A scream, sharp and involuntary, tore from Eszter’s throat as the fragment of glass, spun by some unseen force, arced towards her. Valeriusz moved with sudden speed, diving between Eszter and the falling glass to shield her body as the shard struck his collarbone with a wet thud. He grunted, a sound ripped from deep within his chest, but did not fall. Blood, dark against the pale fabric, bloomed quickly. Márton, galvanized by the sight, shouted, “Vera! Stop this!” The sickening purple light above intensified, pressing down like a physical weight. The very air grew thick, shimmering with raw, untamed magic. “She’s trying to dismantle the ward from the outside,” Márton explained, his voice strained. “It requires immense focus, a constant flow. She can’t maintain it for long if she’s distracted.” Valeriusz gripped Eszter’s arm, his face a grim mask, pain a distant thing in his eyes. “We must buy him time.” He nodded towards Márton. “Go, Márton. Do what you must. I will draw Orsolya’s venom.” “You are hurt,” Eszter began, reaching out as dark red soaked the linen of his sleeve. He shook his head, a harsh, dismissive gesture. “It matters little. The manor is being breached. We have no choice but to face her.” His gaze met Márton’s, intense and resolute. “Can you do it?” Márton, already moving towards a recessed alcove carved into the conservatory’s rocky foundation, pulled a small, worn pouch from his belt. “I can. But I need the ward’s energy to reverse the memory suppression fully. It will be dangerous.” He poured a handful of dried herbs into a small, etched bowl, his hands moving with surprising speed and precision. “Then make it count,” Valeriusz said, turning to Eszter. “We go to the Grand Hall. Make a show of it.” They emerged from the hidden passage into the Spire’s labyrinthine corridors, the sounds of assault growing louder with every step. The main doors, Valeriusz’s first line of defence, were groaning under repeated blows, splintering wood audible even from this distance. Valeriusz moved with a strange, fierce grace, the torn wool pulling at his torn flesh, but his bearing remained level. “Orsolya will expect me to be a cowering madman,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Show her otherwise.” He looked at Eszter, a raw plea in his eyes. “Do not let her see fear.” Eszter met his gaze, a steel-like resolve hardening her own. “Never,” she promised, her voice clear. The warmth of the locket beneath her dress pulsed against her skin, a quiet reassurance. They reached the Grand Hall just as the colossal iron-banded doors finally gave way with a deafening crash, showering the entrance with splinters. Regent Orsolya stood framed in the gaping maw, her features sharp and triumphant, flanked by a dozen of her uniformed guardsmen. Her personal enforcer, a hulking man named Gellért, stood beside her, resting his fingers on the pommel of a curved blade. The hall, usually awash in the cool, blue glow of the enchanted glass, was now pierced by the harsh, grey light of the stormy morning. “Nephew,” Orsolya purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you look unwell. And your dear wife, so pale.” She cast a dismissive glance at Eszter, then let her gaze linger on Valeriusz’s blood-soaked collar. “It seems your illness has finally begun to manifest outwardly.” Valeriusz stepped into the open, drawing Eszter slightly behind him. He stood tall, his stance unwavering despite the obvious injury. “A wound sustained defending my home from brigands, Aunt. Nothing more.” His voice was calm, devoid of the tremor Orsolya expected. Orsolya laughed, a brittle, unpleasant sound. “Brigands? Your own guards were nowhere to be seen, Valeriusz. You barricaded yourself here, a madman consumed by delusions. It is a mercy I arrive to relieve you of your burdens.” She gestured grandly at the broken doors. “The entire barony knows of your strange habits, your isolation. The talk of your inherited madness is no longer quiet. It fills every court.” “Rumours you started, Orsolya,” Eszter interjected, stepping out from behind Valeriusz, her voice cutting through the Regent’s pronouncements. “Fables you cultivated to justify this invasion. But no amount of slander can alter fact.” Orsolya’s smile faltered. She had expected Eszter to cower, to remain a decoration. “And what