Anja choked out his name as she tumbled across the flags. She twisted around in time to see the colossal arm of the Oneira Loom, heavy with centuries of woven dreams, shear away and descend directly onto Valerien. A deafening crash shook the Lyceum to its foundations as the ceiling caved in, burying him under a heap of fractured stone and glass.
Dust, thick as winter fog, bloomed from the impact site, coating Anja’s tongue with grit. Silence swallowed the echoes of destruction. Her breath rasped, rough and uneven in the sudden void. She tried to scramble upright, her limbs protesting, screaming from the force of Valerien’s shove. Her gaze, unfocused with terror, darted towards the mountain of debris where he had vanished. No movement. No sound. Only the settling creaks of the wounded building.
“Valerien!” Her voice was a raw, broken whisper, a desperate plea to the silence. Chirri, who had flown clear of the worst of the collapse, zipped past her ear, its empathic chirps rising to a sharp, high-pitched keening. No, not despair. Fury. A cold, crystallizing rage that banished the dust and silence, replacing it with a burning resolve.
She crawled forward, ignoring the pain in her ribs, the sting of cuts on her face. Her hands, scraped and trembling, reached out to the nearest chunk of rock. It was massive, easily twice her size, jagged and dark. But she didn't see stone. She saw the crushing mass, the suffocating end to a life that had become tangled with hers. She saw the man who had shielded her, who had *saved* her, lying beneath it.
Her Somniaturgy, usually a delicate dance of suggestion and perception, surged within her, raw and untamed. She didn't consciously weave an Oneira. She simply *willed* the rubble to move. A guttural cry tore from her throat, laced with an anguish so profound it felt like a physical force. She projected every ounce of her fear, her defiance, her desperate need into the fractured stone. A faint, ethereal glow, the colour of twilight, emanated from her outstretched palms, not a focused beam, but a diffuse, pulsing aura.
The ground beneath her shifted. The smaller pieces of debris, as if caught in an unseen current, began to slide and roll away. Then, with a groan that seemed to echo from the very core of the earth, the massive chunks of obsidian and crystalline glass began to groan, to lift, to *float*. Slowly, agonizingly, they rose, revealing not solid rock beneath, but more fragmented layers. Her muscles shrieked. Her vision blurred at the edges. But she couldn't stop. She wouldn't.
“Anja! What in the name of the Silent Accord is happening here?!”
The booming voice of Varkos, usually reserved for formal declarations, cut through the din of shifting stone. The conservatory rector stood at the far entrance to the hall, flanked by half a dozen crimson-clad Lyctos sentries, their faces marked by alarm and incomprehension. Their arrival was too late, but still, a cold dread began to seep into Anja. Tatiana. She was here.
Tatiana Markova, appearing miraculously pristine, stood a few paces ahead of the rector, her hands wringing as she turned a tear-streaked face toward him.
“Rector! Oh, thank the Stars, you’re here! It was a nightmare! Anja… she went mad! She attacked Valerien, accused me of terrible things! She brought the Loom down with a forbidden ritual! She tried to kill us all!” Her voice, normally so melodious, cracked with theatrical sobs.
Anja ignored her, her focus singular: Valerien. The last, heaviest slab of obsidian, etched with faded symbols, finally began to tilt. Underneath, a dark shape. She poured her remaining strength into her command, and the slab toppled away with a final crash, revealing Valerien. He lay still, partially curled around himself, his elegant jacket torn, exposing a deep, ragged wound on his side where the shards had struck. Blood stained the dark fabric, a stark, alarming crimson. But he was breathing. A shallow, rattling sound that was nonetheless life.
“Valerien!” Anja dropped to her knees beside him, her trembling hands reaching for his neck, searching for a pulse. It was faint, thready, but there. His eyelids fluttered, a barely perceptible movement, but he did not open them.
“She’s dangerous!” Tatiana shrieked, gesturing wildly at Anja. “She’s a Mind-Breaker, a monster! Look what she’s done! She’s trying to finish him now!”
The sentries, their weapons already drawn, began to advance, their stares fixed on Anja and the twilight energy clinging to her hands.
