The Sun’s Zenith gala opened not with the customary bronze chime from the central needle, but with a cacophony that ground against Zita’s teeth. From the towering polished obelisks, ribbons of luminescence streaked the sky, while below, thousands of Kėdainiai citizens jostled across the courtyard, their shouts masking the trap being laid. She stood on a lower stone balcony, shielded by a translucent bend of deflected glare that left her a mere ripple in the air. Kazys and Rūta, dressed in ceremonial silk, stood ten paces off, exchanging measured pleasantries with a junior councilor from House Pergamum, blind to the tear Zita was about to rip across the afternoon. Fidget, a speck of gold dust, zipped past Zita’s ear, its frantic drone answering the needle-sharp ache behind her eyes. “Ready?” Zita murmured, her voice tight. The time-sprite pulsed, a tiny, terrified star. Zita closed her eyes, centering herself. This was an incision into the present. The parasitic curse deep in her marrow throbbed like bruised bone, signalling that her diversion violated the contract. This was a violation. She reached across the minutes. One hand aimed toward the distant execution dais, dark granite against the banners, while her other palm hovered over her siblings. A stream of draft-force ripped through her sternum, guided by Fidget’s frantic circuits. The air around her hissed like hot glass dipped in tallow. Her muscles screamed in protest. Her very being felt stretched, thin as glass. [WARNING: PARADOXIAL BRANCH INITIATED. UNSTABLE REALITY FORMED. CHRONAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.] A phantom weight tore loose from her ribs. It took her shape—a hollow twin woven of intent and stolen moments—firmed for a single breath, then snapped away toward the gallows across the ward. The departure carved an icy pit beneath her ribs. The spell’s parasitic voice shrieked behind her brow, showing her dozens of threads ending in gray ash. “Zita? You look ill,” Kazys called, turning from the councilor and squinting through the heat distortion where she stood. Zita forced a weak smile, dropping the illusion that shielded her, revealing her sweat-dampened face. “Just the heat,” she lied, clutching at a sudden, piercing cramp in her side. “Too many pyromancers throwing sparks.” She pressed her hand against her ribs, grounding herself. She was here. She was real. The echo was elsewhere. Her gaze swept over the plaza. The holiday was noise. Kostas had promised the resonance key to the secret ledger would beam from the central spire's transmission horn, masked inside the city-wide pyrotechnics. A single covert ping, meant for Coterie conspirators. She saw him then, a shadow detaching itself from the milling crowds, moving with an unnerving purpose. Grand Mage Kostas Balodis. His gaze locked onto hers with hard focus. He tilted his chin toward the high needle. The transmission was starting. Just as Zita prepared to channel her focus, a sudden chill permeated the air around them. The overhead beacons sputtered. Chancellor Valerija stepped onto the balcony flagstones, silent as grease on silk. Her public smile remained serene, but her pupils were pinpricks. She was alone, yet her presence seemed to dwarf the entire plaza. “My dear Zita,” Valerija purred, her voice carrying an unnatural resonance that cut through the courtyard din, “you always did have a flair for the dramatic. Sending a piece of yourself to play hero? Commendable, if utterly reckless.” Valerija knew. Bile rose in Zita’s throat. “How…?” Valerija chuckled, a soft, pleasant sound that twisted Zita’s stomach. “The curse within you, Zita, does not pick carriers by accident. I permitted your regression. I arranged the seal.” She paused, reading Zita’s rigid stance. “Every loop, every scramble to pull your siblings from the pyre, was an audition. The ultimate loyalty test. To see if you would truly break free of your sloth and become something worthy. To see if you possessed the ruthlessness, the conviction, to truly *lead*.” Her eyes narrowed, the benevolence replaced by something sharp and predatory. “And you have failed, Zita. You sought a loophole. You attempted to cheat the Requiem, to save them all without offering a true exchange. A