Valdas moved with the speed of a predator reacting to an unseen threat. Before Ovidia could so much as gasp, his arm swept around her waist, yanking her against him. His other hand slammed down, pressing her head into his chest. A ripple of frigid energy flared from his body, casting a momentary, shimmering barrier around them, a defensive reflex forged under front-line artillery fires. The nightmare-smog, a living, tangible darkness, slammed into the shield. It was a physical impact, not just a sensation. The protective barrier crackled and groaned, straining under the pressure. Ovidia felt the tremor of it through Valdas’s rigid form, heard the high-pitched hum of his will forcing the ether to bend. But the smog was too potent, too concentrated. It wasn’t just a simple cloud; it was the raw, undiluted essence of psychic horror, ripped from a tormented mind. Even through the thinning ward, tendrils of black vapor snaked inward, biting Ovidia’s neck like caustic lye. Her lungs burned, a phantom pressure building in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing deeper into Valdas's coat, the rough wool scratching her cheek. She could feel his body tense, a shudder running through him. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that tore through the sudden silence of the sealed chamber. It was a rattle she recognized at once: the rasp of deep contagion settling into marrow. The air grew thick, heavy with the stench of decay and fear. Valdas’s shield flickered, then collapsed, leaving them exposed. He sagged against her, his grip slackening, his breathing ragged. He was fighting it, Ovidia knew, but the dose was catastrophic. His protective ward, usually unyielding, dissolved under the rancid miasma. He began to convulse, a violent tremor that shook his entire frame, his spine arching as he gasped for air that was now pure toxin. “Valdas!” Ovidia cried, shoving his arm off her. His eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, were clouded, unfocused. His mouth opened, but only a gurgle escaped. He was drowning, his mind already beginning to fracture. If he collapsed here, the secret of their encounter at the inn died with him, along with her only shield against the Night-Watch. She looked frantically around the small chamber. Near the threshold stood the portly orderly, his brow slicked with sweat, mouth hanging slack. He offered no aid, staring blankly ahead. A glint of polished brass caught Ovidia’s attention – a heavy, old-fashioned bolt lock, secured from the outside. The turnkey hadn't simply frozen. He had barred the heavy latch. The conspirator by the door was a secondary problem. Her priority was Valdas. He was thrashing now, his limbs spasming, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps. She had mere seconds before his consciousness completely shattered. She had one option, one she had sworn never to use again, not after the inn. It was a raw, unfiltered application of somna-alchemy, an incantation so potent and illegal it could draw the attention of the Prelacy itself. But the alternative was Valdas’s death, or worse, his permanent descent into delirium, lost to the nightmare-realm. Taking a deep breath, Ovidia knelt beside Valdas, placing her hand firmly on his forehead. His skin was unnaturally cold, clammy. Her lips moved, barely audible even to her own ears, whispering the ancient, forbidden syllables. They were guttural, rhythmic, a language not meant for mortal tongues, drawing upon the primal essence of sleep and its inverse. “*Sómno-purga, ánima-terra, exórgite tenebrae…*” A pulse of pure, raw Somna-energy erupted from Ovidia’s hand, a silent, internal scream of power. The air around them shimmered, not with light, but with an intense absence. The nightmare-smog, thick and choking moments before, began to recede, twisting back into the courier’s ruptured chest as if drawn by an invisible vacuum. The oppressive pressure in the room lifted, the stench fading, replaced by the faint, antiseptic smell of the morgue. Valdas stiffened under her hand. A low groan escaped him, and his eyes, though still clouded, seemed to fixate on something beyond Ovidia, something only he could perceive. A fleeting image, a flash of recognition, flickered through the delirium. The cadence of the incantation, the specific resonance of the somna-magic, it was distinct. It was the same forbidden current she had unleashed in the inn, the signature that had branded itself onto his subconscious. He registered it, even as his mind fought the encroaching darkness, catching the phantom echo of their shared ritual. The final syllable left Ovidia’s lips, a barely audible sigh. The last vestiges of the smog vanished into the courier’s chest cavity, leaving only a lingering shadow. But the raw power she had unleashed, unchanneled and untamed, needed an outlet. A deep thrum vibrated through the floorboards, building in intensity. With a concussive roar, the thick, reinforced steel doors of the morgue splintered inward, torn from their heavy hinges. Shards of metal and plaster exploded into the hallway beyond. Ovidia stumbled back, pulling Valdas with her, away from the immediate blast radius. They spilled out into the deserted corridor, gasping for lungfuls of clean, albeit stale, air. Valdas coughed, a rasping, painful sound, but the cough was dry now, free of the black phlegm. He struggled to his feet, swaying, leaning heavily against the wall. His face was pale, slick with sweat, his jawline tight. The veteran inquisitor stood unsteady on his boots, his iron discipline strained to the breaking point. His gaze, hazy with residual smog, pinned the turnkey, who cowered against the splintered doorframe. “You…!” Valdas’s voice was a guttural snarl, laced with a cold fury that would have frozen lesser men. He lunged, a sudden, unexpected burst of energy, grabbing the orderly by the collar of his stained smock and slamming him hard against the wall. “Why?” Valdas rasped, pinning the man's throat. “Who bought your key, you craven worm?” “N-no one, Inquisitor! It was an accident! I swear!” the orderly stammered, glancing toward the floor. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, a nervous habit. Valdas’s gaze sharpened, piercing through the man’s weak denials. Valdas noted the stiff bulge in the worker's pocket, paired with the involuntary tremor in the man's fingers. Valdas's hand ripped through the seam of the orderly's smock. He ripped out a folded, leather-bound ledger, its pages brittle with age, stained with what looked like dried blood. Valdas didn’t wait for an explanation. He flipped open the ledger, his eyes, though still strained, scanning the precise, elegant script. His finger traced down a list of names, then stopped abruptly, freezing on a particular entry. He read it aloud, his voice low, gravelly, each word a shard of ice in the silent corridor. “ ‘Target: Blood-Cure Thief. Description: Female. Pale, with eyes the colour of winter mist. Distinctive mark: A silver signet ring, inscribed with a soaring phoenix, on her left index finger.’ ” His gaze, cold and hard, slowly lifted from the ledger. The corridor seemed to drop in temperature, colder than the dispersed vapor. Her left hand, bearing the very ring Valdas had just cited, twitched—a faint, damning motion—as his grey gaze locked onto hers.

Echoes of the Inn