The study was vast, hushed, and reeked of aged parchment and something metallic, like stale blood. Lord Tiberius Valerov settled into a high-backed chair upholstered in deep emerald velvet, his posture as rigid and unyielding as a mountain. Milosz remained standing, feigning a slight tremble in his knees. The man’s aura was suffocating, a chilling contrast to the calculated chaos Milosz usually wove. “Milosz Vodya,” Valerov’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection. “They say you performed a miracle.” Milosz kept his gaze deferential, fixed on a point just to the side of Valerov’s expensive boots. “Just… luck, my lord. The constellations smiled upon us. I merely did my duty.” He tried to infuse his voice with the right mix of humility and terror. Valerov steepled his fingers. “Luck. An interesting Edict, if one could claim it. But your ability, or rather, your Edict, seems to manifest with quite specific intent. Not merely mending bone and sinew, but reversing the damage of a Chimera’s corrupted bite.” Milosz swallowed, a performance for the cold grey eyes watching him. “I… I don’t understand it myself, my lord. It felt like… like I pulled the threads of time back. But it left me utterly drained. I almost perished myself.” He paused, allowing a moment of manufactured fear to show. “I pray it never happens again.” “Indeed.” Valerov’s lips barely moved. “The reports from the Crucible describe a golden luminescence, a brilliance rarely seen even in S-rank awakenings. Yet you are C-rank. And your Edict, ‘Vodyan’s Mend,’ is listed as a basic restorative.” “Perhaps… perhaps the stress of the moment activated something deeper?” Milosz offered, trying to sound hopeful but confused. “I truly do not know. I’m just a simple C-rank who prefers to avoid danger.” Valerov’s gaze sharpened, cutting through Milosz’s practiced subservience. “Your family… the Vodyas of Oakhaven. A quiet lineage. Known for their resilience, I recall. Not for any particular affinity with the Stars, however.” Every nerve in Milosz’s body screamed. This was it. The blade at his throat. He forced his facial muscles to convey ignorance. “Oakhaven? Ah, yes, my ancestral village. It was… a long time ago, my lord. I was very young when I left after the…” He trailed off, simulating a vague, uncomfortable memory of a childhood tragedy, keeping it generic enough to avoid specifics. “After what, Milosz?” Valerov pressed, the air in the room turning brittle with quiet menace. “After… a blight, my lord. A plague of sorts. It took many. My parents sent me away, to the city. To live with distant kin. I barely remember it.” Milosz kept his voice soft, almost mournful, a perfect picture of a trauma-stricken orphan. Valerov studied him, his eyes like two chips of ice, dissecting every micro-expression. Milosz held the act, his true self a steel trap beneath the trembling facade. “A blight,” Valerov mused, the word stretched thin. “Yes, Oakhaven suffered some unfortunate events. A shame. A truly troublesome sector.” He rose from his chair, a towering, imposing figure. “Such resilience, to survive such hardship, only to face the Crucible’s terror. You are a truly fortunate young man, Milosz Vodya.” Valerov walked to a dark wood cabinet, retrieving a slender, dust-coated glass flask. The label was hand-painted, depicting a lone star suspended over a stormy ocean. “This is a vintage from the Northern Reach, a gift from a distant Duke. ‘Starfall Nectar.’ It’s said to bring clarity of mind, or, for some, a restful slumber that lasts an eternity.” His tone remained utterly flat, but the implication was a physical blow. He presented the vessel to Milosz, who took it, his fingers brushing against the cold glass. The heavy, sweet scent wafted from the stopper, and Milosz’s heightened senses detected a subtle, bitter undertone beneath the rich fragrance of berries and aged wood. It was almost imperceptible, expertly masked. But it was there. A slow-acting nerve agent, perhaps, or a subtle toxin that simulated natural causes. “A… a gift, my lord?” Milosz feigned astonishment, his grip loosening ever so slightly. “For me? A C-rank?” He took a step back, his foot catching on the plush rug. The flask tilted. “Oh, dear!” With a practiced, clumsy flail, Milosz let the flask slip from his grasp. It hit the polished marble floor with a sickening crunch, the dark liquid blossoming outwards like a spilled pool of night. A sharp shard of glass, almost unseen, pricked his palm. As he bent to inspect the damage, a quick, almost invisible movement of his thumb pressed against the wound, collecting a microscopic bead of liquid and glass dust. “My apologies, my lord!” Milosz exclaimed, his brow puckered in genuine-looking distress. “How utterly clumsy of me! I’ve ruined such a precious gift!” He exaggerated his upset, ensuring Valerov wouldn't notice the small vial now securely tucked into a hidden seam of his glove. Valerov watched the spreading stain, his expression unreadable. “A pity. Some gifts, once lost, cannot be reclaimed.” His gaze returned to Milosz, cold and steady. “Be careful, Milosz. Gifts from the Stars can be taken away as easily as they are given. Remember that.” Milosz bowed deeply, his pulse thumping against his collar. “I will, my lord. Thank you for your… commendation.” The heavy oak door swung open again, dismissed by an unseen hand. Milosz walked out, his back straight until he was out of sight, then his shoulders slumped. The air outside the study felt thin, almost breathable. He passed the Valerov guards, their faces impassive, and navigated the familiar corridors of the Aethelgard Bastion, each step carrying him further from the lion’s den. His own quarters were on the third floor, a small, unremarkable room meant for C-ranks. He pushed the door open, the latch clicking. The scent of ozone and something burnt hit him first. Then he saw it. The room was a disaster. His modest belongings were strewn across the floor, books torn, his meager clothing ripped. The small, wooden desk was splintered, the cheap inkwell shattered. But it was the pillow that drew his eye. Black. Sleek. Lifeless. A freshly plucked black raven, its neck snapped, its dark eye staring blankly at the ceiling. A single, dark feather lay on his bedsheet, a stark, chilling counterpoint to the bloodied pillow beneath the bird. The Valerov sigil, in physical form, delivered with brutal clarity. They knew. They didn’t just suspect. They knew he was hiding something.

A Cordial Interrogation