Chapter 1

A gray morning light filled the room with dreams. It was warm and quiet and smelled of wood. The sun had not yet risen, and therefore calm reigned in the predawn dusk. The pictures on the walls did not catch the eye with bright colors, the patchwork on the bed did not dazzle, only the letters on the spines of the books dimly shone.

There were not so many books - two shelves, but the best of several worlds. There were poetry collections, fairy tales, and some scientific works. Among those books there were very rare, unique works - when they are read to you in childhood, these stories sound like fairy tales. When you read them as a teenager, it sounds like a story about a peer very close to you. When you read in youth, you see what you have not seen before and absorb new wisdom. And then, after a couple of years, you re-read it again to understand that you didn’t understand anything, and, comparing your mistakes with the mistakes of the character, you do the right things.

Speaking of the room’s inhabitant, these books evoked fantasies and dreams of other worlds, unusual encounters, magical creatures and adventures, a unique experience of communicating with something beautiful and interesting. Even if you were born in such a world as the Common and you can visit any Native of any nation, all the same, local wonders will be familiar and boring, the people around you will be “yours”, “normal” and fantasy will desire for more.

Maybe there was the book on those shelves. The book that made the owner of the room the way he was. A well-written story can change the worldview more than a stack of textbooks. Which, incidentally, was seen on a table in the corner. Textbooks, notebooks, pencils, pieces of paper, pebbles, cups and boxes with different stuff - everything was mixed up, waiting for a weekly cleaning.

The bed has creaked – it the sleeping one turned over from side to side. A yellow scaly hand with black claws had laid on a light brown beak, which was slightly bent from the tip. A red-black-brown feathers and wool appeared from under the blanket - the griffin looked like a griffin, there a lot of them in Bergenburg. His physique was quite human, and the feathered one slept on a quite ordinary bed, perhaps not on his back – his lion-like tail slightly interfered with this.

Although the griffin was not winged, this did not stop him from dreaming about flying. He dreamed that he had perfectly learned to control his body, and with the willpower he created and spread his wings to fly into the air for the rest of his people, wingless, who relied on gliders, and winged, but similar to four-legged animals.

The eyes started trembling under the eyelids, breathing quickened, arms and legs twitched - the griffin jumped up on a narrow bed, his eyes widened. His ears were sticking up, his muscles were tense, and his amber eyes glanced frantically around the room. But then the excitement passed, the dreams were replaced by the usual commonness. Native, familiar, beloved, but far from a dream. The ordinary. The fire gradually died down in griffin’s eyes, his muscles relaxed with a sigh of disappointment, and his body fell on the bed with a thud, to sleep and resurrect amazing pictures, to cling to sensations that cannot be experienced in this world.

Let us leave the room of the young griffin for a few hours and let him sleep himself out, get dressed and put himself in order. Of course, he does not brush his teeth, but the beak also requires care, and it is harder to take care of the feathers than to comb a hair. Believe me, there is nothing interesting in this routine.

Now, a couple of hours later ... Walk past the sister’s empty room - now she is studying far from home. Down to the first floor. Sip water and go outside before breakfast to inhale the fresh air and say “good morning” to the world, as he always did. Then look at the mountain, at the foot of which lies the city, admire the view.

The griffin gladly stretched, squinted, turned the corner of the house and rolled out a bicycle from the barn, which he jumped on and rolled around in a cool and quiet world. Day off. Neither crafts lessons, nor school classes that became rare for young men, nor work today. Sixteen years old, beautiful spring morning and summer ahead - his favorite season.

The bike itself chose the road, taking the feathered one southwest to the ridge and the guesthouse "Otherkin", which the locals called without quotation marks, by name. Friends lived there; one could play board games or a ball, but not early in the morning. From Otherkin - to the north, to a distant mountain and a nearby stadium, and a little to the east, to leave the guild of alchemists on the left hand. That is how his friends and he jokingly called local production, where they earned money by collecting medicinal plants and manufacturing drugs.

Further to the south, returning home, bypassing the town center with its apartment houses, cafes, and shops. Along the edge, where it feels more free and green. Slightly downhill, so you can stop pedal, release a handlebar, spread wings that are invisible to others and catch the oncoming breeze, listen to yourself: are you really steering with wings, or are you helping yourself with your tail?

