A low murmur rumbled across the floorboards. Nairi flinched, her bandaged ankle throbbing in protest as she shifted under the wool. The man's head turned, his gaze lifting from the notebook to settle on her. His slate-gray eyes held an exposed hollow that caught her off guard. His voice rasped like stone dragged across stone. “Where did you get this?” It wasn't a question; it was a demand, flat and hard. He gripped the notebook hard enough to crease the brittle pages. Nairi pushed herself up, wincing as wool tangled around her legs. “My friend, Lusine. It was hers. Tigran gave it to me.” The name ‘Lusine’ seemed to strike him physically. He recoiled slightly, white knuckles pressing against the dark leather binding. “Tigran.” The words were infused with a venom Nairi couldn’t place. “And what did he tell you about her… accident?” Nairi’s own temper, never far from the surface, sparked. “It wasn’t an accident. She fell climbing Mount Oakhaven. Tigran said she slipped. But I know she didn't. There’s something written inside, something she wanted found—” “She didn’t fall, child,” Toros interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. He rose from the table, the old wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, coming to stand over her cot. The sheer size of him, combined with the grim set of his features, was intimidating. “I was the one who treated her. They brought her in right after. Her face was bruised, her hands… Her hands were torn, scraped to the bone. Not from gripping rock, but from clawing. Her fingernails were broken, some ripped clean off. She had defensive wounds, girl. Deep ones. Not a simple fall.” The room seemed to tilt on its foundation. Lusine. *Defensive wounds*. It was a phrase that conjured images of struggle, of a desperate fight, not a tragic misstep on a mountain path. All the carefully constructed walls around her grief shattered, revealing a raw, furious abyss. Her thoughts snagged on the discrepancy. Tigran’s smooth voice, his calculated sympathy, the way he had pressed the volume into her hands—it all soured. “You… you treated her?” Nairi whispered, the words barely audible. “Why didn’t anyone say anything? Why did they say it was a fall?” Her voice rose, laced with a frantic edge. “Who brought her in? What did you tell them?” Toros’s gaze was unwavering, heavy with a shared, terrible knowledge. “They were vague. A couple of men from a remote hunting lodge, they said. Too dark, too stormy to see much. They left before I could ask more. I reported the nature of her injuries to the local constabulary in Perizath, of course. But up here, away from Tsovasar’s gilded towers, their word is law. The official report cited a ‘tragic climbing accident’ consistent with the treacherous terrain of the Khazhar Peaks. Tigran signed off on the paperwork himself. He was here in Veris for the funeral.” Nairi felt a sick lurch in her stomach. Tigran. *He was here.* He knew. He knew the truth and he had buried it. He had looked her in the eyes, full of manufactured sorrow, and handed her the very evidence that could expose him. A cold fury, sharper than the mountain air, began to burn in her veins. “He lied,” she stated, a dull, dead certainty in her tone. Before Toros could respond, a sharp, metallic ring split the air. It came from a sturdy, wall-mounted box near the hearth – a satellite phone, its antenna extended. Toros’s eyes narrowed. He strode over, his movements swift and sure, and picked up the receiver. “Veris clinic. Toros here.” He listened, his expression hardening. Nairi, straining to hear, caught snippets of a familiar, cultured voice, tinny and distant through the receiver. “...Nairi? Is she there? Terribly worried… She hasn’t called… So reckless, that girl…” It was Tigran, calling *here*. A cold dread seeped into Nairi’s bones. How could he possibly know she was in Veris? She hadn’t told anyone. Not explicitly. The cabin deed. He’d given her the cabin deed. He’d known her destination all along. The phone call wasn’t concern; it was a warning, a deliberate flexing of control. A cold, calculated move. Toros’s posture stiffened. “She’s fine. Minor injuries, nothing serious.” His eyes flickered to Nairi, a warning in their depth. He turned slightly, shielding the phone from her. “No, I’m not sure when she’ll be leaving. We have no cell service here. She’ll contact you when she can.” He paused, listening. Tigran's voice, though muffled, still carried a chilling undertone. “Yes, I understand. Your concern is noted. Good day.” Toros hung up, the click echoing in the suddenly silent room. He stood there for a moment, his back to her, before slowly turning around. His face was a mask of grim determination. “He knows,” Nairi breathed, her voice hollow. “He sent me here. He knew I’d come.” Toros simply nodded, his gaze sweeping over the journal that still lay open on the table. “He sounds… thorough.” He picked up the volume, turning parchment leaves with rough precision. “You said she wrote something. A message?” Nairi’s mind raced. “Yes. ‘If I don’t come back, check the structural logs.’ And then this.” She pointed to the crimson scrawl that was Lusine’s final, desperate message. Toros’s thumb traced the blood-red ink, his lips pressed into a thin line. He turned a few more pages, his brows furrowed in concentration. The pages held Lusine’s elegant script, field sketches of mountain flora, and structural elevation drawings. But then, tucked between two pressed wildflowers, something else emerged. “What’s this?” Toros murmured, his finger stopping on a crudely drawn map. It wasn’t a hiking trail, nor a scenic overlook. The lines were jagged, indicating rough terrain. A series of faded symbols, half-erased, adorned its edges. At the center, a prominent ‘X’ marked a spot labeled in Lusine’s careful hand: *Kharakh Salt Mine*. Nairi leaned forward, gripping the splintered rim of the cot. The Kharakh Salt Mine. An abandoned, notoriously dangerous place, known for its unstable tunnels and precipitous drops. Locals spoke of it in hushed tones, a place to be avoided. “That’s it,” she whispered, her tone hardening into certainty. “That’s where the logs are. The structural logs. Not logs for building, but records. Mining logs. Maybe even a logbook she kept there.” The implications were immediate, terrifying, and exhilarating. This wasn’t a bucket list; it was a treasure map to the truth. Lusine hadn’t been climbing for sport. She had been investigating something, something that led her to the perilous mine, something that had cost her her life. “I have to go there,” Nairi declared, pushing herself off the cot, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankle. She swayed for a moment, catching herself on the rough-hewn table. “Now.” Toros moved with startling speed, cutting off her path to the door. He blocked her exit, his large frame filling the doorway, his hand flat against the heavy wood beside her head. His broad frame shadowed her completely, trapping her between his chest and the solid timber. The scent of pine and something subtly earthy, like damp soil and distant snow, enveloped her. His gray-blue eyes, usually so guarded, were alight with a fierce, protective fire. His voice, when it came, was a low, guttural whisper that seemed to vibrate through her own bones. “You will die if you go.”

The Doctor's Secret