The exhaust fumes clawed at Zoryan’s throat, acrid and metallic. His lungs burned, each breath a ragged rasp against the sting of failure. Liri’s presence inside him was a frantic hum, a vibration of pure terror and mounting fury. “Which way?” he demanded, already sprinting, his gaze sweeping the rain-swept service road that snaked around the manor’s perimeter. The old asphalt was cracked, moss-grown in places, but the tire tracks of the utility van were fresh, dark lines across the damp surface. “North,” Liri’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp with urgency. “It’s the only way out of the Voronin estate proper, into the old industrial district. There’s… an abandoned facility there. The Vesperine Observatory.” Zoryan didn't question it. His legs were burning, muscles screaming in protest, but the image of Molchan’s slack form spurred him on. He plunged into the labyrinthine alleys of the industrial sector, the air thick with the smell of damp concrete and stagnant water. Twisted iron pipes snaked overhead, groaning in the wind, and the skeletal remains of defunct machinery loomed in the gloom like slumbering beasts. The Vesperine facility sat on the highest hill overlooking the city—a disused station relic no one visited. He pushed harder, ignoring the dull ache in his knees, the stitch in his side. Liri was a frantic pulse in his awareness, guiding him through the crumbling pathways, past derelict factories and rusting warehouses. “Left, now! Through that gap!” she urged, her voice strained. He barely registered the crumbling brickwork before he was through, emerging onto a wider, unpaved road that began to climb. The gradient was steep, the path strewn with loose shale, making every step treacherous. Minutes later, the dome loomed into view, a skeleton of pitted bronze and rusted steel against the bruised twilight sky. Its primary lens, long shattered, gaped like a blind eye. A single, weak amber light pulsed from within, a stark beacon in the encroaching darkness. Parked beside the crumbling structure, half-concealed by overgrown ivy, was the black utility van. And another vehicle, a sleek black sedan – Marek’s personal car. “We’re too late,” Liri’s voice was a raw, choked sound in his head. Zoryan didn’t reply. He raced the last hundred yards, his hand automatically going for the holster at his hip. The ornate iron doors were slightly ajar, a sliver of the pulsing amber light spilling out. He kicked the doors open, bursting into a vast, circular hall. The air was cold, damp, and thick with the copper stench of blood, ozone, and ancient dust. In the center, beneath the gaping aperture of the dome, Molchan lay unconscious on an elevated stone slab, her hands and ankles bound with thick, rope-like vines. Marek stood over her, his silhouette stark against the glow of numerous arcane candles arranged in a complex pattern on the floor. He wore a dark, ceremonial robe, its hood thrown back, revealing his face alight with manic fervor. In his left hand, he held the Amulet of Transference, its obsidian surface shimmering with an internal malevolence. “Zoryan. Liriana,” Marek’s voice, amplified by the curved vault, dripped with satisfaction. “You’ve come. Punctual, as always. You always did hate to miss the grand finale, Liri.” He gestured with the relic, its dark power coiling around him, making the air crackle. “Behold, the pinnacle of arcane power. Almost complete.” Zoryan’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint. “Let her go, Marek.” His voice was a low growl, barely recognizable. He drew his service pistol, the cold steel a familiar weight in his palm. Marek chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “And deny myself the full ascension? Never. Your interference, however, has proven… enlightening. A most unexpected variable. The bond between you two. Fascinating.” He took a step towards Molchan, the artifact pulsing faster. “This time, there will be no mistakes. No escape.” A guttural snarl ripped from Zoryan’s throat. He fired. The shot cracked through the hall, echoing off the curved walls. Marek didn't flinch. A shimmering, invisible shield flared into existence around him, deflecting the bullet with a high-pitched whine. The slug ricocheted off the wall behind him, embedding itself in the ancient stone with a dull thud. “Crude,” Marek sneered, his eyes glowing with an unholy light. He lifted the talisman higher, and a torrent of concentrated shadow erupted from it, slamming into Zoryan. It felt like being hit by a freight train, a crushing force that stole his breath and sent him sprawling. His head hit the cold stone floor with a sickening crack, and the world spun. He saw stars, not the celestial ones, but blinding bursts of pain. Liri’s presence flared, raw and desperate. *“Zoryan! Get up! He’s drawing on its full power!”* He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming, blood trickling from a cut above his eye. Marek advanced, a predatory smile twisting his lips. “You are but a hollow vessel, detective. A distraction.” He extended his free hand, and dark tendrils of energy snaked towards Zoryan, binding him, lifting him off his feet. Zoryan struggled, his limbs unresponsive, the energy leeching his strength. *“He’s playing with you,”* Liri’s voice seethed. *“His arrogance is his weakness. He wants to savor this.”