Zita walked through the grand arches of the Veidota Institute, the phantom chill of Valerija’s office still clinging to her skin. The small victory of the document swap felt brittle, a shard of ice in her palm that promised to melt and betray her. Fidget, a frantic pulse of energy beneath her skin, hummed with a nervous frequency. The time-sprite had done its job, but its tiny form now vibrated with a faint, resentful static. Zita ignored it, her mind already on the next impossible task. She found Kazys and Rūta in the conservatory, a rare oasis of living light nestled within the Institute’s brutalist architecture. Verdant arbors, meticulously pruned, climbed towards a sky-dome that projected an eternal, gentle dusk. Luminescent flora cast soft, shifting colours across the flagstone paths. Kazys stood with a confident lean against a glowing cypress, his dark robes a stark contrast to the ethereal glow. Rūta sat on a polished quartz bench, scrolling through a data-slate, her expression sharp and guarded. “There you are, Zita,” Rūta said, looking up. Her voice was bright, but her eyes held a calculating glint. “We were wondering if you’d deign to grace us with your presence, or if you were still lost in the ‘profound’ depths of a napping session.” Kazys offered a lazy smile, though his posture remained poised. “Our esteemed chronomancer sister, always on the cutting edge of… rest.” Zita felt a familiar pang – a mix of affection and the old exasperation at their inability to see past her carefully constructed idleness. In the past, she’d encouraged it. Now, it was a prison. “I had things to attend to,” she replied, her tone deliberately vague. “Important things.” “Indeed,” Rūta mused, tapping her data-slate. “Like the sudden brilliance everyone’s whispering about? The containment anomaly? The Kairys affair?” Her gaze was too keen. “It’s quite uncharacteristic, Zita. Have you finally decided to apply yourself?” Zita bristled. “I apply myself when it matters.” She moved closer, choosing a spot on the bench beside Rūta, the soft light illuminating her siblings' youthful, confident faces. Their ambition, once a source of pride, now tasted like ash. “Which is why I want to talk about the House of Veridian.” Kazys’s smile tightened. “Ah, the return to form. The prophet routine. What profound insight do you have this time, Zita? That aligning with one of the most powerful Houses in Kėdainiai takes work?” “It’s dangerous,” Zita stated, her voice dropping. She lowered her own mental shields, letting a sliver of her urgency bleed into the air. Fidget pulsed, warning her against revealing too much. “They are not who they seem. Their alliances are fragile, their patrons… predatory.” Rūta scoffed, snapping her data-slate shut. “Predatory? Zita, you’re speaking of the Chancellor’s inner circle! The House of Veridian holds incredible sway. Their sponsorship would guarantee our rise through the ranks.” “Exactly,” Kazys added, pushing off the cypress tree. He paced a short arc on the flagstones. “We’ve been planning a significant move. The upcoming midwinter ball—the High Council will be there. We intend to formally declare our allegiance to Veridian and secure an audience with Archon Kaelis. It’s a bold stroke, one that will place us firmly on the path to the Senate.” A hollow numbness settled into Zita's ribs, despite the temperate air. She remembered that midwinter gathering vividly – not for statecraft, but for trivial chatter and a lavish spread. In her past life, the two of them had made no such public declaration. They had climbed the ranks slowly, cautiously, before being cut down at the Sun’s Zenith Festival. This was new. This was a deviation. This was a shortcut born of her own interference, her early warnings, and their interpretation of her 'sudden brilliance'. “A direct audience with Kaelis is suicide,” she insisted, her voice tight. “You don’t understand what lies beneath it. You’re moving too fast. There are… traps.” Kazys stopped, his expression hardening. “Traps? You think we’re children, Zita? We’ve been strategizing this for months. You, on the other hand, have always preferred the path of least resistance. Is it so hard to believe we might have sharper instincts than you?” Rūta stood, her eyes flashing with a familiar frustration. “This is precisely why we never involve you, Zita. You see danger in every shadow, simply because confronting