Part 3. The Invasion

  They came at dawn. Five days before the World Council.

  Lelya found out at six in the morning — a call from Radimir jolted her out of sleep. Bogumir was already sitting up in bed beside her, tense, alert — he'd heard the vibration before she had.

  "Listen," he said.

  She switched to speakerphone.

  "...crossed the border three hours ago," Radimir's voice was hoarse, cracking. "Four points simultaneously. Thousands of fighters."

  Lelya felt the blood drain from her face.

  "Where?"

  "Eastern border. The territory of Lilith's people. They've already taken six villages."

  "Resistance?"

  "Almost no patrols." Radimir paused for a second. "They walked in practically unopposed."

  Lelya closed her eyes. She had asked. She had warned them.

  "Casualties?"

  A long pause. Too long.

  "Yes. Locals, mostly humans..." Radimir's voice faltered. "Lelya, they shot civilians. Deliberately. Over forty confirmed so far. The number's climbing."

  Lelya looked at Bogumir. His face was stone, but she could see how the knuckles gripping the edge of the blanket had gone white.

  "They're filming," Radimir went on, his voice hollow. "Shooting civilians on purpose — and filming it. As if they're building a picture."

  Within an hour, Lelya was at Alnar.

  The war room was buzzing. Screens showed maps, troop movements, intelligence feeds. Officers shouted orders, couriers darted between offices.

  Svarog stood at the main monitor — motionless. His eyes tracked rapidly across the screens.

  "Status?" Varvara asked, striding into the room.

  "A strip along the border. About forty kilometres deep." Svarog pointed at the map. "Three thousand fighters, magical support, heavy weapons. Four simultaneous entry points."

  "Are they advancing further?"

  "No. They've stopped. And... they're filming."

  Lelya walked up to the screen. It showed a live feed from the occupied territory.

  The Citadel soldiers hadn't simply occupied the villages. They had staged a production. Cameras on tripods, drones in the sky, reporters with microphones. Groups of people dressed like locals — but with unfamiliar faces, clearly imported actors — gave interviews about "years of suffering under Monolith's oppression." They wept into lenses, showed their wrists. Someone stood in front of an ordinary grain warehouse and called it "a prison for political detainees." Someone else pointed at a school — the very same one a teacher had spoken about in an interview — and claimed that children's minds had been "systematically corrupted" there.

  And in the background — bodies. Real bodies of civilians killed during the invasion. A woman in a floral dress by the well. An old man at the door of his house. And a small figure in a bright yellow dress — a girl, no older than six.

  "They killed people," Lelya said quietly. "Killed real people so they could stage their show. And then they'll say these bodies are victims of Monolith's repression."

  "Latest count — forty-seven dead," Svarog said. "Seven children. Two of our journalists — shot when they tried to film the executions. They managed to transmit the footage before they died."

  She stared at the screen — at the staged interviews, the fake tears, the lies that in a few hours would become "the truth" for the entire world.

  And she felt rage.

  Cold, precise rage.

  They had known. All of them had known that the Citadel was planning something on those lands. For months they had tracked, analysed, built hypotheses.

  And still failed to prevent it.

  Why?

  Lelya turned to Svarog. He stood at the monitor — still, composed. As always.

  But right now that composure struck her differently. Not professional — hollow.

  "Svarog."

  He looked at her.

  "Why didn't the patrols react in time?"

  A pause. Brief, almost imperceptible.

  "There weren't enough of them."

  "We discussed reinforcements. At the briefing. Three days ago."

  "Redeployment takes time."

  "Three days is time."

  The silence in the room shifted. Grew taut. Everyone was watching them.

  Svarog didn't look away.

  "Are you accusing me of something, Minister?"

  Lelya opened her mouth — then closed it. No. Not here. Not now.

  "I'm asking questions," she said evenly. "Because I want to understand how this happened."

  "It happened because the Citadel was better prepared than we anticipated." Svarog turned back to the monitor. "Right now, what matters is deciding what to do next."

