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Talion expressed his dissatisfaction with his colleague, tugging at his own beard.

"And then Counselor Kikar suggests organizing a cycle of visits to other cities. There are a few people, you see, who feel they don't fit in here," Elowen smiled.Her father had been a city counselor for 12 years, but his guild nature remained unchanged. To him, it was inconceivable—how could anyone voluntarily wish to leave the city!

"How is it possible—people voluntarily wishing to leave the city!" Talion voiced his daughter's flickering thought almost word for word.

She turned away to hide a smirk. Fine dust and a lingering scent—that was all that remained in the jar from the previous batch of coffee. It was time to grow some more.

Talion continued to rant:

"I agree, expanding horizons is useful, but for there not to be a single environment in the entire city where they feel at home..." he continued to grumble dissatisfactorily, rolling a spoon across the table, "makes one wonder, doesn't it?"

She set the table in silence, letting him speak his mind. The girl shuttled between the breakfast table and the spacious kitchen, her ears tuned out. Catching a pause in her father’s reasoning, she didn't miss the chance to needle him:

"And why explore other possibilities when you’ve already settled on a guild, right?"

He acknowledged the sting with a return smirk. Counselor Empery wasn't nearly the curmudgeon he seemed in the mornings. The calm and level-headedness for which he was famous evidently filled him alongside his breakfast. “For now, he waited for his daughter to finish setting the table, grumbling as he shuffled aside the odds and ends that cluttered the surface.”

"Traveling," he spat the word out like a bitter pit. "Established people. In the guilds for ages, you see..." he waved a hand dismissively and switched gears. "Tell me instead, how are things with you? Did you go anywhere yesterday? Did you look around?"

The girl turned back to her coffee and rolled her eyes. Shrugging her shoulders, she replied:

"I went. looked around."

Elowen took a deep breath and shifted her attention to the pot with the coffee bush. She reached into the structure of the leaves, mentally marking where the buds should form. Flowers bloomed for a few moments and immediately fell away, managing to fill the spacious kitchen with a delicate aroma. Elouwin caressed her bush with a gaze—and the berries swelled, deepening in color from yellow to a lush red—one mustn't overdo it here. Habitually, she held out a bowl into which the berries dropped with a rhythmic thud, losing their succulent pulp along the way. Elouwin exhaled with concentration—and the coffee beans rapidly blackened under the influence of her consentis.

Her father craned his neck, keeping a weather eye on the coffee beans—might she have over-roasted them? The rich aroma of coffee drifted, enveloping the kitchen and dining room. Talion nodded approvingly—perfect.

“Looked around the Nutrivists' Guild,” she continued at last. “They had an open day yesterday. Even if I was a bit late. By the time I arrived, the whole group was already touring the upper levels of the farms, so I had to go straight to the labs.”

That was exactly what Talion was after—talent in floristry could be realized in various guilds. He settled comfortably into his chair and gestured for her to continue. Meanwhile, she ground the coffee beans, brewed them, and placed the pot on the table before her father.

"Did you know that Nutria is made in labs from all sorts of questionable components? I expected it to be from vegetables and plants, or meat, for example," she slapped a sizzling piece of bacon onto his plate. She laughed immediately, remembering her confusion upon learning that cricket flour was also included in the recipe.

“Good thing we buy farm food for home, Talion transmitted the thought-form” It was flat, as all thought-forms were, stripped of the vocal inflections that usually give meaning to speech. Otherwise, Elowen knew he would have put a heavy emphasis on "home." 

Elowen tossed her head, making her dozen green braids sweep a circle, and immediately sent back to him: "And grow it, and cook it ourselves, right?" She finished serving the fried eggs with tiny tomatoes. Talion shifted impatiently in his seat at the sight of the bright combination of yolks and ripe red tomatoes.

"So, is that it? The guild scared you off with crickets?"

"The Nutrivists were interesting, all those recipes. It’s a pity I didn't make it to the vertical farms," she surveyed her shelves of greenery with a sigh; surely there was something on the vertical farms to adopt for a home garden. Then, she blew forcefully on a braid that had dangled over her face. With that breath, the momentary tension vanished—she’d go again, take another look. Later.

"I assume you pulled your signature trick with the coffee?" Her father nodded toward the pot. Elowen laughed and let a coffee flower bloom from the spout exactly as he intended to pour himself a cup.

"Of course. They praised it, drank natural coffee—not that Nutria stuff," she wrinkled her nose.

"Seventeen guilds in the city! One shouldn't go to the Florists," He spat the word like venom, "just because of a single coffee bush."

His daughter didn't answer. She sighed and looked over her greenery, which occupied two walls of the vast kitchen. Lettuce, basil, curly micro-peas—the garden immediately fluffed out into lush growth.

"You could try your other talents, not just with plants, or at least in a different guild," they returned to this conversation every day, which had begun to grate Elowen.

"Yes, I could," she placed the rolls and butter on the table with a loud thud, as if they were the ones pestering her daily with new career options. "I’d prefer to become an Empery-Flo, you know that. But I’m still looking, checking out other guilds," her father sensed her irritation, and she continued more softly:

"After lunch yesterday, I was lured into another guild," she gave her green braid a frustrated tug. "It would actually be interesting to work with mIt was too intricate and lengthy to explain out loud, so she projected a thought-form to her father: “The raw clarity of the connection. How the sap still pulses in a cut plant. How she is sensing that life and channeling energy for growth or stabilization. How this undestroyed sap is interacting with human cells, like a rose extract releasing micro-droplets of oil to hydrate the skin.”

