The relic named aloud echoed through the hall, vibrating through Zoryan’s bones, and Liri’s spectral form surged within him, desperate and sharp. This was it. The very instrument of her undoing, now gleaming under the lurid green light, a physical manifestation of her phantom existence. “We have to get it, Zoryan!” Liri’s demand was a screech inside his skull, raw with an urgency that bordered on panic. “It’s right there! We can’t let *them* have it!” Around them, murmurs intensified, greed rippling through the crowd. Zoryan felt the prickle of eyes, the shift of bodies, as the bids began. A low, resonant voice from the back of the room opened with a sum that made the air itself seem to crackle. As Zoryan stared at the dark, polished stone, a different kind of thrum started, not from the pendant itself, but from Liri. A low, discordant hum that quickly escalated into a high-pitched whine of memory. The sensation inside Zoryan convulsed, and the lavish gallery shimmered, its opulence dissolving like mist. He wasn’t there anymore. Or rather, Liri was, pulling him into the vortex of her past. ***** The grand ballroom of Voronin Manor. Not decaying and dust-choked, but vibrant, alive. Chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles, reflecting off polished parquet floors. Young Liriana, her hair a cascade of dark silk, wore a gown of twilight blue, laughing, twirling with a handsome, if slightly too serious, Marek. He was older, even then, his gaze possessive as his hand rested on the small of her back. The air hummed with music and the clink of crystal, a celebration of their engagement. “It’s a magnificent affair, wouldn’t you agree, my rose?” Marek’s voice, smooth as aged brandy, was in her ear. He squeezed her hand, a gesture that felt less affectionate, more… binding. Liri offered a bright, brittle smile. “Indeed, Marek. My family spared no expense.” Her gaze drifted past him, searching for the patriarch of the house. He was at the edges of the room, his face taut, exchanging curt words with a grim-faced man in dark robes before disappearing through a side door. Always working. Always preoccupied. Later, as the guests dwindled and the music faded, Liri found the old count in his study, a glass of amber liquid clutched in his hand, staring out at the rain-lashed grounds. The room smelled of old books and something metallic – an undercurrent of disquiet. “Are you well?” she asked, stepping inside. “You seem troubled.” The elder Voronin started, turning slowly. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were shadowed. “Liriana. The hour is late. You should rest.” His tone was dismissive, but his posture betrayed a deep weariness. “I worry for you,” she persisted, stepping closer. “And about Marek. He… he’s so intense. Sometimes I feel like a prized possession more than a fiancée.” She knew it sounded childish, ungrateful, but the words were true. His lips thinned. “Marek Belinsky is a man of considerable influence, Liriana. He will provide for you. He will protect this family.” “Protect us from what?” she challenged, a flicker of indignation in her heart. “From the whispers I hear? The strange men who visit at odd hours? The ledgers you hide away?” She gestured vaguely towards a hidden compartment behind a loose panel on the ornate oak desk – a trick she’d learned as a curious child, forgotten until now. Ilarion’s face went ashen. He moved with surprising speed, grabbing her arm. “You know nothing! You comprehend nothing of the depths we are mired in, girl!” His grip was tight, his voice a harsh rasp. “There are forces at play, ancient debts, which demand payment.” He released her, turning away, running a hand through his thinning hair. The fury drained from him, replaced by despair. “I swore I would break free. I swore I would save you from it, from the Shadow Weavers. But they… they want more. They want *everything*. They want the lineage, the power that flows in your veins.” He swallowed hard, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection of the window, filled with a raw, terrifying fear. “They see you as a key, Liriana. A conduit.” Liri felt a cold dread seep into her, deeper than the rain outside. “A conduit for what?” He didn’t answer, only shook his head, retreating into his own dark thoughts. The next morning, he left the manor on urgent business, hollow-eyed and hurried. He never returned. Driven by a chilling premonition, Liri went to his study. Her fingers, trembling, found the hidden panel. Behind it, not the ledgers she’d seen him glance at, but a smaller, locked compartment. She remembered a tiny, ornate key he always kept on his chain, disguised as a charm. She’d always thought it was for a decorative box. Now, the truth clicked into place. She found it in his dressing room, tucked beneath a forgotten cufflink. It fit the lock. Inside, she found not ledgers, but a single, leather-bound journal. Its pages were filled with intricate diagrams, arcane symbols, and hurried, barely legible notes in his hand. Sketches of a dark, smooth stone suspended on a leather chain. A detailed account of a ritual of severing and soul displacement lay spread across the parchment. He had been studying the heirloom. And next to a crude drawing of the Voronin crest, a phrase was scribbled, almost an afterthought: *“The Ebon Casket, where the serpent sleeps, holds the true heart.”* ***** Zoryan gasped, snapping back to the present. The chamber reasserted itself, the heavy stench of musk and sweat assaulting his senses. Liri’s presence inside him was no longer panicky, but a searing, focused intensity. The memory had been a deluge, a shattering revelation. Her death hadn’t been random. It had been a calculated, brutal act to seize the Voronin family’s magic, to prevent her family from breaking away from the Shadow Weavers. And Marek… Marek was inextricably tied to it. “Zoryan! The Ebon Casket!” Liri’s voice was clear, sharp, cutting through the residual haze of the flashback. “My father’s journal! He wasn’t just tracking their dealings; he was trying to unravel its secrets, to find a way to break free. The Ebon Casket, where the serpent sleeps… It’s a coded reference! To the hidden vaults beneath the manor! He had a private research chamber there, I remember him mentioning it once when I was a child. That’s where he kept his most dangerous secrets. The true heart of his findings!” The auctioneer’s gavel struck, a sharp crack that jolted Zoryan. The bidding for the stone was escalating wildly. He couldn’t possibly compete. More importantly, he couldn’t risk being seen. The Shadow Weavers were here, and his presence, especially with Liri’s energy radiating through him, was a beacon. “We’re not bidding,” Zoryan muttered, forcing his legs to move, navigating the throngs of bidders. “We need to get back to the manor. Now.” He pushed through the murmuring crowd, a controlled urgency in his movements. Liri was still buzzing with the aftershocks of the memory, but her focus was unwavering. The raw sting of the family's compromise was now tempered by a sharp resolve. They needed to find those notes. It was their only way to pierce the puzzle and halt the rite. They slipped out of The Serpent’s Coil, the cold, wet air of Revensk a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the auction hall. The drive back to the Voronin Manor was a blur of rain-slicked streets and Liri’s agitated voice, detailing fragments of her father’s struggle, of Marek’s subtly insidious influence even then. The pieces clicked into place, laying bare a web of manipulation and sacrifice. Just as Zoryan pulled up to the dilapidated gates of the manor, his phone blared, the harsh ringtone cutting through the night. It was Captain Molchan. He braced himself, knowing this wouldn’t be a friendly check-in. “Volkov! Don’t you ever answer your damn phone?!” Her voice was a furious crackle of static, laced with barely contained rage. “What in the blazes are you playing at? My superiors are breathing down my neck! Your ‘official’ investigation into the Voronin case has gone completely off the rails! Unauthorized informants, suspicious activity flagged by half the patrol units in the district, and a total lack of actionable intelligence from your end! I gave you leeway, Zoryan, but this… this is beyond the pale! You have twenty-four hours to bring me something concrete, something undeniable, or I’m pulling you off this case. And then, I’m suspending you without pay!”

Scars and Souvenirs