Karsan remained still, his dark eyes, recently softened by their mutual grief, now fixed like cool, polished obsidian. Zhaniya, still kneeling by his side, felt a prickle of unease. Olyana’s plea was an artful performance, honed by years of practice. It was the same desperate, self-sacrificing act she had perfected during Karsan’s banishment to the Trenches, the one she had used to justify abandoning him when he needed her most. Now, in the sunlit spires, she sought refuge in the very man she had once cast aside as dead weight.
Olyana continued her stumbling advance, her steps theatrical and unsteady. She swayed, a hand pressed dramatically to her forehead, and with a soft gasp, collapsed. Karsan, despite his stillness, moved with the swift, practiced grace of a seasoned Arbiter, catching her just before she hit the polished floor. Her head fell against his shoulder, her frame going entirely slack in his grip. Her breath, ragged and shallow, brushed against his ear as she whispered, loud enough for the hushed Atrium to hear, “I… I left to spare you. I couldn’t bear to be a burden, Karsan. I thought… I thought you’d be safer without me.”
Zhaniya’s bright, bubbly smile felt like a mask of glass, sharp and brittle. The words were a fresh wound, twisting the blade of survivor's guilt in her own chest. To spare him the strain. It was the same rationale Zhaniya herself had once used, though in her case, the threat had been her own looming death, not a convenient excuse for self-preservation. Olyana had twisted a victim’s narrative into a weapon, using Karsan’s innate compassion against him. Zhaniya knew, with a certainty that settled cold in her stomach, that this woman was a viper, poised to strike at the fragile peace Karsan had found. That peace, Zhaniya realized, was tied to her, to the shared past only they remembered.
She had to act. Swiftly. Subtly.
Her gaze swept over the cluttered workspace around her. A punty rod, its tip glowing a vibrant, dangerous orange from the nearby kiln, lay abandoned on a low metal stand. An idea sparked, bright and sharp.
With an exaggerated sigh of 'oh dear, how clumsy of me!', Zhaniya pushed herself up, her movements deliberately awkward. Her foot ‘caught’ on the uneven edge of a cooling slab of Resonant Glass, sending her lurching forward. Her hands flailed, a desperate, comical dance to regain balance. “Whoops-a-daisy!” she chirped, her voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful for the tense silence. “Oh, my bad! So clumsy today!”
Her trajectory, however, was precise. She stumbled directly towards Karsan and Olyana, her hand outstretched as if to brace herself. Instead, with a practiced, almost imperceptible flick of her wrist, she grazed the side of the cooling punty rod. The glowing tip, still radiating immense heat, brushed against the delicate hem of Olyana’s expensive, silken gown, right where it draped across Karsan’s arm. A faint hiss of singed fabric cut through the air, followed by a thin trail of smoke and the acrid smell of burnt silk. The rich, vibrant crimson of Olyana’s robe instantly darkened, a small, ugly black scorch mark blooming on the fabric.
“Oh, no!” Zhaniya cried, her eyes wide with feigned horror. “My deepest apologies, esteemed noblewoman! My hands are just… not cooperating today! So sorry! Is it… is it ruined?”
The heat, though brief, was enough. Olyana stiffened, a sharp intake of breath replacing her theatrical sobs. The warmth against Karsan’s arm, the sudden smell of burning, forced him to react. He gently, but firmly, adjusted his grip, setting Olyana back on her feet. Her victim persona flickered, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly as she glanced down at the fresh burn on her dress. For a fleeting second, the despair on her face was replaced by a flash of pure, unadulterated venom, aimed directly at Zhaniya. It was a look that spoke of a deep-seated, lethal hatred, utterly devoid of the fragility she projected.
Then, just as quickly, the mask settled back into place. Olyana’s lower lip trembled, and she looked up at Karsan, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. “My gown… it was all I had left,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, designed to tug at the deepest chords of sympathy. “They took everything else.”
Karsan, however, was unmoved. His expression remained cool, impassive. He stepped back, creating a definitive space between them. “Olyana,” he said, his voice level, betraying no emotion. “As Arbiter of Glass, I am bound to review all petitions for sanctuary within the Atrium. Present your case to the Sentry-Wardens, and it will be given due consideration. For now, you will be escorted to the antechamber.” His gaze was firm, offering no room for further manipulation.
Olyana’s face twisted, a silent struggle between outrage and the need to maintain her act. She gave a small, defeated nod, her shoulders slumping. As the two Sentry-Wardens, summoned by a silent gesture from Karsan, approached, she cast one last, lingering look at Karsan before turning. Her eyes swept over Zhaniya, a dismissive flick brimming with cold promise.
She walked past Zhaniya, her ruined gown rustling, her head held high in feigned dignity. As she drew level with the 'clumsy' apprentice, her steps faltered, just for a breath. Her eyes, still brimming with theatrical tears, locked onto Zhaniya’s with an intensity that pierced through the bubbly facade. Her lips barely moved, a whisper so low it was swallowed by the ambient hum of the kilns. The saccharine victim’s smile vanished, replaced by a chilling, predatory sneer.
“I killed the Prismatist, little girl; you are next.”