Chapter 1
A young man with a travel bag stepped out of the fifth carriage of the Kyiv–Kherson train. He took off his sunglasses, squinted slightly, and smiled with genuine joy. Moving a little away from the train, he paused for a moment, as if breathing in the Kherson air as a greeting from the city itself.
Kherson’s railway station, built in the mid-twentieth century, impresses with its architectural simplicity and functionality, making it not only an important transport hub but also a quiet architectural landmark. It reflects the aesthetic of an era when practicality and accessibility came first. Modern travelers note its convenient access routes and the availability of all essential services, which significantly enhance the comfort of the journey.
At the entrance, one immediately notices the spacious waiting hall, always filled with lively motion. People of all ages hurry past, wait for friends, or quietly consider their next steps. The hall hums with conversations, the rustle of suitcases, and the distant calls of arriving and departing trains, creating a unique harmony of life. In one corner are small cafés and shops where travellers can grab a light snack or buy a souvenir to remember Kherson by. Bathed in light and energy, the station becomes more than a transit point—it is a meeting place for those dreaming of new adventures and distant journeys.
The man continued along the platform toward the station building. Near the entrance, he set his travel bag down on the asphalt as his hand slipped into the right pocket of his jeans, where his phone was vibrating. Pulling it out, he said cheerfully,
“Hey! Oleg, my friend, where are you? You’re late. Did you forget when my train was arriving?”
“Hi. This is Liza, Oleg’s sister,” the voice replied after a brief pause. “I’ll meet you. I’ll be there in about ten minutes and explain everything.”
“All right, I’ll wait,” the young man said, nearly dropping the phone in surprise before catching it just in time.
Still not understanding what was happening, he slowly slipped the phone back into his pocket. A sudden sense of unease washed over him. As if in warning, a patch of gray mist appeared beside him, gradually forming into a silhouette that increasingly took on the shape of a middle-aged woman. Almost transparent, her clothing immediately suggested she belonged to another century—a ghost from the past. The young man suddenly felt unwell; his head spun, and he grabbed it with both hands, as if that might dull the sharp pain or stop it altogether.
The ghostly woman was holding something. When he squinted and then opened his eyes again, the figure had vanished. At his feet lay a sheet of paper. He carefully picked it up and read: "Just find me. Oleg".
“What kind of nonsense is this?” Taras muttered.
Two men in grey business suits approached him and showed their badges, but Taras seemed barely present.
“Please present your documents.”
He took out his passport and showed it to them.
“Hm. We meant different documents.”
Taras immediately snapped back to attention and pulled out another ID.
“Here.”
“Department for Combating Dark Forces,” one of the men read aloud in surprise. “So you’re one of ours.”
“And do you have permission to be in another region?”
“I’m not on assignment. Vacation. You know personal travel doesn’t require authorization.”
“Yes, of course. For long?”
“I hope not.”
“Do you need a guide to show you around our city?”
“No, thank you. I was born here and lived here for more than twenty years.”
“Then welcome back. Here are our contacts, in case you need us,” the man said, handing him a business card.
“Maybe I’ll stop by for coffee,” Taras replied.
The men walked away, occasionally glancing back and laughing. Taras understood that now his presence here would be known both in Kyiv and in Kherson. That was inevitable—the Guardians of Balance never kept such visits secret.
As soon as they left, Taras noticed Liza hurrying toward him. The young woman held down her sundress with one hand as the wind tried to lift it. Her hair was pinned up. She smiled warmly when she saw him—the best friend of her brother, her first unrequited love. That had been a long time ago, leaving behind only pleasant memories.
“Hi,” she greeted him sincerely.
“Hi,” Taras replied, pulling her into a warm hug.
“I imagined our meeting very differently,” Liza sighed.
“So did I,” he agreed.
“Do you know where Oleg is?” he asked, a little lost.
“No. But I suspect something happened to him. I have a bad feeling.”
“So do I. Then let’s get straight to business—who knows what’s going on with him.”
“I agree. We need to hurry. When did you last speak to him?”
