A cold dread, sharp as the Veltrac wind, seized Tullia. The archive air, usually a sanctuary of dust and quiet ambition, pressed in, thick with Ignatia’s cruelty. Her sister, fragile as spun glass, being cast out to die. The image of that pale face, already etched with the blue veins of the plague, flared in Tullia’s mind. “No,” Tullia breathed, the word a raw gasp. Her carefully constructed smile, the one she used to fend off the world, shattered. Her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. “You can’t. You wouldn’t.” Ignatia’s laugh was a brittle chime, devoid of warmth. “Oh, I would. And I have. Think of it as a small lesson, darling. Some people aren’t meant for the spires.” She turned, a swirl of expensive fabric, and glided from the archive, leaving a scent of expensive floral perfume and the bitter tang of despair in her wake. Bastien stood frozen, his face a mask of bewildered fury. He looked at Tullia, then at the empty doorway, then back to Tullia, as if trying to reconcile the elegant predator with the woman who had just delivered a death sentence. “I’ll fix this,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ll call the hospital, I’ll leverage everything—” “No,” Tullia interrupted, the word sharper this time. Her voice was flat, hollowed out by chilling clarity. “You won’t. She’s right. Some people aren’t meant for the spires.” The only path, humiliating and steep, formed in her mind. Later, the grand ballroom of the Morvath headquarters throbbed with the dull bass of a string orchestra and the low hum of Veltrac’s elite. Crystal chandeliers, glittering like frozen tears, cast a cold light on polished marble and rich silks. Waiters, moving with practiced deference, navigated the throng, offering flutes of effervescent golden wine. Tullia, in her plain maid’s uniform, felt like a shard of broken glass amidst polished diamonds. She spotted Ignatia near the central fountain, a vision in emerald green, her arm linked with a corpulent senator, her laughter echoing too brightly. Tullia pushed through the crowd, collar damp against her collarbone, each step dragged forward by dread. She reached Ignatia, her voice barely a whisper against the din. “Ignatia, please. I beg you. Don’t do this to my sister. She’s innocent.” Ignatia turned, her eyes narrowing as she registered Tullia’s presence, her perfect smile faltering. A flicker of contempt, then pure malice, crossed her face. “You. What are you doing here, little urchin?” She snatched a full glass of amber liquid from a passing tray. “Begging? How utterly charming.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she upended the glass over Tullia’s head. The icy liquid, smelling of fermented fruit and expensive spirits, cascaded down Tullia’s hair, stinging her eyes, plastering strands to her face. It dripped down her uniform, leaving dark, spreading stains. A collective gasp rippled through the immediate vicinity. Whispers, sharp and mocking, began to spread. Tullia stood still, the humiliation a burning brand on her skin, but her gaze never left Ignatia’s triumphant face. The senator next to Ignatia chuckled, a coarse, ugly sound. Then, a voice, cold and lethal, cut through the abrupt silence. “Ignatia Pell.” Bastien Morvath, a dark, imposing figure, moved through the parting crowd with the predatory grace of a night hunter. His eyes, usually clouded with exhaustion, now blazed with a fierce, terrifying intensity. He stopped directly in front of Ignatia, ignoring Tullia entirely. “Your family’s contracts with Morvath Industries,” he stated, his voice carrying clearly through the unnaturally quiet ballroom, “for the supply of hyper-alloyed piping and silicate filters, are hereby terminated, effective immediately.” Ignatia’s face, moments ago smug, blanched. Her jaw dropped. “Bastien! What are you saying? You can’t!” “Oh, but I can.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl meant only for her. “And I just did. Your father will be notified within the hour. Consider this a termination of all future dealings as well. Now, get out of my sight.” The senator, startled, quickly disengaged from Ignatia’s arm. Ignatia, pale and visibly trembling with shock and rage, stared at Bastien, then at the assembled elite, whose faces were a mixture of awe and barely concealed schadenfreude. She whirled, her emerald gown a blur of fury, and stormed out of the ballroom, leaving the ghost of her perfume to mingle with the stunned silence. The distraction was perfect. While every eye in the room was fixed on Bastien’s unexpected, brutal demonstration of power, Tullia slipped away. Her uniform, still damp and reeking of spilled wine, made her invisible, a part of the hired help, easily dismissed. She navigated the unfamiliar corridors with careful haste, making her way toward Bastien’s private office, the one forbidden to all but a select few. The runoff data, the proof, was there. She needed it. The office was a cavern of dark wood and subdued light, smelling faintly of old paper and ozone. A single data slate glowed on the expansive desk, its monitor revealing complex chemical schematics. Tullia moved silently, her shoes barely disturbing the thick carpet. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the data slate, her heart thudding against her ribs. This was it. The evidence. She reached for it, her hand trembling. “Looking for something?” The voice, low and rough, made her jump. A searing cold pressed against her collar. A blade. Its polished surface reflected the dim light, a sliver of menace. Darius Vencel stepped from the shadows, his face a grim mask, his eyes burning with a familiar, haunted intensity. “The data slate, perhaps?” Tullia froze, every instinct screaming. “Darius,” she choked out, the name a raw whisper. “What do you want?” “Justice,” he replied, his voice devoid of emotion. He pressed the blade fractionally closer, a thin line of warmth blossoming on her skin. “But not for me. For them.” He nodded toward the screen of the data slate. Tullia looked down, studying the complex network of alchemical discharge pipes, glowing lines on a topographical map of Veltrac. And then, the names. Not just Morvath. But the entire corporate board. A sprawling, tangled web of pollution, far greater and more insidious than she had imagined. He pulled a smaller, separate chip from his pocket and inserted it into a reader on the desk. The terminal flickered, then opened a series of older documents, financial records, meeting minutes. “Bastien Morvath,” Darius said, his voice softer, devoid of its previous menace, “has sought to dismantle this network for years. From the inside. That’s why his factories are the targets. Not because he’s the problem, but because he’s the weakest link in their armor. He’s been funneling his own resources, his own health, working to reverse their poison. He sought to protect you. All of you.” The words hit Tullia like a physical blow. The rage, the fury she had felt towards Bastien, evaporated, replaced by a dawning, crushing understanding. He wasn’t the villain. He was the one fighting. And he was losing. A loud crash made them both flinch. The office door burst open, slamming against the wall. Bastien stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face contorted with a primal rage. He held a heavy, ornate letter opener, its tip glinting in his hand. His eyes, fixed on Darius and the blade at Tullia’s throat, were those of a cornered animal, ready to kill. “Let her go!” he roared, taking a step forward. Then he saw it. The glowing data slate, presenting the full, damning truth of his corporate board’s complicity. He froze, his gaze snapping from Tullia to the monitor, his weapon momentarily forgotten. Darius, seeing the change, lowered his blade from Tullia’s neck. He stepped back, his eyes unwavering as he met Bastien’s stunned gaze. His voice, calm and resolute, filled the sudden silence. “You have a choice, Morvath. Join me. Tonight. We blow it all up. The entire Morvath empire. Or you let the plague consume your city, piece by agonizing piece.”

The Saboteur's Truth