The man with the pipe wrench leaned in close, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the weak alley light. Spruce splinters settled on the damp cobblestones. My grin, usually a reliable shield, felt brittle. “Look, I get it,” I said, raising my hands slowly, palms out. “Conclave. Bad news. Right? But you’re all about Zofia, and so am I.” Kazimir’s eyes, the color of mud after a downpour, narrowed further. “Don’t insult us, Konklawe. You think we’re fools? You’re here to dig up dirt, not to help.” “Dirt? The Ministry’s already buried her,” I shot back, injecting just enough genuine frustration into my voice to make it ring true. “They’ve got her branded, caged, and waiting for the chop. Thirty days. You know what they do with those who lose emotional equilibrium, don’t you? Pacification. Forever peace. They don’t want to understand her. They want to erase her.” I gestured vaguely towards the ramshackle building at Ulica Błotna 17, the source of the hidden laughter. “If she’s got a piece of herself out here, a reason to fight… then that’s what I need to find. Not to condemn her, but to *save* her. You think the regime wants that? You think they’d let me wander around Ostrów looking for reasons to acquit the ‘Shrike’?” The other two toughs exchanged a glance. One, a bear of a man with a scarred jaw, shifted his weight. The pipe wrench wavered midair. My words had pried open a sliver of doubt. They knew the regime's ruthlessness as well as I did. They knew the futility of fighting the system head-on. “You’re telling us you’re on her side?” he asked, his voice laced with skepticism rather than outright menace. “A Konklawe rat, suddenly a champion for the outcast Queen?” “A therapist, first and foremost,” I corrected, letting a hint of my usual arrogance color the words. “And a damn good one. My methods are unconventional, sure, but they get results. The board hates me almost as much as they hate rogue talents. But they can’t deny my success. They’ve cut my evaluation period in half, threatened me, and tried to shut me down at every turn. Why? Because I refuse to follow their script. Because I refuse to believe Zofia is just some mindless monster. There’s more to her. And if you care about her, you know it too.” He lowered the wrench, but didn’t put it down. His gaze was still assessing, still wary. “Prove it,” he grunted. “You’ve got thirty days. If you’re not fighting for her, you’re against her. And Ostrów remembers.” “Deal,” I said, letting my hands drop. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some more digging to do. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find something that even you lot missed.” I risked a small, challenging smile. He didn't respond, but the tension in the alley eased, replaced by a lingering watchfulness. As I walked past them, feeling their eyes on my back until I reached the main street, I knew I hadn't made allies, but I'd bought myself time. And Ostrów’s memory, I suspected, was a long one. I hadn't even made it back to the transit hub before my comm-link buzzed, flashing with a priority alert. The sender: ‘Conclave Central – Jabłoński, Krystyna.’ My gut tightened. The Saint herself. An unexpected summons, especially after my alley excursion. They worked fast. Krystyna Jabłoński’s office occupied the highest spire of the Conclave Institute, a pristine beacon of gleaming glass and polished chromesteel that seemed to defy the city’s gravity. Inside, it was a study in cold, collected power. Soft, diffused light filtered through panoramic windows, illuminating a space adorned with minimalist art and exotic, scentless flora. No clutter, no dust, no sign of anything untidy or emotional. It felt less like an office and more like a sterile gallery showroom. Krystyna herself was the centerpiece. Her silver hair was drawn back in a neat chignon, her tailored ivory suit pristine. She looked like a sculpture carved from marble, radiating an effortless poise that made my rumpled coat and the lingering scent of Ostrów grime feel profoundly out of place. She offered a warm, practiced smile as I entered, her azure eyes glinting with an almost unsettling placidity. “Emil. Thank you for coming so promptly,” she said, her voice a melodious whisper that carried across the vast room. She gestured to a low, ergonomic chair opposite her own glass-topped desk. “Please, sit. I confess, I’ve been rather concerned about you.” “Concerned, Director?” I replied, settling into the chair. It molded to my form, too comfortable. “I assure you, I can manage on my own.” Her smile softened, tinged with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “Of course, Emil. Your