Raskina’s words, slick and cold as polished obsidian, hung in the air, a final pronouncement over the wreckage of Anja’s momentary triumph. The glitter of the gala, the stunned faces of Olenka’s elite, the satisfying collapse of Igor’s façade – all of it shriveled beneath that quiet promise. *“Your next masterpiece will fetch twice the price.”* It wasn't praise; it was an ownership claim, a chilling reminder that her suffering was merely a commodity. Her vision blurred at the edges, not from tears, but from the sudden, disorienting shift in her own internal landscape. Misha. His face. A flicker, then a blank space where the sharp lines of his youthful features should have been. A panic unlike any she had known seized her, cold and swift. This was no longer about retribution; it was about holding onto the fragments of herself. She had to escape, not just the Academy, but the insidious thief stealing her essence. She retreated from the throng, past the murmuring nobles whose pity felt more invasive than their scorn, past the lingering scent of rich perfumes and the clink of crystal. She didn’t remember the journey back to her workshop, only the sudden, stark contrast of its quiet solitude. The air in the narrow room, usually thick with the scent of volatile sands and flux, now felt thin, almost brittle. She stumbled to her workbench, her hands shaking as she reached for a pristine sheet of glass, its surface reflecting the single gaslamp hanging above. She needed to prove it was a trick of the light, a figment of her overtaxed mind. She needed Misha. Not the fading boy of her art, but the vibrant, laughing child who had once shared her attic prison. She closed her eyes, searching for an anchor, a bright day from her childhood. The kind that fueled creation, not destruction. She found it: a sun-drenched afternoon, rare in their cold garret. Misha, small and eager, tracing letters in the dust on the floorboards as Anja recited the alphabet, his brow furrowed in concentration. The soft brush of his hair against her cheek as she leaned close, correcting a backwards ‘B’. The pure, unburdened joy of his small, triumphant smile when he finally sounded out a word. *’Bird’.* Her little glass bird. She opened her eyes, reaching for a vial of golden sands, intent on weaving that moment into something solid, something warm. Her hands moved with practiced precision, coaxing the shimmering grains onto the glass, willing the recollection to manifest. She saw the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, the worn fabric of Misha’s shirt, the way his lips shaped the unfamiliar sounds. But it was distant, like a faded painting. The gold sand refused to hold the scene's vibrancy. It dulled, losing its luster, as if the light itself had been siphoned away. Then, a sharp *crack*. A fissure spiderwebbed across the glass, right through the nascent image of Misha’s small, determined hand. It wasn't a structural flaw; it was a rejection. The sands crumbled, falling away into a useless pile on the workbench, taking with them the last vestiges of the golden light. Anja stared at the ruined piece, her breathing shallow and ragged. The recollection, vibrant just moments ago, now felt like a tale told by a stranger. The edges were fraying, the colors bled dry. The warmth was gone. Her chest constricted with a terrible, icy dread. It wasn't a trick. It was happening. The Fading. It was claiming her, piece by piece. She sank to the floor, her back against the cold stone wall, the glass shard digging into her palm unnoticed. The gaslamp flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock her. A profound despair settled over her, heavier than any physical burden. All her rage, all her carefully crafted revenge, had led her here, to this hollow emptiness. She was losing Misha, not to illness, but to herself. A soft click from the door startled her. Kasian Volkov stood in the archway, his usually immaculate attire slightly disheveled, his dark hair falling across his brow. His eyes, usually guarded and distant, held a raw vulnerability she had never witnessed. He didn't speak, just moved towards her, his gaze sweeping over the shattered glass, the scattered sands, and finally, her own broken form. He knelt before her, heedless of the dust and glass. “Anja,” he said, his voice a low rumble, stripped of its usual formality. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her cheek, then dropping to clasp her trembling wrist. “I… I should have told you sooner.” He paused, gathering his resolve. “I am your patron.” The words struck her with the force of a physical blow, yet they merely registered as another layer of betrayal. “You… you trapped me,” she whispered, the accusation an old, familiar ache. “No,” he countered, his grip on her wrist tightening, a desperate plea in his gaze. “I brought you here to save you. To teach you control before it was too late. Before *he* could steal it from you, just as he did your mother.” Her mother. The name was a phantom limb, an echo. Kasian continued, his voice urgent, each word a desperate confession. “Igor has been poisoning Misha. A slow-acting distillate, disguised in his tonics, designed to suppress his own budding Luminal talent. Igor fears it. Fears any talent that isn’t his to claim or profit from. He tried to do the same to your mother. To extinguish the very light within her. He knows the lineage. He knows Misha has it, just as you do. The weakness, the illness… it's all a consequence of the suppression, twisting his spirit as it tries to break free.” Anja stared, a dawning horror slowly displacing her despair. “His illness… the wisp of light…” Kasian nodded, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Your lifeforce, Anja. It has been tethered to his, an unconscious bond. You’ve been sustaining him, unknowingly. Your power, your raw, untamed Luminal Art, has been feeding him, keeping him alive against the poison. But it’s a drain, Anja. Every time you weave, especially from deep anguish, you pull from both of you. It’s why you feel the Fading. It’s why he grows weaker when you pour yourself into your art. Raskina knows. She saw the link, recognized its potential. She’s been pushing you, knowing you would create masterpieces of unimaginable power to save him, to hurt Igor, oblivious to the true cost.” He squeezed her wrist, his gaze locking onto hers, raw and pleading. “Forget revenge, Anja. We have to save him.”

The Memory Thief