Finally, having rolled and warmed up, you can have breakfast and read a little while waiting. On any other day, the griffin would have worked in the garden, but today he secluded himself in the room, because...

‘Rukhgert!’ a bass voice came from the street, and the ring of a bicycle rang. Bicycle was thrown by the road as a special sign that the griffin had woken up and was not busy. Rukh looked out and waved his hand, calling his feline friend to come in. A tall lion, with light hair and a wheat-colored mane, as erect, like a griffin, stepped onto the path and went to the porch, where he threw off his shoes. Rukh met him on the second floor, opening the door of his room.

‘Hi Zack, are you ready?’

Zackary showed a yellowish grin and flashed his glasses. A strong handshake - a yellow griffin’s hand and a short-shaven lion’s with traces of machine grease.

‘How much time do we have for the “little secret from Elizabeth”?’ Zack asked.

‘From an hour to four. Dad is on his rabbit farm, mom went away on businesses’.

‘Great’.

The door is closed on the latch; friends are sitting on the floor, bending over the treasure: a book extracted from the cache, for the possession of which the parents would definitely tear their heads off and then put them back in another place to make it easier to think. Well, at least mothers could do it for sure. Zack did not doubt his father would do it too, but Rukh was glad of the calmness of his dad.

They say that the book is the best gift. Uncle Evor, formerly the keeper of the Gate, always pampered Rukh with stories about fascinating journeys to other worlds, and most of them entered the collection on the shelf. Nevertheless, this gift was special. So much special that, except for his father and Zack, no one knew about the book, and friends studied it only if no one sees.

The textbook of magic and sorcery.

Definitely not the kind of reading that a caring parent will give to their child. However, Rukh is no longer a child, to say nothing about Zack who is six months older, this summer he will be seventeen. Yet in the process of learning you can go crazy and find yourself in the same place as grandfather ... brr, if something goes wrong, you can quit at the very beginning. In the end, the textbook of magic warns of the traps of consciousness and methods of testing and self-testing and is available in short form at school for worldview lessons. Friends learned the full version by heart. A textbook of sorcery, a rarer book, works with those who really have the abilities.

There are wizards in the Common world besides Evor. They do not wear long robes, do not throw fireballs at monsters and do not let lightning out of their fingers, like friends do on role-plays and how younger ones play, having read fairy tales. No, the power of wizards is different - they can visit other worlds and create passages, maintain gates between worlds or remote areas. Before they learn this, they subtly feel the world around them and master themselves perfectly, so that not a single uncontrolled emotion or crazy thought will harm others, releasing magical powers behind them.

So now the young men froze, sitting on the floor by the cache and looking reverently at the textbook that they began to read a couple of years ago, and this silence became a kind of exercise that sets them up in a serious way. Both exhaled, and opened the book with four hands.

‘Well, let’s go over the old shields and phantom touches, or, while we are full of energy, shall try something new?’

‘Of course, new!’ griffin froze, hanging his ears and looking at the bookshelf, ‘I was thinking ... Would you like to be in a different reality, participate in the books-like adventures? Where in the wilds are not predatory animals, but the lost cities of other civilizations, where there were battles, wars, where something unusual and grand is happening?’

‘You know, Rukh, native worlds still contain all this good, and it does not make them better. Besides, natives look at us as a provincial, people are more arrogant, and you can’t punch them in a face for that.’

‘Well, yes, that's right’, the griffin shrugged and lowered his voice; ‘in my native world we are not considered to be people at all.’

Zak softly biffed his friend on the shoulder.

‘Let them think about anything they want.  They can crawl out of their Native worlds only here, into Common, as a maximum. But we are different. You and I were born in this world, and we can visit any other world from it. We can go the world of itas or felines, even to the pangolins’, even to the tailless’ world. There are probably other worlds, they should be. Written, sung, made-up and real. Which book would you like to get into? Where can I get away from you from home?’

Rukh smiled warmly, squinted his eyes and slightly snuggled his ears.

