“I no longer care to denounce you, Petrina. I want the truth. And you are holding it.” Stellan Rurik's voice was low, resonating with an intensity that cut through the reliquary's chill. Pia felt a prickle of unease. Before, his accusations had felt like daggers. Now, his belief felt like an anchor dragging her down into expectations she could never fulfill. “She’s not ‘holding’ anything, Rurik,” Damir grumbled, stepping closer to Pia. His gaze swept over the empty plinth, then narrowed at Stellan. “Except maybe the attention of every fool in this estate. What is this ‘truth’ you’re so certain of?” Otylia, surprisingly, was quiet, her usual haughtiness replaced by a calculating silence. She watched Stellan with a gaze that missed nothing. Stellan adjusted his spectacles, the lamplight glinting off the lenses. “The energy signature I detected from the main hall. An untrained, raw eruption of power, unlike anything cataloged in our archives, yet undeniably present. And then there’s the solar jewel. Or, rather, the lack of it.” He gestured to the hollowed velvet cushion. “The solar jewel and the lineage have always been inextricably linked,” Otylia finally spoke, her tone pointed. “If the true relic is gone, and our supposed sovereign manifests power only when cornered… there’s a correlation.” “A correlation I intend to explore,” Stellan affirmed, turning his attention fully back to Pia. “The prophecies speak of the sovereign as a conduit, yes, but also as a warden whose presence calms the Phantoms. Your intervention during the attack, Miss Molnar, contradicted standard doctrine. It was an explosive shield, not an aura of tranquility.” Pia shifted, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “I don’t know what I did. I just… reacted. Otylia was in danger.” Damir let out a short, humorless sound. “Convenient, isn’t it? The heir appears, the gold relic vanishes, and suddenly, the Phantoms are bolder than ever.” He fixed Stellan with a hard stare. “You claim she’s the key? I say she’s the catalyst for more trouble.” “Perhaps both,” Stellan mused, ignoring Damir’s accusation. “The anomaly must be investigated. And you, Petrina, are the central anomaly.” He then turned to Otylia. “Madam Novak, your knowledge of Covenant politics and security protocols could prove invaluable. Damir, your clan’s historical ties to guarding the artifact cannot be ignored. And as for you, Petrina…” Stellan paused, his expression softening slightly. “You need rest. And perhaps, a dream.” He watched her intently for a moment longer, then spun on his heel and strode out, leaving the three of them in the dim reliquary, the plinth's empty velvet mocking them. Sleep did not come easily. Pia tossed and turned in the lavish bed, the echoes of Stellan’s words, Damir’s suspicion, and Otylia’s calculated curiosity swirling in her mind. Just as exhaustion threatened to claim her, a strange sensation washed over her—a pull, like a memory half-formed, half-forgotten. Suddenly, she was no longer in her bed. She was small, perhaps five years old, peering through a gap in rough-hewn pine boards. The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Two faces, kind and weathered, loomed over her. A woman with hair like spun flax, and a man with eyes the color of forest moss. “Petrinka, my little starling,” the woman murmured, her voice a soft, melodic whisper. “You must be brave. Hold to your story. Sing your melody.” The man stroked her hair, his calloused hand gentle. “They are coming for your sister. But not for you. You are hidden, safe. A terrible destiny awaits the other, but you… you will live a life of joy. A life free.” “But what about… the lady?” the small voice, Pia’s own, asked, though the title tasted unfamiliar on her tongue. “There will be two branches, my heart,” the woman explained, a tear tracking down her cheek. “One to face the storm, one to escape it. You are the escape. You are the secret.” The man pressed a small, intricately whittled bird into her hand. Its surface was smooth, the details worn from handling. “This will remind you. Of us. Of who you are. Hide it well, little spirit.” The scene blurred, the faces receding, the warmth of their hands fading. Pia felt a profound sense of loss, a wrenching sorrow she couldn't comprehend, yet it was undeniably hers. Pia woke with a