The glowing symbols on the projected page warped Vastor Yul’s name into a predatory snarl. Lykora’s carefully constructed composure, still ragged from the near-capture, threatened to unravel entirely. Vastor. The man whose piercing gaze had threatened to strip her bare at her own funeral. The man who saw through Olenya’s practiced theatrics with chilling ease. And now, he was Olenya’s next intended feast.
“We need to stop her,” Lykora stated, her tone sharp, devoid of her public lilt. She pushed a stray, glittering curl back from her face, her eyes narrowed. “Before she can even begin to siphon him.”
Jorlan nodded. “Vastor’s ward-power is formidable, woven through centuries of Kholvarnan pacts. It’s not just for her own sustainment; she’ll be trying to corrupt the very core of his spectral authority.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Lykora. “You’re close enough to him in your current guise. Can you keep him out of her reach?”
Lykora straightened, her spine stiffening into a formidable line. “I’ll be attached to him like a burr to a hound. She won’t get within a whisper of him that I don’t sanction.” The old ghost-binder’s ruthlessness flared in her gaze, a stark contrast to the saccharine heiress she pretended to be. This wasn’t just about Vastor; it was about the curse, about her own soul, and Olenya’s relentless ambition.
She left Jorlan’s suite with a renewed sense of purpose, her silken gown rustling like dry leaves. The Ebon-Glass Conservatory’s grand luncheon hall was already a cacophony of polite whispers and clinking cutlery, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and something vaguely metallic – the hum of bound spirits within the willow-glass walls. Hissing gas-lamps cast long, sharp shadows, making the carved obsidian pillars seem to writhe.
Lykora, posing under her assumed name, swept in, a vision in an aquamarine gown that glittered with embedded murk-glass shards. Each shard was a tiny lens, a warding amplification point she’d meticulously woven into the fabric. Her heart-shaped pendant, a true Murk-Glass piece, pulsed faintly against her collarbone. She surveyed the hall, pinpointing Vastor Yul at a central table, his dark, tailored coat a stark contrast to the pastel finery around him. His presence was a deliberate chill in the otherwise lukewarm socialite gathering. He was speaking in low tones to a dour-faced elder, his expression unreadable, as always.
With a practiced, airy laugh, she drifted toward him, her parasol twirling. “Lord-Inquisitor! Fancy meeting you here!” she chirped, though she’d purposefully sought him out. Her voice, pitched just a little too high, cut through the genteel murmur. “The salmon roe here is simply *divine*, you must try it!” She settled herself into the empty seat beside him, close enough that the soft scent of his unique, cold-iron cologne reached her. “I do declare, these grand luncheons are such a bore without a delightful conversationalist!” She beamed at him, all wide-eyed innocence.
Vastor inclined his head, a ghost of a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “Lady Solena. Your enthusiasm is, as ever,… refreshing.” His irises, the color of twilight mist, drifted over her, lingering on the Murk-Glass pendant before returning to her face. She felt a familiar prickle of unease, a sense of being subtly dissected. He knew. Or at least, he suspected.
They exchanged pleasantries, Lykora regaling him with a nonsensical anecdote about her pet spectral canary, all the while nudging her skirts to sit between him and the room. She was a shield, albeit a sparkling, airheaded one. She even made sure to ‘accidentally’ knock a glass of water onto a chair just as a particularly eager socialite tried to claim it, forcing the woman to move further down the table.
The hum of the bound spirits within the walls intensified, a low thrumming that vibrated through the floor. A hush fell over a section of the room. Lykora’s gaze sharpened, her internal warning bells clanging. Olenya. She was making her entrance. Dressed in pale lilac, Olenya looked like a wilting violet, her complexion even paler than usual. Her hand trembled as she clutched a delicate, crystal phial, filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid. Lykora instantly recognized the faint, metallic tang that indicated the presence of refined ectoplasm, disguised as a ‘restorative tonic’ for Olenya’s ‘delicate constitution.’ Corrosive ectoplasm. Designed to eat through warding materials.
Olenya’s eyes, wide and luminous with feigned weakness, scanned the room, landing on Lykora’s aquamarine gown, specifically the cluster of Murk-Glass shards over her heart. A flash of malicious intent, gone in a blink, was the only tell.
