Polina kept her smile pinned in place, muscles aching across her cheekbones. Dr. Karkov’s words left no room for misunderstanding. Institutionalization. A familiar threat, resurrected. It was the ultimate weapon against inconvenient Orlovs, the one Zofia had always brandished, though never fully deployed. Her standing at the guild was minor compared to Misha. Once she was deemed unstable, Pavel would gain full, unquestionable custody, severing their last link. She nodded slowly, a carefully practiced gesture of polite, vacant agreement. “Thank you for your concern, Doctor. I’ll… consider your advice.” Her gaze flitted to the iron gates, then back to the doctor. “I must leave now. I have an early start at the firm.” He watched her retreat, his thin lips curving into a subtle, unpleasant smile. Polina did not look back. The Orlov Estate, usually a symbol of suffocating grandeur, now felt like a cage closing in. The key Misha gave her burned a faint outline against her palm. She had to act, and swiftly. By dusk, the estate was ablaze with light. Carriages, sleek and polished, rolled up the serpentine drive, disgorging Krovnia’s elite onto the cobblestones. Polina, draped in a borrowed, nondescript coat, scaled the crumbling garden wall at the estate’s forgotten rear, a path known only to groundskeepers and desperate teenagers. She climbed steadily, focusing on the rough stone beneath her palms. She slipped through the overgrown shrubbery, a shadow among the flickering lanterns, towards the service entrance. The kitchen hummed with activity, a symphony of clattering silver and hushed orders. She knew the back passages of the house intimately, better than any servant hired in the last decade. Zofia had delighted in assigning her cleaning tasks in the most obscure corners, thinking to break her spirit. Instead, Polina had mapped every creak, every hidden alcove. The library, a cavernous chamber of polished cherrywood and ancient texts, was mercifully empty. The drone of conversations and the tinkling of crystal glasses from the main ballroom were distant, muffled echoes. Dust motes danced in the shafts of moonlight slicing through the tall windows. Her fingers, nimble and precise, located the desk Misha had described, tucked away behind a towering shelf of neglected legal tomes. It was indeed forgotten, covered in a thin veil of grime. The small, intricate key Misha had carved from a discarded piece of cornice molding slid into the lock with a soft click. The drawer groaned open. Inside, beneath a stack of dry, brittle letters, lay a ledger bound in faded green leather. Its pages were filled with neat, looping script, a series of dates, numbers, and cryptic initials. This was it. The very symbol of the Orlovs' meticulously documented deceit. Polina carefully lifted it, tucking it inside her coat. As she turned to leave, a burst of laughter from the adjacent sitting room froze her. Two voices, rich and resonant, carried through the partially open door. One was Pavel Orlov’s, smooth as river ice. The other, deeper, belonged to Mayor Bronislav Volkov, a man whose word held significant weight in city council. “A brilliant piece of maneuvering, Pavel,” Mayor Volkov rumbled. “The guild nearly rebelled when Zofia first suggested it. Blacklisting a child, even one from a… problematic background, was unprecedented.” Polina pressed herself against the cold wood of the bookshelf, every muscle tensed. What blacklisting? She’d always believed her professional struggles were due to her 'incompetence,' a narrative Pavel and Zofia had painstakingly woven. Pavel chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “Zofia was nothing if not thorough. She painted the picture vividly: ‘Polina Orlova, a volatile, unstable girl, prone to fits of destructive passion. A clear and present danger to Krovnia’s historical artifacts.’ A few strategically placed ‘incidents’ in her early apprenticeship, a few forged psychiatric reports… and the ‘Zofia Sanction’ was born. Once deemed a psychological risk, no firm would touch her. Not for lack of talent, you understand, Bronislav. For fear of damaging their own reputations, aligning with a potential vandal.” The ledger in Polina’s coat pressed like lead against her ribs. Not incompetence. Not lack of skill. She had been deemed mentally ill, a pariah, a threat to the very foundations of Krovnia’s heritage. The cheerful persona, her clumsy act—it had been born from a desperate need to appear harmless, to counteract a reputation she did not know she possessed. The Orlovs had not just sabotaged her career; they had systematically poisoned her very identity. Her pulse beat hard in her temples. This was no longer only about reclaiming her independence or punishing them for Misha. This was about tearing down the entire edifice of their lies, exposing the rotten core beneath the polished facade of the guild itself. They had twisted the guild's preservation mandates into a weapon against her. She waited until their voices faded further into the ballroom’s din, then moved with a predator’s silent grace. Her path led through the moonlit gardens, a shortcut to the distant service gate. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. “Running, Polina?” The voice, low and resonant, was so close it made her flinch. She spun, dropping into a defensive crouch, the ledger clutched tight. Jarek Volkov emerged from the deep shadow of an ancient sculpted hedge, his silhouette stark against the glow of the distant party lights. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored coat, his silver eyes fixed on her. He did not ask what she was doing, nor what she held. His gaze swept over her face, lingering on the raw, open wound of her shock and fury. “They did it to my father, too.”

Foundations of Lies