Tatiana Markova. The name pulsed with an insidious warmth, a false kindness that had cloaked its true venom for far too long. A cold certainty settled over Anja, a sensation sharper and more potent than any fear. This was it. The thread that unraveled the whole deceit. Chirri, perched on her shoulder, let out a soft, questioning trill, its tiny head cocked. Anja stroked its soft, feathered back, a silent promise. She wasn't just surviving anymore; she was fighting. She closed the logbook with a definitive thud that echoed in the quiet archive. Valerien. He would be in the infirmary, or perhaps his personal study, still reeling from Lykov’s sudden decline. His grief would make him volatile, but also, perhaps, vulnerable enough to listen. She had to take the risk. This was her only chance. Her steps were brisk, purposeful, as she navigated the hushed corridors of Aethelgard. She ignored the occasional sidelong glances from junior apprentices, their whispers like static in her ears. Her focus was singular: the Duke’s wing, a forbidden territory for an accused Mind-Breaker. But she carried verified parchment and ink, defenses stronger than any ward. She found Valerien in the antechamber outside Lykov’s private healing suite. The heavy oak door stood ajar, revealing a glimpse of soft lamplight and the low hum of restorative dream-craft. Valerien stood with his back to her, shoulders rigid beneath the dark fabric of his tunic. His head was bowed, one hand resting on the cold stone of the wall, his posture one of profound, desolate weariness. The usual sharp edge of his presence was blunted by pain. Anja hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pushed past the threshold. The soft click of the door brought his head up. His eyes, usually pools of icy disdain, were rimmed with red, clouded with an anguish that momentarily stripped him of his arrogance. For a moment, he was just a man hurting. “You,” he rasped, his voice raw. “How dare you intrude here? Are you not satisfied with what you’ve already done?” Anja held her ground. She did not flinch, did not plead. Her voice, though soft, was steady. “I have not done anything, Duke Morozov. But I know who has.” His lip curled. “Still clinging to your lies? Do you think I have the patience for your games now? My brother—” He cut himself off, a sound of guttural pain escaping him. “Your brother was not simply shattered, Valerien. He was soul-siphoned. By a sympathetic weave, linked by a personal object.” She watched his expression shift, a flicker of something beyond rage—confusion, perhaps. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded, though a tremor ran through the words. “The locket, Valerien. The one Tatiana gave me. The one you accused me of stealing. It was the link. And it was no Koskinen’s. It was a Morozov heirloom, stolen from your vault. Tatiana admitted it herself when she handed it to me, implying you wished me to have it.” His eyes narrowed, a cold fire beginning to rekindle. “Tatiana would never. She is Lykov’s oldest friend. She has been by his side, mourning with me.” “She tampered with the gala’s security spool, Valerien. The archive logs prove it. I found the entry, dated just three days ago. Her name is there, in her own hand.” Anja produced a small, carefully sketched copy of Tatiana’s signature from her tunic pocket, a detail she’d had the foresight to transcribe. “She wiped the memory of her own actions from the night of the attack.” Valerien stared at the signature, then back at Anja, his expression warring between disbelief and a dawning, terrible suspicion. “You accuse Tatiana, my childhood friend, of orchestrating this… this elaborate framing? You expect me to believe you, the girl found kneeling over my brother’s comatose form, when you couldn’t even explain yourself?” He took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous. “You think you can deflect my wrath onto an innocent woman?” “I expect you to look at the truth, Valerien. The weaver’s mark. Every Somniaturge leaves one, indelible, unique to their touch. You know this. You have the recorded spool of Lykov’s attack, do you not? Unfurl it. Look at the mark. If it is mine, then do with me what you will. But if it is not…” His jaw worked, a vein pulsing at his temple. The sheer audacity of her challenge, the unwavering conviction in her voice, must have shaken him. He knew the inviolable nature of a weaver’s mark. He knew it better than anyone. He turned from her without another word, crossing the antechamber to a heavy oak cabinet. He retrieved a crystal spool, dark and silent, encased in a protective ether-seal. This was it. The moment of truth. He set the spool onto a nearby brass plinth, his movements stiff, almost reluctant. A low hum filled the room as the lens mechanism whirred to life, casting a shimmering, ephemeral image onto the opposite wall. It was Lykov’s memory, the vibrant, chaotic scene of the Morozov gala, frozen at the moment of betrayal. The shimmering figures, the joyous laughter, the flash of a dark-cloaked form—it was all there. And at the heart of the damage, the signature of the perpetrator, glowing faintly, an intricate knot of light and shadow. Valerien stepped forward, holding his breath. Anja moved beside him, her ribs tight, her gaze fixed on the mark. It wasn’t the elegant, flowing spiral she meticulously crafted, the one she’d inherited from her own mentor. It was sharper, more angular, with a distinctive, almost aggressive twist at its apex, like a coiled serpent ready to strike. It was a mark she knew intimately, a mark she had seen a thousand times during her apprenticeship, just not from her own hands. It was Katiya’s. Her identical twin sister’s. Valerien’s sharp inhale was audible. His stare, fixed on the displayed symbol, stayed unblinking as disbelief morphed into a dawning horror that carved deep lines into his face. He reached out a trembling hand, as if to touch the shimmering weave, then pulled it back as if burned. Silence hung thick in the air between them. He had been wrong. Terribly, catastrophically wrong. He had tormented the innocent twin, while the guilty one walked free. His entire vendetta, every cruel word, every harsh punishment, every threat—had been directed at the wrong person. He looked at Anja, his gaze filled with a self-loathing so profound it was almost tangible. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Before he could speak, before the shattering truth could fully coalesce between them, the door to the antechamber swung open. Tatiana Markova stood there, dressed in a simple, elegant gown, her face etched with practiced concern. Her glance darted from the displayed dream to Anja, then to Valerien’s ashen face. “Valerien? I heard voices. Is everything alright? Lykov’s vital signs just dipped again, I was so worried…” Her voice, a melodic balm, flowed into the tense silence. She took in the scene, the illuminated pattern, Valerien’s utterly devastated expression, Anja’s quiet presence. Her smile, though gentle, held a predatory edge. She stepped further into the room, her gaze sweeping over the scene. “Oh, Anja. What have you done now? Are you truly so desperate? Forging archive logs to frame your own sister? Valerien, don’t listen to her. She’s trying to sow discord, to escape justice. She would easily mimic Katiya’s mark, you know how identical they are. The resemblance is uncanny, even in their weaves. She’s trying to pit you against your closest allies, against your own judgment.” Tatiana’s words were a poison, meticulously crafted, perfectly timed. Valerien, reeling from the sudden shock of his mistake, his mind already a maelstrom of guilt and confusion, looked from the luminous mark to Tatiana, then to Anja. The true perpetrator’s words twisted the truth, painting Anja as the manipulative villain. He had fallen for one lie; it was so easy to fall for another, especially when it offered an escape from the crushing burden of his own error. His gaze, once so certain of Anja’s guilt, now wavered, lost in the new, insidious narrative Tatiana wove. Anja saw the flicker of doubt, then the hardening of his resolve, the terrible, familiar accusation return to his eyes. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—believe the truth when it stood before him, embodied by the very woman he had sworn to destroy.

Tapestry of the Wrong Twin