Kasian Volkov. The name settled in Anja’s memory, heavy and cold as river stone. His gaze, devoid of any warmth she remembered, swept over her, then beyond to the Baranov manor. No acknowledgment, no flicker of recognition, only a professional coolness that cut deeper than any insult from Igor. He extended a gloved hand, not to her, but to the footman, who promptly shut the lacquered door with a soft click. Kasian turned, his back now to her, and spoke to a junior attendant who had materialized from the manor’s shadowed doorway. He discussed travel arrangements, a manifest of goods, his voice low, crisp, and utterly impersonal. Anja stood by the carriage, the last wisps of morning mist clinging to her worn dress, feeling like a ghost in her own life. This wasn’t the Kasian who had shared stolen plum tarts by the river, the boy who’d shown her how to skip flat stones across the water. This was Lord Volkov, a man whose presence commanded immediate, silent deference. The journey to Olenka was long, silent, and unsettling. He occupied the plush velvet seat opposite her, a book open in his hands, though his grey eyes rarely moved. The city unfolded outside the window—grand boulevards, gas lamps already lit despite the early hour, towering, ornate buildings that seemed to touch the bruised sky. Then came Zorya. It rose like a frosted dream, spires of carved stone reaching for the clouds, its dark volcanic glass and pale marble façade gleaming under the evolving light. But behind the grandeur, Anja felt a prickling unease, a sense of polished traps. The vehicle deposited them in a vast, echoing courtyard paved with iridescent stones that shimmered like captured starlight. Aspiring artists, mostly young women, milled about, their dresses of silk and fine wool a stark contrast to Anja’s mended frock. Murmurs rustled through the gathered crowd. Eyes, some curious, some disdainful, landed on her. Kasian stepped out first, his very presence an immediate magnet, drawing all attention. He turned, offered her a hand, a gesture purely formal, and his touch was fleeting, cool. His grip was strong, but offered no comfort. “Welcome to Zorya, Miss Mrazova,” he murmured, his voice flat. He released her hand before she could properly register the contact. “Your registration will be handled by the staff.” He nodded curtly towards a stern-faced woman in a deep indigo uniform then, without another word, strode away, disappearing into a grand archway. Just like that, he was gone, leaving her exposed. A girl with a cascade of tightly coiled auburn hair and a dress of emerald velvet stepped forward, a smirk twisting her lips. Her eyes raked over Anja, pausing pointedly at the patched hem of her dress. “A new scholarship student, I presume?” The girl's voice was like thin glass, sharp and tinkling. She gestured to Anja’s clothes with a manicured finger. “Or did you mistake the entrance for the servants’ quarters?” A ripple of suppressed laughter followed her words. Anja’s face burned. She felt the familiar grip of humiliation, but beneath it, a nascent ember of fury began to glow. Before Anja could formulate a retort, a rich, resonant voice cut through the courtyard’s murmur. “Patroness Rostova, your wit is only outmatched by your lack of decorum.” Kasian Volkov had reappeared, standing on a raised platform by the conservatory entrance. His tone was not loud, but it carried an undeniable authority that silenced the girl instantly. “Miss Mrazova arrives under my personal sponsorship. Let her standing here be clear: she is an artist of significant promise, not a subject for your paltry jests.” His grey eyes, cold and precise, fixed on her. “Do I make myself understood?” She blanched, her emerald dress suddenly seeming less vibrant. “Yes, Lord Volkov. Forgive my oversight.” She dipped into a shallow curtsy, her face a mask of forced politeness, then retreated, her previous confidence evaporated. Kasian’s gaze then drifted to Anja, a brief, inscrutable flicker, before he turned and vanished once more into the depths of the institute. He had defended her, yes, but with an icy distance that left her feeling more like a sponsored project than a person. The humiliation, though quelled, festered, now tinged with a new, complex resentment towards him. The examinations were held in the Grand Oculus, a vast circular hall where light poured in through vaulted glass ceilings, illuminating intricate murals depicting legendary Luminal creations. Anja, along with a dozen other hopefuls, stood before a semi-circular dais. At its center sat Patron Raskina, her silver hair pulled back in a severe knot, her eyes like chips of amber that seemed to see directly into one’s