reputation precedes you. But Ostrów… it can be a harsh mistress, especially for those venturing into its less savory corners without proper escort. We received reports of a rather… lively interaction near Ulica Błotna this afternoon.” Her gaze was direct, unwavering, a subtle reminder that her eyes, like the Conclave’s, were everywhere. “Just a minor misunderstanding,” I waved off, feigning nonchalance. “Local color. Nothing I couldn’t smooth over.” “Perhaps,” she mused, steepling her fingers. “But it does underscore my concern regarding your chosen… focus. Zofia Niemczyk is dangerous, Emil. Her capacity for destructive outbursts is unparalleled. To delve into her past, to seek alternative narratives, to challenge our findings… it’s not only reckless, it’s perilous. For you. And for the city.” Her words were gentle, almost paternal, but the underlying warning was as clear as the glass desk between us. She wasn’t *forbidding* me, not yet, but she was definitely applying pressure. Her power wasn't just in her position; it was in her universally beloved image, her absolute authority over the city's frequency. Just then, the very air around us seemed to hum. A low, resonant thrumming vibrated through the floor, escalating into a deep, sustained growl. The panoramic windows began to shimmer, the distant city lights momentarily blurring. It wasn’t a structural tremor, but an energetic ripple, sharp and insistent, emanating from the city’s heart. My own pulse responded, a faint prickle under my skin like charged fur. Krystyna didn't flinch. Her expression remained unmoved, a slight tilt to her head, as if listening to a distant melody. Then, with an almost imperceptible shift in her posture, a quiet stillness settled around her. It wasn’t an outward burst of energy, no visible light or shockwave. Instead, it was an inward drawing, a deep, silent absorption. The surge, which had been threatening to spiral into a full-blown tremor, began to subside. The humming faded, the windows stabilized, the prickle on my skin receded. The entire event, lasting no more than thirty seconds, was entirely contained, entirely *hers*. “Ah, a momentary disturbance in the Portside district,” Krystyna remarked, as if commenting on a passing cloud. Her eyes, briefly closed, opened again, shining with a renewed, almost luminous quality. “My apologies, Emil. Sometimes the city feels… restless. But we Harmonists are here to ensure its tranquility, aren't we?” Outside, I could already hear the distant, rising crescendo of public adoration – emergency sirens giving way to cheers, news feeds undoubtedly proclaiming Krystyna Jabłoński's latest heroic act. It was an act, sharp in its timing, flawlessly executed. And unnervingly potent. “Indeed,” I managed, my voice a little rougher than I intended. Her power was immense, undeniable. And she wielded it with such casual grace, such absolute control, it was almost terrifying. She reached into a drawer, pulling out a slim, encrypted data chip. “I understand you’re seeking answers, Emil. Perhaps this will assuage your curiosity, and allow you to focus on less… dangerous subjects.” She slid the chip across the polished glass. “Conclusive evidence, compiled by our top analysts. Every detail of Zofia Niemczyk’s volatile surges, her connections, her culpability. It’s all there. Leave no room for doubt.” I picked up the chip. It felt cold, heavy, a polished lie. “Thank you, Director,” I said, tucking it into my pocket. My gaze met hers. Her lips were still curved in that benevolent smile. But in the depths of her azure eyes, just for an instant, I saw it. A crack in the placid surface, a flash of something colder, sharper. A predator’s glint. A shrike’s hunger. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by the placid facade, but it was enough. Enough to confirm every unsettling suspicion, every dissonant whisper in my gut. Krystyna Jabłoński wasn’t just observing the game. She was playing it, and Zofia was merely a pawn in her grand design. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, rising with elegant finality. “I have a press conference to attend. I do hope you find the information… illuminating.” I left her office, the cold chip heavy in my pocket, the image of her predatory flicker searing itself into my mind. The leadership wasn't just corrupt; it was actively orchestrating this. And Zofia, the Shrike of Ostrów, was the designated scapegoat. I had walked into a cul-de-sac in Ostrów, but I’d just stepped into a trap infinitely more dangerous in the heart of high authority. And I had a distinct feeling that Krystyna Jabłoński expected me to take the bait.

An Audience with the Saint