The thought-form dissolved, swallowed by a stinging memory. After Elowen had been allowed to work with the samples, the “Let’s clean this up” and “Let’s fix that” had begun—too much attention to her skin and appearance. Every blemish was treated like a task to be solved.

Aloud, she said briefly:

"I could probably realize my potential in the Formcare Guild, but it’s not my environment," she stroked a lettuce leaf on her plate with such tenderness that it stung her father—was he perhaps wrong to oppose her joining the Florists' Guild so strongly?

"Don't give up on the idea; you could go and try again," he spread his arms wide and gave a toothy grin. "You can take another ten years to choose a guild for all I care."

"I’d prefer to decide, if only to stop getting so many invitations."

"Healers again?" The wrinkles on Talion Empery’s face sharpened instantly.

"Them," Elouwin lowered her head, causing a braid to dangle over her nose again. She impatiently gathered them all and tied them in a random knot. The amulets on her wrists jangled wildly from her jerky movements.

A silence settled between them.

Only a year had passed since her mother had gone. The Healers had been there then—too close. Too much silence, too precise an attention to life when it is already departing. Their guild would always be associated with such thoughts.

Their loss had bound daughter and father tighter than either was ready for. Now it even seemed that she had endured her mother’s death more easily than her father's stifling concern over her choice of guild. This pressure grew especially heavy now that Elouwin had completed her first educational stage—both realized that integration would be the mark of her coming of age. The girl was torn between pity for her father and the desire to leave the paternal home.

"By the way, speaking of guilds. The other day the guys and I—you remember them, Alisa, Una, and Tariel—we were at an Architects' festival."

Her father nodded readily—of course he remembered. He gratefully shifted his attention and poured himself some milk, gesturing that he was ready to listen. His daughter told the story half in words, half in thought-forms. Clearly, the visit to the Architects had excited her more than the visits to other guilds. She gestured and let her emotions pour out like a waterfall.

“The bright hairstyles of the Luminorians are flashing by; bursts of laughter are drowning out the music—now soothing, now suddenly breaking into fierce passages. The Architects are presenting a model of a small city. Houses, a City Hall—radial streets are branching out from the center, repeatedly intersected by a spiral street. Gardens, recreation areas—the organic architecture of the buildings—the city looks like a younger brother to Luminor, perhaps only without the lake and high-rises. The model is fascinating in its detail—they even reproduced the strolling public. Elowen is peering in, wondering if she’ll find herself in the colorful crowd.

Elowen and her friends are running between low, manicured bushes. Laughing, barely feeling the ground beneath their feet, they are finally collapsing onto the grass with a hoot. Her friends are chattering in the background, the music swelling and then merging with the banter. A complex aroma of living greenery—a hint of wood from the trimmed bushes and the fresh scent of grass and leaves. Floral notes are drifting from somewhere, though no flowers are visible.

As soon as she caught her breath, Elowen realized the labyrinth unnerved her. She turned her head, searching for the source of her unease, and understood: the bushes seemed too calculated—sharp lines, uniform height, as if they weren't grown, but drafted. There was something unsettling in this, barely perceptible. Captivity was not in Elowen's spirit. Her long green braids stuck out in every direction, her dress was crumpled, and her amulets rattled with every movement.

A friend is nodding across the lawn toward a huge window of the building: 'The architects don't look particularly happy in the process.'

Elowen is turning her head toward the panoramic window of the communal workshop. Indeed, about ten people are staring intently at the center of a table, where a collective thought-form can be discerned. Not one of them is smiling. She winces, her gaze meeting a young man who is staring at the festival outside rather than at his colleagues' thought-form.

Elowen hastily shifted her attention back to the labyrinth bushes. The clear thought-form was again swallowed by the memory: amid the laughter and light, it again seemed to her that something was hidden in this perfect pattern. The meaning escaped her, but a thread of anxiety had already hooked onto her thought. “If she were in the Architects' Guild, she wouldn't build gardens, but parks. She didn't want a shaped beauty where growth is brought to perfection. But an environment where conditions for growth and life are created. Maybe even architecture; Dad would be pleased."

The girl caught herself—she had tried to hide the last thought but didn't make it in time. Talion gave a satisfied grunt, while Elouwin slammed her palm onto the table in annoyance.

"Elowen Empery-Arch... I`m not sure. You know, I definitely don't want to build a career on houseplants. And in park architecture, it seems not everything has been exhausted yet. It’s worth thinking about," she jumped up from the table, the hem of her tunic catching on the back of the chair. "Don't worry, Dad, I'm not choosing a guild this very day. And when I move out—who’s going to stop me from growing your morning coffee?"

She hastily hugged her father and began moving the dishes in the opposite direction—from the table to the kitchen. Her satisfied father savored the tail-end of the memory and sipped from his cooling cup.

Looking through the tall kitchen window between the green walls, she tossed over her shoulder:

"You said visits to other cities expand horizons?"

When Urban first set his sights on the profession, he was certain that architecture was the most impressive specialization. After all, it was the architects who created the towering buildings and organized the recreational spaces where people gathered. Indeed, who else had created this entire magnificent city? The squares, the houses, the guild campuses. And, of course, the City Hall—a soaring ziggurat ascending into the sky at the very heart of Luminor. The grandeur of the very idea of building had captivated him since childhood, when he first climbed to the twentieth floor and saw his hometown from above: the Sun Square at the center, the twelve radial streets branching out from it, and the spiral street that intersected them repeatedly. He had traveled that spiral countless times, yet it could only truly be seen from such heights.

