The announcement had settled over the Ghalden Institute’s main hall like a layer of fresh dust, thick and suffocating for some, but for Signy, it was merely another hurdle between her and the promise of a quiet corner. The upcoming tryout for Director Vance’s ‘The Obsidian Heart’ felt like an elaborate prank. But heated dorms? A food stipend? Those words were heavy, real. They promised something beyond the threadbare blankets and thin broth that were the constants of her existence. And so, Signy found herself trudging through the Ghalden’s labyrinthine corridors, her boots echoing on the cold, polished concrete, toward the library. The library itself was a cavernous space, all soaring, unadorned walls and skeletal steel shelves that clawed toward a distant, grimy skylight. The air hung with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of damp stone. Signy shivered, pulling her threadbare wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. She needed to track down the reading packet—the ‘Speech of the Abandoned,’ Orlov had called it—memorize a few key lines to pass muster, and then retreat behind a heavy tome on metallurgy for an illicit nap. She approached the central circulation desk, a brutalist block of carved dark wood, where a student assistant, a wan girl with eyes perpetually fixed on a tablet, barely registered Signy’s presence. “Reading text for Vance’s ‘Obsidian Heart’,” Signy mumbled, her voice raspy from lack of sleep. “The ‘Speech of the Abandoned’?” The assistant scrolled languidly. “Only one copy printed. Was out earlier. Logged in. Logged out. In. Out again.” Her finger tapped at the screen. “Last borrower: Krell, Breda.” A familiar name. Signy felt a familiar throb of mild annoyance. Breda was always thorough, always prepared, always taking things before anyone else could. Signy sighed, leaning against the cold desk. “Is it back on the shelves?” The assistant squinted at her tablet, then shrugged. “The ledger says it’s here. Shelf 3-B. But I haven’t seen it.” Signy pushed off the desk, her apathy warring with the urgent need for that stipend. Shelf 3-B. She navigated the towering aisles, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of the building’s ancient ventilation system. Her fingers ghosted over spines, searching for the distinctive pale green cover Orlov had mentioned. She searched for twenty minutes, then thirty. Nothing. Not one pale green cover. The folio was gone. Signy pressed her forehead against the cold metal of a shelf, a dull ache blooming behind her eyes. It was always something. Always. She considered giving up, retreating to a stairwell for a clandestine snooze, but the image of Tymon’s quiet, hopeful face flickered in her mind. No. Not this time. *** Tymon Varl, with his perpetually too-large jacket and watchful eyes, often found himself drawn to the institute’s less-trafficked corners. While Signy searched upstairs, he tracked a faint, acrid scent drifting near the faculty wing. It led him to the incinerator room, a grim, windowless chamber with a heavy, steel door that usually remained locked. Today, it was ajar, a faint wisp of grey smoke curling from the gap. He pushed the door open cautiously. The air inside was thick with the smell of burnt paper and something else, something metallic and faintly sweet, like ozone. On the concrete floor, near the gaping maw of the incinerator, lay a scatter of charred, brittle pages. Tymon knelt, his small fingers carefully nudging the fragments. The faint outlines of text were visible on some, a dramatic monologue, punctuated by scorched stage directions. He recognized a single, half-burnt word: ‘Forsaken.’ Among the ashes, something glinted. A small, brass gear, intricate and heavy, pulsed with a faint, internal heat. A soft, rhythmic ticking emanated from it, barely audible above the dull roar of the incinerator’s dormant motor. Tymon, curious and utterly unconcerned by its strangeness, picked it up. It warmed his palm. He slipped it into his pocket, the faint ticking a new, secret companion. *** Breda adjusted the collar of her tunic, her fingers trembling slightly. The trial room for Director Vance’s ‘The Obsidian Heart’ was austere, almost menacing. Vance himself sat at a long, scarred oak table, his silhouette stark against the single, high window that offered a glimpse of Drevik’s perpetually grey sky. His gaze bore across the room like dull iron. Beside him sat Madame Orlov, a predatory smirk playing on her lips. Breda had performed her piece, a harrowing recitation from ‘The Widow of Sunderhollow.’ She had poured every ounce of her dwindling vitality into it, her voice soaring and cracking with manufactured grief. Vance had merely nodded, a noncommittal gesture that offered neither praise nor critique. Breda felt the cold sink in, the draining mechanism echoing in her skull. [FAILURE DETECTED. KARMA SHARD SUBTRACTION: 5. VITALITY DRAIN: 3%] Then, Signy was called. She ambled in, her usual slouch pronounced, her eyes still holding the vacant stare of a sleepwalker. Breda’s gaze flickered to Vance, then to Orlov, a flicker of triumph igniting within her. The pages were gone. Burned. No one else had seen them. Signy would make a fool of herself. She had to. “Signy Varl,” Director Vance’s voice was a low growl, “the required speech. When you are ready.” Signy blinked, her gaze unfocused. She shuffled to the center of the room, her eyes drifting past Vance, past Orlov, past the expectant silence of the room. She looked at the blank wall behind them, a patch of peeling grey paint, and simply stood there. Her chest barely rose and fell. Her shoulders were hunched, a permanent curve of exhaustion. No lines. No movement. Just stillness. An unblinking, hollow stillness that stretched into seconds, then into an unbearable minute. Breda waited for the inevitable dismissal, the cutting remark, the humiliation. Signy would crack. She had to. This was it. The public failure that would finally push her down, once and for all. But Vance said nothing. He simply watched, his gaunt face slowly softening. Moisture tracked down his gaunt cheek, catching the dim light. Orlov, too, leaned forward, a strange, almost reverent expression on her face. “My God,” Vance whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “the sheer, unadorned emptiness. The hollowed-out grief of a soul stripped bare. It’s… it’s perfect.” He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Signy Varl, you are shortlisted.” Signy, still staring at the wall, didn’t react. She merely stood, wrapped in profound indifference. Orlov clapped, a sharp, sudden crack that broke the silence. “Brilliant, Signy! Truly! The avant-garde stillness returns!” Breda felt a tearing sensation in her throat. A sudden, violent coughing fit seized her. She clutched at her neck, choking. A metallic tang filled her mouth. She coughed again, a wet, rattling sound, and a fleck of crimson landed on the polished floor. Her vocal cords were seizing, tightening, becoming hoarse, as if a thousand tiny hands were strangling her voice from the inside. [FAILURE DETECTED. SEVERE VITALITY DRAIN: 10%. VOCAL CORDS COMPROMISED. ADDITIONAL PENALTY: 3 KARMA SHARDS. TARGET LUCK ESCALATING. ELIMINATE SIGNY VARL’S ANCHOR.] A shimmering red screen, visible only to her, flared violently in Breda’s vision. But then, a faint, almost transparent outline of the screen appeared in the periphery of Tymon Varl’s vision as he waited patiently outside the audition hall, the small brass gear ticking warmly in his pocket.

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