facts do you speak of, little bride?” she sneered. “The facts of your sudden interest in this barony, for one,” Eszter countered, her gaze sweeping across the assembled officers, whose faces showed confusion and disquiet. “You, who rarely visited, now break down its doors. You claim Valeriusz is mad, yet he stands before you, lucid and calm. You accuse him of negligence, yet he defended his home, even wounded. Where is the madness in that, Regent? Or is it simply a convenient excuse?” A murmur ran through the guardsmen. Orsolya’s face tightened. “Silence, girl! You know nothing of the Kantas curse.” “I know of your ambition,” Eszter retorted, unflinching. “I know of a regent who stands to gain immensely from her nephew’s incapacitation. And I know you chose a convenient time to strike – when Valeriusz was only just beginning to recover his memories.” Orsolya’s eyes narrowed. “Memories? What absurd fabrication is this?” Her voice was shrill, losing its composed edge. “He remembers nothing of that night because his own diseased mind wiped it clean!” “On the contrary,” Valeriusz spoke, his voice resonating through the vast hall. “I remember everything now. Thanks to Eszter. Thanks to Márton. And thanks to the Lady of this house, who knew you would try to bury the truth.” He turned his head slightly, a subtle gesture that included the shimmering, ever-present glass of the Spire itself. “The truth, Aunt, is not a thing that remains buried for long in a house made of eyes.” Orsolya scoffed, but a flicker of unease crossed her features. “More madness. The scrying glass merely shows the present, boy. It reveals nothing of the past.” At that exact instant, a deep, resonant hum began to vibrate through the entire structure of the Still-Glass Spire. It started low, a guttural thrum that pulsed through the very stones beneath their feet, rising in pitch until it was a clear, ringing note that seemed to penetrate bone. Every pane, every polished pane set into the walls of the Grand Hall, began to glow with an icy blue light. It was as if the Spire itself had awoken. Orsolya looked around, her arrogance giving way to a dawning horror. Gellért shrank back against the iron doors, gripping his hilt. The blue light intensified, then coalesced. Instead of distorted reflections of the present hall, the panes displayed a unified, impossibly clear image of the past. The grand study, a decade ago. Valeriusz’s parents stood by the hearth. Lady Kantas spoke urgently to his father before the heavy door burst open. Orsolya, younger, but undeniably her, her face contorted with cold fury. And beside her, Gellért, his blade already drawn. The reflected scene shifted to the terror in Lady Kantas’s eyes as Gellért lunged, his silvered blade plunging into Lord Kantas’s back. She rushed to intervene, only for Orsolya to seize her, wrenching her arm and pinning her to watch before driving an ornate dagger into her chest. The entire horrific scene unfolded in ghastly, vibrant detail across every glowing glass pane, undeniable, unedited. Orsolya’s face, contorted in murderous triumph, was broadcast to every corner of the Spire, and to every horrified officer in the Grand Hall. She shrieked, a sound of pure, raw terror, as the images played out. “No! This is a trick! A sorcerous lie!” But it was not a lie. The soldiers stared between the glass and Orsolya, pale and motionless. Gellért stood frozen, his hand slack on his weapon, trapped by the unarguable record. His younger likeness matched the face reflected in the blue glow. Valeriusz watched the final moments of his family, a decade of manufactured guilt burning away before absolute proof. Eszter stood rigid beside him, cold satisfaction replaced instantly by alarm. Orsolya, seeing her victory crumble and the men recoil, lunged toward the conservatory archway with feral intent, seeking Márton to break the ward. She would silence him, even if she had to tear the Spire apart to do it. The images across the glass began to distort wildly, threatening to crack under the sudden surge of rage and magic, but the truth had been seen. With a guttural roar, Orsolya snatched a discarded axe from one of her stunned guards, her eyes fixed not on Valeriusz, but on the hidden passage leading to the conservatory where Márton was still exposed, vulnerable.

The Unveiling