Milosz stood in the ruins of his small room, the dead raven a stark, morbid punctuation mark on his bed. The air still carried the metallic tang of disturbance, the faint scent of another's presence. They had been thorough. Not just a warning, but a violation. A declaration. They knew. The cheerful mask felt like it was cracking, a fragile shell over a core of icy fury. He picked up the dead bird, feather quills stiff and cold between his fingers. House Valerov didn't just send messages; they sent omens.
He wrapped the raven in a discarded tunic and tucked it under his arm. There was no time for subtlety anymore. The game had accelerated. He retrieved the small vial containing the crimson liquid from his coat’s inner pocket, its stopper still sealed. It was time for Irina.
He found her hunched over a workbench in the F-rank labs, surrounded by boiling glass beakers and scorched diagrams. The scent of chemicals and old parchment clung to her like a second skin. She looked up, her spectacles glinting, a smear of soot on her cheek. “Milosz? What happened to you?” Her gaze sharpened, taking in his disheveled appearance, the tension in his posture.
He set the raven-wrapped tunic on an empty stool, then placed the vial on her bench. “This. From Valerov. And this.” He gestured vaguely towards his room. “They came calling.”
Irina’s sharp eyes went from the vial to the tunic, then back to his face. She peeled back the cloth, revealing the lifeless bird. A low whistle escaped her lips. “A black wing. Subtle.” She picked up the vial, holding it to the light. The liquid shimmered, a deep ruby hue. “What is it?”
“Valerov called it a ‘rare vintage.’ He wanted me to drink it,” Milosz said, his voice flat. “But he’s not the type for generosity.”
Irina uncorked the vial, sniffing cautiously. Her brow furrowed. She dipped a glass rod into the liquid, then touched a tiny drop to a sliver of polished obsidian. The obsidian, which normally absorbed ambient gleam, dulled, its surface turning strangely porous, like corroded rock. Her eyes snapped to Milosz. “This isn’t wine. Not even close. It’s a destabilizing agent. Potent.”
“Destabilizing?”
“For celestial gifts,” she elaborated, her voice tight. “A slow-acting consumption. It latches onto the inner celestial glow within a Constellar, gradually eroding its cohesion. Drains the radiance. Turns it brittle. Your gift would weaken, fracture, eventually vanish. And you’d be left a husk.” She looked at the obsidian again. “I’ve only seen theoretical manuscripts describe reagents this refined—monographs dismissed by the faculty as alarmist fiction.”
Milosz felt tension seize his stomach. “My gift. What about Damian’s? Gavrila’s?”
“Anyone’s. It’s indiscriminate. This isn’t just about silencing a troublesome C-rank. This is about… power. Eradication of it.” She closed the vial with a sharp click. “They’re not just experimenting on Chimeras anymore. They’re weaponizing against their own.”
Milosz nodded slowly. “Then it’s time for the truth.”
Irina blinked. “The truth about what?”
“Everything.”
He left Irina to secure the vial and the raven, then went to find Gavrila. The Shield of the party was in the training grounds, methodically striking a reinforced pell, his movements precise and powerful, despite the lingering stiffness from his Crucible wounds. Milosz waited until he finished a set, then approached. “Gavrila. I need you to come with me. Now. No questions.”
Gavrila, his face unreadable, merely nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his gauntlet. He followed Milosz without hesitation. They met Irina near a forgotten service stairwell. She held a small, locked case. Milosz led them down, two flights, then through a disused access tunnel that opened into a rarely visited section of the lower archives – a network of small, isolated nooks intended for disgraced scholars or sensitive, unsanctioned research.
Milosz chose a particularly dusty alcove, its single glow-globe casting long shadows. He looked at Gavrila, then at Irina, his mask of cheerfulness completely stripped away. “My name isn’t just Milosz Vodya. It’s Milosz Vodya of Oakhaven.”
Irina froze, her fingers digging into the brass latch of the case. Gavrila’s stoic expression remained, though his chin dipped slightly.
“Oakhaven was… eradicated. By House Valerov. It wasn’t a Chimera attack, not a plague. It was them. Knights in black and silver, bearing the Valerov sigil, came with an artifact. A stellar artifact. It drained my people of their Edicts. Left them empty. Then they slaughtered them.” His voice was devoid of emotion, a monotone recounting of horror. “I was a child. I hid. And as I watched them die, as their Edicts were ripped from them, I felt it. Their stolen power. It didn’t vanish. It came to me. All of it.”
Irina clutched the case tighter. “Edict Draining… My mentor, Professor Valerian, worked on a theoretical energy siphon. A way to extract and re-channel innate celestial force without destroying the host. He was ridiculed. His folios were confiscated. Then he disappeared. Officially, a ‘training accident.’ House Valerov signed his death certificate.”
Milosz continued, “My Edict isn’t borrowed starlight. It’s called ‘Celestial Font.’ It holds. It distributes. It doesn’t create. It acts as a reservoir. All the power Damian uses, all the strength that makes him S-rank, it’s not his. It’s mine. I funnel it to him. I control it. I control them.” He glanced at Gavrila. “Even your shield, the strength to maintain it, is augmented by what I give you. I’m the core. Always have been. And I’m using them to destroy the Valerovs.”
Irina peered at him with grim comprehension. “So the Valerovs aren't just murdering Constellars to cover their tracks. They’re running trials on extraction. They’re taking the power, not just to destroy, but to *use*. To weaponize it. That’s what this poison is. A perfected version of what they used in Oakhaven. Not just to take, but to *destabilize* and *reclaim*.” Her voice rose, laced with a mix of horror and intellectual exhilaration. “They’re building an army of borrowed power, siphoning strength from other Constellars, perhaps even making their own Edicts stronger with it! This isn’t just about revenge, Milosz. This is about stopping a cataclysm.”
Gavrila stood silently, his gaze fixed on Milosz, his face a complex mosaic of shock, understanding, and a fierce, unwavering protectiveness. He reached out, slowly, and placed a hand on Milosz’s shoulder, a silent vow.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door to the archive section at the end of the tunnel slammed open, echoing through the confined space. A figure, disheveled and fuming, stormed in, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light. It was Damian Valerov. His S-rank sword, ‘The Sovereign’s Edge,’ was already drawn, its silver blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. He had been following them. His face was contorted with a venomous rage, humiliation etched deep into his features.
“Traitors!” Damian roared, his voice bouncing off the low ceiling. He pointed his sword, not at Milosz, but at Irina and Gavrila. “You stand with this liar who made a fool of me!”