The flicker of Valerien’s gaze, caught between the incriminating mark of Katiya and Tatiana’s smooth, venomous lies, settled on Anja with a chill that burrowed deep. It was not the fire of rage, but a cold, weary accusation, sealed by a choice already made. He had seen the truth, felt its sting, yet the easier lie, the one that absolved him of his own terrible error, had won. Anja felt her own hope die, a wisp of smoke vanishing in the fierce wind of his renewed resolve.
“Take her,” Valerien’s voice was clipped, devoid of the theatrical cruelty that usually accompanied his pronouncements. He did not specify where, but the two hulking Praesidium guards who had been present for Lykov’s projection knew their duty. Their grip was firm, impersonal, as they escorted Anja from the chamber, leaving Tatiana to offer Valerien a soft, consoling hand. Anja did not look back.
Her room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb. The heavy oak door thudded shut behind the guards, the bolt sliding home with a metallic scrape that reverberated in the quiet. Chirri, who had remained hidden in her sleeve during the confrontation, now fluttered out, a tiny bundle of emerald plume, settling on her shoulder. The sky-moth’s small trills offered little comfort tonight, frantic and sharp against Anja’s temple.
She sank onto the edge of her cot, the rough weave of the blanket doing little to ground her. The truth had been laid bare, undeniable, yet it had been twisted, inverted, and used against her again. Valerien had been so close, so terribly close, to seeing Katiya for what she was. But Tatiana, with her practiced smile and silken words, had snatched that recognition away.
Her gaze drifted across the small, sparse room. On her writing table, nestled amongst her few books and her unused weaving tools, lay a slim volume she didn’t recognize. It was leather-bound, worn at the edges, and seemed out of place. A sympathetic keeper must have left it during one of the Praesidium’s shifts. The title, etched in elegant script, read: *Whispers of the Sky-Moths: A Study of the Kovash Avians*. Intrigued by the unexpected distraction, Anja picked it up, Chirri cooing softly as her small claws tapped against the leather.
The book detailed breeding cycles, territorial calls, and diets of luminescent dew. Anja turned a page, scanning the dense ink: “*Beyond their empathic resonance, certain rare sky-moth breeds possess the latent ability to store residual fragments from significant events they witness. These impressions subtly influence the creature's own temperament, making them unusually sensitive to their environment. Such a bond, once formed, is indelible.*”
Residual imprints. Chirri’s sharp calls intensified, tugging at a long-buried recollection. Anja looked past the vellum page, back across the seasons to an afternoon before the ruin of her family.
***
The air in the nursery had carried the smell of damp potting loam and crushed shoots. Seven wicker basins had held newly hatched chicks, their downy forms quivering in the heat. Five years old then, Anja had knelt beside a basin, marveling at the creature within. Its coat was the shade of wild moss, its eyes like beads of black glass.
“Mine is prettier,” Katiya’s voice, already tinged with a dismissive arrogance, cut through Anja’s quiet awe. Her twin stood over Anja, a haughty tilt to her chin, clutching a chick whose feathers were a dull, unassuming grey. “Yours is too common. Everyone likes green.”
Anja looked up, her expression a mix of confusion and mild hurt. “But I like green, Katiya. It’s the color of new growth.”
Katiya scoffed, a tiny, unladylike sound. “No one cares what *you* like. They care what wins. And dull green never wins.” She poked Anja’s chick with a curious, almost cruel finger. The tiny creature chirped, a faint sound of distress. Anja quickly shielded it with her hand. Katiya merely shrugged, abandoning her own grey chick. “I’m going to go practice my patterns. Mother says I’m a prodigy.”
Anja spent the following weeks nursing the green nestling with droplet paste, watching its down turn sleek. Katiya, meanwhile, spent her afternoons at the practice spools, boasting of the dream-tableau she intended to unveil for the annual festival.
On the day of the exhibition, Anja watched from the margins while the older apprentices set their stations. Katiya strode toward her across the stone tiles.
“Anja, I need your help,” Katiya said, pitch honeyed. “My chick will not respond. It is too drab. No one will notice my pattern without an exceptional specimen.”
Anja’s heart fluttered with concern. “But… you barely spent time with yours, Katiya. Vesperwings respond to bond.”
“Exactly!” Katiya clapped her hands, a brittle sound. “And yours is properly bonded. Mother says my showcase needs a focal point, something vibrant. Your green pet is suited for it.”
Anja stepped back. “No, Katiya! You cannot take him. You have your own.”
Katiya’s sweet façade dissolved, replaced by a familiar sneer. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a bird. What do you need it for? You’re not even competing. Besides, if I win, it reflects well on us both. On our family.” Without waiting for a response, Katiya snatched Verdant from Anja’s gentle grasp. The little chick squawked, a sharp cry of alarm, its tiny claws scrambling for purchase. Anja reached out, but Katiya was already striding away, Verdant clutched tightly in her hand, its bright green feathers a stark contrast to Katiya’s dark, determined form.
Anja had never seen that chick again. Katiya claimed the junior prize, lauded for the brilliant emerald centerpiece hovering within her display. Days later, Anja discovered an abandoned fledgling huddled beneath the briars near the garden wall, a wing bent and plumage dulled to grey-green. It was Chirri.
***
Valerien Morozov stood before the grand, arched window of his private study, the Vetrovik Peaks a jagged, indifferent backdrop to his internal turmoil. Tatiana’s words, so reasonable, so utterly convincing, still echoed in his mind. *She’s trying to pit you against your closest allies, against your own judgment.* His judgment. He’d prided himself on its unwavering certainty, his ability to cut through pretense. Yet, the image of Katiya’s weaver’s mark on Lykov’s trauma Oneira remained, an insistent, burning ember in the ashes of his convictions. It clashed violently with Tatiana’s narrative, with his own deep-seated belief in Anja’s culpability.
He rubbed his temples, tracing the pulse along his brow. The locket, the altered logs, Anja's presence at Lykov's threshold—every piece had locked into place. Yet the weaver’s cipher within the ruined mind remained. And if it held true, Tatiana’s testimony collapsed. But Tatiana had stood beside him through every winter of his youth. She would not fabricate treason.
His gaze fell to the corner of his study, where a whittled wooden bird lay half-hidden beneath rolled ledgers. Lykov’s favorite carving.
***
A decade prior, across the terrace of the Morozov manor, Valerien had coaxed a wild moth-finch onto his younger brother's wrist, celebrating when the creature finally settled.
Tatiana had crossed the lawn, watching the brothers with rigid stillness. “You two are always together,” she had murmured, fingers digging into the folds of her skirt. “It is always Lykov.” Valerien had brushed it off as brief sulking.
***
He pushed the recollection aside. The suspicion was ridiculous; Tatiana had protected his family since childhood. Anja remained the transgressor, or at least the tool Katiya wielded. The mark was a fabrication, Tatiana’s testimony an anchor.
Yet, the certainty he craved remained elusive. He found himself walking, not to his own chambers, but through the silent, echoing corridors towards Anja’s confined room. He didn’t know why. Perhaps to reiterate her fate, to reaffirm his own conviction. But as he stood before her door, the usual surge of righteous anger was absent, replaced by a hollow ache, a profound sense of unease. He knocked, a quiet, almost tentative rap, then pushed the door open without waiting for a reply.
Anja sat on her cot, the small bird nestled near her collar. The room held only the amber haze of a guttering glow-lamp. She looked up at the sound of the hinge, wary and spent.
Valerien stepped inside, latching the panel quietly behind his back. He glanced from the open volume on the desk to the small green creature watching him from her shoulder.
“Tell me about your sister.”