The stone walls of the lower vaults pressed in, smelling of damp earth and disuse. Anja’s vision swam as the guards dragged her deeper, their grip like iron bands. The corridor ended in a heavy, riveted door, behind which a low thrumming vibrated through the floor. They shoved her inside. The chamber was circular, lit by a single, unblinking orb of chill light suspended from the ceiling. In the center stood a monstrous contraption, gleaming with polished brass and intricate clockwork gears. It was a chair, but not one for rest. Thick leather straps hung from its arms and legs, and a complex metal cage, studded with crystalline nodes, rose from its back, designed to encompass a head and chest. This was the 'Siphon Seat', whispered about in hushed tones amongst the students—a device rumored to drain raw feeling for the most desperate commissions. Anja felt a cold dread settle in her gut, colder than the lead that had numbed her hands. Patron Raskina stood beside it, inspecting a brass pressure gauge. Her smile, when she turned, was a predator’s delight. "Welcome, little girl," she said, gesturing to the chair. "Your covenant is clear. Default means liquidation. But sometimes, assets can be re-purposed. Your talent is simply too rich to waste on petty romantic delusions." Before Anja could protest, her captors shoved her down into the apparatus. The leather straps bit into her wrists and ankles, securing her tight. The metal cage descended, cold and unyielding, enclosing her head. She felt glass nodes pressing against her temples, her neck, her sternum. The air grew heavy, charged with an invisible hum. Raskina adjusted a dial. "The trick, you see," Raskina explained, her voice amplified by the enclosed space, "is precision. We don't want to merely *extract* an emotion; we want to *sculpt* it. To refine it into something pure, potent. And your particular gift for... despair, let us say, is exquisite. We just need to remind you of your proper artistic temperament." She twisted another knob, and a low thrumming intensified. Anja gasped. A searing cold plunged into her mind, not a physical chill, but a mental one that began to probe, to pry. It sought out the vibrant threads of her being, brushing past fear, rage, frustration, until it seized on the bright, golden strands of past days. The first image to flash behind her eyes was Misha’s face, laughing as she read him a story by candlelight. The memory fractured, tiny shards of light breaking away. A sharp, piercing agony lanced through her head, as if a part of her mind was being ripped out. She cried out, struggling against the restraints. [Siphon Mechanism: Initiating Draw. Target Core: Joy/Affection.] The image of Misha laughing wavered, the details blurring at the edges. His eyes, usually so clear, became indistinct. His smile, once so vivid, softened into a vague impression. The joy of that moment, the pure, unburdened happiness, was draining away, leaving behind only a faint echo. Anja fought, every muscle straining, a desperate, animalistic urge to protect what was hers. But the straps held, and the cold probing continued. "Resist all you like, Mrazova," Raskina said, her tone level and cool. "It only concentrates the yield. We need a despair so absolute it can be spun into cloth of desolate beauty for the Imperial Vaults." Another past afternoon surfaced, unbidden, and then violently seized: Misha’s small hand tucked into hers as they walked through the market, sharing candied fruit. The taste, the feel of his skin, the warmth of the sun – all of it began to fade, dissolving into a grey mist. A guttural sob tore from Anja’s throat. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t let them take him from her, even as a remnant. Suddenly, the heavy door to the vault chamber burst inward, slamming against the stone wall with a deafening crack. Kasian Volkov stood framed in the doorway, his aristocratic coat dishevelled, his jaw tight. Behind him, two personal retainers in midnight blue and silver stood ready, hands on their hilts. His gaze burned as it took in Anja strapped to the rig. "Raskina!" Kasian’s voice, usually a measured baritone, was a raw, commanding roar that echoed through the confined space. "Release her at once!" Raskina merely arched a brow, a sneer playing on her lips. "Lord Volkov. Impetuous, as always. As you can see, your *asset* is undergoing necessary... recalibration. She defaulted on her contract, failed to produce. The Zorya Academy reclaims what is ours." "She is *my* contracted