He had visited the Architects' Guild as a guest and felt that architects created truly gargantuan objects. The art of creating a residential complex, a park-labyrinth, or even an entire city fascinated him. He had no doubts about his choice of guild. Before his integration into the Architects' Guild, he had created small-scale forms: a set of benches for recreation, lemonade stands shaped like tall glasses, garden sculptures. He waited for the day he would become a full member of the guild and could move on to truly large-scale projects. He became an architect to create the grandiose. Reality, however, revealed that these were projects of grandiose boredom.

No major building, nor any object of even slight complexity, could be created until its creators fully synchronized their vision. Twelve men had been sitting for three hours now, aligning a shared thought-form. A model of a fifty-apartment complex rotated slowly on its axis. It was only three residential blocks, two kindergartens—one large, one small—walkways between the buildings, and a communal recreation area. His fellow architects adjusted the model here and there. Occasionally a remark was voiced, but more often they explained themselves through thought-forms; it was faster and cleaner. The process was refined, careful, unerring, and deathly dull. Urban increasingly found himself thinking that what was happening was a waste of effort. Not the project itself—he understood its necessity and value—but the amount of attention and time consumed by endless coordination. Too much energy was spent not on creation, but on alignment. On waiting. On adjustment.

Even more irritating was another, even less pleasant thought: his specialization in building cities and large complexes ought to be noticed. His flawless execution of small forms seemed to prevent him from manifesting in something greater. Meanwhile, his mentor assigned him now to temporary grandstands, now to children's playgrounds. To Urban, this felt like a squandering of strength, of attention, of his own scale. Now, finally, a residential complex—but how boring it was!

The suffering architect looked out the window. From the large, circular workshop where he sat, he could see the edge of the guild headquarters' park; just then, the tail end of a colorful procession was rounding it. A festival. No sound penetrated the silence of the forum-workshop—nothing was supposed to distract the architects from the process of creation. He suppressed the urge to be out there, amidst the noise and bustle, rather than in a circle of twelve silent men. Out there were bright flashes of color, the multicolored heads of Luminorians, music surely playing, girls laughing—for a moment, his eyes met those of one with disheveled green braids.

His mentor followed his gaze, smiling softly. This was Maurisio Sellen-Arch all over—not a single detail escaped him; he possessed the ability to gently integrate any element that fell out of harmony, be it a clashing shade of color, a protruding corner of furniture, or a distracted apprentice. Urban returned his focus, forcing his attention back to the exchange of thought-forms with a powerful effort. It was difficult to concentrate, but he managed. Those messy braids bouncing on her shoulders gave him an idea: perhaps, in the smaller garden, they could add a more lively, unorganized section of greenery? His colleagues nodded; Urban directed his *consentis* toward the model and wove his idea into the collective thought-form.

Maurisio closed his eyes with satisfaction.

"Urban, will you take a detour with me?" his mentor’s voice caught him on the way out. There was no coercion in it, though irritation flared up inside Urban. He wanted to go outside, breathe the air, and dissolve into the noise of the festival, not linger in these corridors—but so be it. Urban nodded. Sellen-Arch’s workshop was nearby, and the detour from the main forum wasn't that long.

In his own quarters, the Mentor activated background music with a barely perceptible movement—it wasn't distracting, but rather relieved the tension—and gestured for Urban to sit. By the time the young architect settled onto the sofa, a tall glass of a cold drink already stood before him. Misted glass, a light scent of citrus. Urban mechanically noted that he had received it faster than if he had run to the coffee court immediately after the meeting. He took a sip with pleasure, and a sense of gratitude relaxed him slightly.

Maurisio sat opposite him and remained silent for a while. This silence didn't press; it seemed to provide a chance to breathe out.

"You were in a noticeable hurry today; that's normal," he said at last, without reproach, merely stating a fact. "And you managed to weave fresh ideas into the overall project."

Urban shrugged.

"Synchronization feels like a waste of time to you," the mentor continued, looking into his glass. "When you look at an object as a whole, it is indeed hard to accept that the greatest effort goes not into the form, but into the synchronization of agreement. Any large object," the mentor spoke calmly, "does not rest on a single person. It rests on the fact that none of the participants introduces a hidden tension that could quietly siphons off attention. An unsynchronized thought-form will, sooner or later, develop a crack."

Urban nodded—politely, formally. He understood the meaning of the words, but he felt them only as an excuse for slowness. What a fine system, where geniuses are forced to wait for one another!

Maurisio Sellen-Arch waited a moment longer. Urban silently sipped from his glass. The interior of the personal workshop of this genius of interior space was understated, yet it invited comfortable lingering, even if the interlocutors remained silent.

"In two weeks, the Florists are holding the Summer Flower Festival," he said in the same even tone. "A small site on their campus grounds."

Urban looked up; his boredom vanished instantly.

"They need an architect," the mentor continued. "The project initiator is a very energetic woman—more ideas than time. The task is compact but complex: grandstands, canopies, the logic of the parade movement, trade points. I sometimes call such projects mini-cities."

"Mini-cities?" Urban looked at him inquiringly.

"They have everything a city has," Maurisio continued. "A master plan, movement logic, points of attraction. You know, architecture sets the tone for the mood. The only difference is that the scale is smaller, but the result is seen faster." He smiled slightly. "The show-related part will be handled by Alfredo Mersavel-Arch. Do you know him?"

