“We need to talk. The Chancellor is trying to kill us all.” Kostas’s jaw, still tight from the exertion of the fight, slackened. His gaze fixed on Zita, caught between disbelief and comprehension. “Valerija?” The name was barely a breath, a sacrilege against the very air of the Veidota Institute. Fidget, a frantic blur of iridescent wings, zipped around Zita’s head, emitting a low, distressed hum. The metallic tang of the vanished killer lingered, a bitter proof. “Not here.” Zita’s voice was hoarse, her throat still burning from the smoke. Her gaze swept over the opulent, now slightly singed, ballroom. Any moment, guards would arrive, drawn by the clash of arcana. “Your sanctum. The one with the reinforced wards. Now.” Kostas didn’t question it. The implied knowledge of his private retreat, a place known only to a select few and heavily guarded against scrying, was another impossible piece in the puzzle that was Zita Vaitkus. His mouth set in a hard, unforgiving line. “Follow me. And keep your arcane signature contained.” He moved with a predator’s grace, pulling Zita through a service corridor she didn’t recognize, past a dizzying maze of less-frequented passages. The further they went, the older the stone felt, chilled and stagnant with age. Finally, they descended a spiraling staircase, the polished marble giving way to rough-hewn granite. A massive, iron-bound door, intricately carved with arcane glyphs, blocked their path. Kostas pressed his palm against a specific sigil. The glyphs flared, humming with suppressed power, and the door ground open with a deep, resonant sigh. Inside, the room was spartan, almost monastic. A heavy, unadorned stone table dominated the center, surrounded by four equally plain chairs. Shelves lined the walls, not with books, but with ancient, glowing crystals and intricate runic constructs. No windows marred the thick stone. This was not a place for comfort, but for absolute security and contemplation. The air tasted of ozone and ancient magic, a stark contrast to the grand, superficial elegance of the Institute above. Kostas activated a series of additional wards with a silent gesture, sealing them within a cocoon of protective energy. The very air seemed to thicken, pressing down lightly. Only then did he turn to Zita, his expression unreadable. “Explain. Every impossible detail. From the containment breach you ‘corrected’ to the assassin tonight. And do not lie. I will know.” Zita met his gaze, unflinching. The luxury of obfuscation was gone. The failure at the gala had stripped her of that option. “Five years ago, I died. Kazys and Rūta died. We all perished at the midsummer rites, orchestrated by the Silent Coterie. Then I woke up, five years back, with memories of what was to come.” Kostas remained still, absorbing her words. His initial skepticism warred with the undeniable evidence of her impossible knowledge, the precise details of his sanctum, the very real attempt on his life. “You speak of regression. A myth, a theoretical abomination of chronomancy. The Requiem.” His voice stayed low, edged with sharp curiosity. “Why you? And why come to me?” “The curse chose me. It’s parasitic. And I came to you because you’re the Grand Mage. You have resources, influence, and more importantly, you’re not part of their cabal. Or rather, you weren’t, in my previous life. You were a rival, but an honorable one.” Zita recounted the key events: the vision of Kazys and Rūta slaughtered, her forced intervention in the labs, the accidental binding of Fidget, the Senator Kairys homicide, the Laima paradox, Valerija’s sigil, and the devastating fallout of her subtle meddling. She described the entity's brutal lessons, the blinding headaches, the visions of branching paths, the agony when she tried to save a life without offering another. As she laid out Valerija's syndicate, House Veridian's involvement, and the Chancellor's true reach, Kostas listened, his suspicion giving way to cold fury. “The Chancellor,” he finally articulated, the name a venomous hiss. “And the Veridian puppets. It fits. The rising influence, the sudden ‘accidents’ that removed inconvenient senators… I dismissed them as political maneuvering, albeit ruthless.” He ran a hand through his perpetually neat hair, ruffling it slightly. “You say they plan to murder your family at the Sun’s Zenith Festival. And me, apparently, if tonight was any indication.” “That was the original plan for Kazys, Rūta, and me. Now, with my interference, things are accelerating. The gathering is in six days.” Stone seemed to press against Zita's ribs. “I need access to their operations, their roster. Something concrete to expose Valerija, not just my pre-cognition.” Kostas stared at her with calculating intensity. “My resources. Your insight. A dangerous gambit.” He paused, then rose. “I had my own suspicions, though I lacked proof. Whispers of an inner circle that held the levers. But they leave no trace.” He walked to one of the crystal shelves, tracing a specific rune. “However, I intercepted something weeks ago. A secured parcel, an encrypted register, that I suspected belonged to them. It resists every cipher I know.” He pulled a small, lead-lined box from behind a crystal and set it on the table. “I don’t know what’s inside, but the signature was strange.” Her throat tightened. “A register? That could be it.” She reached for the box. Inside, nestled on velvet, lay a slender volume bound in dark, unmarked hide. It hummed with faint, suppressed energy. She reached out, fingers hovering above the binding. [Temporal flux detected. Direct interaction with secured object may trigger localized causality distortion. Proceed with caution.] Fidget darted forward, a tiny, frantic beacon of warning. Its usually bright wings pulsed with an agitated, dull red. It pressed itself against Zita’s hand, a tiny shield, then pointed one minuscule, translucent arm at the volume, vibrating with distress. “*Ward! Ward! Strong… too strong… it fights you!*” Zita felt it now, a static scrape against her chronological senses. This wasn’t merely an encryption; it was a chronomantic seal designed to repel pre-cognition or manipulation. Her vision narrowed, tracing thin lines of defensive weave swirling around the binding. This wasn't just syndicate property; it held secrets guarded against the exact discipline she wielded. “It carries a chronomantic ward,” she confirmed, pulling her hand back slightly. “Not just a cipher. It’s actively pushing against my senses. It knows.” Kostas leaned closer, his features rigid. “Then my efforts to crack it were futile. That explains why its internal matrix eluded me. But if it was made to be read, there must be a key. A release sequence.” “Yes,” Zita murmured, her mind racing, drawing on flashes of half-forgotten details from her past life. “I remember now. A rumor. The faction uses a brief, specialized frequency. A ‘Solstice Key’ broadcast. Once every year, during the midday celebration. For sixty seconds, at the solar peak.” Her gaze met Kostas’s. The Sun’s Zenith rites. The day Kazys and Rūta were slated to die. The cipher to break the conspirators would broadcast during their moment of greatest peril. Fidget suddenly shrieked, a high-pitched, almost human sound of pure terror. It was no longer pointing at the volume but at Zita herself, then frantically at the dark cover, its body quivering. “*Ward! Growing! It’s learning you! Fighting you!*” A needle of fire drilled behind Zita’s eye socket. Not the full agony of regression, but a burning probe from within the pages, cataloging her presence and pushing back. The dark hide pulsed with faint, gray luminance, stirring awake against the intruder.

The Traitor's Ledger