‘Don’t say you don’t know. And do not be afraid, I will not leave you alone. You have to endure a little more than a year. According to tradition, then we can move to any corner of the Common. We will rent a room or a house, work, study, and for a couple of years, we will finish saving up for our own houses, remembering our unbearable sisters and calling each other by their names if we infuriate each other. However, if you do not want to wait and take exams, you can leave with a tent in the wildland and get lost with a geo-exploration group. Perhaps you will find another world there if will not be eaten by animals. Or here is a book by which you can change the world with sorcery.’

‘If it were that simple, Uncle Evor would have restored the portal long ago’.

‘He says that he has been working on it since the closing of the previous gates. He tries his best; I think that the results might appear very soon. Maybe we will be the first people to see a new gate to another world or another corner of ours. We can travel again from winter to summer and share fruits and goodies with the coast or other distant land’

‘I would like to ...’ Zack flipped through the textbook and once again settled on the treasured page, ‘To open the way from world to world, two are required: an author who penetrates another world from his own, and a resident of the world who wants to go outside. The one who wants to tell about his life, and the other who wants to keep someone else's story. A connection is established between them, and gradually both begin to penetrate the worlds to each other, although it starts with brief flashes of thoughts. The path becomes stable when the author visits the world of his characters and gets to know them better, makes friends, and his characters leave a mark in the author’s world. Books and songs are more reliable than the memories of one person, but even without them, as long as the author is alive and remembers, the passage will exist’.

‘I'm sure Uncle Evor will succeed. He has seen so many things that even I would like to write about him. Okay, enough dreaming. Let's do something new’, the yellow fingers began to leaf through the book and settled on the illustrated page, ‘how about a complete exit from the body?’

While the guys were reading, the window began to darken from the approaching clouds.

***

It started to rain. Young leaves fluttered in the rolling darkness, and a sharp gust of wind bent the trees. It smelled of road dust, but its dryness mixed with a damp wind, and then a new gust took it away, throwing a few large drops in return. Naythel got on the bed and closed the window leaf until it was torn off. The smells of wooden frames and dust hit his sensitive nose. It will be necessary to wash the windows when it will be warmer. A roll of thunder sounded outside, the glass of the window shook, and the first action in the theater of nature has begun.

Darkness was coming from the south. Black clouds came from the sea directly to Bergenburg, carrying the water of the plains and personal hope. ‘I will come to you with the first thunderstorm’ - so he said last year...

Wagging his tail, Naythel jumped to the floor and, looking like a black shadow, ran a down into the street.

‘Nazar Zhindyuly!’

‘Why now?’ thought ita and turned around at the steps.

‘Call me Naythel, I asked!’

‘But your real name sounds more menacing’, the man answered with a smile, ‘you promised me a story about your homeland.’

‘Only then, Zhazushi, when will you call me a new name, like the rest of the guests,’ Naythel answered the Writer and fled to the first floor.

‘Aw, dog!’ the man purred after him and went the other way, to the stairs to the attic.

Ita preferred not to hear what was said - the words were offensive, but the tone was not hostile at all. Besides, in the language of Zhazushi it was an appeal to someone equal, although this is strange for tailless.

The steps and aromas of the rooms were left behind, the nap of the old worn carpet in the living room chilled bare feet. There was a feeling of dust – Naythel will have to knock the dust out of the rugs on the entire first floor and find a way not to suffocate at the same time.

The doorway, porch, mesh door to the terrace, and the wet wind gust climbed under the fur. Freshness, power, rampage of nature - it seemed you can reach out and touch magic, ride the wind, learn the whole world.

Large drops began to fall often, and several guests climbed under the roof. But slanting rain drove them out of the terrace. Of all the lovers of watching the first thunderstorms, Naythel was left alone, to his great pleasure. Other people were just annoying him now, no matter how good they were.

 Coltsfoot blossomed on the lawn near the guesthouse. The flowers hardly smelled, but ita's sensitive nose picked up these aromas among wet wood, moist soil, rainwater and wind from distant lands.

It flashed dazzlingly, and then there was thunderstruck. Glass shook by the thunder, and there was a desire to hide, flatten and not protrude. A third of a kilometer from here. Yes, it is good that now Naythel is not in the steppe and not in the field. In Bergenburg, lightning can strike only one of the towers. If you trust engineers enough, you can even walk the streets. But not everyone likes to get wet, and not everyone has the courage to check.

