The splintered door buckled inward, groaning like an old man’s knees before giving way entirely. It hung precariously from a single hinge, revealing a figure silhouetted against the smog-choked streetlamp glow. He was a brute, clad in reinforced black lamellar armor, his helmet a visored maw that seemed to swallow the light. A heavy, bladed truncheon hung at his hip. Behind him, two lesser guards, unarmored but similarly grim, peered into the mortuary’s gloom. “Master Kruk?” The officer’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection. “I am Sentinel Voryn. We have reports of an unsanctioned Awakened individual, believed to be a runaway from justice, seeking refuge on these premises.” Yaroslav stood his ground, a thin, almost apologetic smile playing on his lips. He wiped a smudge of dust from his stained apron, a deliberate, slow movement. “Sentinel Voryn, a pleasure. Or, well, not a pleasure, exactly. But an honor, I suppose, for your order to grace ‘The Last Welcome’ with its presence. Though I must confess, the standard procedure usually involves a warrant, not a… spontaneous re-landscaping of my entrance.” He gestured idly at the ruined door. Voryn ignored the barb. His gaze swept the small reception area, lingering on the polished slab where Yaroslav had just worked. “A suspect, Kruk. Answers to the name Volya. Female. Known for erratic behavior and unauthorized Core manipulation.” Yaroslav sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Ah, Volya. Yes, I’m quite familiar with the name. In fact, I have two of them in my care right now.” He waited, letting Voryn’s posture stiffen, before continuing, “Their remains, that is. Elderly couple, died of the Consumption three days apart. Very sad. I’m preparing them for cremation. Not very rebellious of them, I assure you.” He stood quiet a beat too long, watching the man's gaze narrow. From inside the morgue drawer, Zima could hear the muffled thud of footsteps, the creak of old floorboards. The air was cold, smelling faintly of formaldehyde and something metallic. Her Core, usually a vibrant furnace, felt like a dying ember. A useless, angry ember. She pressed her teeth together, her nails digging into her palms. *Coward. Hiding in a corpse drawer.* Her anger wasn’t just for Yaroslav, but for her own weakness. Yaroslav leaned against his counter, crossing his arms. “Look, Sentinel. My records are meticulous. Every soul that passes through these doors is cataloged, identified, and processed according to municipal regulations. You’re welcome to peruse my ledgers. I have a stack of death certificates so tall, it’d make a librarian weep. No ‘unauthorized Core manipulation’ in here, unless you count the spontaneous dissolution of tissue. Quite common, really, when the lights go out for good.” He winked, a dry, morbid gesture. Voryn’s helmeted head tilted slightly. “Your glibness is noted, undertaker. But my intel is precise. A young Awakened female, heavily injured, was seen entering this establishment roughly six hours ago.” Yaroslav clicked his tongue. “Ah, that. Yes. Young apprentice from the foundry, came in with a rather nasty case of… ‘enthusiastic experimentation’ with a faulty alchemical array. Burn wounds, third degree, some minor arterial damage. Nothing for your masters to worry about, unless you’re starting to regulate kitchen accidents now. She’s stable, sleeping off a potent soporific. Her family paid upfront. Perfectly legitimate. I assure you, officer, the only absconders I deal with are those fleeing the grasp of life itself. And even then, I usually catch them.” He gestured to a dusty urn on a shelf, labeled ‘Unclaimed.’ Voryn took a step closer, his eyes scanning the back wall, the faint outlines of the morgue drawers. Zima felt cold prickle the nape of her neck, bracing against discovery. She forced herself to remain absolutely still, barely daring to breathe. Pavel, from inside her mind, chirped, *“He’s looking! He’s looking! Perhaps a little cough? To distract him?”* Zima stifled a furious internal scream. Yaroslav straightened, his voice dropping slightly, losing some of its jovial morbidity. “Sentinel, I run a neutral establishment. The dead don’t discriminate, and neither do I. If your superiors have reason to believe a specific individual has committed an offense, I suggest you obtain a proper writ of search and seizure. Otherwise, you are impeding a licensed professional in the execution of his duties. And, frankly, you’re letting the cold air in. My heating bill is already scandalous enough.” Voryn stared at him for another long moment, his gaze unwavering. Yaroslav met it, his own expression neutral, though his internal clock was ticking. The officer was thorough, but also bound by protocols. To push further without a warrant would risk a formal complaint from the