“Med-team on approach,” Anja rasped, her voice tight, the words a thin cord pulled taut over bone. She didn’t look at Damir, her gaze fixed on the smoking wreckage of the drone, though her fingers remained clamped over the wound. “You will tell no one about this. Not a word, understood?” Damir knelt beside her, his own breath ragged, the metallic scent of her blood filling his nostrils. The cold reality of the attack, the sheer brazenness of it inside the supposedly impregnable estate, finally sunk its teeth in. “Understood? You just took a bullet! Who the hell just tried to kill us?” “The drone was not trying to kill <i>us</i>,” she corrected, a flicker of something he couldn't quite decipher—annoyance? fear?—in her dark eyes. “It was trying to kill <i>you</i>. And Katarina is opportunistic, not an idiot. She wouldn’t risk a direct assassination within the first twenty-four hours. This was a message. A warning shot, literally.” He stared at her, the explanation doing little to soothe the tremor that had begun to run through him. A warning. The sheer audacity. He was barely through the front gate, and already a target. Matvei’s dying words echoed, a low, unsettling hum: *“Trust no one. Not even her.”* Footsteps thudded in the corridor. A team of medics, their faces grim under sterile masks, burst into the bunker. They moved with practiced efficiency, a blur of white coats and gleaming instruments. Anja, despite her obvious pain, issued sharp, concise orders in Zoryanan, her authority absolute even with blood staining her uniform. She was whisked away before Damir could ask another question, leaving him alone amidst the acrid smell of ozone and gunpowder. He watched the medics disappear, the silence of the empty bunker pressing in. The immediate danger had passed, but his grandfather’s warning and Katarina’s calculated smirk made one truth clear: the Volkov dynasty was a viper’s nest, and he was the newest target. He needed answers about his father and mother. The authorized version fed to him for decades spoke of a wrecked car on a wet highway, but Matvei’s dying words had fractured that tale, hinting at hidden truths. He made his way back to the main residential wing, the opulent corridors feeling less like a palace and more like an elaborate prison. The estate hummed with hidden activity, a quiet undercurrent of power and surveillance. He passed a few uniformed staff, their eyes quickly dropping when they met his. The new heir. The ghost in the machine. Damir found the central archives on the estate's third subterranean level, a vast, climate-controlled vault behind a reinforced door that likely laughed at conventional explosives. The entrance required a retinal scan and a six-digit passkey. He wasn’t sure how to access it, but a quick search on the estate’s internal network through a terminal in his suite had given him a clue: the ‘Heir Provisional Access’ protocol. He was, after all, a Volkov. He pressed his palm to the biometric reader. A soft whirring sound, a green light. Then a cold, synthesized voice, speaking with the clipped precision of advanced AI, addressed him: “Welcome, Crown Prince Damir Volkov. Access granted for genealogical and historical records. All other classified files require Grand Council approval.” Crown Prince. The title felt absurd, heavy on his tongue. He stepped into a cavernous chamber, rows of digital terminals and ancient-looking microfiche readers stretching into the dim distance. Data flowed through invisible conduits, an ocean of corporate ledgers and schematics. Aleksandr and Lyudmila Volkov. Their names sat silent in his thoughts. He navigated the complex interface, his fingers flying over the holographic keyboard. The system was designed to be user-friendly for those with the correct clearance, and he found their section without issue. Aleksandr Volkov. Lyudmila Volkov. Deceased. The files were conspicuously brief. A few formal photographs, mostly wedding portraits with frozen smiles. Birth dates, a brief biography detailing their philanthropy, then the abrupt entry: “Date of Demise: 27th March, 1996. Cause: Tragic vehicular collision on the E-31 highway, outside Veridian Forest.” He scrolled through the sparse details, a knot tightening in his chest. No forensic logs, no crash reconstruction sheets, nothing beyond the bare minimum. It was too sparse for a multi-billion dollar bloodline to brush off the deaths of two senior royals. His gaze, the Sovereign’s Gaze, began to prickle. Not a full-blown cascade of decay, but a subtle hum, an almost imperceptible distortion in the fabric of the information before him. [Anomaly Detected: Entropic Flaw in Digital Signature (Report ID: VRF-96-03-27-01). Probability of fabrication: High.] A lie. A cold, clinical voice in his head, confirming his growing unease. The public filing was actively deceptive. Someone had deliberately falsified the data regarding how they died. “Found what you were looking for, Prince?” Damir flinched, spinning around. Anja stood in the archway, leaning against the cold metal frame. Her left arm was in a sling, a neat bandage visible at her shoulder beneath a fresh, dark tunic. Her face was pale, but her eyes held their usual sharp intensity. She moved like a shadow, silent and efficient, even injured. “Sneaking up on me is becoming a habit,” Damir retorted, his voice sharper than he intended. “And you shouldn’t be out of the infirmary.” “A scratch. Nothing a Volkov Head of Security can’t handle,” she dismissed, pushing off the archway and walking towards him. She stopped a few feet away, her gaze sweeping over the screen displaying his parents’ files. A flicker of something, perhaps regret, crossed her features. “Still looking for ghosts, Damir?” “Just the truth,” he said, gesturing at the screen. “Their files. Too thin. And my… perception… tells me something is off. That official report is fake.” Anja’s expression hardened. She didn’t deny it. “Your grandfather was right about one thing. This house guards its history. Aleksandr and Lyudmila… they were different. Idealists who chafed under the Grand Council’s authority.” “What does that have to do with a highway wreck?” She hesitated, her eyes scanning the empty archive, as if checking for invisible listeners. “They were researching something the Council deemed… sensitive. A way to mitigate the physical tolls of the Sovereign’s Gaze. They believed it was a curse, not a gift.” Damir’s throat tightened. *Tolls?* He’d only just begun to wrap his head around the 'gift' part. “What tolls?” Anja reached into a hidden pocket in her tunic, extracting a small, intricately carved wooden key. It was old, smooth from years of handling, bearing a stylized wolf’s head insignia. “Your father’s private study. Sealed since his death. It’s in the North Tower, sixth floor, behind the woven mural of the Zoryanan Uprising. Matvei ordered it untouched. Maybe they left something there. Something that wasn’t a lie.” She pressed the key into his palm, her fingers brushing his. The contact was brief, but it left a lingering warmth. “Be careful, Damir. Some vaults are sealed for a reason.” He looked down at the key, then back at her, a new, unsettling question forming in his mind. *What consequences was his father so desperate to stop?*

The Ghost in the Archives