  He was right. Of course he was right.

  But something inside Lelya refused to settle.

  "I asked for backup. Forty-seven people are dead. Seven children. Is that — expedient?"

  "Lelya," Varvara's voice carried a warning.

  Lelya turned to her. Varvara stood against the wall — calm, collected. Not a shadow of panic. Not a shadow of surprise.

  And Lelya thought: not a shadow of surprise.

  A person who has just been told about an invasion of their own territory should be at least alarmed. Officers were shouting. Radimir was losing his voice on the phone.

  Yet Varvara and Svarog stood there as though they'd arrived for a morning briefing.

  Lelya opened her mouth — and closed it. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

  "Are you finished?" Varvara asked.

  "No," Lelya said. "I'm just getting started."

  By evening, the Citadel had withdrawn. They gathered up their "liberated prisoners," their reporters, their cameras — and vanished beyond the border. Behind them lay ravaged villages, forty-seven corpses, and one hundred and twenty-three abducted people who were now being paraded before the world as "victims of repression."

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  Lilith came to Lelya on her own.

  "Three of our journalists are dead. The footage survived — shots of Citadel soldiers trucking in actors, staging scenes, firing on civilians."

  "Their reports are already playing worldwide. Pretty pictures, tears. And our footage..." Lelya shook her head.

  "You were right," Lilith said. "About the border. If they'd listened..."

  "They didn't listen."

  "Why?"

  Lelya was silent. In her mind circled what she had noticed in the war room — Varvara's face. Composed. Not a single emotion out of place. As though she'd been told about a supply delay, not an invasion.

  "Maybe because they didn't want to," she said at last.

  Lilith froze.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Varvara is smarter than me. Smarter than all of us. If I figured out that the Citadel was planning something — she figured it out sooner." Lelya rubbed her temples. "So why didn't she reinforce the border? For one simple reason: if she had, the Citadel would have changed their plan. Done something else, something unpredictable. This way — we knew where they'd strike. A controlled blow. Terrible, bloody — but predictable."

  "And what does that give us?"

  "Monolith is now the victim. Aggression, invasion, murder of civilians. At the World Council in five days, we can demand sanctions. Compensation. Maybe even something more." Lelya sat down across from Lilith. "And Varvara knows she has me. That I'll walk out on that floor and turn everything around."

  Lilith stood. Behind her, the shadows of wings rose — a sign of barely contained fury.

  "Those were my people," she said quietly. "My land. My people died. And you're telling me Varvara let it happen?"

  Lelya didn't answer. The answer was obvious.

  Lilith headed for the door. At the threshold, she stopped.

  "If you're right — if Varvara truly let my people die for the sake of her games..." The wing-shadows deepened. "I don't know if I can forgive that."

  "Neither do I," Lelya said softly. "Neither do I."

  She left the office, leaving Lilith alone.

  The corridor was empty — late evening, most staff had gone. Bogumir waited by the lift.

  "Where to?" he asked.

  "Svarog."

  "Lelya..."

  "I need to know."

  He didn't argue. Simply walked beside her.

  Svarog's office was on the same floor as Varvara's — in the defence ministry wing. Lelya knocked, and without waiting for an answer, walked in.

  Svarog sat at his desk, studying maps. He raised his head.

  "Minister. Late for a visit."

  "I have questions."

  "They'll keep until morning."

  "No." Lelya closed the door behind her. Bogumir stayed in the corridor. "They won't."

  Svarog leaned back in his chair. His face was unreadable — as always.

  "Ask."

  "Why weren't the patrols reinforced?"

  "I've already answered that."

  "You said 'redeployment takes time.' That's not an answer."

  "It's a fact."

  "Three days." Lelya stepped closer. "Between the briefing and the invasion — three days. You've commanded the army of Monolith for thousands years. Are you telling me you couldn't redeploy additional patrols in three days?"

  Silence.

  "Are you accusing me of incompetence?" Svarog asked evenly. "Or treason?"