* Suddenly, the distant wail of sirens pierced the night, faint at first, then growing louder, closer. A furious snarl ripped from Marek. He spun, his eyes darting towards the doors. “Impossible! How?” “Molchan’s sergeant,” Zoryan gasped, a grim satisfaction blooming in his chest. “He trusts me.” Marek’s face contorted in a mask of rage. “Insignificant gnats! They will not stop this!” He slammed Zoryan against a stone pillar, the impact rattling his teeth. The constricting tendrils tightened, suffocating him. Marek turned back to Molchan, the relic blazing, its power surging. “The alignment is upon us! I will complete this ritual, even if I have to burn this entire city to ash!” *“He’s vulnerable!”* Liri shrieked in Zoryan’s mind, her voice laced with a desperate resolve. *“His focus is split! I have an idea. It’s risky. Very risky. It might… it might break our connection.”* “Do it,” Zoryan choked out, fighting against the coils. “Whatever it takes.” A searing cold erupted within Zoryan, a sensation far more intense than any mere possession. Liri wasn’t just guiding him; she was *forcing* herself into the deepest recesses of his being, ripping through the carefully maintained barriers between them. His vision blurred, not from pain, but from a sudden, overwhelming torrent of memories that weren't his own. Liri's memories. Marek’s face, younger, tender, laughing. Then, the slow, insidious shift, the calculating gleam in his eyes, the casual betrayals, the twisted words of reassurance after her father’s death. Zoryan felt his own voice twist into something else, something with Liri’s lilt, Liri’s pain. “Marek… my love,” the words, though Zoryan's mouth, were undeniably Liri’s, dripping with a venomous sweetness he’d never heard from her before. “You thought I wouldn’t know? You thought I wouldn’t remember every lie, every false promise you whispered in my ear?” Marek froze, his arm still hoisted, the talisman pulsing. His head snapped towards Zoryan, genuine shock crossing his face. “Liriana? No! This is a trick!” “A trick?” Liri, through Zoryan, scoffed, a chilling, mirthless sound. “Like how you tricked Father into thinking you were just a curious scholar, not a ravenous viper planning to devour his entire legacy? How you ‘comforted’ me after he vanished, while you were already planning my sacrifice? You always loved the theatrics, didn’t you, Marek? The grand gestures. But you always preferred the shadows. So tell me, my dearest fiancé, did my ghost haunt your perfect little plans?” Marek staggered back, his face paling, the maniacal fervor draining away, replaced by a raw, naked terror. The invisible tendrils holding Zoryan wavered, weakening. The artifact's glow diminished, momentarily unstable. He had touched a nerve, shattered Marek’s composure with a precision only Liri could wield. *“Now, Zoryan!”* Liri screamed in his mind, the connection fraying, her phantom self sputtering like a dying flame. *“The talisman! Break it!”* With a surge of adrenaline, Zoryan tore free from the weakening coils. His body lunged forward under Liri's momentum. Marek, still reeling from Liri’s assault, reacted too slowly. He hoisted the stone, but Zoryan’s hand clamped around his wrist. With his other hand, Zoryan brought the butt of his pistol down, striking squarely against the obsidian. The impact was deafening. A thunderclap ripped through the rotunda, followed by a blinding flash of emerald light. The artifact shattered, exploding into a thousand glittering shards that rained down like deadly confetti. Raw, untamed magical force erupted from the epicenter, slamming into Zoryan, then Marek. The force of it threw Zoryan backward, pain erupting through every inch of his body. He landed hard, the pistol skittering across the floor. His vision swam, the world tilting precariously. Marek lay crumpled against the stone slab, unmoving, a faint wisp of dark smoke curling from his ceremonial robes. The arcane candles around the ritual circle extinguished in unison, plunging the floor into gloom, save for the pale, shifting beams of incoming police flashlights. The sirens were deafening now, right outside the doors. Zoryan struggled to breathe, the air heavy, charged. He looked down at his wrist, at the dull, inert silver locket. He felt… empty. The frantic hum, the constant, vibrant presence of Liri, was gone. Panic, cold and absolute, seized him. “Liri?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw with fear. “Liri, where are you?” Then, he saw her. A faint, translucent outline, shimmering just above his prone form. She was barely visible, a wisp of ether, her vibrant aura dimmed to a ghostly pallor. Her spectral form wavered, unstable, like smoke caught in a draft. She tried to speak, her lips moving, but no sound emerged. She extended a transparent hand towards him, her eyes, once so full of life and fire, now held an impossible sorrow, an infinite distance. And then, with a final, faint shimmer, she was gone, dissolving into the air as the first police officers burst through the doors, weapons leveled, their flashlights cutting through the gloom to illuminate Marek’s limp form and Zoryan’s face. One of the officers, a burly man Zoryan recognized from Molchan’s precinct, shouted, “Volkov! What the hell happened here?!” Zoryan stared at the empty space where Liri had been, a profound void pressing down on his ribs. He heard the footsteps approaching, the questions being shouted, but all he could focus on was the chilling silence within his own mind, the terrifying realization that her absence meant the bond was truly severed. What had he done? What had *they* done? Molchan stirred on the slab, groaning, slowly beginning to wake.

The Devil's Due