Copper coated Yaroslav’s teeth, the dark red pooling against the sterile white of the Order ledger. The vellum, still carrying residual aether, branded his sire a ‘defective Mender,’ condemned by Dariya for ‘terminal extraction.’ Not the crystalline sickness. Not a quiet, tragic end in a quarantined ward. A cold, deliberate murder. The past he had mourned collapsed into hollow ash.
“Yaroslav, your face is greener than a spring marsh,” Pavel chirped, flitting near his ear, his usual boundless energy tempered by a rare note of concern. “Are you sure you don’t need a nice, calming herb tea? I know a recipe my great-grandmother Volya swore by, involved three kinds of mushrooms and a goat’s beard.”
Yaroslav ignored him, pushing himself to his feet, the floor-scraping sound of his chair a harsh protest. The revelation burned, not with the immediate fury Zima often displayed, but with a deeper, colder rage. A quiet calculation began. Dariya, his mentor, had orchestrated this. The kind, matronly woman who had taken him in, taught him the intricacies of Mending, and subtly steered his path away from the guild's direct service. Everything was a lie. And the ‘offspring under distant surveillance’ part – that was him. He had been a pawn, a tool, a potential threat to be monitored.
“The central repository,” Yaroslav murmured, tone flattened. “That’s where his final files would sit. And where Dariya files every purge.”
Zima, her hand still hovering near his arm, pulled back. Her jaw was set, a flicker of something close to understanding in her eyes. “They’ll be heavily guarded. Magically warded. You won’t get in.”
“They’re warded against thieves, against direct assault,” Yaroslav corrected, running a hand over his face. “Not against a grieving son. The old man was a decorated surgeon. Families frequently ask to collect discarded tools, journals, even under the guild's strict eye. A formal petition, greased with silver, gets me through the front lobby.”
“And the deeper layers?” Zima pressed, a touch of her usual impetuousness returning. “The ones that guard Dariya’s secrets?”
“That’s where you come in, my dear warrior,” Yaroslav said, a glint entering his eyes that Zima hadn't seen before. It wasn’t amusement, but something colder, sharper. “A distraction. Something… suitably Volya.”
***
The high district stood in stark contrast to the grimy charm of Taranov’s industrial fringe. White granite domes gleamed under a sheen of aetheric light, the breeze scrubbed clean of soot. Guards, their Core-ranks evident in the subtle hum of their armor, patrolled with an air of unshakeable authority.
“Right, so the plan is: I get in, act like I’m mourning. You two cause a ruckus,” Yaroslav reiterated, adjusting the plain, dark tunic he wore. He had chosen clothes that spoke of quiet despair, not professional competence. “Loud. Chaotic. But crucially, not *threatening* enough to warrant lethal force. Just… annoying. Think ‘wild animal in a pristine garden.’”
Zima nodded, a fierce spark in her gaze. Pavel, perched on her shoulder, puffed out his tiny chest. “Annoying is my specialty! I once convinced a whole flock of pigeons to nest in the Grand Master’s ceremonial hat! It was glorious!”
“Just… make sure it’s enough to draw the attention of the gatekeepers,” Yaroslav finished, a faint tremor in his voice that he quickly suppressed. This wasn’t about revenge; it was about preventing another apocalypse. But the personal sting, the deep wound of betrayal, was still raw.
He watched them go, Zima striding purposefully towards the outer training grounds, Pavel a blur of motion above her. He then turned, taking a deep, fortifying breath, and approached the imposing main gates of the hall of rolls.
Inside, the vault stood like a mausoleum of knowledge. Rows upon rows of crystalline data-spires hummed with latent power, housing millennia of recorded history, surgical procedures, and – he now knew – dark secrets. The air was dry, scentless, and filled with a profound silence that seemed to absorb all sound. Yaroslav presented his carefully forged credentials – a request from the ‘bereaved son of Chief Surgeon Rostislav Kruk,’ humbly seeking to collect his father’s personal research notes. He included a generous sum of silver, just as he had anticipated.
The attendant, a thin, spectacled man with a perpetually furrowed brow, regarded him with the weary indifference of a bureaucrat. “Chief Surgeon Kruk… ah, yes. A regrettable loss. Your petition is… unusual. Such items are typically delivered to next of kin.”
“The circumstances were… sensitive,” Yaroslav murmured, affecting a slight tremor in his voice. “He was meticulous to a fault. He kept notebooks outside the regiment's ledgers. Mere mementos.”
The man sighed, clearly uninterested in delving into the specifics. He waved a hand. “Very well. Sector Gamma-7, sub-level three. Service files. Touch nothing beyond what pertains to your petition. An alarm will sound. And don’t take all day. We have actual work to do.”
Yaroslav nodded, a silent promise to himself that he would do exactly that. The moment he was alone in the vast, echoing corridor, he could feel the faint thrum of wards that would alert if he strayed too far from the Kruk family dossiers. Rostislav had been careful; he never would have left condemning discoveries in plain sight. As a healer, he would know the nuances of Mending, even its perversions.
His gaze fell upon a particular crystalline spire, its surface slightly rougher than the others. He brushed it with his fingers, concentrating. His unique Mending ability wasn’t just about healing; it was about understanding the fundamental structure of things, about seeing the cracks and flaws. He felt a faint, almost imperceptible distortion in the aether around the spire – a subtle Mender’s mark, designed to be overlooked by anyone not searching for it.
[Mender’s Eye: Activated. Detecting concealed aetheric signature.]
He pressed harder, a faint glow emanating from his palm. The crystalline surface shimmered, then peeled back like an illusion, revealing a recessed slot. Inside lay a slender slate, not institutional issue, but an older, brass-trimmed unit. It glowed with a faint blue light, almost a sigh of relief.
He pulled it free, his ribs tight against his chest. The screen flickered to life. The first entry was dated weeks before his sire's alleged death. *’Initial findings: The Echo Blight. Not an organic surge. Signature patterns indicate controlled viral propagation. Target specific. Purpose: Purification.’*
Yaroslav’s fingers tightened around the slate. The old surgeon had unraveled it. The truth. He scrolled frantically through the entries. *’Observed surgical units, not plague containment, but targeted release. Senior practitioners. Emblems noted: Solar Crown, Lux Aeterna… and the Purist seal. Dariya’s mark.’*
He heard a faint *clatter* outside, distant and muffled, but unmistakably Zima’s work. Good. It meant the wardens were distracted. He hurried through the last few entries. *’Final Conclusion: The Echo Blight is a weapon. A population control measure, disguised as a plague. Designed to cull the ‘defective’ and reshape Rodinya. The Architect directs the cabal from deep within the guild. My mentor, Matron Dariya, is central to the operation. Her vision: a world cleansed by fire, a new dawn for the ‘pure.’ I must warn the others. I must… safeguard the truth.’*
The final entry was incomplete, a frantic dash of words, abruptly cut off. Yaroslav felt a cold dread spread through him, colder than the sterile air. Rostislav had been close. Too close. And Dariya had silenced him.
“He was a sentimental fool. Just like you.”
The voice, once so warm and reassuring, was now like ice splintering on stone. Yaroslav froze, the data-slate still clutched in his hand. He hadn't heard a sound, no footsteps, no rustle of fabric. He turned slowly, the cold air freezing in his lungs. Matron Dariya stood behind him, her presence radiating an unnerving stillness. Her kind smile was gone, replaced by a predatory calm. Her eyes, usually gentle, now held the depth of ancient, calculating power, and beneath her breast, a faint, rhythmic pulse of golden light emanated from her Core, far brighter and more terrifying than he had ever imagined.