  "I'm asking why this happened." Lelya's voice cracked — the rage she had been holding down all day was clawing its way out. "We knew for months that they were planning something. Months! And when they finally struck — we weren't ready. How?"

  Svarog said nothing.

  "Answer me!" Lelya slammed her palm on the desk. "You're the Minister of Defence! Protecting the borders is your job! And you—"

  "And I was following orders," Svarog said.

  Lelya froze.

  "Whose orders?"

  "The Chief Mage's."

  A long, heavy pause.

  "Varvara ordered you not to reinforce the patrols?"

  "Varvara ordered standard protocol. Nothing more."

  "But you knew—"

  "I knew what everyone knew." Svarog rose from his chair. "Hypotheses, assumptions, circumstantial data. Not a single direct piece of evidence that the Citadel was planning an invasion."

  "And now?"

  "Now we know." He walked to the window. "And now we will act accordingly."

  Lelya stared at his back — broad, straight. Six thousand years.

  "You always follow orders," she said quietly. "Even when you know they're wrong."

  "I follow the orders of the Chief Mage." Svarog turned to face her. "As do you. As does everyone in this building."

  "I—"

  "You're the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Your job is diplomacy. Mine is war." He took a step towards her. "We both do what we must. And if you don't like the results — take it up with Varvara. Not with me."

  Lelya wanted to argue. To shout, to demand answers, to accuse.

  But he was right.

  Svarog was an instrument. A weapon aimed by someone else's hand.

  Varvara's hand.

  "Fine," she said. "I'll talk to Varvara."

  She left without looking back.

  Varvara received her late that night.

  The Chief Mage's office was sunk in half-darkness — only the desk lamp burning. Varvara sat behind the desk, sorting through documents. She looked impeccable — not a trace of fatigue. As though forty-seven people hadn't died that morning.

  "You knew," Lelya said from the doorway.

  Not a question. A statement.

  Varvara raised her head.

  "Knew what, exactly?"

  "That the Citadel would attack. That my request to reinforce the border wasn't paranoia." Lelya stepped forward. "You're smarter than me, Varvara. If I worked it out — you knew for certain. And today in the war room, you weren't even surprised."

  A long pause.

  "Yes," Varvara said simply. "I knew."

  Lelya felt something cold tighten in her chest. She had expected this answer — but hearing it spoken aloud was painful.

  "Why?"

  "Because if we had reinforced the border, the Citadel would have realised we were reading their plan. They would have changed tactics. Come up with something else — worse, larger in scale."

  "So you decided it was better to let them strike."

  "I decided it was better to control the blow than to take one where we weren't expecting it."

  "Forty-seven people died. Seven children."

  "Yes."

  "And that's an acceptable price?"

  Varvara stood and walked to the window.

  "You think I don't care? I remember every one of them. Every death in two thousand years of my rule. And every time I ask myself — could it have been different? The answer is always the same: sometimes, it couldn't." She turned. "The Citadel wanted those lands. Wanted the deposits. They would not have stopped."

  "Or maybe they would have."

  "Maybe. But I cannot gamble on 'maybe.' I am responsible for all of Monolith." Varvara stepped towards her. "And there's something else. I know what you're capable of. I've seen you work. You'll walk out at the World Council — and you'll turn everything around."

  "You used me."

  "I trust you."

  "That's not the same thing."

  Varvara returned to her desk. Sat down.

  "No. It's not the same thing. But the result will be the same. You'll do what you must. If only because you have no choice. You know the laws. When you agreed to become a minister, you agreed to follow my orders without question. You know what refusal means?"

  Lelya stood.

  "Execution."

  "Exactly." Varvara regarded her with a long, steady look. "Any more questions?"

  Lelya met her eyes and walked out without answering.

  In the corridor, Bogumir waited — as always. He saw her face and wordlessly extended his hand. She took it. Warm, alive.

