The dagger pulsed in Olesia’s grip, its obsidian hilt warming against her palm. *1:58.* The vermilion readout scrolled across her optic feed. Tevin’s spite had finally exceeded his self-preservation. He would rather obliterate the entire Morvane elite, himself included, than face scorn. “The altar,” she commanded, her voice slicing through the low thrum of the self-destruct sequence. “That’s where the override slot will be. The Heart of the estate.” Casmir, his shoulder a blossoming stain beneath his ruined coat, gripped her uninjured arm. “You look like a drowned cat, my darling. They’ll remember this entrance.” A dangerous glint entered his eyes, banishing the pain. “Ready for a grand finale?” They sprinted through the mud-slicked drainage conduit, the echoing thumps of their boots swallowed by the rising whine of the estate's structural integrity failing. Ahead, a grated opening shimmered with light and a muffled clamor. The Grand Hall. The wedding. Olesia paused, pulling a small, sealed data chip from a hidden pocket in her corsage. Fennick’s evidence. She glanced back at the path they had come, toward the maintenance vents where Fennick had gone to secure the hidden tunnels. He was still fulfilling his end. “Hold this,” she instructed, pressing the chip into Casmir’s hand. “When I gesture.” He gave a curt nod. The reckless playboy was gone, replaced by something far more predatory, far more attuned to the scent of blood and power. *1:42.* The digital timer dwindled relentlessly. Casmir kicked the grate, sending it clanging against the marble floor of the Grand Hall. The sudden cacophony silenced the string quartet mid-arpeggio. Every head snapped toward the mud-streaked, dripping figures emerging from the wall. Gasps rippled through the assembled aristocracy, their faces a tableau of shock and disgust. Olesia stepped onto the polished floor, her ruined gown trailing mud. Her hair, once meticulously styled, clung in wet strands to her face. But her eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the room, locating Tevin. He stood at the Altar of Pacts, framed by cascading orchids and the solemn faces of the remaining syndicate patriarchs. His face was a mask of furious indignation, still smudged with mud from the drainage ditch. “The wedding is off,” Olesia announced, her voice, though not loud, carried with the chilling clarity of a death knell. “Or rather, the groom is a fraud.” Constance, Tevin’s pallid bride, clutched her bouquet, her gaze darting between Olesia and her fiancé. A murmur rose from the guests, a low, buzzing current of fear and confusion. *1:25.* Subterranean vaults rumbled as foundation stones shifted beneath their feet. “How dare you!” Tevin roared, his voice cracking with outrage. He took a step forward, his fists clenched. “You crashed my engagement, you ruined my welcome gala, you sabotaged my escort, and now you defile my wedding? Get out! Guards!” Several uniformed men, still nursing various aches from the rubber bullet barrage, hesitantly advanced. Olesia ignored them. Her gaze locked onto the Altar of Pacts, a massive slab of volcanic basalt veined with silver, upon which rested a ceremonial golden quill and a bound ledger for the bloodline pacts. It was the heart of every Morvane ceremony, the place where oaths were sealed with blood and magic. “Tevin Rostova has murdered the leaders of the Veridian, the Blackwood, and the Solstice factions,” Olesia declared, her voice ringing with brutal conviction. “He poisoned them with hemlock, just as he poisoned my father years ago. And he planned to frame me, an outcast, for a massacre meant to elevate his own twisted claim.” Horrified whispers erupted. The surviving patriarchs stiffened, skin blanching. The public exposure of syndicate slaughter violated every unspoken boundary of their refined salon. “Lies!” Tevin shrieked, his composure shattering. “She’s deranged! A bitter harpy!” Olesia met his furious gaze, a cold smile touching her lips. “Am I? Casmir, if you please.” Casmir, who had been watching the scene with an unreadable expression, stepped forward. He held the data chip aloft. “My dear Olesia has a penchant for collecting inconvenient truths. Here, on this rather dull little chip, are Tevin’s correspondences with the Vesper faction. Details of his plot to eliminate the rival houses. Confessions to the hemlock poisoning, implicating his own men. All, of course, signed and sealed.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “The man has a truly astonishing lack of discretion.” He tossed the chip onto the Altar of Pacts. It skittered across the jet-black surface, coming to rest beside the golden quill. The patriarchs stared as dawning revulsion curdled their composure. Tevin, their supposed ally, had sought to dismantle them. *1:07.* Oakhaven's deep framework groaned again, louder this time. A hairline crack spiderwebbed across a stained-glass window high above, shedding a few sparkling shards onto the velvet aisle. Tevin, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, let out a guttural roar. He snatched a silver letter opener from the Altar, its blade wickedly sharp, and lunged. Not at Olesia, but at Casmir. His eyes blazed with a murderous intent that eclipsed all reason. “You arrogant bastard!” Tevin screamed, thrusting the blade with desperate force toward Casmir’s chest. Casmir did not flinch. His left hand shot out, not to block, but to *catch* the descending blade. The sharp silver edge bit into his palm, a thin line of crimson blooming instantly, but he held it firm, unyielding. Tevin’s momentum carried him forward, his face inches from Casmir’s. Casmir’s possessive smirk returned, colder and sharper than any blade. His eyes, usually alight with careless amusement, were now feral, terrifying. “Don’t touch my wife,” he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the rising panic in the hall. He twisted his wrist, ripping the letter opener from Tevin’s grasp, then drove his knee into Tevin’s stomach with bone-jarring force. Tevin doubled over, gasping, and Casmir followed through with a swift, brutal kick that sent the mud-soaked man sprawling onto the pristine white marble floor. *Fifty-two.* Stress fractures shrieked through subterranean steel beams. The gilded chandeliers swayed precariously. Olesia sprinted to the Altar of Pacts, grabbing the obsidian dagger. The override slot, a small, barely visible recess, was exactly where she expected it to be, nestled between two ancient symbols carved into the dark basalt slab. She raised the dagger, aligning its hilt with the slot. But as she brought it down, an invisible force repelled her. A shimmering, crimson barrier flared into existence around the slot, pulsing with ancient power. Blood-magic. *Forty-eight.*

Crash the Altar