Gavrila’s fingers turned the glass stopper over again, the edges catching the pale sliver of moonlight filtering into the alley. His eyes, usually placid, held a sharp, unnerving clarity. Milosz adjusted his cheerful mask, a practiced twitch of his lips. The draft smelled faintly of stagnant gutter runoff. “Ah, Gavrila! Didn’t see you there,” Milosz chirped, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… stretching my legs. That’s a stopper from my spare vial, isn’t it? Clumsy me, probably knocked it loose when I was leaning against the wall earlier.” He forced a laugh, a light, airy sound that felt like a bell-toll in the oppressive quiet. Gavrila said nothing, merely tilted his head. The shadow from the low roof deepened the lines around his eyes. He didn’t buy it. Milosz felt a prickle of unease. He couldn’t afford to lose Gavrila’s trust, not when the defender was the only one in the party who truly understood the rhythm of their fights, even if he didn't know the conductor. “Alright, Gavrila,” Milosz sighed, letting a hint of his usual, slightly flustered sincerity creep into his voice. “I… I think I saw something amiss in there.” He gestured vaguely towards the Astral Cache’s back wall. “Some of the supply manifests for our recent expeditions… they seemed off. Specific runic seals, misaligned sigils on the supply crates. I was worried it might be defective equipment, being shuffled into the fortress stores. Valerov does manage the supply chain, doesn’t he?” Milosz paused, watching Gavrila’s face for any flicker. Gavrila's commitment to their squad's survival remained absolute. That was the angle. He continued, letting a note of manufactured anxiety tint his tone. “Imagine if we went out on a run, and a critical piece of gear failed. A defensive matrix ruptures, or an Edict-conduit cracks. It would be… catastrophic. I just wanted to see if my suspicions held any water, before I brought it up to Damian.” Gavrila’s gaze sharpened, not on Milosz, but on the shadowed wall of the Cache. “Defective gear,” he rumbled, the words slow and deliberate. “Unacceptable.” He ground the glass stopper against the calluses of his palm, the sound a dry rasp. “If Valerov is compromising our safety… I will assist.” Milosz offered a wide, relieved smile. “Exactly! I knew you’d understand, Gavrila. Just trying to keep us all safe, you know?” He clapped Gavrila on the shoulder, a casual sign of camaraderie. “We must be careful,” Gavrila warned, his voice low. “Valerov has eyes everywhere.” “Of course, of course,” Milosz agreed, his mask firmly back in place. “Just a little digging, for the team’s good.” Later that week, the fortress compound buzzed with an unusual fervor. Lord Tiberius Valerov, Damian’s father and the patriarch of the esteemed House Valerov, had arrived. His personal skiff, a sleek vessel of polished obsidian and gleaming silver that hummed with a contained celestial Edict, descended onto the main parade grounds, drawing gasps from the assembled cadets and staff. He was a man of impeccable bearing, his silver hair swept back from a face etched with a statesman’s charm and a general’s authority. A gilded crest, the 'Lion's Maw', emblazoned his tunic. He stood on the polished dais in the Grand Atrium, an expanse of white marble and soaring archways, flanked by his personal guard. The air thickened with anticipation. Damian stood proudly beside him, chest puffed out. Irina was a few rows back, arms crossed, her expression a careful blend of academic interest and inherent disdain. Milosz stood near Gavrila, a C-rank healer amongst S and A-ranks, feeling the familiar thrum beneath his cheap boots. Lord Valerov’s voice, rich and resonant, filled the Atrium. “It is with immense pride that I stand before you, the future defenders of Aethelgard. My son, Damian, leads a party whose recent exploits have brought great honor to House Valerov and to the academy itself!” He gestured to Damian, who offered a practiced, humble bow, though the smugness radiating from him was almost visible. “Their recent triumph over the Void-Glimmer Chimera proves the worth of the rigorous training here, and the innate talent of our cadre.” As he spoke, Lord Valerov’s gaze swept across the crowd, lingering for a fraction too long on Milosz. It was brief, a deliberate measure taken and discarded. Then, his eyes returned to Damian, a warm, paternal smile on his face. “Damian’s party exemplifies teamwork. Every member, from the mighty swordsman to the dedicated healer, plays their part. And speaking of dedication,” he continued, his voice dropping slightly, becoming almost conversational, “it’s always remarkable how certain individuals manage to persevere, even after… difficult beginnings.” His eyes found Milosz again, a brief, unsettling flicker of something cold and knowing. “Like that… small village, Oakhaven, wasn’t it? Such a troublesome place. Best forgotten, I always say. So much easier to move forward without the burdens of the past, wouldn’t you agree?” The words were smooth, delivered with the casual air of a pleasantry, but they were a knife-twist in Milosz’s gut. Milosz kept his throat loose and his shoulders slack. *He knows. He’s telling me he knows I survived.* The cheerful mask Milosz wore felt like it was cracking. His pulse surged beneath his collar. He forced his smile wider, offering an eager, deferential nod as if absorbing the Lord's wisdom. Gavrila, standing beside him, shifted his weight, his eyes subtly following Valerov’s movements. He hadn’t missed the implication. Later that day, the common halls were noisy with talk of the visit, but Milosz found himself pulled into a quiet alcove near the research wing. Irina Chernova stood there, a data-slate clutched in her hand. Her mouth was pulled tight at one corner. “That little… stunt you pulled in the Astral Cache,” she began, her voice low and tight. “Led me to something interesting. Your ‘accident’ with the fungal spores created enough of a diversion for me to slip in and grab something before the cleanup crew arrived.” She held up a single, brittle page, a section of what looked like a ledger, crinkled and smelling faintly of chemicals. “I photographed it. It’s part of a sub-ledger. The numbers you saw, the ‘shipping manifests’ as you called them, they’re not for goods.” Milosz stepped into the shadow of the pillar. “Then what are they for, Irina?” She tapped a series of coded entries on the page with a slender finger. “I’ve been working on this all morning. The cipher isn’t complex, just obscure. It’s a registry, Milosz. A list of Constellars. The dates and locations correspond to reported ‘accidents’ in remote sectors. Each entry has a name, a Constellation, and a final, coded disposition. Every single one of them officially listed as a training casualty, or lost to a Chimera attack in an undocumented zone.” Her voice cracked on the last few words. She ran her finger down the final entry, a name scrawled in an elegant, fading script. Her knuckles were white against the slate. “This was my mentor, Milosz. Professor Lyall. Officially, he died in a training exercise six years ago, in the Faelan Wastes. House Valerov signed his death certificate.”

The Serpent's Smile