The velvet hollow inside the cedar box sat stripped bare. Her fingers, trembling, traced the empty hollow in the wooden box. How could it be gone? Who would want it? A frantic energy seized her. She threw herself into searching, tearing through scattered sketchbooks and cotton remnants, shoving aside overturned pine chairs, lifting the thin ticking of the mattress, and sweeping dust from the baseboards. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight, mocking her futile efforts. Minutes bled into a desperate half-hour, her breath growing shallow, a metallic tang on her tongue. Her room, her last refuge, felt violated, the air heavy with an unseen presence. She sank onto the floor amidst the debris, her gaze sweeping over the chaos. It was an invasion, a violation of her narrow sanctuary. The casing had not fallen behind the wainscoting; hands had worked through the latch with purpose. A light rap struck the wooden panel. She scrambled to her feet, breath catching in her throat. “Anika? Are you in there?” Misha’s voice, muffled but distinct, carried a note of concern. She hesitated, then pulled the door open a crack. Misha stood on the landing, a plate of what looked like day-old pastries in one hand, his brow furrowed with worry. His gaze immediately fell on the disordered room behind her. “By the gears of Veridia, what happened here?” he exclaimed, pushing the door fully open and staring at the floor. He stepped inside, placing the plate carefully on the single, upright chair. “It looks like a gust of wind blew through a magpie’s nest.” He knelt, examining the overturned trunk, then ran a hand along the doorframe, his fingers lingering near the lock. “An intruder broke in,” Anika managed, her voice a reedy whisper. “Olenka’s pendant. It’s gone.” Misha’s jovial expression hardened. He ran his calloused thumb over the metal of the lock. “This wasn’t forced, Anika. No amateur could manage this. The tumblers were coaxed. A locksmith's pick did this.” He stood, turning to face her, his gaze sharp. “Olenka’s silver pendant? The one with the clockwork bird?” She nodded, clutching her arms around herself. “Yes. It was the only thing I had left from her. It had a secret compartment. A note…” She trailed off, remembering the cryptic words: “The Truth of the Obsidian Key is in the Rusting Gears.” Misha paced the small room, his gaze flicking between her and the disarray. “A note. And now it’s gone. This… this isn’t right, Anika. Not right at all.” He stopped, rubbing his chin. “I’ve been digging, you know. On and off, for years. About Olenka’s disappearance. Pavel… he never truly believed she just left. Not without a word. And neither did I.” Anika stared at him, a flicker of bewildered hope. “You… you’ve been investigating?” “Call it a persistent curiosity,” Misha replied, a wry twist to his lips. “What happened seven years ago… it never added up. The official story, that Olenka simply vanished, abandoning everything… it felt thin, like badly hammered brass. And I always suspected a forger was involved in the papers that supposedly confirmed her departure. Someone very good, who could make a lie look like the absolute truth.” He paused, his expression hardening. “This theft, Anika… it might just be the first real lead I’ve had in years.” A sudden, sharp bang echoed from the stairwell, making both of them jump. Pavel. His voice, laced with a cold fury, bellowed up the stairs. “Anika! What in the name of the Prime Mechanism is going on up here? What is this racket?” He appeared in the doorway moments later, his dark evening coat still on, his normally impeccable hair slightly dishevelled, suggesting he’d rushed from somewhere. His gaze swept over the strewn clothes and overturned trunk, settling on Anika where she knelt near the splintered floorboards. “What is this farce? Did you arrange this for sympathy, Koslova?” Anika pushed herself up, stung by the accusation. “I arranged nothing! A thief slipped past your locks. The silver pendant is gone.” Her voice cracked with indignation. “This is your workshop, Orlov! Your property! How could this happen?” Pavel scoffed, taking a step further into the room. “My property, indeed. And now it’s been defiled by your… theatrics. Perhaps you should be more careful with your ‘cherished possessions.’ Or perhaps,” he snarled, advancing closer, “you thought a fabricated robbery would distract me from your inadequate work on the Aerion design?” His words felt like a physical blow. Anika bristled, her hands clenching into fists. “You think I would stoop to this? For a project you’ve already deemed ‘soulless’?” She gestured wildly, her sleeve pulling back. “Why would I risk everything, invite this… this invasion, for your petty games of revenge?” As her arm flew up, a small, faded mark on her inner wrist became visible beneath the cuff of her worn blouse. A circular scar, no larger than a tiny button, a faint white ring surrounding a darker, almost blackened point. Pavel, in the middle of another scathing retort, froze. His stare fixed on that mark. He took another step, his expression unreadable, a strange stillness settling over him. He lifted his own wrist, unconsciously, revealing an identical, albeit slightly larger, mark on his own skin. The memory, a spark of long-buried warmth amidst the bitter cold, flickered in his mind: a childish game with stolen matches, a clumsy accident in the old Orlov garden, Olenka crying as he dabbed salve on her tiny burn, then insisting she do the same for his own. He hadn’t thought of it in years. Not for seven years, not since… The stairwell rattled with hurried steps as Misha reappeared, out of breath, a crumpled, officially stamped document clutched in his hand. His eyes, usually so light, were alight with a fierce, triumphant urgency. “Pavel! Anika! Look what my contact down by the port just handed over! It’s Olenka’s travel visa. Dated the day after she vanished. The one everyone believed was authentic.” He held it up, shaking with barely contained excitement. “But it’s a forgery. A perfect, utterly convincing forgery.” He then lowered his voice, his gaze sweeping from the document to Pavel’s frozen face, then to Anika. “And the ink… The ink is Katerina Orlova’s preferred blend. I’d stake my life on it.”

The Forger's Mark