The statement hung in the stale air of the cramped safehouse, thick with the scent of old pipe tobacco and damp plaster. Zofia’s posture, already taut, drew tighter, like a spring coiling for release. Her breath came in quick, shallow rasps.
“My phantom?” Her voice, usually a tempest, was a low, dangerous rumble. “You think I believe in phantoms? You think I’m mad? This is a trick. A vile, twisted lie meant to disarm me, to confuse me!”
Borislav, unperturbed, simply regarded her. He had removed his cap, revealing a precise parting in his dark hair, now slightly dishevelled. He gestured to a scarred wooden table in the center of the room, littered with maps and hastily scrawled notations. “If you wish to remain ignorant, Korczak, that is your privilege. But ignorance will not protect you from the Baron, nor will it avenge your old master.”
Zofia flinched, the title scraping raw flesh. She eyed Borislav, her gaze flicking to the crimson insignia still pinned to his lapel, then to the various documents spread across the table. Her eyes lingered on a thick, bound ledger, its leather cover scuffed and familiar. The very one she’d taken from the guildmaster’s study, the one that exposed her father, Lord Jarek Vosh. The ledger was open to a page detailing 'Project Apex'—a name that echoed in Pavel’s memory like a death knell.
[Objective Updated: Ally with Borislav to dismantle Project Apex.]
Ally. A draft rippled through Pavel’s incorporeal ribs. An alliance with the man who had orchestrated Zofia’s blundering path, a path that had led directly to his family’s damning secret. He watched Zofia, reading the calculations in her fierce eyes. She despised Borislav, distrusted him, but the man had information. And perhaps, a shared enemy.
“What do you want?” she bit out, stepping closer to the table, her hand hovering near a sheathed dagger at her hip.
“A future where Varburg is not a puppet on Volkov’s strings,” Borislav replied, his voice devoid of any dramatic flourish. “And for that, we need to dismantle Project Apex. Volkov’s personal rite to create an immortal champion, using your… benefactor’s dying spark. He plans to complete it tonight. If he succeeds, his power within the shadows will become absolute. He will be untouchable.”
Zofia ground her molars. She scanned the maps. “Where is he?”
“His personal sanctuary, beneath the Obsidian Archives. A place of deep, old magic. He expects you to come,” Borislav explained, tracing a finger across a diagram of subterranean passages. “He revels in these confrontations. He sees it as a final, glorious test of your spirit. His ego is his greatest vulnerability.”
Pavel hovered in the corner, ice prickling his non-existent ribs. Volkov, the architect of his suffering, the man who had conspired with his own father. Facing him, even vicariously through Zofia’s clumsy balance, set every lingering nerve firing. He had been a pawn, a sacrifice. No longer.
“The Archives are heavily guarded,” Borislav continued, pointing to several red marks on the map. “His personal guard—the Dusk Watchers. They are fanatically loyal, chosen for their absolute obedience and their inability to question direct orders. They won’t be swayed by threats or bribes. And the sanctuary itself is warded. Runes of suppression that scramble one’s wits, and a personal alchemist he keeps chained in the deeper chambers, who has devised a series of gaseous incapacitants.”
Zofia traced a finger along the mapped routes. “Gas, you say. My specialty.” Her mouth twitched into a lopsided sneer. She looked up at Borislav, a flicker of something new in her eyes. Not trust, but a grudging acknowledgment. “You seem to know a great deal about… my particular brand of success. And my teacher’s methods. How?”
Borislav’s gaze remained flat. He reached under the table, retrieving a small, calfskin notebook. It was worn, its cover faded, the corners dog-eared. Pavel recognized it at once, a prickle buzzing through his airy chest. His daily diary. The one Matron Elzbieta had given to Borislav.
[Ability Available: Minor Poltergeist. Cost: 5 Patronage.]
Without hesitation, Pavel focused. A surge of his fading inner light coalesced, a desperate, silent push. The little volume, which Borislav had set upon the scarred pine, suddenly wobbled. Then, with a soft thud, it tumbled to the floor, landing open. Its pages splayed wide, revealing a dense array of strange, curving glyphs and symbols.
Zofia stared down at the splayed leaves, her eyebrows knitting together. She dropped to one knee, fingers trailing the jagged script, all blood draining from her cheeks.
“These…” she breathed, her voice barely audible. “These are the symbols. The ones my mentor drew. In the margins of his notes, on the back of his contracts. He called them… ‘thought forms’. He said they were how he organized his… ‘spiritual insights’.” She looked up at Borislav, her face a mask of profound bewilderment. “How did you get this? What does this mean?”
Borislav’s eyes met hers, clear and unblinking. He spoke, his voice low and even, delivering a truth that would shatter her carefully constructed world. “Your mentor didn’t have a ghost, Korczak. Not in the way you imagine. He was the first test subject for this ‘System’. He was the precursor. And Pavel…” He gestured vaguely, towards the air where Pavel hovered, unseen. “Pavel… was the second.”