Anka’s arm burned, the glowing script fading as swiftly as it had appeared. The world’s end. Stirring. She glanced at Zoryan, who was now meticulously organizing a stack of tiny, ceramic figurines on the small table, completely oblivious. Was this his doing? Was *he* the world’s end? Her throat tightened beneath the collar of her tunic. She needed answers, but how could she ask without revealing her family’s impossible secret? "The trick, Radomila," Zoryan explained, his voice a low hum, "is not simply to *hold* the objects, but to *sort* them. These are your ‘Tea-Time Relics.’ Observe." He gestured to a small, worn teacup with a chipped rim, then to a pristine, gilded saucer. "Distinct groupings, distinct spatial resonance. You wouldn't want a battle-axe interfering with the delicate vibrations of a ceremonial spoon, would you?" Radomila, perched on the edge of a worn armchair, blinked. She held a half-eaten candied kumquat in one hand, the other idly tracing the faint magical lines on Zoryan's 'dimensional pocket' scroll. She found the scroll itself much more interesting than the concept of categorizing her treasures. "But… they're all pretty. Why can't they just… live together?" she mumbled, her eyes already scanning the room for any other 'unprotected' trinkets. Zoryan sighed, a barely perceptible puff of air. "Chaos breeds inefficiency, Radomila. A well-maintained habitat fosters contentment. Imagine your teacups, lost and disoriented amidst a pile of, say, stolen polishing cloths. Unthinkable." He picked up a miniature porcelain cat, no bigger than his thumb, and placed it with a row of similar animal figures. "Order, Radomila. Order is paramount for effective pet ownership." Just then, the common room door swung open with a theatrical flourish, banging against the wall. A trio of students swaggered in, their academy uniforms pristine, their badges gleaming A-rank silver. The leader, a tall student with sharp features and an arrogant smirk, carried himself like an heir apparent. His cronies, Bogdan and Lev, flanked him like well-fed hounds. "Well, well, if it isn't the Perunova's esteemed 'Companion Husbandry' class," the tall youth drawled, his gaze sweeping over the room, settling on Anka, Stasiek, and Mila with undisguised contempt. "Or should I say, the academy's collective dregs. Still playing house with your pets, Veles?" His eyes flickered to Zoryan, a flicker of something akin to unease in their depths. Zoryan, however, simply looked up, a placid expression on his face. "Ah, Orlov," Zoryan replied, his tone even. "How goes the feeding regimen of your own… companions? I trust they are adequately stimulated?" He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unnervingly direct. The intruder seemed to falter for a moment, an odd tremor passing through him, before he quickly regained his composure. "My 'companions' are not for petting, Veles. They're for *conquering*," the noble spat, his arrogance returning in full force. He then turned his attention to Anka, who had stood up, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her practice sword. "Look at this one. Anka Volkov. F-rank, a disgrace to the Volkov name. I heard you practically drowned in a puddle of slime yesterday. What's your excuse today, farm girl? Did you trip on your own feet?" Anka's face flushed crimson. Before she could retort, the young man extended his boot with deliberate slowness. Anka, still processing the shock of his sudden appearance and cruel words, stumbled over it. She windmilled her arms, a yelp escaping her lips, and crashed to the floor with a pathetic thud, scattering a few stray teacups Zoryan had been arranging. Stasiek immediately bristled, a faint, dangerous flicker of heat dancing in his eyes. "Hey! That wasn't fair, you brute!" he shouted, a small, uncontrolled spark flying from his fingertip. The noble snickered, a harsh, grating sound. "Watch your tongue, F-rank. Maybe you should stick to playing with your little firecrackers." He looked down at Anka, sprawled on the floor, humiliation etched on her face. "Such weakness. You'll never be anything more than fodder for a dungeon beast, Volkov. And you," he swept his gaze to Zoryan, "you're just enabling this pathetic display. What kind of beast tamer encourages such… inadequacy?" Zoryan, however, was not looking at Anka. He was looking at Orlov. A subtle shift occurred in his eyes, a hollow depth that seemed to swallow lantern light. His expression, usually serene, turned clinical. It was the Monarch’s Gaze, assessing, cataloging, understanding. It stripped away the noble's bravado, his cultivated arrogance, revealing something raw and exposed beneath. The young man felt it, a sudden, inexplicable shiver that started in his gut and spread through his limbs. A primal dread, a certainty of being judged by something infinitely older and more powerful than himself, gripped him. He wanted to run, to shout, but could only stand rigid, his collar suddenly choking him. [Subject: Kazimir Orlov. Rank A. Threat Level: Negligible. Dominance Display: Ineffective. Resource Allocation: Low Priority. Primary Value: Exercise Target. Current Disposition: Minor Tremor. Recommendation: Repetition of basic 'fetch' commands to reinforce hierarchy.] The internal evaluation, a silent hum only Zoryan could perceive, concluded. Zoryan’s expression returned to its usual placidity. "An excellent point, Orlov," he said, his voice smooth. "Perhaps a more rigorous field exercise is in order. Something to… hone their reflexes." He then looked at his three 'pets' with an almost imperceptible nod. "The monthly Dungeon Trial. You will compete, as a team, against Orlov and his associates." Anka, still picking herself up, gasped. Stasiek gaped. Mila, however, had only blinked, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips as she casually reached into her tunic. No one noticed, least of all the arrogant youth, that his magically-sealed locket, a family heirloom he never took off, was no longer around his neck. Orlov, recovering from the unsettling chill of Zoryan's gaze, scoffed. "The Dungeon Trial? Against *them*? You're insane, Veles. It's a slaughter. They'll be lucky to make it past the first floor!" "Indeed," Zoryan agreed, a faint, almost invisible smile touching his lips. "A most invigorating challenge for developing young companions. The experience will be invaluable for their growth. We accept. Tomorrow, at the standard time." He then reached into a pocket and produced a perfectly spherical object, the size of a fist, crafted from a material that seemed to absorb all light around it. It pulsed with a faint, internal thrum. "For practice," Zoryan announced, offering it to the stunned trio. "Consider it a… chew toy. Focus your intent, learn its nuances. It responds best to concentrated effort." Anka stared at the object, which felt strangely heavy and cold in her hand. It was an Obsidian Fetch-Sphere, a rare, unnervingly potent focus for the raw, untamed energies of the Underdark, designed to amplify a Monarch’s will. To Zoryan, it was a perfectly normal, stimulating toy for developing pets. To any other living being, it was a contained fragment of apocalyptic power.

An Unscheduled Performance Review