“The day before yesterday. He was anxious about something—that’s why he asked me to come and help.”
“Help with what?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t explain. Said he’d tell me when we met. I really don’t know anything.”
“I understand. Me neither. He left me a voice message. We can listen together—I didn’t understand much on my own.”
She played the message. Oleg spoke quickly, as if in a rush:
“Hi. Taras will arrive on Wednesday. I trust him completely. Give him the package I left in my apartment—you know where my hiding place is. He’ll understand everything. I believe that. Because otherwise… help him. Just find me.”
Taras scratched the back of his head.
“Where is he? What does all this mean?”
“You heard everything. I know no more than you do.”
“Let’s go to his place and look for the package. Do you have the keys?”
“Yes. I left the car by the entrance.”
They headed to Liza’s car. The drive was silent: Taras lost in thoughts about Oleg, Liza focused on the road. They stopped in front of an old five-story building. While Liza locked the car and set the alarm, Taras studied the building.
“Let’s go,” Liza said, heading inside.
They climbed to the third floor. Liza unlocked the door.
“Wait. I’ll go first,” Taras said, stopping her with a hand. She nodded in agreement.
He opened the door carefully and stepped inside. His eyes immediately took in the living room—it looked as though a hurricane had passed through: open cabinets, books scattered across the floor. He moved cautiously into the kitchen, where an empty bowl and dirty dishes suggested no one had cleaned in a long time. Even the bathroom was in chaos. The bedroom felt stripped of warmth and comfort.
“Someone’s been here,” Taras said quietly. “They were looking for something specific.”
“But the keys are only with me,” Liza protested.
“And who said they needed your keys?”
“You mean… someone with abilities?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out.”
Taras approached the mirror in the hallway, placed his palm against it, and whispered, “Show me what you saw.” He didn’t close his eyes—he seemed to look through the mirror itself. Liza watched silently as he stood there, deeply focused. Five minutes passed before he pulled his hand away.
“What was he working on lately?” Taras asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he work?”
“At a printing house.”
“Call them. Ask when he was last seen.”
“All right.” She took out her phone.
Liza didn’t ask what Taras had seen. She knew such things were secrets. If she needed to know, he would tell her himself. She had no idea that, for his friend, Taras had just broken a rule—mirror magic was permitted only to agents of chaos.
Taras went into Oleg’s room, straight to the bookshelf. He scanned the titles, pulled out Oleg’s favorite book—Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card—and opened it. Inside, he found a photograph of a young woman: green eyes, fair face, a beautiful smile. Liza entered the room.
“Bad news,” she said anxiously. “He hasn’t worked there for a long time. He quit about six months ago.”
“I thought so,” Taras said, showing her the photo. “Who is this?”
“Nastia, Olesia’s sister,” she paused. “Sorry, I know you asked us not to talk about her.”
“It’s fine. Go on if it’s relevant.”
“There’s more you don’t know.”
“What don’t I know?”
“Olesia works in the Department now too.”
“At least not the other way around,” he tried to joke, unsuccessfully.
“When you left, she finished her training and passed all her exams with top marks.”
“I don’t care.”
“I thought you should know.”
“Thanks.”
“That incident… the one that made you leave the city… could Oleg’s disappearance be connected to it?”
Taras shook his head slightly. “Unlikely. But I’ll check.”
Then his phone rang—an unknown number.
“Hi, my friend. I know what you did recently,” a familiar voice said, like thunder on a clear day. “Don’t worry. I’ll cover for you.”
“Thanks, Igor,” Taras said with relief.
“You forget—you’re in my debt forever,” Igor replied mockingly. His voice hardened with hatred. “I want you to live longer. To suffer longer. To never escape the past, even in your sleep. That’s why I’m granting you permission to use chaos magic.”
Taras put the phone away. He sensed this was only the beginning. Nightmares already haunted him every night for five years. No one knew that each night he died in his dreams and woke drenched in cold sweat, afraid to fall asleep again.
Quietly, he said,
“If you knew the whole truth, Igor, you’d hate me even more.”