it requires effort. We are not like you. We *want* to rise. We *will* rise. And we won't let your… particular brand of caution hold us back.” The sting of their words was a physical blow, a harsh reminder of the chasm that had always existed between them, now widened by the very secret meant to save them. Zita wanted to scream, to shake them, to show them the visions that haunted her. But the rules of the Requiem bound her tongue, and her chosen mask of laziness obscured her desperation. “Just… be careful,” she managed, the words hollow. “Please.” They exchanged a look, pity mixing with exasperation. “We will be, Zita,” Rūta said, her tone dismissive. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a great deal of preparation for the gala. Perhaps you can find a comfortable bench for your… thoughts.” With that, they turned and walked away, their confident strides carrying them deeper into the shimmering arbors, their figures eventually swallowed by the shifting light. Zita watched them go, a leaden weight settling in her chest. The conservatory, once a quiet retreat, felt suffocating. As the last echo of their footsteps faded, the familiar, insidious throb began behind her eyes. It was a dull ache at first, then a drilling pressure, as if a spike were being driven through her skull. Fidget, who had been a quiet hum, now flared in a frantic, screeching pulse within her, an alarm bell ringing against impending chronal rupture. [ERROR: PARADIGM SHIFT DETECTED. TEMPORAL ANOMALY SEVERITY: HIGH.] The pain intensified, blinding her. She clutched her head, her fingers digging into her temples. The moss and glass dissolved into fracturing lines of probability. She saw the midwinter hall—a glittering cavern, the air thick with perfume and cedar smoke. She saw Kazys and Rūta, resplendent in formal robes, moving with confident purpose towards Archon Kaelis, a figure of icy power. They were smiling, on the precipice of their triumph. Then, the vision warped. Not the Sun’s Zenith Festival. Not Valerija. A flash of emerald light, a sudden, blinding burst of energy from the very House they sought to align with. A scream. Not one assassin, but a coordinated detonation, a political purge disguised as a tragic accident. The colonnade shattered. Her brother and sister dissolved into ash. Gone. Months ahead of schedule. [REQUISITION: NEW TEMPORAL DEBT INCURRED. A LIFE FOR A LIFE.] The vision snapped back, the fragmented images burning into her mind. The migraine reached its peak, a screaming agony that threatened to tear her consciousness apart. She gasped, a ragged sound, falling to her knees on the cool flagstones. Her palms scraped the stone. Her shortcuts had opened a faster slaughterhouse. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker. Fidget, no longer a mere internal pulse, manifested as a tiny, shimmering mote of pure, condensed temporal energy, hovering just before her eyes. It trembled, a faint, almost imperceptible whimper echoing in Zita’s mind. Then, tentatively, the sprite drifted closer, a minute spark of golden light separating from its form and drifting towards her temple. It pressed against her skin, a feather-light touch, and for a fleeting, impossible moment, the searing agony of the Requiem receded. A faint numbness coated the raw nerves of her skull, dulling the agony without clearing it entirely. The world steadied. The green fronds solidified around her. Fidget, still hovering, pulsed with a gentle, inquisitive hum, its tiny form radiating a warmth that was entirely new. It was a silent offering, a gesture of unexpected empathy from the creature she had so carelessly bound. Zita, still gasping, reached out a trembling finger, and the time-sprite leaned into the touch, a tiny, fragile beacon in her storm-tossed existence. The migraine still throbbed, a dull ache now, but for the first time since her regression, she wasn't entirely alone in her suffering. Yet the reality of this accelerated catastrophe remained. She had bought herself less time, not more. And the midwinter ball was only a few weeks away. She had to stop them. But how, without revealing everything, without triggering an even worse outcome? The grim logic of the Hourglass Requiem offered no clean retreats. She needed a plan, and she needed it now. A plan that didn't march Kazys and Rūta straight into the Coterie's crosshairs.

The Price of a Shortcut