“Roxana.” The name tasted like grit on my tongue, sharp and unwelcome. My rival. The very thought of her involvement twisted my gut, not with surprise, but with a cold, righteous anger. Khaidan’s hand settled on my shoulder, a solid weight that grounded me amidst the swirling questions. “Roxana?” he murmured, his voice low, a question more than an accusation. He knew our history, the simmering animosity that divided us across the guild floor. “It has to be a plant,” I declared, shaking my head, dismissing the thought even as a sliver of doubt pricked at me. Roxana, collaborating with memory thieves? It seemed impossible. Her entire craft leaned on the severe discipline of the ancient schools, disdaining anything unearned or rushed. But then, the image of the hollowed proxy, melting into a puddle, resurfaced. Nothing was impossible here. “We need to speak with her,” Khaidan said, his gaze fixed on the dissolving vellum. “Immediately.” “No.” My voice was sharper than I intended. The thought of Khaidan, the High Arbiter, descending upon Roxana’s studio with his guards, was unpalatable. It would be a public spectacle, another blight on my already tarnished reputation, linking me to yet another guild incident. More importantly, Roxana would never cooperate under duress. She would dig in her heels, her pride a fortress. I knew her too well. My methods, though less official, promised a faster, more discreet truth. “I’ll go,” I stated, my decision firm. “Alone.” Khaidan’s brow furrowed, his eyes assessing. He understood my stubbornness, my need to face this on my own terms. “Be careful, Brisela. The Palazzo is compromised. No theatrics, no heroics. Get answers, then get out.” I nodded, already moving. I lengthened my stride. The idea of Roxana being a part of this monstrous scheme was almost as horrifying as the scheme itself. Her studio occupied an entire wing on the fifth level, a stark contrast to my own modest, if well-equipped, workshop. I navigated the labyrinthine corridors, the polished flagstones reflecting the pale luster of wall sconces. The air grew heavier with the scent of ozone and crystalline dust as I approached her domain. A heavy, ornately carved door, depicting the ancient lineage of Ondero’s first shaper-guilds, marked the entrance. It was unlatched. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the stone beneath my boots. Not a structural shift, but a brittle vibration, thin and frantic. My pulse quickened. This was not the orderly, meticulously maintained space I expected. I pushed the door open, stepping into a cavernous antechamber. Sunlight, filtered through a vast, cut-vitreous mural, painted the floor in fractured prisms. Cases of exquisite, traditionally shaped crystal lined the walls, every piece reflecting Roxana’s strict adherence to classical forms. But something was wrong. These were Roxana’s prize pieces, her life’s work, and they were… muted. Their inner light, usually a vibrant spectrum of preserved feeling, sat dull and ashen. The distinctive glow of captured joy and triumph lay gutted. They were like empty husks, hollowed out. The air tasted sour. “Roxana?” I called out, my voice swallowed by the vastness. A muffled sound, a desperate struggling, came from deeper within, beyond the antechamber, from the main crafting chamber where her colossal furnace roared. I moved swiftly, my senses on high alert. The crafting chamber was an explosion of disordered tools, shattered crystalline shards, and overturned plinths. The air thrummed with the dangerous drone of the furnace, its thick quartz walls vibrating with unnatural heat. And there she was. Roxana. Bound tightly to a heavy plinth, her mouth gagged with a strip of dark cloth. Her usually immaculate clothes were torn, her elaborate hairstyle disheveled. Her sharp features, dark with fury, locked onto mine. Relief struck first, followed by outrage. She wasn't the thief; she was a victim. My initial suspicion, however fleeting, felt like a betrayal. I rushed forward, ignoring the scattered debris. “Roxana!” Her eyes blazed as I tore at the thick cords binding her wrists. The knots were brutal, designed to inflict pain. As the last rope gave way, she ripped the gag from her mouth, gasping for air, her chest heaving. “Morvan!” she spat, her voice raw, laced with venom and a surprising tremor of something akin to terror. “What took you so long? Are you just going to stand there? Look!” She gestured wildly at her drained memory-glass. “They’ve bled my collection dry! The bastards!” Her usual composure was shattered, replaced by a raw, unbridled fury that mirrored my own. “Who did this?” I demanded, scanning the room for signs of an intruder, but finding nothing. Only the pulsating furnace drone filled the room. “Jovena,” she hissed, her eyes narrowed to slits. “That viper. She visited this morning, all false sympathy about your mother. Said she wanted to ‘study traditional techniques.’ The moment I turned my back, she struck. And her accomplice… a shadowy brute, moved with an unnatural speed. They spoke of ‘replicating the old ways,’ of ‘democratizing memories.’ Lies! They’re counterfeiting, Morvan. Stealing genuine memories, bleeding legitimate work, and pressing cheap counterfeits to peddle to the poor! It’s an abomination! A desecration of our craft!” Her words slammed home. Counterfeiting memories. Selling them to the hollowed-out lower classes. It was far more insidious than I had imagined. And Jovena. The insidious cousin, always a step ahead, always playing the victim, always twisting the knife. “The commission slip…” I murmured, the waterlogged vellum from the proxy now making sickening sense. They had framed Roxana, intending for us to find it, to waste time accusing her while they continued their vile work. “I’ll help you destroy them, Morvan,” Roxana declared, her voice cold with resolve. Her usual haughtiness was sharpened into a deadly edge. “Every last one of them. For the integrity of our art. For Ondero.” Suddenly, the low drone of the furnace surged into a shrill pitch. The air crackled, growing heavy, hot. A guttural groan emanated from the massive glass walls of the kiln, the sound of stressed crystal. “What in the…?” Roxana began, but before she could finish, a heavy, metallic clang echoed through the chamber. The ornate door slammed shut, locking with an audible click that echoed along the corridor outside. The vibration I had caught earlier spiked through the floor, a frantic warning tremor. Through the vast glass walls of the kiln, I saw the internal temperature gauge spiking, flashing crimson. The air was thick, suffocating. The quartz panes, built to contain severe internal pressure, began to glow with fractured silhouettes trapped against the inner surface. A trap. A deadly, calculated trap. We were sealed inside. The whine of the kiln became a shriek. The glass walls, now screaming with the stolen memories of the dying, began to crack under the intense pressure.

The Purist's Pride