The chamber dissolved into a maelstrom. Flashbulbs flared, a relentless, blinding assault. Reporters, a ravenous tide, crashed against the velvet ropes. Polina watched as the gendarmes, their movements precise and practiced, converged on Pavel. His lips parted in wordless rage, veins corded across his neck. Katarzyna dropped her fraudulent papers onto the runner as a gendarme gripped her elbow.
But the catharsis was fleeting. Nausea flared under Polina's ribs. This wasn't over. Not yet. She scanned the chaotic scene for Jarek, finding him by the main exit, already surrounded by Guild Elders and Ministry officials, his expression a carefully guarded blend of triumph and urgency. Their eyes met across the tumultuous space. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards the doors, a silent command to move.
Polina pushed through the throng, the shouts of the press fading into a dull roar behind her. She knew what Jarek’s signal meant. Pavel's network still operated beneath the panic. His influence, while shattered, wouldn't vanish instantly. She had exposed his crimes, but the ‘Zofia Sanction’ — the false accusation of her instability — still clung to her, a phantom threat. And Misha. Misha was the real target now.
She found Jarek waiting for her in the dimly lit corridor, away from the auditorium. His chin was set, gray eyes fixed on the side stairs. “The High Inspectorate has issued a temporary freeze on Orlov assets,” he stated, his voice low, urgent. “But Pavel’s legal team is already moving. They’re invoking the Ironclad Wardship Mandate.”
A harsh relic of Krovnian law, allowing an adoptive patriarch to seize custody and commit a ward deemed unfit if his own office fell under review. It was designed to protect assets from a perceived threat, but in Pavel’s hands, it was a weapon. “Misha,” she breathed, the word a desperate plea.
“Precisely,” Jarek affirmed. “Before his full arrest is processed, before the Guild fully revokes his authority, he has a window. A brief window to lock Misha away under that provision. His lawyers will claim Misha requires urgent quarantine given the upheaval. They’ll use your own ‘history’ against you, paint you as an unreliable influence.”
Her mind raced. “He’ll send their resident physician. Dr. Vanechka.” The same man who had threatened her with psychiatric confinement weeks ago.
“Likely,” Jarek agreed. “And the household guards. They’re still loyal to the Orlov name, not Pavel specifically, but the institution. Once Misha leaves the grounds under Guild-sanctioned custody, reclaiming him will take years of appeals. The mandate is binding once signed.” He placed a hand on her arm, his touch firm. “I’m tied up here with the legal fallout, ensuring Pavel can’t wriggle free. You have to go. Now.”
Polina didn't need to be told twice. She spun on her heel, her elegant Guild robes a blur as she ran, not caring about decorum. Her mind was a whirlwind of calculations. The Ministry building was a short sprint from the public transport nexus. A cab would be faster, but the roads would be gridlocked with media. The underground. She pulled out her comm-link, fingers flying.
“Misha,” she whispered into the mic as the automated voice confirmed the connection. “Code Vermillion. Repeat, Code Vermillion.”
A beat of static, then Misha’s small, composed voice. “Understood, Lina. Initiating Phase One.”
Polina pictured him in her mind: small, frail, but with a mind like a razor. Their emergency plan, rehearsed in hushed whispers over months, now hinged on his courage. Phase One: sabotage. Misha knew the forgotten conduits and archaic wiring behind the plaster. A severed copper line at the sub-basement panel would trip the manor's mechanical lockdown shutters. To buy time.
She burst out of the underground station near the Orlov manor, damp soot biting her cheeks. The vast, brutalist mansion loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the bruised sky. As she approached the main gate, she saw it. The entire western wing, usually ablaze with light, was now a patchwork of flickering, dying embers. Then, with a crackle, the lights in the main entrance hall surged, brightened unnaturally, and then plunged into complete darkness. A faint alarm, a high-pitched, warbling keen, echoed from within. Phase One was working. The grounds had devolved into chaos.
Polina ran through the gate, ignoring the bewildered, shouted questions of the few household staff visible. She could hear frantic voices from inside, the sound of heavy doors being secured, the thud of pneumatic iron counterweights dropping. Good. That would slow them down.
She navigated the now-darkened corridors, her familiarity with the layout guiding her. The alarms pulsed, a disorienting rhythm in the oppressive silence between flashes of emergency lighting. She knew where Misha would be: his small, spartan room at the end of the north wing, overlooking the forgotten gardens.
As she rounded the final corner, the emergency lights flickered on, revealing the scene like a tableau. Vanechka, soft-bellied in his fur-trimmed coat, stood directly in front of Misha’s door. Two liveried sentries flanked him, heavy batons hanging from their belts. In his hand rested a parchment, stamped in scarlet wax. A commitment order.
“Polina,” Vanechka purred, adjusting his spectacles. “We were just arranging Misha’s medical transport. It is necessary protection given the family’s misfortune.” He held out the paper. “The Guild’s Wardship Mandate, executed by Pavel Orlov’s proxy. In full effect.”
Behind him, Polina could hear a faint scratching sound from Misha’s room. Her brother was there, behind that door, enacting the final part of their plan. But now, she stood between him and the last vestiges of Pavel’s power. The parchment quivered in Vanechka's fingers while the sentries shifted their boots, blocking the threshold. This was the final battle. She locked eyes with Dr. Vanechka, her cheerful mask utterly gone, replaced by a gaze as sharp and unyielding as polished steel.
“Step aside, Vanechka,” Polina said, her tone level and merciless. “You will not touch him.”