. While Cassander just watches the prisoner, almost as if hypnotised, with features as serene as a spring breeze.

And shattering the silence as if it were glass, Damon suddenly begins to ask.

— What's your name? Or should I say, was it?

— Yakov Smirnov — his posture is calm, even though the wounds on his body still bleed beneath the black cloak.

— Russian?

— Yes.

— What race or kind?

— Witch, more specifically, the elemental witch.

— Could you demonstrate your elemental ability? — he stands up and approaches the Merchant.

Shimmering green flames, like the elegant gaze of this "witch", dominate the air, dancing with the gentle ocean breeze that passes through the throne room, while Damon obsessively observes the flaming glow, like a curious child, and touches the fire. Although the flames fade immediately, he burns the tip of his finger and the black fabric of his glove, but he doesn't feel any pain and the wound heals immediately.

— Thank you — he sits down again and his gaze wanders off to some unknown place — What have the investigations discovered about the Merchant's identity?

— Only his Russian origin — replies Orion.

— And that Scottish accent?

— It's a fake — replies the Merchant — I'm just imitating the speech of a friend I had as a child, whose father was a human born in Scotland.

— Could you speak Russian in the dialect of your region? — discreetly checks that his recorder is still recording the conversation.

— Of course

Every detail, even those that no one could have imagined existed, has the Merchant's attention as he perfectly imitates an elemental sorcerer living in a small region in the south-west of the Russian duchy, minutely describing their secret dwelling, situated in a clearing inside a dense forest where translucent rivers flow, many herbs grow effortlessly and glittering crystals adorn underground caves. He doesn't delay in describing it, because when he starts talking about the humans who invade his race's territory and try to imitate their innate abilities using dangerous magic, calling themselves witches, he makes numerous complaints about it.

— Why did you abandon your race and decide to become the Merchant?

— I was bored and I like finance. 

Damon is silent for a while.

— You can get out of prison as long as you ally yourself with us. You should already know how our policy works, but if you're unsure about any boring details, ask someone else. How do you feel about being the economy minister? It's that or die. And anyone who betrays or disobeys us dies too — he says before even checking the previous information, without caring whether it's true or not.

— All right.

Damon makes a gesture to untie him, and his order is immediately carried out by Cassander. Realising that there are no more matters of interest to the king, the soldiers simply bow to him, imitated by the Merchant, and leave the throne room.

— Are you feeling all right, sir? Do you need any help walking? — Cassander asks, his gentle gaze directed at the Merchant.

— There's no need to worry, these wounds are nothing — he replies with a gentle smile.

— Nothing? If they were nothing, I wouldn't be taking you to a doctor! They're still bleeding.

— I don't even feel much discomfort, everything is fine.

The corridors of the palace, where their footsteps echo, are as white as snow and adorned with columns accompanied by dazzling marble statues, with immense fidelity to traditional Greek architecture. The bluish and yellowish lights that illuminate them are dim, giving them an atmosphere as cosy as the fireplace in a small cabin on a winter's night. And a gentle sea breeze, carrying the sweet fragrance of the ocean, graces everyone in the palace with its delicate presence coming from a complex air-conditioning structure.

They walk for a while until they find a door, which concealed a room until it was opened by Cassander. As soon as they arrive, a Merope with straight light-blue hair, cut to shoulder length and concealed by a cap, wearing a common doctor's outfit and rounded glasses with the lenses almost blurred by his mask, greets them formally, and his courtesy is reciprocated.

Due to the immense amount of commitments the two soldiers have, they both say goodbye to the Merchant and the doctor.

— You shouldn't even be walking! Please lie down now — his order is obeyed — What race are you?

— I am in my human form.

The doctor sighs as if he wanted to find the strength for this job, which is as complicated as surviving a fight against a lion with the strength of a child. He quickly changes his gloves, following all the hygiene protocols, and begins the long process that lasts countless hours, ending only in the mesmerising silence of the early morning. And after completing his duty, he sits down in an armchair next to the bed and falls asleep.

The domain of darkness more abyssal than the depths of a solitary cave doesn't last that long, being as ephemeral as a sigh that holds the entire life of a human or absconditus, and the delicate touch of dawn caresses the soft pink clouds. The imposing rays of the twin stars defeat any adversary in their path and pierce the bluish glass of the bedroom window, creating a cosy low-intensity illumination, as if the room were submerged in Atlantis.