gasp, her cheeks wet with tears. Her hand was clenched tight, something hard pressing into her palm. She opened it, slowly, to reveal a cedar bird. Its wings were outstretched, its beak slightly chipped, identical to what had surfaced from the past. It was real. This wasn’t just a dream; it was a memory. She scrambled out of bed, her heart thrumming with a dizzying mix of fear and exhilaration. She had to find Lev. He was the one who understood these old things, these forgotten crafts. She found him in the training yard, his movements precise and powerful as he sparred against a practice dummy. His gaze immediately locked onto her tear-stained face, and he lowered his weapon, striding over with a concerned frown. “Pia? What troubles you?” His voice was a low rumble, instantly calming. She held out the whittled bird, her hand trembling slightly. “This. I saw it in a dream. But it felt real, Lev. Like a glimpse into my childhood.” Lev took the bird, his strong fingers turning it over carefully. His brow furrowed as he examined the delicate carvings, tracing the lines with a thumb. His expression grew steadily more perplexed, then grim. “This… this style,” he murmured, his voice hushed. “I’ve seen it only in the most obscure texts. It belongs to the Volosni, a lineage thought lost, exiled generations ago for a perceived betrayal. They were keepers of certain esoteric knowledge, artists, crafters.” He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, a dawning realization in their depths. “They served the bloodline. Not as warriors, but as chroniclers, as… secret keepers.” Lev immediately led her to the Orlov clan’s private library, a smaller, more intimate collection than the main Sanctum archives, filled with musty scrolls and ancient tomes. He pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume, its pages brittle with age. As he flipped through it, his finger landed on a faded illustration of a similar wooden bird. “The Volosni were charged with a most sacred duty,” Lev read aloud, his voice resonating through the quiet room. “Should the main line ever be compromised, if the true heir faced an unavoidable threat, the Volosni were to prepare a sanctuary. They were to shelter the true blood, ensuring the line endured even if the world saw only a decoy.” Pia felt a chill run through her. “Sacrificing the perception? What does that mean?” Lev closed the book, his gaze intense. “It means, Pia, they were prepared to let the world believe one thing, while ensuring another. To obscure the heir, even from the girl herself, if necessary.” Later that day, Stellan Rurik, summoned by Lev, examined the cedar figurine with a magnifying glass, his scholarly focus locked tight. He rotated it under the light, humming softly. “Remarkable craftsmanship,” he observed. “The grain, the subtle interlocking patterns… wait a moment.” He pressed a tiny, nearly invisible knot on the bird’s chest. With a faint click, a sliver of wood slid open, revealing a minuscule, rolled parchment tucked inside. Stellan carefully extracted the parchment with a pair of tweezers. He unrolled it, his eyes scanning the faded script. Stellan sucked in a dry gasp. “Unbelievable.” He read aloud, his voice devoid of its usual academic detachment, tinged with shock. “*To the twin stars, separated by the coming storm. One to bear the burden, one to find sanctuary. The true Veleshnya, named Lyrana, was taken from her nursery, spirited away by the serpent in our midst. Petrina, her twin, was hidden in the human world, protected from the dark destiny. Seek the serpent’s mark. He who steals the relic seeks to claim the rightful throne.*” Pia felt the floor drop out from under her. Twin sister. Kidnapped. The real Veleshnya. All this time, she wasn’t meant to be the heir; she was meant to be the spare, the secret. And the same conspirator who had taken her sister was now sabotaging the very defenses of the Covenant. “This changes everything,” Stellan murmured, staring at Pia with keen focus. “You are not the Veleshnya. You are her twin. And the real heir was stolen from this sanctum as an infant.” Before Pia could fully process the earth-shattering revelation, a frantic knock echoed at her door. Lev, his face grim, rushed in. “The ritual chambers. They’ve been compromised. It’s Kazimir Zima.”

Secrets of the Blood