Lelya stood before a door with a placard reading “Ministry of Foreign Affairs” and tried to remember how to breathe. The placard was perfectly ordinary—white plastic, black letters—and somehow this mundanity scared her most of all. In two years among mages, she had grown used to ancient rituals, glowing runes, and the ceremonial halls of the Academy. But here was an office door, like any government building, and somewhere behind it a minister was waiting who had somehow decided he needed a twenty-five-year-old graduate.

  She straightened her silk blouse—cream-colored, tucked into dark jeans—and pushed the door open.

  Inside was an open-plan office with rows of desks, monitors, and the quiet hum of conversation. Mages in ordinary clothes—sweaters, shirts, dresses—sat at computers, shuffled papers, talked on phones. Were it not for the barely visible shimmer of protective wards on the windows, you might think this was the regular office of a regular ministry.

  The secretary—a woman with close-cropped gray hair and an attentive gaze—looked up from her monitor.

  “Lelya?” She pronounced the name as if testing it on her tongue. “Radimir is expecting you. Third door down the corridor.”

  Lelya nodded and walked on, feeling eyes on her. Not hostile—more curious. The new girl. Very young, judging by her aura. Wonder how long she’ll last.

  She heard these thoughts as clearly as if spoken aloud. Two years ago she would have doubted herself, but the Academy had taught her otherwise: it doesn’t matter what others think; what matters is what you do.

  The third door was slightly ajar. Lelya knocked and entered.

  The minister’s office was unexpectedly cozy. Light wood of walls and furniture, a vast bookcase floor to ceiling, a fireplace (currently unlit), and—a whole battery of monitors on the desk, no fewer than five. Behind the desk sat a man who looked about thirty—dark hair, brown eyes, an easy smile. He looked up from his papers and smiled wider.

  “Ah, Lelya. Come in, sit down.”

  He pointed to the chair opposite, and Lelya sat, placing her hands on her knees. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she laced them together to hide it.

  “I remember you from the practicum,” said Radimir, leaning back in his chair. “That’s why I called you in. Do you know what the main problem with our ministry is?”

  Lelya paused a moment, weighing how honest an answer he wanted.

  “Monolith is used to settling disputes by the sword,” she said finally. “And now the sword is a weapon of mass destruction. One strike—and half the continent is gone.”

  Radimir stopped smiling. His brown eyes turned serious.

  “Go on.”

  “That’s why problems have to be solved with words now. In courts, in councils, in negotiations. But mages who’ve lived thousands of years aren’t accustomed to this. They’re used to the strongest being right. And now you have to prove your case with arguments, and…” She faltered.

  “And we lose,” Radimir finished. “Every damn time we lose to the Citadel, because their diplomats know how to talk and ours only know how to fight.”

  He stood, walked to the window, and spent several seconds looking at the city below.

  “I’m an excellent strategist, Lelya. I see the balance of power, I know who owes what to whom, I know by heart every precedent from the last three thousand years. But strategy is a board. And the Council is people. They don’t move in squares. They interrupt, twist words, lead you astray. I start defending where there was no attack, and I miss the moment to strike.” He paused. “You do it differently. You take their very argument, turn it just a bit—and suddenly it works for you. Same facts, different conclusion. I can’t do that. I’ve studied public speaking, every possible approach and strategy. But apparently it’s just not my gift. And I need someone who can arrange words so they work.”

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  “And you think I can do that?” Lelya asked quietly.

  Radimir turned around.

  “I think you’re human. You grew up in a world where words are the only weapon. You studied international law before your initiation. And at the practicum, you were the only one who turned an accusation into a complete acquittal.”

  He returned to the desk and placed a thin folder in front of her.

  “Your task is to write speeches and letters. You’ll start with letters. We’ll see how it goes.”

  Lelya took the folder. Her fingers no longer trembled.

  For the first month, Lelya felt like an impostor.

  She came to the office before everyone else, left after everyone else, and still felt she wasn’t doing enough. Colleagues—mages three hundred, five hundred, eight hundred years old—looked at her with a mix of condescension and puzzlement. A girl of twenty-five. A girl who was human yesterday. What was she even doing here?

  The first letter she was assigned was routine — a response to a trade delegation inquiry from the House of All Winds. Lelya wrote it in an hour, reread it, rewrote it, brought it to Radimir.

  He scanned the text. Then read it more slowly. Then leaned back and looked at her strangely.

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “Learn what?”

  “Here,” he tapped his finger on the second paragraph. “You refused them. But it’s written as if you’re doing them a favor. They’ll read this and thank us for turning them down.”

  Lelya shrugged.

  “I didn’t refuse. I explained why another option better serves their own interests. It sounds more… honest.”

  Radimir gave a short laugh and put the letter in the outgoing folder without a single edit.

  By the end of the first month, he had stopped checking her drafts—just signed them. Occasionally he asked her to explain exactly how she had turned an argument around. He listened attentively, nodded, then said something like: “Makes sense. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself.”

  He knew why. They both knew.

  Radimir was a brilliant strategist—he saw the balance of power, remembered every precedent, could construct an impeccable line of defense in a minute. But his lines were straight. Lelya knew how to bend light so that truth illuminated only what was needed and left in shadow what got in the way.

  “Diplomacy is war,” he said one evening when they had stayed late. “Just with different weapons.”

  “And the wounds aren’t visible,” Lelya added without looking up from a document, “until it’s too late.”

  Radimir gave her the long look of a man who had just heard his own thought, articulated better.

  In the third month, Lelya first saw Radimir lose.

  It was a recording — an archive of the World Council, one of last year’s sessions. Radimir stood before the assembly of chief mages, and Lelya could see how tense he was: shoulders raised, hands clenched into fists. He was saying the right things—she recognized arguments she would have used herself—but saying them wrong. Too fast. Too nervous. Stumbling over complex phrases.

  Then the Citadel representative stood up—a mage with a lazy smile—and in three sentences dismantled everything Radimir had built in ten minutes. Not because he was right. Because he knew how to speak.

  Lelya switched off the recording and sat for a long time in the dark office.

  She understood two things. First: Radimir was right when he said Monolith was losing. Second: she really could help.

  The next day she came to Radimir with a notebook covered in small handwriting.

  “I reviewed recordings of the last ten sessions,” she said. “And I found a pattern. The Citadel uses three main techniques to throw you off. Here they are. And here’s how to counter them.”

  Radimir took the notebook, leafed through the pages. Then looked up at her.

  “Are you sure?” he said slowly. “How do you know this?”

  “I don’t know,” Lelya answered honestly. “I see. It’s just… words. I understand how they work.”