Her words, cold as ice in a winter river, etched themselves into my mind. I hadn’t just asked for her trust; I’d signed a pact, one that tasted of ash and desperation. There were twenty-four days left until her scheduled pacification. That was the window to prove Krystyna Jabłoński was a murderer, save Zofia, or end her life myself. Szymon, surprisingly, proved to be a master of bureaucratic jujitsu. He navigated the Conclave’s labyrinthine protocols like a seasoned spy, twisting obscure bylaws and leveraging his own burgeoning reputation as a ‘model’ therapist to schedule Zofia’s “final psychological assessment.” The crucial detail: Krystyna Jabłoński, sitting on the Institute’s ethics board, would attend as an observer. Her attendance was framed as public oversight, a final seal of legitimacy on Zofia’s impending doom. “It’s set,” Szymon whispered to me in a deserted corridor outside the central observation deck the next morning. His eyes, usually sharp with professional zeal, now held a haunted quality. “Seventeen hundred hours. Her cell. She’ll be there, Emil. Don’t screw this up.” I just nodded, my throat tight. Her lethal bargain sat heavy in my gut. There was no room for error. Failure meant her death, by my hand or theirs, and my own elimination right after. At seventeen hundred sharp, I stood before the reinforced acrylic partition of Zofia’s cell. The suppression field hummed, a low, guttural vibration that seeped into my bones. Beyond the partition, Zofia sat on the low cot, her posture relaxed, almost serene, her gaze distant. To her left, Krystyna Jabłoński sat in a plush armchair, exquisitely tailored in ivory robes, her golden hair perfectly coiffed. Her public smile, radiant and compassionate, was firmly in place. Beside her, Szymon stood stiffly, a picture of professional detachment. His face was pale. “Good evening, everyone,” Krystyna’s voice flowed, smooth as polished glass. “Practitioner Orłowski, Szymon. And Zofia. Are we ready to begin?” “Ready,” I affirmed, my voice betraying none of the tremor in my hands. I met Krystyna’s gaze. Her eyes, the color of warm honey, held an unnerving stillness. She was watching me, assessing me. Not Zofia. I had to remember that. Krystyna saw me as the real threat. “Zofia,” I began, turning my attention to her, though my periphery tracked Krystyna’s every minute shift. “We’re here today for your final assessment. A chance to reflect on your journey, your understanding of your… condition.” Zofia merely blinked, her expression unreadable. She played her part perfectly, the resigned, broken captive. It was a mask I had seen crack only once. “Krystyna,” I continued, pivoting slightly toward her, my voice carefully modulated. “As an esteemed elder of our governing order, your insights are invaluable. You’ve dedicated your life to upholding our city’s delicate balance.” Krystyna’s smile widened, a practiced flash of pearly teeth. “Indeed, Emil. I believe empathy and understanding are paramount, even for those who struggle with their gifts.” “Empathy,” I repeated, letting the word hang in the air. “Yes. And justice. Tell me, Krystyna, what do you believe justice looks like for a child orphaned by an unspeakable act?” Her smile faltered, just a fraction. Her eyes flickered, barely perceptible. “A tragedy, of course. Our leaders strive to provide support for all affected by… violent incidents.” “Incidents,” I echoed. “Or murders? Specifically, the slaughter of two highly respected practitioners, taken in their own home, years ago.” Szymon inhaled sharply beside Krystyna. The sound was swallowed by the drone of the dampening barrier. Krystyna’s serene expression began to chip. The golden hue around her, always a steady beacon, flickered at the edges. “I’m not sure I follow your line of questioning, Emil,” Krystyna said, her voice still smooth, but with a subtle undertone of steel. “This is an assessment of Zofia Niemczyk.” “It is,” I agreed, leaning closer to the acrylic pane, my gaze fixed on Krystyna. “But the events of that night, the murder of a mother and a father, shaped Zofia’s entire life. What if that crime was covered up? What if the official story of a ‘Dissonant outburst’ was a lie?” “A lie?” Krystyna’s voice dropped, ice-cold. “Are you suggesting the Conclave fabricated evidence?” “I’m suggesting an elite capable of cloaking their frequency executed two innocent people and framed their child,” I stated, my voice low but firm. I used the specific words from the archive echo, hoping they would trigger a deeper response. “A butcher who hides behind civic piety, silencing tremors in the street while failing to steady her own tongue.” Krystyna’s composure shattered. The compassionate smile dissolved, replaced by a grotesque snarl. Her eyes, no longer warm, burned with an infernal light. The golden radiance around her twisted, shifting to a pulsating, obsidian black, baring the chaotic pitch beneath. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled, revealing the monstrous truth. She was no paragon. She was a creature of calculated malice. “You insolent street rat!” she hissed, the beautiful voice now guttural, vibrating with a terrifying power. The air in the cell shimmered, the dampener groaning under the sudden, immense pressure. “You think you can expose me? You think you can touch me?” Her hand, which had rested delicately on the armrest, shot out. Not towards Zofia, not towards Szymon. Towards me. A blinding, razor-sharp torrent of black force burst from her fingertips, aimed directly at my chest. It was swift, silent, and designed to annihilate. I had only a split second to react, my mind screaming. This wasn’t part of the plan. She wasn’t supposed to attack *me*. I instinctively threw up my arms, a useless, pathetic gesture against such power. I saw the pure hatred in her eyes, felt the searing heat of her attack before it even reached me. Then, Zofia moved. Faster than thought, she was on her feet. Her eyes, usually so guarded, blazed with an intensity I had never witnessed. A roar ripped from her throat, a primal sound of fury and protection. The dampening coils shrieked, then exploded outward in a shower of sparks, unable to contain the force erupting from her. A colossal, shimmering wall of incandescent light—a blinding white—manifested directly in front of me, intercepting Krystyna’s devastating attack. The clash of energies was cataclysmic, a deafening crack that shook the entire Institute to its foundations. The dividing wall of Zofia’s cell disintegrated, pulverized into dust by the shockwave. The floor buckled. Alarms began to blare, a chaotic symphony of impending disaster. But I was still standing, shielded, protected. Zofia, the feared Dissonant, the Shrike of Ostrów, stood before me, her arms outstretched, a protective goddess, her body alight with raw, untamed power. She had never been out of control. She had always been holding back. And now, for me, she had unleashed it all.

The Saint Shows Her Teeth