The piercing wail of the ley line alarm shuddered through the very foundations of the Imperial Palace, vibrating up Zoryan’s boots and into his bones. It was a raw, discordant shriek that spoke of tearing seams in the unseen world. Dust motes danced in the sudden, frantic tremor. Anasztasia, her composure fracturing, looked towards the high, arched windows where the outside world was painted in a furious, unnatural violet glow. Sasha let out a low, distressed whimper, burying its head into Anasztasia’s side. The locket lay forgotten between them. “They’re destabilizing them,” Anasztasia said, her voice a strained whisper, “the entire network. Far worse than my… incident.” Her eyes, usually so guarded, now held a desolate comprehension. Before Zoryan could respond, a thunderous crack echoed from somewhere deep within the palace's outer wards, followed by the guttural roar of something immense and enraged. The wail intensified, an unbearable screech that tore at the ears. “Stay here,” Zoryan ordered, his hand already on the hilt of his ceremonial longsword, ‘Veritas’. He didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t glance back. His duty was clear. He burst from Anasztasia’s rooms, the corridor already a scene of disarray. Servants sprinted, wide-eyed and terrified. Guards, their polished breastplates reflecting the unsettling violet light now filtering through the high windows, barked orders and scrambled into formation. Zoryan joined his squad of Varangian Guard, the disciplined clang of steel against steel as they readied their defenses a stark counterpoint to the growing panic. “North sector!” Captain Volkov, a distant cousin of Anasztasia’s family, bellowed, veins standing out on his neck. “Fiends breaching the Aethel Wards! They’re drawn to the raw ley discharge!” Zoryan ran. Daria, the locket, Kresimir’s ambition, and now this catastrophic attack—the conduits were being siphoned, torn wide, not just weakened. This was treason directed straight at the crown. He reached the North Sector, a wide, enclosed courtyard usually reserved for training. Now, it was a battleground. Jagged fissures, glowing with angry violet, had ripped open in the very cobblestones, through which hulking, chitinous beasts clawed their way. Their forms were vaguely lupine, but with six legs ending in razor talons and a gaping maw filled with needle-sharp teeth. They shrieked, a sound that vibrated with raw, untamed magic, and lunged at the nearest guards. “Hold the line!” Zoryan roared, deflecting a beast’s lunge with his shield, the impact rattling his arm. He brought Veritas down in a swift, practiced arc, slicing through thick hide. The beast howled, dissolving into a puff of dark, acrid smoke. More poured through the breaches, their numbers overwhelming. The air grew thick with ozone and the stench of burning rock. One of Zoryan’s comrades screamed as a beast clawed across his chest, its talons leaving deep gouges in his armor. He fought, a blur of shield and blade, moving with the cold efficiency of years of training. He saw other Guard detachments, distinguished by their colors—crimson, azure, emerald—and then, amidst them, a different uniform. Kresimir’s personal guard, clad in sable and obsidian, were not engaging the creatures. They were forming tight, disciplined ranks, not holding the breaches, but moving in a determined wedge. Towards the central spire. Towards the Throne Room. His stomach turned sour and hard. This wasn't a diversion. This was an insurrection. Suddenly, a shriek from the beasts turned into a whine of confusion. A wall of shimmering, frost-bound ice erupted from the ground, solidifying with impossible speed. It wasn't just a barrier; it was a curving, intricate structure, funneling the raging creatures away from a cluster of civilians huddled near a fountain. The ice pulsed with an ethereal blue light, impossibly resilient against the beasts’ desperate attacks. Then another barrier rose, and another, pushing the onslaught away from the most populated halls, directing them towards the outer battlements where the Guard was already arrayed in force. Zoryan spun, searching. He saw Anasztasia, standing on a balcony overlooking the courtyard, her arms outstretched, her face a mask of intense concentration. Her braid had come loose, strands of dark hair whipping around her face, and her eyes burned with an icy, resolute fire. She was channeling power from the ley lines themselves, bending the chaotic energy to her will, creating a network of frozen corridors that protected the innocent and isolated the threat. Sasha stood beside her, emitting soft, reassuring growls. The ‘Winter Witch’, publicly disgraced, was shielding dozens of servants, displaying a grasp over raw arcane flows Zoryan had never witnessed, even in the Empress’s most gifted magi. A beast, larger than the others, charged Zoryan’s position, its roar echoing with raw hunger. Before it could reach him, a shard of ice, sharp as a spear, burst from the ground and impaled it, rooting it to the spot. It dissolved. Anasztasia, from a distance, had seen his peril and intervened. He met her gaze across the chaos-strewn courtyard. Her chin lifted slightly, her chin tilted toward the central halls: *Go.* He nodded. His gaze snapped back to Kresimir’s men, now a focused spearhead, advancing unimpeded towards the imperial core. The ley line destabilization wasn’t a mere attack; it was a smokescreen. Kresimir wasn’t just trying to destabilize the Empire; he was making a direct play for the throne. And Anasztasia was the key he needed to frame, to remove, to clear his path to power. This entire chaotic ballet, this grand, destructive display, was orchestrated for one purpose: to allow Kresimir to seize control while the Empress was vulnerable, while the Varangian Guard was scattered, fighting a diversionary war.

The Arcane Siphon