Urban shook his head, while simultaneously picking up on a flash of hesitation and embarrassment from his mentor. Despite having created various elements for numerous city festivals many times over, he had not yet met this showmaker.

"As for the rest," Maurisio went on, "you won't need to synchronize with a dozen colleagues. Mostly just with yourself. I want you to compose this project in its entirety." With an elegant gesture, the mentor adjusted his silk scarf. "If you feel you are ready for this now, of course."

Urban sprang up and impulsively seized his mentor's hands, hardly conscious of the gesture.

"I'll manage. I’m certain of it."

"I have no doubt," Sellen-Arch shook Urban's hands, sealing that certainty with the gesture. "Bear in mind, Alfredo... he is..."

"I understand. A showmaker. I’ll visit him as soon as I have the first sketches."

Maurisio Sellen-Arch smiled with satisfaction.

Urban plunged into a swirl of ideas and did not notice as his mentor placed a hand on his shoulder and gently guided him toward the exit. His attention was already captured by color schemes, the flow of movement, the shapes of canopies—temporary structures that would live for only a single day, but would be remembered for a long time.

A group of people sat at tables on a terrace set away from the main café, where long vines draped down toward the street. They wore the bright clothing typical of Luminor’s citizens, adorned with numerous amulets and ornaments. Yet, something about this group grated—a tiny discrepancy at the edge of one’s consciousness. A man was shouting. He gestured wildly, raising his voice, growing heated. His audience, however, remained attentive—men and women sipped their drinks, while two stood listening, leaning against the terrace railings from which the greenery cascaded.

"We do not agree! We, the Nulls, must not be marginalized in any way! Life has already dealt us a poor hand!"

He spoke in bursts, on the exhale, as if tossing words into the air. His hands cut through the space around him, his torso leaning forward, demanding attention with every phrase. Turquoise and yellow braids rose and fell, mirroring the rhythm of his voice.

The audience listened. Some with genuine interest, others idly swirling their drinks. The two friends by the railing exchanged light, mocking smiles.

A girl with dull-pink hair, who had been hanging on every word with her mouth slightly agape, remarked:

"Peter, do you really lack for anything? You’re famous, you have fans, and you have the most magnificent apartment of us all."

One of the young men standing nearby arched an eyebrow, glancing at his companion. The girl flushed. The orator faltered—for a fraction of a second, no more—and then surged forward again:

"True, I have those things! Because I work for them—and I don’t just mean the physical training in the Healthcare Guild. I also demand, I demand that all my needs..."—he breathed heavily, forcing the words out—"by right..."

"By right of being a Null?" someone from the group asked. Laughter rippled through the company.

Peter, who had just been slicing the air with his hand, stopped abruptly. Color flooded his face, and for a few moments, he clenched his fingers, composed himself. He could not easily read the info-field and thus could not tell who had thrown the remark.

"By the right society grants its citizens—that everyone shall receive what they desire. And that right must be defended, proven!" The sharp gestures returned as his voice began to rise again.

One of the standing men—colorful even by Luminor’s standards—intervened. He offered a broad smile, waved a hand laden with multicolored amulets, and turned toward Peter and the group.

"I should note, my friend, that a person also has the right not to receive what they don't want. Take me, for example: I’m not a Null, but I have absolutely no desire to gain a suffix for my surname, like Elwar here." He clapped the friend beside him on the shoulder.

"I’m perfectly content being called Noy-Arch," Elwar countered calmly. "And I have everything I want, showing up at the guild once every couple of decads." As he spoke, he leaned carelessly against the railing. Too carelessly—as if the twenty-meter drop behind his back didn't bother him in the least.

A playful thought-form flashed above his head:

Elwar Noy-Arch flings his wide scarf and takes flight like a bird.

"Careful now," someone chuckled. "Even those integrated into the guild are hard to put back together afterward."

"Wait," another voice chimed in, "are you saying Elwar is just too fond of risk to work as a realtor for the Architects' Guild?"

Laughter rolled through the group effortlessly.

"Exactly!" Peter snapped, instantly seizing upon the phrasing. "A person cannot be in the Architects' Guild and the Extreme Guild at the same time. You’ll say the guilds exist for a reason; I say—they limit us!"

"Why integrate into two guilds at all?" Lohen countered lazily, still leaning by the railing. "Nothing stops Elwar from finding homes for others and occasionally testing where the limits of his own durability lie."

As he spoke, he laughed and materialized a small podium directly under Elwar’s feet. Half a meter in diameter and the height of a regular step, Elwar Noy-Arch now stood even higher, and it looked genuinely precarious. A couple of girls gasped at the sudden stunt.

"See?" Lohen added, roaring with laughter. "He’s still holding on for now."

The object of the joke, without breaking his composed expression, unfurled the very scarf his friend had depicted in the thought-form. For a moment, the group thought he might actually rise higher, but he merely draped the colorful fabric over his restless friend and stepped calmly back onto the solid floor.

Lohen cursed through his laughter, someone clapped, and the tension finally dissolved into the joke. The scarf, snatched away by Lohen’s energetic hand, fluttered past the edge of the terrace. The multicolored fabric glided easily along the tiers under the influence of Elwar, who watched the scarf’s flight with the same calm gaze with which he had balanced on the edge.

Laughter rippled through the entire company.

"My friend Lohen Rabinorr, do you seriously think I am unfulfilled? I feel perfectly fine as a realtor. No heroics. No slogans. The guild is a place where one can rest from a company of loafers like you."