soul. She wore robes of deep violet, embroidered with stylized constellations. “Prospective artists,” Patron Raskina’s voice was low, yet carried to every corner of the chamber, “you are here to demonstrate not merely skill, but essence. Luminal Art is born of profound emotion. Show us yours.” She gestured to the obsidian sand that rested in a small, lacquered box on a pedestal before Anja. “Miss Mrazova. Begin.” Anja stepped forward, ribs vibrating under tight linen. She looked at the volcanic grit, then at Patron Raskina’s unyielding gaze. Her mind conjured Igor’s sneering face, the gleam in his eye as he crushed the glass bird, the years of her brother’s hacking cough, the cold attic, the hunger. The fury, a deep, burning coal, ignited. She reached out, her fingers trembling as they dipped into the dark sand. It felt gritty, cold, yet alive with potential. She closed her eyes, letting the emotion surge. It was not just anger, but the grinding, corrosive despair of powerlessness, the agonizing ache of her brother’s frailty, the bitter taste of shattered dreams. The very air around her began to hum, a faint, almost imperceptible vibration. The coarse black grains between her fingers warmed, then began to shift, coalescing with an impossible grace. It spun, elongated, sharpened. Her hands moved, deft and precise, guided by an unseen force. She wasn’t thinking; she was feeling, pouring every ounce of her bottled rage and sorrow into the creation. A shape emerged—fragile, delicate, yet bristling with razor-sharp edges. It was the bird, Misha’s bird, recreated. But this version was not smooth and gentle like the glass. This was a furious bird of jagged jet-glass, its wings spread wide in a silent scream, its eyes piercing voids. Each feather was a sliver of darkness, each line a cut of pain. It seemed to shiver with contained violence, its beauty chilling. [Luminal Art: Sorrow-Forged Obsidian Shardwing created. Emotion resonance: Extreme Rage, Profound Despair. Potency: Exceptional.] A collective gasp filled the chamber. Even Patron Raskina’s stoic expression softened into something akin to awe. The air thrummed with the raw power emanating from the sculpture. Anja opened her eyes, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The bird, perfectly formed, stood on the pedestal, a monument to her torment. It was terrifyingly beautiful. “Remarkable, Miss Mrazova,” Patron Raskina finally said, her voice husky with admiration. “You are admitted to the Zorya Academy.” Later that day, assigned to a small workroom in the artists’ wing, Anja found herself arranging the meager tools provided. The chamber was sparse but functional, with a large, gleaming workbench. As she unpacked a small pouch containing her own worn carving tools, a shadow fell over her. Rostova stood in the doorway, her lips thinned, her eyes glittering with resentment. Her earlier humiliation had clearly festered. “So, the gutter sparrow can indeed sing,” the girl sneered, stepping into the room. “Don’t let that fluke of a performance give you airs, orphan. Patron Volkov might have vouched for you, but Zorya has its own way of sorting the chaff from the wheat.” She moved towards Anja’s workstation, her hand reaching for a delicate glass annealing wand. Her intent was clear: a careless knock, a shattered tool, a small, vindictive act of sabotage. Anja moved to block her, a fierce protectiveness rising. “Don’t touch that.” Before Rostova could retort, a low, melodic chime echoed through the room. Anja glanced towards a small, ornate plinth in the corner she hadn’t noticed before. A faint, pale glow emanated from it, illuminating an unfurling roll of parchment. It was inscribed with delicate, glowing script, lines of arcane contract magic weaving across its surface. A small, sealed vial attached to the parchment ribbon pulsed with a soft, steady light, reflecting Anja’s own image, subtly distorting it, pulling at the edges of her memory. Veronika paused, her hand hovering over the annealing wand, pupils dilating at the unexpected manifestation. The air grew dense with unseen power. The ink, though alien, seemed to burrow into Anja’s mind, the binding clauses of her anonymous sponsorship, the terms of her admission, suddenly, chillingly clear. She was no longer just an artist; she was a vessel, bound. “A new contract, Miss Mrazova?” Patron Raskina’s voice, smooth and knowing, drifted from the doorway. Anja spun around. Raskina stood there, her amber eyes fixed not on the interloper, but on the glowing parchment, a calculating expression on her face. “Sorrow is our most valuable commodity, Miss Mrazova. Do try not to waste it on petty squabbles.”

A Cage of Gilded Sorrows