artist!" Kasian strode into the chamber, stopping just before the Aura Harvester, his eyes fixed on Anja’s tormented face. The glass prongs pulsed with a sickly violet light. "And I invoke the Decree of the Twin Crowns!" Raskina’s sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. "That archaic nonsense? It hasn’t been spoken aloud in centuries!" "Nevertheless, it is codified," Kasian countered, his voice regaining a steely calm that belied his obvious rage. "Article 7, Section 3 of the Zorya Charter: 'When a sponsor's claim to a talent is disputed by the Academy due to creative stagnation or covenant default, the patron may invoke an Artistic Duel, pitting their selected hand against the Academy’s contender, to determine rightful claim.'" [Siphon Mechanism: Erosion Rate at 37%. Subject: Misha Mrazov: Laughter – Fading. Tenderness – Fading.] Anja could barely register Kasian’s words, the pain in her head was too intense. The memory of Misha’s hand, the feel of it in hers, was almost gone. She could only recall a vague sense of comfort, but the specific detail, the texture of his skin, was irretrievably lost. Tears streamed down her temples, mixing with the cold contact of the brass nodes. "An Artistic Duel?" Raskina laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "And who, pray tell, is your representative, Lord Volkov? Yourself? You, who have never lifted a brush, nor wielded an arcane needle?" "Not I, Patroness," Kasian’s eyes flickered to Anja, a flicker of profound regret in their depths. "My choice is Anja Mrazova. She will face your select. And the victor claims full rights to her indenture." Raskina’s amusement vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. "You would put a failing girl, whose marrow we are *currently draining*, against one of my perfected instruments? You seek to humiliate me, Volkov!" "I seek justice," Kasian stated, his gaze unflinching. "And for my weaver to be freed from this... torture." He pointed toward the seat, which kept up its relentless drone. "Her condition will be stipulated in the duel's terms. She will be given time to recover and prepare." Raskina’s eyes narrowed, weighing her options. To refuse the Sanction, however archaic, would be a public admission of weakness, an affront to the Zorya Charter. Kasian's proposal to use Anja was audacious, but not entirely groundless. "Very well, Lord Volkov," Raskina conceded, voice thin with venom. "The challenge stands. But know this: my contender will be Veronika Rostova. And she will tear your precious Mrazova to pieces, recollection by recollection." [Siphon Mechanism: Erosion Rate at 55%. Subject: Misha Mrazov: Candied Fruit – Fading. Specific Features – Fading.] The pain in Anja’s skull intensified, a relentless tearing. Misha’s face. It was almost a blank. She could see the outline of a child’s face, but the unique contours, the curve of his chin, the precise set of his eyes, were dissolving like mist in sunlight. Panic clawed at her throat. She wouldn’t remember him. She would forget her brother, the sole reason for her existence. Clarity sliced through the fog. She had been fighting the bronze frame, the pain, the drain. She had tried to halt the loss. But what if she stopped resisting the ache and instead seized the root of the joy, holding it tight before the mechanism could harvest it? She stopped thrashing. The academy retainers, anticipating another burst of struggle, tensed at her stillness. Anja closed her eyes, forcing herself past the searing agony. She didn't try to recall a specific memory. She tried to remember the *feeling* of Misha. The raw, unadulterated, overwhelming love for her brother. Not a recollection to be stripped, but a foundation. The marrow of it, before iron levers could target or erode it. [Siphon Mechanism: Unclassified input detected. Processing anomaly.] [Siphon Mechanism: System overload. Undefined resonance.] The drone of the brass rig pitched higher, screaming through teeth. The cogs ground against one another, throwing yellow sparks. The glass studs pulsed wildly, shifting from violet to blinding white, then to unstable gold. Smoke poured from the seams. Raskina took two quick steps back. Kasian lunged forward, his retainers drawing steel, but the mechanism groaned. The seat shuddered, then blew apart in a blinding flash. A thunderous roar tore through the vault as the apparatus exploded in brilliant, warm light, cracking the mortar of the walls and hurling everyone backward into the dark.

The Zorya Sanction