He said it without force, almost lazily, but the effect was palpable: the focus shifted from the tension Peter had created with his fiery speeches to the playful bickering of friends. The conversation ceased to revolve around disagreement. Someone leaned toward a neighbor to crack a quiet joke. Another looked over the railing where the scarf was still slowly spiraling down.

Peter wanted to pull the attention back to himself and did so the only way he knew: he spoke again.

"That is exactly why everything is failing," he barked, raising his voice. "You laugh, but something must be done—the system is cracking. You can't be everywhere at once. Whether your talents are for arranging housing or taking risks—you are still forced to choose only one guild. You can't pretend a talent you didn't choose to develop doesn't exist. Society is marginalizing you. Do you agree?"

"We agree," said the girl with pink hair, also a Null, who had been hanging on every word from the leader of the Disagreeing.

Peter frowned.

"No, Lira Anna, we do not agree. We cannot, we must not agree with such injustice."

"Of course, Peter," Lira Anna looked down, "I actually meant to say..."

"Caramella, what about you?" Lohen turned to a striking beauty. "You’re in a guild, aren't you? The Artists aren't marginalizing you? The oppression hasn't crossed any lines?" As he spoke, Lohen Rabinorr moved close to the girl, even attempting to mimic the "degree of oppression" by leaning into her. "Can you feel the system cracking yet?"

"You were more interesting to watch when you were standing by the railing," Caramella smiled thinly, stepping lightly away from him. "The Artists' Guild is interesting. I’ve decided not to rush into choosing a specialization just yet. I’ve passed my initiation, but for now, I’m just observing, trying out different projects." Her gaze swept over the three men: Lohen, Elwar, and Peter, who stood on the other side of the table.

"Do you think the system is fair, Caramella? I don’t agree with being tied to a guild first, only to find out later what my specialization will be."

"I knew perfectly well that I would be studying at the guild, which is why I wanted to start working with enhanced consentis. I don’t see what you’re arguing about—it’s the normal order of things: you know that before initiation you can work in a guild and choose a specialization. Or you can join, get all the privileges, and then choose. I didn't want to learn one specific thing; I wanted to learn everything. And I’m in no hurry."

Peter expressed his disagreement—either with the fact that Caramella Ve-Art would have to study longer, or that she had already undergone the deep integration ceremony before her professional determination. She shrugged and turned her attention to the man sitting beside her.

"You disagree too, Karl?"

"I agree with Peter that unrealized talents will eventually manifest. But I disagree that this is a form of deprivation. You can always manifest them within your own guild or join a cross-guild project. For instance, Elwar could arrange housing outside the city, where the Extreme Guild operates."

"What housing outside the city! Who would agree to live Outside?"

Karl, adjusting his bright-orange dreadlocks, continued calmly:

"What do you think the Extremists do? Among other things, they go on expeditions, and of course, they live there. As for me, there is work I love. Perhaps all my skills amount to is racing on a glide—I like being a courier. Out in the fresh air all day."

"Do you truly agree that society gave you no chance to develop your talents, to find a specialization?" Every word Peter Turakran spoke was laden with a specific, heavy emphasis.

"I joined the guild at thirty-two; until then, society was looking for a place to put me to use," he laughed without malice. "I simply have no special talents, what can you do? So I went to the largest guild. Though one can work as a courier in any of them."

"I would never have agreed to the Makers' Guild."

"That’s why you’re the leader of the Disagreeing group, Peter. You weren't supposed to agree." Karl patted Peter on the arm, causing the amulets on his wrist to jingle softly. "Lira, aren't you in the Makers' Guild too?"

The girl nodded and launched into an explanation of how she, a Null, worked in the guild and how a Null’s work differed from that of ordinary people. Only Karl listened to her to the end, leaning closer. The girl spoke quietly, and the noise at the other end of the table pulled the attention away again—there, Caramella was fending off the flirting of Elwar and Lohen. It was obvious that both were trying more to impress each other than the girl. Peter finally distracted himself from his grandstanding and joined the game. He moved closer to the actress, and now the two standing men were practically looming over her. Caramella slid her chair closer to the terrace railing and stretched out her legs in her elegant shoes. This was her third time with the Disagreeing group, coming to observe the leader she had previously only met at public events and a few times at the guild. It still wasn't clear what, exactly, all these people disagreed with. The composition of the group shifted; at the previous meetings, only Peter and Lira Anna had been present.

Lira sat leaning forward. She didn't participate in the banter, but she caught every one of Peter's gestures, every turn of his head. The glances he cast at Caramella. When he began his speech again about the imperfections of the system and swept his hand out sharply, she nodded vigorously.

"We must demand! Attract attention!" He walked around the table, approaching Lohen and Elwar, who were busy practicing their flirting eloquence on the actress. "Is anyone listening to me here?" He cut the air so sharply with his hand that Lira jumped in her seat.

"Who listens to words, my friend?" Lohen took up the baton of the conversation. "Everyone reacts perfectly well to movement."

"To the effect," someone added.

"To what catches the eye," Caramella clarified, detaching a man’s hand from the back of her chair.

Peter smirked, and there was more irritation than amusement in that smirk.

"Exactly. To be heard, we must make it so that people are looking at us. Understand? Not joking, not chatting—showing everyone."

"Showing what?" Karl asked.

Peter fell silent for a second. He could already feel the attention gathering around him again—the gazes, the expectation, the pause.

"That we exist," he said. "That we cannot be ignored." The phrase hung in the air. Peter snapped his fingers. "We must attract attention."

"Well, finally," Lohen drawled. "I was beginning to think you were just going to keep lecturing."

