“My entire life has been a lie.” Damir’s voice was a flat, dead sound in the hushed archive. He stood unmoving, the aged ledger clutched in his hand, its pages stark against the flickering lamplight. His gaze, usually a fortress of control, was splintered, raw, reflecting a vast, internal wasteland. Bogdana saw the tremors in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders. The revelation had struck him like a physical blow, leaving him hollowed out. He was an architect without a blueprint, a soldier whose war had no true side. “The Volkovian Empire thrives on such fabrications,” Bogdana said, her voice quiet, a balm against the sharp edges of his disbelief. “My family's destruction was built on one. Yours, it seems, was too.” She stepped closer, reaching for the ledger. He yielded without resistance, letting her take it. Her touch traced the elegant, fierce script that condemned his ancestors to a loyalty they had upheld with tragic precision. “They twisted your oath. They wanted you to hunt us, not safeguard us—to deliver the ‘vessel’ to their throne.” Damir finally moved, turning to face her. His eyes were dark, a storm gathering behind them. “They claimed the Kosciany Bog was a force of chaos, its followers seditious. They said the Wskrzesa were aberrations, abominations to be eradicated.” He ran a hand over his face, a gesture of profound weariness. “All of it to cloak their true ambition. The Osseous Decree… it doesn’t grant eternal life, it binds souls. It consumes the living.” His words echoed Kazimir’s secret note, solidifying the grim reality. Bogdana nodded. “And the Kovačić bloodline, sworn to the Kosciany Bog, was to be the vessel’s shield. Not its executioner.” She flipped to a later leaf. “There are more entries here. Mentions of other relics. The ‘Vratnik Key’ was the first. Now, a reference to ‘The Saint’s Torso Relic.’ Hidden in the ‘Salt-Wound Maw of Perunos.’” Damir straightened, the shock hardening into something cold and resolved. “The Perunos Salt Mines. A penal colony. Near the old borderlands.” His voice was clipped, betraying no emotion now, only a steely focus. “It’s where they send the truly troublesome. Those whose existence they want erased.” He looked at her, his gaze unwavering. “If the Mandate demands living fuel, then the Emperor’s immortality is a lie bought with stolen breath. We cannot allow him to complete it.” Bogdana’s resolve, usually a carefully guarded flame, flared into an inferno. The image of Kazimir's pale face, his small hand pressing the coded note, burned behind her eyes. Her brother, held captive, a pawn in this monstrous game. Survival was no longer enough. “Then we stop him,” she stated, her voice low, laced with a venom she hadn't known she possessed. “We dismantle his ambition, piece by agonizing piece.” Two days later, the air in Perunos hung thick with the metallic tang of salt and despair. The Salt-Wound Maw was a jagged scar on the desolate landscape, its mine entrances gaping like wounds in the earth. It was a place designed to break spirits, to grind bodies into the very minerals they extracted. Bogdana, disguised in the rough, salt-stained garb of a prospector, followed Damir through the labyrinthine tunnels. The air grew heavy, the walls glistening with brine, the distant clang of picks echoing like a dirge. “According to the record, the bone is not deep,” Damir murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Hidden within the old mining supervisor’s quarters, long abandoned.” They found the quarters, its door warped and splintered, dust thick as velvet on every surface. Inside, the air was still and cold. Damir consulted a crude map from the binding, his thumb tracing faded lines on the brittle parchment. He moved to a section of the wall, tapping the rough-hewn stone. “Here. A false panel.” He worked at the seam, his movements precise, practiced. With a groan of ancient wood, a section of the wall slid inward, revealing a shallow cavity. Within, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a relic unlike any Bogdana had seen. It was a single, long bone, petrified to a stony grey, intricately carved with symbols that seemed to writhe in the dim light. It hummed with a subtle, chilling energy. The Saint's petrified bone. She reached for it, skin brushing against the cold, smooth surface. A spike of pure static shot through her. Not a vision this time, but a profound sense of *lack*, of a life force utterly consumed, a shell left behind. “Found it,” Damir said, his voice flat, as a harsh, metallic scrape echoed from the tunnel outside. The sound of boots, too many for just a patrol. A cold dread seeped into Bogdana’s bones. This was no coincidence. Before they could react, the doorway filled with figures. Imperial enforcers, their polished breastplates gleaming