Guild, a bureaucratic headache his order preferred to avoid. Especially with someone like Kruk, who notoriously knew every obscure regulation backward and forward. Finally, with a frustrated grunt, Voryn turned. “This is not over, Kruk. We will be watching.” He signaled his men. “Move out.” The two unarmored guards followed, casting wary glances at Yaroslav. Voryn stopped at the threshold, kicking at the splintered door. “You’ll need a new door, Kruk.” “Indeed,” Yaroslav replied, the glibness returning. “Perhaps the Conclave has a fund for ‘accidental’ property damage? I’ll send you the invoice.” Voryn snarled softly, a sound more of annoyance than threat, before he stepped out into the night, the remaining piece of the door swinging shut with a mournful creak. Yaroslav waited until the distant thud of their boots faded into the general din of Taranov’s industrial district before he moved. He walked to the back wall, pulled on the handle of the modified morgue drawer, and slid it open. Zima blinked at the sudden light, her eyes still adjusted to the absolute darkness. She pushed herself up, glaring at him. “That was… unnecessarily close.” “You should thank me,” Yaroslav said, pulling her out onto the floor. She wobbled on weakened legs, still feeling the magical drain. “They would have taken you. And without a Core, you would have been entirely at their mercy.” “I could have fought them!” she hissed, though her voice lacked conviction. “No, you couldn’t. Now, stay here. I need to secure the perimeter.” He turned to assess the damage to the front door, muttering about bureaucratic incompetence. He hadn’t taken three steps when a soft chime resonated from the small, cluttered desk. A crystalline glow emanated from a silver-filigreed letter opener, pulsing with a gentle, azure light. Zima watched, curious despite herself, as Yaroslav picked up the ornate tool. The light intensified, coalescing into a shimmering phantom above the desk. A woman’s face, kind and serene, formed in the air. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, her eyes warm and intelligent. It was Matron Dariya, head of the Mender’s Conclave and Yaroslav’s former mentor. “Yaroslav, my dear boy,” Dariya’s transmitted voice was soft, laced with genuine affection. “It has been too long. I trust you are well?” Yaroslav’s face remained impassive, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the letter opener. “Matron Dariya. A surprise. And a rare one, given your usual duties.” Dariya’s smile broadened. “Indeed. But certain… matters have arisen that require my personal attention. And yours, it seems. I understand you have a certain young woman in your care. A Miss Zima Volya.” She hesitated, her gaze seeming to pass through the apparition, directly at Yaroslav. “She is… a key, Yaroslav. A key to a brighter future for Rodinya. Her path is fraught with peril, and she will need guidance. Your guidance.” Yaroslav said nothing, merely watched the ethereal image. Zima, standing behind him, shifted uneasily. The Matron’s words, so warm, carried a strange undercurrent. “The Conclave, of course, has many demands on its resources,” Dariya continued, her voice gentle, almost conspiratorial. “And while we are ever vigilant against… unconventional medical practices, we also understand the necessity of pragmatism in these trying times. Certain… indiscretions may be overlooked, should cooperation prove… fruitful.” Yaroslav felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He’d known this was coming, but hearing it, sensing her calculated leverage, was different. He saw it then, a fleeting glint in Dariya’s kind eyes – a momentary flash of cold, calculating ambition that mirrored precisely the light he’d seen in the man who had ushered in the end of his previous world. The same ruthless pragmatism, hidden beneath a veneer of benevolence. *A purification*, she had called it, in his forgotten past. He’d almost convinced himself he was wrong, that she was truly kind. Dariya’s image flickered slightly, then stabilized. “Zima will require assistance in her… endeavors. Her next step involves an information broker known as ‘The Whisperer.’ You will find him in the Gears district, near the old Cogfall market, at an establishment called ‘The Rusting Bolt.’ I trust you will ensure her safety and provide her with whatever she requires.” The phantasm flickered one last time, then dissolved into motes of light, leaving the silver letter opener dark and inert on the desk. Yaroslav stared at the empty space, the lingering scent of ozone in the air, the address echoing in his mind. The Gears. The Rusting Bolt. A new chess piece had been moved onto the board, and he was being forced to play. He turned to Zima with a hard scowl, knowing his quiet life had just been irrevocably shattered.

A Message from the Matron