Someone laughed. Some exchanged glances. Several gazes turned to Peter at once—synchronized for the first time in a long while.

The leader of the Disagreeing had finally captured the group’s full attention. The chuckling and shifting stopped; everyone focused on the orator. He straightened his back and began to persuade those gathered that it was necessary to bring attention to the disagreement. His last phrase still hung in the air:

"We must get all the attention there is in the city."

"What do you mean, Peter?"

"Something impressive. We will devise such an action that we cannot be ignored, the way the system ignores the needs of the Nulls"—he cleared his throat—"and all the Disagreeing in general."

"Parade down the spiral street. Naked!"

Caramella shot an icy look at Lohen, who had made the suggestion, causing him to lose his enthusiasm instantly.

"Paint Lake Boyd yellow," Lira suggested.

"Why yellow?"

The yellow tip of Peter’s braid dangled before her nose. "It could be another color. Turquoise, for instance. Or even different colors..." Lira’s voice trailed off.

Others were already shouting out their thoughts.

"Fun idea," Karl praised her from his seat beside her.

They discussed what sort of stunt they might pull for a while longer and then dispersed, having agreed on nothing.

Peter left feeling somewhat disappointed. He received enough attention as a competing athlete. Of course, the attention of girls was flattering—after all, they stared at his muscles with admiration, and not just at the Disagreeing meetings. But he wanted more. He wanted to be a real leader. To inspire people to real action. To lead them, to captivate them with an idea, a struggle. An idea that mattered to many. He remembered with irritation how that pair of new guys kept pulling the focus to themselves. Stomping harder than necessary, he headed for the exit—the last to leave the gathering.

Elwar’s multicolored scarf was slowly completing its artificially slowed descent at street level. It drifted past Urban, who was deep in thought about the Flower Festival. The architect paused for a moment, noted the combination of terracotta and ivory, nodded to himself, and hurried on.

Finally, the scarf glided smoothly onto a bench held by the plump hands of a toddler. A couple of shaky steps—and he nearly caught the bright piece of fabric. The grandfather watching over the boy laughed and transmuted Elwar’s scarf into a soft cat. The child laughed happily, meowed like a kitty, and hugged his grandfather.

Seven-year-old Lia didn't scream. She stomped her foot as if driving a stake between herself and her friend. She measured Kat with a spiteful glare, then turned sharply and marched away, her steps heavy and rhythmic. The remaining children glanced at Galafun, the only adult in the group.

"Should I catch up?" Mark looked questioningly at the kidbaser. As the oldest in her group, he always stepped into the role of the second adult. "She’s angry and might accidentally overdo it with the consentis. And we know what happened last time."

"Thank you for caring, but it's not necessary," Galafun watched the girl walk away. "She chose to leave; she will have to make the choice to return on her own." She immediately closed her eyes and sent Lia a brief thought-form: Where are you planning to go?

Catheri, a couple of years older than Lia, began making excuses to the teacher:

"I only said I thought her amulet was a bit of a failure, and she—she—" the girl babbled breathlessly, "she said my kitty was way too huge for an amulet. She was the one who..." Kat fidgeted with her crooked amulet, the size of a large tea saucer, "...she started it first!" Angry tears were already welling in the girl's eyes.

The kidbaser gently squeezed Kat’s shoulder. Handling children's quarrels was part of her job. What could be more important for society than upbringing? Working in the first stage of education was both exhausting and life-affirming. At times, it felt like living on a volcano. Occasionally, at the end of a day spent with the children, she would soak in a bath for an hour, disconnecting from everything else. And yet—it was her choice, her calling—to care for children, to guide their gradual mastery of consentis. Peeling back the layers of the urban environment like a pie, kidbasers protected and studied the children. Most importantly, they uncovered their exceptional abilities and talents, which would later be organically integrated for the good of society. For the sake of this, she could calmly allow small skirmishes to play out without letting the conflicts disrupt her own harmony.

She easily read the response from the sulking girl in the info-field: Lia was offended and wanted to go home to her mother. A shadow flickered across the teacher's face—the specific longing of a woman who has no child of her own to simply pull close and heal an insult in a single breath. But she quickly shook it off; it was time to meet the twins, and then all her charges would be together. They would deal with the girls' clash on the way—they had the whole day ahead of them.

The seven-year-old, having split off from the group, was peeking out from behind a lush bush, and Galafun sent her a thought-form: a lily flower on an open palm. And another: "Don't want to miss their arrival? Come on, I’m waiting."

They had walked about fifty meters when the twins burst around the corner with the thundering gallop of colts, nearly knocking the fragile young woman off her feet. Every time they were met, Tim and Bam put on a show—this time, they were racing. Chaos ensued, filled with laughter and a struggle for attention. The wild clamor was more like a meeting between fans and their favorite team than a daily meeting between a kidbaser and her charges.

Lia joined them a couple of minutes later—she emerged from her hiding place, pale but calm. She held her head high, as if guarding her dignity, which had clearly suffered from curiosity. She had missed the moment when Bambery and Timthorn flew into Galafun’s arms. She missed the first sincere laughter. The girl stood nearby once Galafun had already finished cuddling the boys. Lia realized: the world hadn't stopped to pity her. The kidbaser put one arm around her and pulled Catheri in with the other.

"Who are you happier to see, Tim or Bam, Lia?"

"They’re funny because they’re as identical as eggs," Lia smiled, twirling a blue lock of hair around her finger. "I’m happy to see them together."

