The infirmary felt too quiet, the soft hum of the stasis-array above Krystian's cot a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd he’d last heard. His head throbbed, a dull ache behind his eyes, but the overwhelming weariness, the psychic reverberation of Zofia's presence, had receded. He sat up, pushing aside the thin, medicinal-smelling blanket. Someone wanted him silenced, and she had been the first victim.
His gaze fell to the Meridian artifact resting on the small bedside table, its obsidian casing faintly radiating a cool light. It felt different now, not just a relic, but a bond. He reached for it, his fingers tracing the etched sigils. "Are you there?" he murmured, his voice rough. Silence. Then, a faint shimmer ghosted across the polished surface, a brief flicker of silver that loosened the band around his ribs.
*He wants me gone,* Krystian thought, the cold malice of Volkov's words echoing in his mind. *And he wants you gone for good.* Volkov’s enforcers, those Imperial hounds in polished black and crimson, would be searching. The entire student dormitory wing likely lay under scrutiny. He had to move, but where? And what were they seeking?
He lifted the device, turning it over in his hand. The hidden glyph, the one that had drawn her forward, pulsed with a subtle warmth. "You said you could show me things," he whispered, an earnest plea in his tone. "What happened at the end." He focused, not just on the glyph, but on the presence he now felt connected to, a fragile thread woven between them.
Suddenly, the dial flared, not with a projected image onto the wall this time, but inward. Foreign impressions rushed over Krystian, fragmented, raw, and dizzying. He saw, not through his own eyes, but through hers. The world blurred into a frantic mosaic of muted colors and distorted echoes.
He was somewhere dim, smelling of stale air and ozone. A narrow, forgotten corridor beneath the main administration spire, perhaps? The shadows were deep, clinging like shrouds. A figure stood before him, indistinct at first, then sharpening into a man, lean and wiry, his face obscured by a low-brimmed hat, his coat collar turned high. A contact, Krystian realized, a tremor running through the ghostly scene. He was holding something out, a small prism shard, glinting faintly.
*"The Chancellor's ledger,"* a voice, not hers, but the courier's, hissed in Krystian's mind, a frantic, urgent whisper. *"Proof of the supply lines. He’s funding the Veshkari rebels… wants a pretext for war."*
A sharp lurch of triumph flared in the vision, followed swiftly by dread. She reached out. Her fingers, ethereal now in Krystian’s perception, brushed the man's hand. Just as her grip closed around the data shard, a sudden, brutal force slammed into the courier from behind. He grunted, a choking sound, and crumpled. The prism flew from his hand, skittering across the grimy floor into the shadows.
Zofia’s perspective tilted wildly as her chin jerked upward. A figure stood over the fallen runner, immense and broad. Clad in the dark, lacquered plates of an elite guardsman, his ceremonial helmet gleamed with the crest of the Volkov household. His face, visible beneath the raised visor, was set in cold, unfeeling lines. Broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow, his pupils were pinpricks of black glass. The sentry held a short, heavy truncheon, its tip stained crimson.
*"Divided loyalties,"* the brute rumbled, his voice a low growl, precisely as Volkov had spoken in his office. A prickling dread clamped Krystian's throat, hers and his intertwined. He tried to move, to shout, but remained trapped in the vision, a helpless observer. The sentry lunged, not at her, but at the fallen runner, striking him down with swift, brutal efficiency. Then, he turned. His gaze, devoid of mercy, swept the corridor, settling directly on her. He raised a hand, and a sickly green light began to coalesce around his palm.
Just as the light intensified, the recollection shattered. Krystian gasped, wrenching back into his own body, sweat slicking his brow. He shook, the brass casing clattering to the tiles. The draft of the sickroom bit into his skin. *Volkov's personal enforcer. The scar…*
The door to the ward burst open. Miro, wild-eyed and disheveled, stumbled in, nearly tripping over the threshold. His usually impeccable uniform was rumpled, his collar askew. Sweat streaked his temples.
"Krystian! Gods, you're awake!" Miro panted, his chest heaving. "You wouldn't believe it. The entire dormitory wing… they're sweeping it!"
Krystian pushed himself fully upright, the adrenaline from the memory still coursing through him. "Who? What are you talking about?"
"The Chancellor's household guard!" Miro hissed, glancing nervously back at the door. "Black-and-crimson armored thugs. The squads are going door to door, tearing through everyone's personal effects. Officers claim it's a routine contraband check, but nobody is after illicit moonshine, Krystian. Those men want something specific. They even have arcane detection spheres… an entire search party stayed in *your* room for an hour!"
A harsh chill seized Krystian's chest. The data shard. The illegal arms ledger. Volkov knew. The Chancellor knew she had been close to exposing him, and now he suspected Krystian might have picked up where she left off. The 'contraband' was proof of treason.
"We have to move," Krystian said, scrambling off the cot, ignoring the lingering ache in his temples. "No one cares about contraband, Miro. The search is for evidence."
Just as Miro opened his mouth to ask, a new sound cut through the quiet hum of the room. Distinct and rhythmic. The heavy, measured thud of armored boots. The strides grew louder, approaching the door, not stopping, but slowing into a predatory pause. Then, they halted, directly outside.