Kors knocked and entered Lis and Karina’s room. He saw that Lis was alone, he was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. The papers on the table were scattered around, and several were scattered on the floor. Lis raised his face at the sound of the door being opened, he was still shamefully painted: vertical black stripes under his eyes, a red tip of his nose and a sloppy red mouth from ear to ear. The dye faded a little, but was still very visible. When Lis lifted his head from his folded hands, the bell in his nose tinkled out of tune, too big, it almost lay on his lips, covering them.

      “Good evening, Alis.”

      “Ah-ah, Kors,” drawled Lis, grimacing slightly, and in an unconscious gesture reached for his mask, which was lying next to him on the table, but at the last moment, as if having changed his mind, he didn’t bring it to his face to close it, but, annoyed, he threw the mask aside, onto the bed, only the clasps clinked loudly.

      This involuntary gesture of understanding his shameful appearance, embarrassment and shame from this did not hide from Kors, he grinned.

      And Lis immediately reacted to his grin:

      “Kors, confess, you get a boner at the smell of shit, right?”

      Kors froze:

      “Alis… well, I came in an amicable way!”

      Kors “heard” that Lis was literally shrinking inside, and all his insolence was now, in fact, a mask, because no matter how Lis hid behind it, in his heart he still considered Kors better than himself, higher, nobler. It was hammered into his head since childhood – to experience admiration for the black masters. Lis was tough, but at heart he remained a “fucking half-blood”, no matter what he did. He convinced others of this, and they considered him an excellent warrior and strategist, respected and loved him, regardless of appearance and origin. But Atley Alis couldn’t convince himself, and just as Kors himself internally considered himself superior to mere mortals, Lis internally considered himself shit, unworthy and wretched. But only deep inside, and this was despite the fact that Nikto, having ennobled his appearance, greatly raised his self-esteem, but still not to such an extent that Lis found comfort. To do this, Nikto needed to make him a true black, tall, long-liver. Such as Arel, such as Kors. Kors felt sorry for Lis. Consumed by his passions, he suffered, everyone else seemed better to him. On the one hand, Kors was flattered, but on the other, he understood Lis more and more, and considered the punishment too cruel both then and now. Not only did they put him down in the Limit, they continued to do so in the Fort, not allowing him to pull the shameful bell from his nose and erase the clown makeup, mocking him day after day. Kors knew that Prince Arel took Lis to the bathroom several times and beat and fucked him there. Kors was in the room with Nik when Arel did it in front of them. Arel brought Lis, tearing him away from business, and he, lowering his head and not looking at anyone, silently followed the prince. Very soon Kors heard from behind the door the muffled sounds of blows, the discordant ringing of a bell and the prince’s groans full of pleasure. And not a sound from Lis. Kors felt uncomfortable and he left, and maybe after he left, Nikto and Arel continued and together tortured their victim. But Alis was the commander of their army, and he had to do business and solve many different issues. But it seemed that this didn’t bother anyone, and Lis was forced to wear a mask and endure total humiliation from the mad prince. Kors now firmly decided that he would ask for him, ask Nikto to cancel this stupid and inappropriate punishment, in which there was no point.

      Lis got up, and Kors noticed how his face involuntarily distorted. He winced as the bell tinkled with every movement he made.

      “Alis,” Kors suddenly thought that the poor fellow didn’t even have a normal surname, and instead of it there was the female name of his whore mother. And Kors, calling him by his last name, called him by a female name. How did it feel to respond to a whore’s name?

      “Lis… I came to make peace. And to say that I am very sorry, I sympathize you and I think that what is happening now is unfair.”

      “I don’t care,” said Lis, and the bell tinkled with every word he said.

      “Where is Karina?”

      “Visiting Lila.”

      “You let her go?!”

      “She’s tired of me and she’s closed.”

      “You know,” Kors hesitated, but immediately resolutely continued, “I forgot what you did with Karina. You are her husband. And I will ask Nik and Arel to stop torturing you.”

      “I don’t need a protector,” Lis said sharply, “and your smirks. Get out!”

      Kors handed him a neat stack of papers.

      “It's called logistics. Here is the logistics for the march, it is compiled on the basis of the audit. If you strictly follow this plan, then we will not have hunger.”

      And Lis took the sheets:

      “Thank you,” he said.

      “Eh… Lis, how old are you?”

      “Thirty two.”

      “How many?!”

      “Thirty-two, maybe a little less or a little more. But about thirty-two.”

      “Maybe more?”

      Lis shook his head.

      “No, I remember. Daniel Crassus asked my mother. And then, my father told me too.”

      “And when is your birthday?”

      “Well, I don’t know the exact number, of course. What? Doesn’t look like it?”

      “Honestly, no offense, but no. You look older. And you are a little older than Karina, and you were very young when you met.”

      “Yes,” said Lis, “but I fought on the side of the reds for several years then.”

      “I thought you were at least thirty-five. It turns out that if not for Nik, you would not have lived to be thirty-five. I would just die of tuberculosis or ulcers.”

      “Or died in battle. Kors, what's the difference, only my mother tried to kill me three times and couldn’t, and also Karina. And the red ones. And the blacks wanted to hang me not so long