"Equally funny," agreed the girl with the cat amulet that eclipsed all other amulets on her stomach. "Tim and Bam are totally the same. Galafun, do you tell them apart? Does their mom tell them apart, do you think?"

"They’re easy to distinguish," Mark, the teenager, joined the conversation. "One runs faster," he patted one on the shoulder and ruffled the other's hair. "If only I knew which one."

"It’s all because of the amulet he made yesterday! Galafun, I run faster, don't I? I mean, usually I'm faster?"

His brother quickly took the initiative:

"Where are we going today? Shall we go to the makers? Are we going to make amulets like yesterday?"

"Do you want more amulets? We could go, though I was planning to take you to the garden at the Florists' Guild."

"In the center? The garden actually in the guild campus?" The twins scurried and bounced like pinballs—they had already forgotten about who ran faster.

"Is it far to the center? Are we going to the actual guild campus?"

"Cool! And will we stop by the town hall?" The girls were unanimously interested in the idea.

The kidbaser maintained a calmness worthy of a capybara on a crocodile's back and replied, looking at each of them in turn:

"We’ll take the glide along Spiral Street—that way we’ll see half the city and won't get tired. We can stop by the town hall if we want. Shall we go?"

Spiral Street intersected all twelve radial streets of Luminor, which branched out like rays from the central circular plaza. The Town Hall, the heart of the plaza and the entire city, stood in its center, attracting everyone—there was always something interesting happening there. The children started chattering, and the whole procession moved toward the nearest intersection with the street where the glide moved.

The moving walkway of Spiral Street carried them swiftly and smoothly, like a calm river.

"Now we stand on this side of the street, and when we head back, we’ll have to cross the road. See, we’re moving forward, and on the other side are those traveling away from the center," Galafun knew when to interject so her words would be heard by the children. She skillfully maintained the boundaries and could easily have taken a few more kids into her group, though the guild didn't approve of groups larger than five. She sighed.

"A glide isn't just a moving road," the kidbaser continued, straightening the collar for Tim—or maybe it was Bam. "It’s the city’s agreement with our desire to move faster. If everyone around us froze in total indifference, it would simply become part of the sidewalk."

Catheri watched entranced as golden sparks scurried under the edge of the glide. "What if I want the belt to go into the sky?" she asked.

"Then you’d have to negotiate with a couple thousand people who want to go to the center," Mark chuckled. "Good luck with the common vector, kitten."

Catheri had been insisting on being called "cat" for two weeks—and no one objected.

At that moment, they felt a distinct jolt: Timthorn had decided to see if he could outshout the glide-street. He didn't just yell; he put all his nine-year-old stubbornness into the scream. The glide stumbled for half a second and then continued its movement. Passersby turned around; someone gave the boy a thumbs-up.

"Wow, Tim, you certainly can manifest intent," Galafun said. "That was impressive." Everyone recovered from the surprise at different speeds.

Kat poked the disruptor in the shoulder: "Don't do that again, what's wrong with you?" then, more calmly, "Would you want to control the roads?"

Tim was exhausted from the colossal effort and only gave an indefinite shake of his head. Bam hadn't anticipated his brother’s stunt and now felt out of sorts—a great idea had passed him by.

People were still looking back at them, some laughing, some shaking their heads. Bambery tugged at Galafun’s wide sleeve:

"Can we go into the Crystal Garden?"

"Of course," she looked over the whole group for agreement, "have you been there before?"

The kidbaser and her charges stepped off the glide at the edge of the garden, where the air smelled of freshness and almost imperceptibly of ozone. The city's clamor faded; the very rhythm of Luminor's boisterous life slowed down in this district. Rising up with their polished sides catching the sun were solitary towers—crystals over twice the height of a human—and here and there, groups of various crystalline formations poked out of the flowerbeds. Together, they formed shimmering streets and alleys; the Crystal Garden stretched from one radial street to the next.

Mark walked up to the tallest one—a giant hexagonal crystal towering like a spire at least three times his height. The clear turquoise color pulled his gaze deep inside, and the smooth facets practically begged for his palms. The teenager leaned against it and was prepared to spend the rest of the day hugging the crystal when the spell was broken by Galafun’s voice:

"Bambery, don't lick it! I understand it's very beautiful, but it's a crystal, not a lollipop. Besides, we're in a public place. Do you want us to make you a similar amulet?" Bam stroked the polished side one last time and asked:

"Are there edible crystals?"

"There are; when we go to the Nutrivists' Guild, we'll ask them to show you."

He had no choice but to follow the kidbaser and the rest of the group.

Galafun had already activated the translator on her wrist to show the children a map:

"See, we are in the garden, and this is the place where we stepped off Spiral Street."

"It looks like a cinnabon," one of the girls chimed in.

"Right, with the town hall in the middle. Are you hungry?" the kidbaser continued, "We can walk through here or here"—her ethereal finger, mimicking her own hand down to every ring, moved across the thought-form of the diagram—"and come out right at this spot, at the next intersection."

"And we'll ride the glide again?"

"Yes, we can take the glide," she noted to herself that only Timthorn understood how to read the diagram. "It will be faster to reach our destination that way."

"Quiet! Do you hear that?" Kat suddenly cried out. The children spun around while the girl peered intensely into space. "I hear sounds!"

Tim made a farting noise. And Bam confirmed:

"I hear sounds too."

The girls stared at the twins reproachfully in sync. The kidbaser smiled gently and said:

"Loud sounds nearby drown out even the most beautiful music, don't they?"