Flash. Crackling and crashing, rolling across the sky, but nothing is visible - the picture had imprinted in the back of the eyes and the surrounding world slowly appears through it. Wool stood on end from the cold and nerves. Where is he? How will he appear in such weather? The way from the station lies through the field and uphill. Maybe there is no need to wait? Whom you need to be to know when it will rain, and to come the same time from the far sea here, deep into the continent?

Luggage has not been brought from the morning train. And there were no passengers either.

Black ita nervously walked along the railing of the terrace, could not stand it, and jumped into the rain. Flip flops in the puddles quickly drowned in the rumble of water.

***

Rain mercilessly and painfully thrashed on the wings pressed to the back, flowed down on scales and leathery membranes, cooled. Wet shorts stuck to the body, sandals partially hid in the stream of water rushing along the road from the mountain. A strange feeling of pleasure that water does not linger in wet shoes argued with the desire to put on boots. Teyghar cringed and crouched at the next flash - fortunately, lighting bolt did not hit him.

‘Oh, this mountain weather is changing faster than you have time to get out of the open meadow! Thanks there are no landslides yet...’

Having estimated the pattern of clouds, the dielectric resistance of the air and the height of the trees aside, the green-light draconid abandoned the idea of hiding under the trees. In case of lightning strike, it will hit primarily them, does not matter that it is a small forest, but not a lone oak in the field.

With a massive tail stretched out and his body tilted forward, Teyghar quickly ran along the road to the hill, snorting the water flowing down his muzzle.

***

Black fur stuck to the lean body, the dog’s ears now seemed especially large. Naythel hurried along the road toward the station until the houses were left behind and the city edge faced him with the vast space full of rain and lightning strikes. Open field were lying downhill. Storm. Not the best combination to stay alive. This is probably why there is still no one from the train arrived - they are waiting, sheltered under the station house roof. Once the rain end, it would be foolish to run with the fur wet, and knead the dirt with the paws all in vain, yet do not meet him, because the promise is difficult to fulfill.

‘Here it is, the first thunderstorm, here I am, under a bush of lilacs, barefoot...’

Naythel closed his eyes and in the surrounding aroma of water and earth suppressed the tears that were coming up.

It rattled again, somewhere in the distance. A rumble swept through the city, a wave of glass rattling in the houses. The light shook in the black sky; the clouds came upon the mountains and spun in confusion. It flashed again and again - dazzlingly bright and close, the thunder accompanied the second flash and resounded immediately without ceasing - the echo managed to return from the rocks.

And between the flashes, a figure appeared on the road. Massive legs, broad shoulders, a horned head, and behind his back something that might seem like a huge hiking backpack, covered with a cloak.

***

Yellow eyes with a vertical pupil met with brown eyes. The difficult-to-describe expression of self-digging gave way to a smirk, and then to a broad smile, and a black shadow, raising spray, flew into the draconid and tried to hug. It was not easy, minding the membrane that runs along the side to the hips, but Teyghar himself helped by raising his wings.

‘Naythel..’ the yellow-green face lit up with warmth and care, but there wasn’t enough breath for more. Under the light chest plates, the heart was desperately threshed, right above the ita’s ear.

‘I thought you won’t come,’ the black lump pressed tightly into the large scale.

‘I promised,’ strong hands stroked ita on the back, squeezing the wet fur, ‘Let's go before we catch a cold,’ Teyghar breathed heavily and cut words into pieces, ‘you didn’t have to jump out in the rain.’

‘Otherwise, you would not have come.’

The draconid smiled and only buried his nose in the top of Naythel’s head.

‘Now we both stink of a wet dog. Uncle Sasha will not share our joy.’

‘I think he will understand.’

***

The sky sparkled and rumbled less and less, streams of water rushed along the roads, but the feeling that happens at the beginning of the rain, as if something magical is about to happen, has passed. Uncle Sasha realized this through the empty air and set the kettle on the fire. Then he turned to his wife:

‘Lida, get the pies. A guest will arrive soon.’

‘Why are you in a hurry? I did not hear the train, and it will take time while they will get here…’

Uncle Sasha smoothed his gray-haired curly hair combed back and answered with a sly smile:

‘This guest doesn't need a train.’