“My apologies, dearest attendees,” Olenya whispered, her voice barely audible, forcing everyone to strain to hear. “The exertion… it seems I am quite faint.” She swayed, her steps faltering, her gaze fixed on Lykora. She began to drift towards their table, the phial held precariously in her shaking hand.
Lykora’s internal gears whirred, preparing. She could see the angle, the trajectory. Olenya intended to ‘accidentally’ bump into her, spilling the corrosive liquid directly onto the warding-gown, particularly over the glass pendant that amplified her borrowed body’s protection. Lykora set her back teeth, a silent snarl forming in her mind. *Not today, Olenya. Not today.*
Olenya stumbled, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Her hand, clutching the phial, lurched forward, aimed squarely at Lykora’s chest.
Before Lykora could even pivot, a firm hand clamped around her elbow. Vastor Yul, with a speed that belied his languid posture, pulled her sharply backwards and to the side. The movement was so swift, so precise, that Lykora barely registered it until she was flush against his side, shielded. The space where she had been standing was now empty.
Olenya, deprived of her target, gasped again. Her foot, having committed to the stumble, slipped on the polished obsidian floor. The crystal phial flew from her fingers, shattering against the stone with a sickening *crack*. The iridescent, viscous liquid fanned out, sizzling faintly as it touched the floor, leaving dull, pitted marks.
Olenya cried out, a theatrical shriek of distress, and crumpled to the floor amidst the shards of glass and the evaporating ectoplasm. Her hands flew to her face, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “Oh, dear! My head… the tonic…” she choked out, her voice muffled, designed to elicit immediate sympathy. Several guests stirred, half-rising, ready to rush to her aid.
Vastor Yul remained impassive, his gaze fixed on Olenya’s sobbing form. He hadn’t moved an inch to help her. His grip on Lykora’s arm was still firm, almost possessive, keeping her pinned beside him. He did not even glance at Lykora, his attention solely on the crumpled figure on the floor. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, chilling current that sliced through the room’s sudden silence.
“Lady Olenya,” he began, his tone devoid of any sympathy, his words like chips of ice. “Your clumsiness is… truly exceptional. To spill such a volatile compound in the midst of a formal gathering. It speaks of a profound lack of judgment, or perhaps, a willful disregard for the safety of others.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air like a cold blade. “Such a lapse is not befitting a member of the institute's Gala Committee. Effective immediately, your position is rescinded.”
Olenya froze, her sobs abruptly cutting off. She slowly lifted her head, her face blotchy and stained with tears, her eyes wide with genuine shock. The careful façade had shattered, revealing raw humiliation. She had expected sympathy, concern, perhaps even a reprimand, but never such a public, ruthless dismissal. Especially not from Vastor, whom she had considered a prime target for her manipulations. Her gaze snapped to Lykora, who met it with a wide, innocent blink, a tiny smirk playing on her lips.
“But… Lord-Inquisitor,” Olenya stammered, scrambling to sit up, her voice regaining a desperate edge. “I am unwell! My delicate constitution often… I merely sought to—”
“Your constitution, Lady Olenya, is not my concern,” Vastor cut in, his voice unwavering. “My concern is the integrity of these events and the well-being of its patrons. Your actions today demonstrate you are incapable of upholding either. A steward will escort you from the premises.” He released Lykora’s arm, though his presence still felt like a solid wall beside her. He then gave Lykora a brief nod, a direct acknowledgment that tightened the skin across her nape.
Two uniformed stewards, their faces grim, appeared at Olenya’s side, offering no gentle hand but merely indicating she should rise. Olenya’s mouth twisted with curdled mortification. As they helped her to her feet, she cast one last, venomous glare at Lykora. Her lips moved, almost imperceptibly, forming words that no one else could hear. A dark binding-word, ancient and dangerous, slipped into the air like a poisoned dart.
A searing pain erupted in Lykora’s chest, directly over her Murk-Glass locket. It felt as though a shard of ice had pierced her, burrowing deep. Air seized in her throat. The entire room seemed to dim, the hum of the bound spirits rising to a guttural roar that only she could hear. She coughed, a dry, ragged sound that drew no attention in the quiet aftermath of Olenya’s exit. But with the cough, something solid, gritty, and black flew from her lips, landing silently in her cupped palm. A tiny, jagged fragment of black glass.