She led them further along the sidewalk, and the source of the faint music became clear: a miniature pond, no larger than a couple of dining tables, was framed by groups of crystals of varying heights. In color, they looked almost identical, but looking at all the shapes as a whole, one could notice a delicate gradient—from golden into jade green. Some formations reached the height of young Lia, while some were quite small—no larger than a palm. And these groups emanated incredibly tender music. No longer on the edge of audibility, but soft, like a weightless background enveloping the pond in its own atmosphere.

The children settled down together. The enchanting, quiet melody swallowed their conversations. A muffled stillness took hold of them—in the Crystal Garden, no one wanted to run or chatter. Mark spoke first and broke the brief enchantment—he stood up and went closer to study the crystals:

"If you look closely for a long time, you can see facets inside—it's so beautiful! I’ll bring my mom here; she loves this kind of stuff."

The girls also shook off the spell and talked quietly among themselves:

"My new amulet is a bit like a crystal, isn't it?" she whispered to Catheri. Then, addressing the kidbaser: "Are our amulets crystals too?"

"Almost any solid material has a crystalline structure, that's right. Which is why you can stabilize a thought-form and turn, for example, a piece of jewelry into an amulet," as she spoke, she stroked Lia’s teardrop amulet with a finger. "That’s how they work—you program yours, and once the thought-form is stabilized, it acts to preserve your intent."

"Yesterday the maker told me we can't stabilize our thought-forms yet, but we'll learn."

"Of course you will—that's why we kidbasers are with you. Tell me, what is this amulet of yours for?" Galafun nodded at the blue drop in Lia’s hand.

"It changes color when it's time to water the flowers. I want to know when they’re thirsty—then the drop should turn green."

Without delaying the demonstration, the girl held the drop up to one flowerbed, then another—the drop didn't change color, and Lia scowled.

At that moment, there was a massive splash and a shout from the boys—one of the twins had fallen into the pond. Mark was already pulling him back out when Galafun and the girls arrived.

"Well, is it refreshing? It seems someone wants to stay here and sit in the pond like a frog."

Bambery, soaking everything around him, grumbled:

"I don't want to be a frog."

His brother was doubled over with laughter nearby.

"Thanks, Mark, you reacted so quickly." The teenager shrugged and smirked:

"I regret to say I reacted but didn't ask for Bambery's preference. Was I wrong? Maybe you want back in the pond?" He made a move toward the water, still holding the twin who was as ruffled as a wet kitten.

Bam just grunted. Resisting laughter while looking at his rolling brother was beyond his strength, and he immediately broke into a peal of giggles. The twins' merriment infected everyone. The kidbaser instantly dried the boy's clothes right on him and suggested they leave the Crystal Garden.

As they approached Spiral Street, they stopped again—Lia insisted on finding a flower that wanted to drink, and she finally found one—her teardrop amulet turned green at the edges.

"It works! Look!" she shouted in delight.

"Now she’s going to sit down again and talk to every flower," Kat grumbled. "Lia, come on, the glide will leave without us!"

Lia whispered a few more words to the flower and ran to catch up with her group. She took Galafun’s hand and asked quietly:

"Can the glide really leave without us?"

"It moves constantly because there are always people who are in a hurry."

The boys had already started a new amusement—the twins were egging Mark on to materialize something. He stood with an open palm extended—scraps of thought-forms hovered around it: a ball, a seashell—unclaimed thought-forms dissipated faster than they were visualized.

"Come on! What do you want?" the twins jumped around him.

The thought-forms around Mark's head shifted from amorphous to clearer: an image of a complex amulet flickered, an apple, something resembling a girl's hair tie—though that thought-form quickly dissolved. At their age, they weren't yet allowed translators, and the boy was trying hard, focusing his mind on the visualization.

All five huddled around the teenager. His face took on that specific look of concentration seen in those who have just touched the threads of the info-field. Only with Mark, the focus of consentis was almost painful, at its limit—his forehead broke into a sweat, and his gaze became fixed.

The field responded—golden fibers began to weave between his fingers. No thicker than a spider's silk, they interlaced into a geometric frame—a neural-network cast of a future fruit. For a second, it seemed like only a ghostly blueprint, but then the void inside began to fill with particles of matter. On the left, where the light hit, the apple had already gained a glossy density and weight, while on the right, the outline still trembled, defined by a glowing mesh through which the sun shone freely.

Mark let out a sharp, short exhale, forcing out the last bit of effort: the golden threads flared and instantly settled over the red-yellow skin, finally precipitating the form. A real, heavy apple fell into his palm. Everyone cheered.

"Wow..." Lia reached out to touch the perfect side. "Is it cold?"

"Cool," Mark exhaled. He had exhausted himself with the mental effort, losing his usual patronizing tone.

At that moment, Tim gave a loud shout and jumped up, trying to reach for the precipitated apple. At the joyful shouts and jumps, Mark's focus faltered. For an instant, the apple became transparent, lost its materiality at the edges, and silently crumbled. The golden threads lingered in the air for a second like dust in a sunbeam and vanished. Nothing remained on Mark's palm, not even moisture.

"I’m pleased with how quickly you were able to precipitate the apple," the kidbaser hurried to put her arm around the teenager's shoulders. "You see—without stabilization, a thought-form is just a guest in this world. It leaves as soon as someone claps their hands too loudly."

The children chattered; Mark rubbed his forehead. Young Lia silently took his hand.

Galafun was already heading toward Spiral Street:

"And now, are you ready to go to the garden? Let's see how trees make apples!"