in the gloom. Leading them was a man Bogdana recognized from the Lyceum’s guard roster: Commander Volkov, Damir’s ostensible second-in-command. His lips curled in a tight, unpleasant smile. “Well, well. Lord Kovačić. Enjoying your little field trip?” The commander's eyes flicked to Bogdana, then to the relic in her hand. “The throne will be most pleased. It appreciates loyalty. And it appreciates those who report when loyalty falters.” The words hung in the air, thick with poison. Damir stiffened, his body going rigid. The first jolt. Betrayal. Not a theoretical threat, but a stark, grinning face in front of him. “Volkov,” Damir said, his voice a low growl, “what have you done?” The commander chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. “I have secured my future, Lord Kovačić. Your sudden… interest in the Wskrzesa, your inquiries into obscure archival texts… it raised questions. My duty was to answer them.” He gestured to the guards. “Take them. And secure the relic. Carefully.” The soldiers surged forward. Damir drew his blade in a blur, the steel singing as it met the first attacker’s parry. He moved with brutal efficiency, parrying blows in close quarters, but the narrow room hemmed him in. Another man lunged at Bogdana, reaching for the artifact. She stumbled back, the fossilized bone clutched tight against her chest. Her mind raced, a frantic engine of survival. She could run, try to slip away, but Damir would be overwhelmed. Then she saw it: the commander, raising a heavy-calibre pistol, aiming straight at Damir’s spine. A shot here would collapse the shaft. There was no time to think, no room for hesitation. The image of Kazimir flashed in her mind, then the nightmare of skeletal ranks marshaled under an eternal tyrant. She would not allow it. Something shifted inside her, a deep, dormant power awakening with a furious snarl. Her blood thrummed, a cold energy blooming in her chest. She focused on the man closest to her, the one still clawing to wrest the bone from her grasp. Instinct overtook calculation; she only knew she had to halt him, to *shatter* him. A sickening crack echoed in the small office. The agent screamed, a gurgling sound as his arm twisted at an impossible angle, bone fragments tearing through skin. He dropped, convulsing, his body seizing as a force crushed his chest from within. He went still, eyes blank against the ceiling. Bogdana felt a sickening echo of the fracture, a phantom ache deep in her own marrow. Volkov froze mid-aim. Damir faltered, disengaging to glance back. Bogdana turned her stare onto the commander. He took an involuntary step back, his face draining of color, the muzzle dipping. “Get her!” he shrieked, his voice cracking, fear bleeding into his command. Another guard charged at her, short-sword raised. Bogdana did not flinch. This time, she reached beyond bone, grasping for the rhythm in his chest. Her intent struck him like a hammer blow. The soldier stumbled, breath cutting off mid-stride as his hands clawed at his tunic. He collapsed across the salt crust, motionless. Two men broken. Two lives extinguished. The gift, once so reviled, had become a weapon. She felt the sickening recoil vibrate through her ribs. This was the Wskrzesa. Not just life, but slaughter. The tang of salt suddenly tasted of iron. Damir, seizing the moment of their shock, spun, disarming an agent, using their own weapon to fend off another. He moved to Bogdana’s side, his eyes scanning her, then the fallen men. A grim understanding settled on his face. “Bogdana,” he breathed, a warning, a question, a plea. Volkov, watching his men drop without a wound showing, shouted, “Fall back! Get out!” He scrambled backward into the main drift, the remaining guard scrambling behind him in disorderly flight. The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by Damir’s heavy breathing and the faint dripping of brine. Damir turned to her, his shoulder bleeding, a shallow cut marring his cheek. He looked at the bodies, then back at Bogdana, his expression unreadable, a complex mixture of shock, fear, and a strange, fierce pride. He touched her arm, his fingers warm despite the cold radiating from her own skin. Bogdana stared at her hands, still clutching the petrified rib, her fingers trembling violently. The bone felt heavy, imbued with a terrible knowledge. She had saved him. But at what cost to herself? Her power had become a weapon. She had crossed a line, one she had sworn she never would. Nausea knotted in her stomach at what she had done. Her brother. Her family. The Emperor. She would not become his weapon. She looked up, her gaze meeting Damir’s. Her voice, though a little shaky, was resolute, hardened by the violence she had just unleashed. “We're not giving him this. We're going to destroy it.”

The Saint's Ribcage