  In five days — the World Council. In five days, she would step up to the podium. And she would do what had to be done — not because Varvara had ordered it, but because forty-seven people deserved the truth.

  And after that, she would deal with what lay between her and Varvara. With the "arithmetic" that turned people into numbers. And with the understanding — very clear, very concrete — that the person she had trusted was capable of this.

  Part 4. Before the Storm

  The hall of the World Council was enormous.

  Lelya stood at the entrance, gazing at the rows of seats rising in an amphitheatre towards the ceiling. Delegations from around the world were already settling into their places — the hum of voices filled the hall like the sound of surf.

  In one hour she would take the podium. In one hour — everything would be decided.

  Bogumir stood beside her, slightly behind.

  "Nervous?" he asked quietly.

  "No. Angry."

  "At the Citadel?"

  "At everyone. At the Citadel — for what they did. At Varvara — for letting it happen. At myself — for failing to prevent it."

  "You did everything you could."

  "No. I could have pushed harder. But that's beside the point now." She took a deep breath. "What matters is what I do in the next hour."

  The Monolith delegation took up the left sector. Varvara sat at the centre of the front row — motionless. Svarog to her right, Roslava to her left.

  Radimir was absent from the Council for the first time. He was no longer a minister, and the Council floor was closed to him. But Lelya knew he was watching the live feed from Alnar. Just as she once had. Only now they had swapped places.

  Lelya took her seat beside Varvara. Their eyes met for an instant — cold on both sides. Then Lelya looked away.

  "The Citadel delegation," Roslava whispered, leaning to her ear.

  Lelya looked to the right. Wulf entered the hall at the head of his group — tall, smiling. Behind him, ministers carried folders.

  Their eyes met. Wulf inclined his head slightly — a mocking greeting. Lelya did not respond.

  The Chairman of the Council — an old mage named Elmar — ascended the podium. The hall gradually fell silent.

  "Distinguished delegates. We have convened today to discuss the events on the eastern border of Monolith. In accordance with procedure, the floor goes first to the party that initiated the hearing. The floor is given to the Citadel delegation."

  Wulf rose. Adjusted his jacket, smiled at the hall, and strode to the podium.

  "Friends," he began, his voice soft, almost sorrowful, "what I am about to tell you causes me pain. But the truth matters more than comfort."

  On the enormous screen behind the podium, footage appeared — those same Citadel reports. Weeping people, "liberated prisoners," stories of repression.

  "For centuries, The People Who Followed the Sun have suffered under the yoke of Monolith," Wulf said. "Their voices silenced. Their culture erased. Their children raised without knowing their native tongue."

  He worked the hall masterfully — dropping his voice in the poignant moments, raising it when he spoke of "Monolith's crimes." Some delegates dabbed at their eyes. Twenty minutes of eloquent words, emotional pauses, video after video.

  And for the finale — the main blow:

  "The Citadel does not seek conflict. We seek only justice. We are prepared to accept these lands and provide the oppressed people with a life of dignity."

  Applause — louder than Lelya had expected — rolled through the hall.

  Lelya sat motionless, counting the minutes.

  "The floor is given to the delegation of Monolith," Elmar said.

  Lelya stood. She felt Bogumir's eyes on her back. And she walked to the podium.

  The hall watched her. Hundreds of eyes — after Wulf's speech, many looked on with sympathy. For him, not for her.

  Lelya placed her hands on the podium. Held the pause. And then she broke every rule — stepped out from behind the podium and walked a slow arc along the hall, meeting each delegate's gaze.

  "Return to the podium," Elmar demanded.

  "I apologise if I've broken the rules," Lelya said very quietly but clearly. "However, as far as I'm aware, there is no specific regulation governing where a speaker must stand."

  "You are correct," Elmar exhaled.

  "Then I will do what I see fit."

  She turned to the hall again.

  "'Accept these lands,'" she said, her voice low. "Let's remember those words. Not 'liberate a people.' Not 'grant independence.' Accept. Lands. We'll come back to that."