weakness I cannot abide.” Valerija raised a hand, and the very air compressed around Zita. Magic, potent and ancient, lashed out, not as a blast of fire or force, but as a deliberate unraveling of Zita’s own temporal wards, making her feel exposed and vulnerable. “Now, let us see if your little echo can survive without *you* to anchor it, can’t we?” Zita stumbled, a jolt of agonizing pain shooting through her, a phantom wound from a distance. The echo was in danger. Valerija wasn’t just attacking Zita, she was attacking the connection, threatening to sever the temporal link. “Kazys! Rūta! Run!” Zita shoved both siblings down the stairs. A hammer of displaced seconds struck the stone balustrade, cracking granite and sending onlookers tumbling in panic. [SOURCE FREQUENCY DETECTED. DECRYPTION INITIATING. CHRONAL INTEGRITY: 47% AND FALLING.] The prompt flared behind her eyes as a bass hum rose from the transmission spire. The register was unspooling. Zita clenched her teeth against the splitting ache in her temples, splitting her focus to sustain the far-off twin, resist Valerija’s disruption, and catch the signal. Valerija stepped forward, smooth and unimpeded. “You choose a condemned thief over the seat I prepared for you? A waste.” Ribbons of decaying gray light whipped from her rings toward Zita’s chest. This wasn’t meant to simply incapacitate; it was meant to *erase*. Zita met the attack, a desperate shield of woven time forming around her, bending Valerija’s magic back on itself. The floor stones fractured. Down in the square, shrieks broke out as civilians scattered. Kazys and Rūta flattened themselves against the retaining wall. Kostas vaulted onto the balcony steps, a mantle of warding runes spinning from his cuffs, but Zita held the center. [DECRYPTION COMPLETE. BROADCASTING PROTOCOL ENGAGED. DURATION: 17 SECONDS.] A surge of triumphant, painful energy coursed through Zita. She had done it. With a final, explosive burst of her own fragmented life force, she amplified the decoded ledger’s contents, not just to the Coterie’s hidden channels, but through every public scrying mirror, every communication relay, every aetheric node in Kėdainiai. The entire city-state would hear. They would see. Across the plaza, the monoliths abruptly flickered. Columns of ledgers, dates, assassination payouts, and the black sigil of the Coterie washed over the polished stone faces. The names of senators, mages, merchants – names of the supposedly loyal, now exposed as conspirators. Valerija’s name, her direct orders, her chilling correspondence with the highest echelons of the Coterie, all laid bare. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by a stunned, then furious roar. Valerija’s face, for the first time, showed a flicker of true shock, quickly replaced by a furious snarl. “Impossible!” she shrieked, her control wavering. Around them, mages loyal to her, who had been subtly preparing to join the fray, froze, their eyes fixed on the damning projections, then on their Chancellor. Their expressions shifted from allegiance to dawning horror, then cold betrayal. A few even began to raise their staves, not against Zita, but against Valerija. “The people of Kėdainiai deserve to know the truth!” Zita gasped, her voice hoarse, her body wracked with tremors. The parasitic hex roared through her arteries like burning lye. Tendons pulled taut as dry twine. Defying the toll demanded an immediate substitute, shearing away her skin and marrow in equal measure. Valerija, seeing her loyalists turn, abandoning her in droves, snarled, her eyes blazing with pure hatred. “You exposed our names, girl, but you stripped your own anchors! The toll will swallow you whole!” Valerija lunged with bare, unshielded malice, fingers crooked toward Zita’s throat. Before Valerija’s claws struck home, a flare of pale blue barrier slammed out from Kazys and Rūta, knocking the Chancellor back two strides. It bought only seconds. The parasite inside Zita took its bite, dragging her down into black static. Her senses unraveled; the distant twin fighting at the scaffold faded to a pinprick. Valerija smiled through the wreckage as cold jaws snapped shut around Zita’s core, tearing her free from the hour.

The Hour of Reckoning