The doctor's heavy-lidded eyes awaken slowly as it's still early and realise that the Merchant is already awake, but just lying still under the blankets.

— Good morning, are you feeling better?

— Good morning, I'm fine.

— Does anything still hurt?

— No, it doesn't.

— Then keep resting and don't make any effort until I let you, so that nothing goes wrong with you.

— I'll obey you.

— I hope so — he says in a protective, threatening tone, his sharp gaze on the Merchant as he stands up — Now I must go, but one of my assistants will be with you, you can count on him if you need him.

A few hours before the doctor left, when the twin stars were burning in the sky of Jerusalem with all the furore of summer, the door to the room was gently opened by a beautiful Greek damsel wearing a long classical dress, as pure as her gentle features, and with immense blue hair, like the waves of the sea, after having her request to enter accepted. The princess, Andromeda Okeanós, is accompanied by her personal guard, a slave of her father, the Duke of Nanook.

— Good afternoon — her tone of voice is as gentle as a mother's.

— Good afternoon — he greets them both, but receives only a harsh silence from the duke, which contrasts with the delicacy of the princess's smile.

— Are you feeling better? — she leans in close to the merchant

— Yes, thank you for your concern, a doctor has already looked after me.

— I'm glad to hear that, and I'm sorry for the brutality of my House.

— You bear no responsibility for their actions, there's no need to apologise — Andromeda shows slight emotion on her features.

— Isn't resting boring? The palace has a vast library, just ask a servant for a book.

— That's a good idea.

— Does that interest you? Are you a reader yourself? — his eyes, as green as the grass that grows under the dew, sparkle.

— Yes.

— What kind of books do you like?

— Gothic.

— They're fascinating.

— And your favourite kind?

— None, I read almost anything.

— As you love this subject, you must have a good reading recommendation.

— From the absconditus or the human world?

— Both.

— From our literature, I recommend "The Call of Cthulhu". From human literature, I recommend "The Picture of Dorian Gray". Both are incredible gothic books.

— Thank you.

— You're welcome — his lips form a delicate smile — It's interesting to talk to you, but I can't extend this conversation any further, I have an appointment.

They both say goodbye courteously and the princess leaves the room, accompanied by her guard, who, before crossing the threshold, looks at Adriel with a stern gaze. It is as if this gesture alone, capable of shaking the strength of even a hero who has risen in a bloody war, communicates that if Adriel dares to plan any evil against the princess, he will not survive to make it a reality.

The orange twilight, which shows its beautiful splendour on the Jerusalem skyline, illuminates the palace's solitary terrace, where there is only the king and a few laboratory trinkets on a table, such as a broken Becker and an old Enleymer.

Damon holds up his glove that was damaged by fire the day before, watching it. The flame that has consumed part of the fabric appears to be ordinary, but the harsh sensation of heaviness in the bones of his arm, which has bothered even someone with a notion of pain so weak that he only knows that wounds hurt because someone told him, highlights the extreme temperature of the flames that would never be reached by an imitation of an elemental ability.

With the aid of his laboratory equipment, Damon analyses the chemical composition of the trail left by the fire on his glove and identifies the presence of copper sulphate in the "Yakov Smirnov" flames, which is responsible for their greenish colour. That being is not a witch.

Why lie about identity? Why lie about the race? The king always accepts absconditus of all origins into his palace, even enemies! Not even humans would be rejected. No-one would need to use another identity to enter the court. After all, who couldn't have their loyalty bought by Damon? Who would gain an advantage by becoming an outcast instead of revelling in the riches offered by the king and agreeing to be loyal to the crown?

Damon hardly remembers that family that isn't even allowed to be in his kingdom, that house of royal blood with some members capable of summoning flames. The memory of a Hazael with the flaming emerald gaze returns to his mind. His face sketches a charming smile as vile as the nature of all living things, which soon turns into a laugh. 

The king's gaze is as excited as a child's when he receives his most eagerly awaited toy as a gift. The uncertainty and danger that the future holds is capable of frightening anyone, except him, who, despite feeling threatened, couldn't be more curious about the adventure he's about to experience.