The golden light receded, leaving the dais shimmering with residual warmth. Zorian stood, a new aura of power clinging to him like a second skin. His smile, typically a charming curve, now held an edge that promised retribution. Patryk felt that stare like blunt iron grinding against his bruised ribs, even across the width of the hall. He knew that look. It was the predator admiring its fresh kill.
He watched Zorian accept congratulations from the headmaster, the fawning whispers from students, the envious glances. All according to the original outline. Except for Bastien’s glowering face in the corner, and the sharp, calculating glint in Zorian’s own eyes that had never been there in the pages of Patryk’s manuscript. The sadism was real, not just a literary device.
Patryk limped away, the pain in his side a dull throb that worsened with every step. The infirmary was a sanctuary of quiet, smelling of antiseptic and dried herbs. A junior healer, a nervous young man named Oleksiy, tsked over his ribs, applying a balm that stung like frozen fire. “That’s a nasty contusion, Sova. Again. Keep this poultice on, and try not to provoke any more… enthusiastic sparring partners.”
Patryk grunted, pulling his tunic back on. He knew the routine. Zorian’s ‘sparring’ sessions always ended with Patryk looking like he’d been run over by a siege engine, and Zorian looking pristine. It was a joke to the training yard, proof of Zorian’s burgeoning strength. For Patryk, it was just another day in the life of the destined punching bag.
He settled onto one of the infirmary’s narrow cots, the silence a welcome reprieve from the yard's constant buzz. Flicker, his small Murkwing companion, stirred in the hidden pouch within Patryk’s tunic. Its tiny, clawed foot tickled his skin. He’d managed to smuggle it past the gates, a speck of shadow against the instructors' vigilance.
An hour later, the curtain around his cot rustled. Patryk tensed, bracing for Zorian, but it was Anja Kost who stepped through. Her presence was like a cool breeze, her light brown hair pulled back in a neat braid, her soft, intelligent eyes carrying a shadow of concern. She wore the practical uniform of a healing apprentice, smelling faintly of clean linen and medicinal herbs.
“Patryk,” she said, her voice soft, “Oleksiy told me you were here again. Are you alright?”
He managed a weak grin, though it felt stretched across his face. “Just a minor disagreement with a particularly stubborn training dummy. It fought back.” He didn’t want to burden her with the truth, not yet. “What brings you to the hallowed halls of the injured?”
Anja approached, her gaze lingering on his face, tracing the faint bruising along his jaw. “I was checking on the student from the second year, Daryna. Her sigil, ‘Echoing Respite,’ has been acting strangely. Flickering, almost… warped.” She frowned, a crease forming between her brows. “It’s not the first one. We’ve had three cases this month. The marks just… fading, or decaying into something else entirely.”
Patryk’s thoughts locked up. A rot eating away at soul-marks? He hadn’t drafted anything like this. In his novel, such gifts were sacrosanct, immutable blessings. They didn’t simply spoil.
“Warped?” Patryk repeated, steadying his voice. “What could cause that?”
Anja sighed, running a hand through her hair. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. The senior healers dismiss it as exhaustion or weak affinity, but it feels different. More… insidious. I’ve been leafing through older records for an explanation. It’s almost as if something drains their vigor, turning its nature sour from within.” She gestured to a stack of heavy, leather-bound tomes piled near an empty cot.
This was a development, a dangerous deviation. Patryk had assumed he knew every secret, every twist of this world. A systematic rot, affecting the very source of power? That could wreck everything, including his calculated maneuvers. If Zorian’s Sunstone crest could degrade, or if it harbored an unseen defect… the thought offered cold leverage.
He watched Anja as she flipped through a dusty volume. She wasn't just a damsel in distress waiting for Zorian to save her; she was actively investigating, thinking for herself. His respect for her deepened.
“Perhaps,” Patryk began slowly, “you’re searching in the wrong place. What if it’s not an illness of the body, but… something more arcane?” He paused, feigning thought. “I remember reading about old rituals, back in my village, about energies that could ‘taint’ or ‘resonate’ with certain magical properties, warping them.” He hoped he sounded like he was dredging up old, half-forgotten lore, not fabricating a prompt.
Anja stopped, her finger hovering over a page. She paused, breath still, studying him. “Resonate? Taint? You mean… deliberately?”
Patryk gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just a thought. Old wives’ tales, probably.” But he noted the way her mind latched onto the idea. This was how he could subtly guide her, without revealing his hand.
As Anja returned to her books, Patryk felt Flicker stir again. He gently eased the small creature out, letting it cling to his sleeve. “Keep watch, little friend,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “Zorian. Find out where he goes after his triumph.” Flicker chirped softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling, then melted into the shadows under the cots, its form flickering as it vanished.
Patryk closed his eyes, pretending to rest, but his mind raced. Zorian was already too powerful, too cruel. If he had hidden allies, if he was somehow tied to this decay… Patryk needed intelligence before morning.
Hours later, as dusk settled, Flicker returned, dropping onto Patryk’s chest. A tiny scroll, no bigger than a fingernail, was clutched in its claws. Patryk eased it flat. The message, scratched in minuscule, spidery lettering, was concise: *Zorian. Nightfall. North Tower, Elder Council Chambers. Meets with… Master Veles.*
Patryk absorbed the words, iron clarity sharpening his focus. Veles. The very proctor who had declared Zorian’s Sunstone affinity. The supposed bastion of order. This was a betrayal far deeper than anything Patryk had imagined, a conspiracy that reached the very top. This was never in the draft. Zorian was not just cruel; he was connected, powerful in ways Patryk hadn't accounted for.
He tightly rolled the parchment and tucked it into his hem. He needed to plant a seed, something that might help Anja connect the dots, even if she wouldn't understand the full picture yet.
When Anja returned to his cot, her steps dragged with exhaustion. Patryk pretended to be absorbed in an uncataloged folio from the side shelf, cracked open to an entry marked while she was gone. The heading, in archaic print, read: *Resonant Decay: Deliberate Tainting of Brand Bonds*.
He coughed, drawing her attention. “Oh, Anja. Still at it? This old thing caught my eye. Some of the language is a bit… flowery, but it mentions something similar to what we discussed.” He gestured vaguely at the open page, then looked pointedly at the Latin-like title. “Might offer clues about that strange decay.”
Anja walked over, her eyes scanning the page. Her brow furrowed, then slowly smoothed as understanding dawned. “Resonant Decay… deliberate tainting…” She whispered the lines, tracing the brittle paper. “Patryk, this… this could be it. It talks about focused negative energies, directed at the primal wellspring of an awakening. It could explain why the marks fracture, not just fade.” She looked up, her expression a mix of revelation and gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice genuine, a soft touch of warmth in her eyes. “Truly. This is more helpful than all the senior healers’ dismissals combined.” A faint smile crossed her mouth, rare beneath the citadel's grim routine. For a fleeting moment, Patryk felt a warmth spread through him, not from a balm, but from her appreciation. He had saved her once, from Zorian's cruel 'wooing'. Now, he had given her a clue, a weapon, against a threat he was only beginning to comprehend.
Just then, the heavy infirmary doors swung open with a resounding *thud*. Zorian Voron stood framed in the doorway, his Sunstone brand pulsing faint gold beneath his collar, cold calculation hardening his stare as he took in Patryk on the cot, Anja beside him, and the open folio between them.