Anja looked up, her face streaked with dust and tears, but her gaze, usually so meek, now burned with an intensity that made Tatiana flinch. “No!” she cried, her voice hoarse but firm. “She lies! Tatiana brought the Loom down! She framed me! She framed my sister for Lykov’s attack, and she nearly killed Valerien to cover her tracks!”
The accusation hung in the air, momentarily halting the sentries. Varkos narrowed his gaze at Anja. “You accuse Tatiana Markova, a scion of the Markova house, of such treachery, Koskinen? With what evidence beyond your own wild ravings?”
Tatiana laughed, a brittle, scornful sound. “She has nothing! She’s desperate! Trying to shift the blame, as always!”
Anja’s gaze swept across the hall, past Varkos and the sentries, past Tatiana’s sneering face, to Chirri, still circling above. A sudden recollection of classical Vesperwing lore ignited in her mind. *Echoes.* Emotions. The past.
“Chirri!” Anja called, her tone clear through the ringing in her ears. “The gala! Show them the gala! Show them *her*!” She pointed a trembling hand at Tatiana.
The small Vesperwing, as if understanding every nuance of her command, swooped down, its tiny, feathered body radiating a sudden, potent warmth. It landed on Anja’s outstretched arm, then launched itself directly towards Tatiana. Before anyone could react, Chirri settled on Tatiana’s shoulder, its small talons digging lightly into the rich fabric of her gown.
A surge, not of sound, but of raw emotion, washed over the hall. It struck as a suffocating press of jealousy, bitter and metallic on the tongue. Envy, sharp as a shard of ice, followed by a chilling, calculating rage. And then, woven into the fabric of it all, a profound sense of *satisfaction*, a dark, twisted triumph. Everyone in the room staggered, visibly recoiling from the psychic assault.
Varkos clutched his chest, color draining from his cheeks. The sentries lowered their pikes, confusion and raw revulsion crossing their features. The echo, amplified by Chirri’s empathic connection, was undeniable, a brutal, unvarnished glimpse into a mind consumed by malice. It painted a vivid, horrifying picture of a woman observing her rival’s downfall, meticulously plotting, coldly executing a scheme that would condemn an innocent. The moment of Lykov’s attack, the subtle shift in Katiya’s weaver’s mark, the careful planting of the locket—it was all there, the raw emotional intent behind it laid bare.
Tatiana, rooted to the spot, began to tremble. Her face, which had been so carefully composed moments before, fractured into a kaleidoscope of fear and dawning horror. Her eyes darted from face to face, seeing only accusation, only the naked disgust of those who had just witnessed the ugliness of her soul. She tried to deny it, to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. Chirri, its task complete, flew back to Anja, settling on her shoulder, panting softly.
Then, the dam broke. The carefully constructed façade that Tatiana had worn for years, a mask of kindness and loyalty, crumbled into dust. A thin, reedy wail escaped her. “No! You saw nothing! It wasn’t me! It was… it was Katiya! She was so easy to manipulate! So ambitious, so hungry for Valerien’s attention, always! I just… I *suggested* it. I put the idea in her head, yes! But she’s the one who did it! It was Katiya’s mark on the Oneira! I only… I only helped! I gave her the locket, yes, the link, so it would truly hurt him! But he deserved it! He always chose Lykov! Always! He never saw *me*! And then that… that *other* twin, that meek little mouse, Anja! She was perfect! Identical! A scapegoat! He would never look past the surface! He would destroy her, and I would be there to comfort him, to pick up the pieces, to finally have him to myself!”
Her voice rose to a hysterical shriek, echoing through the shattered chamber, an unmasked crescendo of venom. Tears, real this time, streamed down her face, carving paths through the dust. She clawed at her own face, as if trying to tear away the visible evidence of her monstrous confession.
The rector, utterly speechless, stared at Tatiana, then at Valerien's still form, then at Anja, who held his look with fierce certainty. The enormity of the deception, the depravity of the crime, settled over him like a shroud.
“Arrest her,” Varkos commanded, raw with shock and cold fury. “Confine her to the deepest cells. Find out what other lies she has woven.”