Jurgis blinked, the title echoing strangely in the sudden quiet of the courtyard. He had never served as a subordinate aide before. He was usually the one assisting others, finding their books, guiding them through the archives. He looked at Zoritsa, who now stood before him, her dark robes a stark contrast to the pale stone. “An assistant?” he asked, a faint frown etching his brow. “Does that mean I get to choose the flowers for the memorial plot? What are my duties?”
Zoritsa offered a brief, tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Your duties, Jurgis, will involve… a deep dive into the nature of your unique magical affinity.” Her gaze flickered to the shattered statue, then to the wide-eyed onlookers. “As for the planting, we can discuss that later. Follow me.”
She turned on her heel, her movements fluid and purposeful, leaving a wake of stunned silence and simmering resentment among the assembled students and faculty. Jurgis, still clutching the shovel Duke Volos had given him, shrugged. If this appointment meant he could finally cultivate the soil, then so be it. He fell into step behind her, oblivious to the furious glares that followed his every move, particularly from the spot where Kestutis Radvila was being helped up, his face a mottled purple.
Zoritsa led him through winding corridors, deeper into the Vytis Academy. The air grew cooler, carrying a faint scent of ozone and ancient parchment. They ascended a grand spiral staircase, the stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Jurgis noticed woven wall hangings depicting constellations he didn’t recognize, and intricate, geometric patterns that seemed to pulse with faint light. Finally, they arrived at a heavy volcanic slab door etched with gleaming silver sigils. Zoritsa pressed a hand against it, and the sigils flared, the door groaning open with a sound like grinding celestial gears.
Inside was a chamber of breathtaking scope. The walls, floor, and domed ceiling were not stone, but a seamless expanse of polished black glass, reflecting a hundred thousand pinpricks of light. These were not mere paintings; intricate mechanisms of brass and mineral quartz floated throughout the vast space, each holding aloft a miniature, glowing orb. Some spun lazily, others orbited larger, central spheres, all casting a soft, ethereal glow. This was the Astral Orrery, the academy’s most sacred and restricted observatory, a place where the movements of Vaidima’s heavens were meticulously charted.
Jurgis’s breath caught. He stared, not at the arcane machinery, but at the simulated stars. They glittered with an uncanny resemblance to the night sky back on Earth, the one he used to watch with Lija from their small city apartment balcony. He could almost hear her soft laughter, the gentle brush of her hair against his cheek as they picked out constellations, imagining stories for each one. A pang of longing, sharp and familiar, tightened in his chest.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Zoritsa’s voice, softer now, broke his reverie. She moved towards a central platform, where a scrying basin of dark volcanic stone sat, filled with a luminous, viscous fluid.
“It reminds me of home,” Jurgis murmured, his gaze still fixed on a cluster of sapphire-hued orbs. “My fiancée, Lija, she loved the stars. We used to spend hours just… looking up.” He felt a phantom warmth in his hand, a ghost of her fingers intertwined with his.
Zoritsa paused her preparations, her back to him. “Your fiancée?” she prompted, her tone carefully neutral. “I wasn’t aware you had… familial ties.”
“She’s gone now,” Jurgis said, the words a familiar ache. He looked away from the stars, his shoulders stooping under the sudden quiet. “A terrible accident. It’s why I came here, to build her a garden. Somewhere peaceful.”
Zoritsa turned, her expression unreadable in the dim, starry light. “I see.” She gestured towards a plush, velvet-cushioned bench near the scrying basin. “Please, sit. This will only take a moment. I need to get a baseline reading of your magical signature. Tell me, Jurgis, what exactly do you remember before… arriving here?”
Jurgis sat, the velvet surprisingly soft beneath him. “Before? Well, I was at the library, shelving some particularly dusty tomes. Then… a bright light. And I woke up here, with a headache, and a peculiar feeling that something had shifted.” He shrugged. “Mostly, I remember feeling sad. Still do, sometimes.” He kept it vague, as he always did. The details of the pact, the voice, the strange rebirth – they felt too personal, too impossible to explain.
Zoritsa nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of the scrying basin. “And your magic, Jurgis. Have you always possessed such… raw power? Or is this a recent development?” She poured a handful of ground amethyst into the basin, which swirled with violet light.
“Raw power?” Jurgis chuckled, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “No, not at all. I was always quite ordinary. My greatest magical feat was probably levitating a particularly stubborn bookmark. This… canyon business, it’s all rather new. I’m still figuring it out.” He picked at a loose thread on the velvet bench.
Zoritsa said nothing, her eyes fixed on the now glowing liquid. She began to chant in a low, resonant voice, the words not of Vaidiman, but an ancient, cosmic tongue that vibrated through the chamber. The orbs of the Orrery seemed to intensify their glow, casting fleeting shadows that danced across Zoritsa’s face. The fluid in the basin rippled violently, forming complex, swirling patterns, then settling into a placid, mirror-like surface.
“Focus, Jurgis,” she commanded, her voice firm. “Let your essence reach out, just for a moment.”
Jurgis closed his eyes, thinking of Lija, of the quiet peace he craved. He imagined his grief, a heavy, dark sphere, and tried to push it away, to make himself light, empty. He felt a strange pull, a sense of his very being stretching thin, reaching into the basin.
In the dark reflective mirror, an image began to coalesce. Not of Jurgis as he sat now, but a shimmering, ethereal depiction of his inner self, his soul-print. Zoritsa leaned closer, her breath held. The image pulsed, a core of vast, uncontrolled energy at its heart. And then, for a fleeting, heart-stopping instant, a face emerged within that radiant core: a woman’s face, framed by dark hair, a gentle smile on her lips, her eyes full of warmth. Lija. It was unmistakable. Zoritsa parted her lips, drawing a sharp, stunned breath. The image flickered, then dissolved back into swirling light.
“Thank you, Jurgis,” Zoritsa said, her voice strained. “That will be all for today. I have much to analyze.” She dismissed him with a nod, turning back to the basin, her shoulders tense.
Later, in the privacy of her personal chambers, high in the academy’s tallest tower, Archmage Zoritsa stood before a communication prism. It was a shard of pure void-glass, humming with cold, distant energy. She placed her palm against it, and the shard flared with inner starlight, a swirling nebula forming within its depths.
“The Vessel is stable,” she reported, her voice hushed, echoing slightly in the quiet room. “His memories are fragmented, as predicted. He has no conscious recollection of the pact, nor of his true nature.”
The nebula within the prism swirled, darkening, coalescing into a formless, shadowy presence that seemed to pulse with immense, ancient power. A whisper, dry as stardust, resonated not through her ears, but directly in her mind. *“Good. Sentimentality is a weakness, Archmage. Remember your purpose.”*
Zoritsa set her teeth. “I understand, Master. The harvest will proceed as planned.”
The scrying reflection flickered. For a terrifying moment, the nebulous form vanished, replaced by a blinding flash of light, then an image of a vibrant, verdant world, not unlike Vaidima, crumbling into dust, its oceans evaporating, its mountains dissolving into cosmic motes. Then, just as quickly, the vision was gone, replaced by the silent, judging nebula.
*“Your world awaits its fate. Do not fail.”* The voice faded, and the glass dimmed, returning to its inert state. Zoritsa stood motionless for a long moment, the horrifying vision burned into her mind. The mission was clear. Harvest his power. Erase his soul.
She walked to her study table, picking up a vellum file marked ‘JURGIS’. Inside were handwritten notes, arcane symbols, and a hastily drawn sketch of the Ghartal Canyon. She ran a finger over the name, her expression unreadable.