Dymian met the general’s gaze through an impassive mask. The fury sparked in the rain-soaked trench now simmered behind his elder sibling's features. He shifted his attention across the table: Commander Zharov, the grim tactician; Provost Myra, the sharp-eyed quartermaster; Elder Varn, the faction’s spiritual guide, his smile thin and knowing. Each of them a conspirator, a knife in Kazimir’s back.
“General,” Dymian answered in Kazimir's measured baritone, devoid of his own youthful edge, “I recall the sting of snow and the smell of ozone. A flash of light, then only a ringing silence.” He paused, sweeping his eyes over the table in feigned confusion. “My skull throbs. The scouts discovered me near the Ashfall Bluffs. Corporal Borislav mentioned a Chimera ambush. Is that accurate?” He injected an artful wobble into the final syllables.
The scarred commander leaned forward, creasing his brow. “Scout reports indicated a large pack of Volkovyr. You were found amidst their leavings, a miracle you survived. Do you recall the attack itself?”
“Flashes,” Dymian lied, forcing a wince. “Pressure. The sound of claws. Nothing coherent. I know my name. My rank. That I serve Chernograd. Beyond that…” He trailed off, pressing two fingers to his temple. Kazimir was known for icy intellect, never outbursts; pretending blankness shielded him against probing questions about sudden behavioral shifts.
Provost Myra, her irises like chips of flint, spoke with a dry bite. “A convenient fog, Commander. You were leading the expedition to secure the new vein of Aerthium. Do you recall its objectives? Its composition?”
*They are testing my knowledge of the operational ledger.* Dymian knew the field briefs; he had transcribed several of them himself. “The Aerthium vein south of the Skitterfang Wastes,” he stated, steadying his pitch, “critical for plasma-coil fabrication. The unit comprised two fireteam leads, Kovos and Lenya, and a squad of twelve regulars. Reconnaissance and preliminary extraction, avoiding direct confrontation unless absolutely necessary. Priority: sample retrieval, not engagement.” He recited the specs with Kazimir's dry cadence.
A flicker of grudging approval crossed the commander's face. Myra’s features remained carved from slate. Vorlag, however, merely smiled, a predatory gleam in his pupils. It was then that Dymian saw it.
A faint, rust-colored filament shimmered in the stagnant air. It was not an isolated cord. It tied General Vorlag to Zharov, looped toward Myra, passed through Elder Varn, and ran outward until every traitor around the obsidian slab stood entangled. It pulsed with dull, dark power, a silent lattice joining them.
[Skill: Lesser Stitching has detected a latent energetic binding. Potential for unraveling detected.]
The notification flared and dissolved across his retinas. His [Lesser Stitching] skill, dismissed as useless rubbish by every System evaluator in the Bastion, had exposed a link invisible to normal sight. Not physical matter, but an astral tether. Was this the pact itself? A shared curse? A siphon for stolen vitality? Savage excitement prickled his ribs. Here lay the first binding he would unravel.
“Well,” Vorlag said, slicing through Dymian’s thoughts, “it seems you retain the essentials, Kazimir. For now, rest. We will assign you light duties during your convalescence. The corporal will see you to your billet.”
Dymian nodded with an exhaustedly bowed spine. He rose beneath their heavy, unbroken stares. As he pivoted toward the heavy brass door, his glance caught the crimson filament joining the warlord to the other conspirators. It remained anchored. Real.
Borislav led him in silence through the winding halls of Chernograd. The stone ramparts felt like the ribs of an iron beast. Kazimir's private room in the officers' wing proved spartan: a narrow cot, an ironwood desk, and an upright footlocker.
He dismissed the escort with a wave of his hand, then locked the heavy latch. He needed whatever dirt Kazimir had squirrelled away before marching into the trap. Dymian methodically rifled through the desk drawers: official ledgers, supply manifests, and sector survey maps, all standard.
He crossed to the steel footlocker. Kazimir’s dress uniform hung straight beside polished carbine armor. At the floor of the bin rested an iron strongbox. Dymian rotated the brass tumblers to the years of their births. The latch popped free.
Before he could examine its contents, a sharp knock rattled the doorframe.
“Kazimir? A moment of your time.”
The voice was low and melodic, carrying a tempered edge. Stasya Rostova. Dymian’s fingers froze against the metal casing. He shoved the box under a coat, dropped the lid, and turned with blank eyes.
Stasya stood in the opening, framed by the torch-lit hall. The scout’s lean frame wore boiled gray leather bearing the Gryphon’s Claw crest. Her irises, slate-gray as wet slate, narrowed as she swept her gaze down his stance, probing for tells. The woman Kazimir had harbored feelings for, and whom Dymian had regarded with guarded deference.
“Stasya,” he said evenly. “An unexpected visit.”
“So it appears,” she said, stepping inside without a scrape of bootleather. Her lips did not bend. “Word in the courtyard says your mind shattered against the rocks. Convenient.” She stepped closer. “Tell me, Commander. Do you recall your first Sky-Weaver’s Nest? When we scouted the Whisperwind Peaks as green cadets?”
A cold prickle ran along Dymian's collar. The question was deliberate, unrecorded in any council archive. Only Kazimir and Dymian, who had heard his late sibling recount every detail around a field stove, possessed the reply.
Dymian visualized the campfire confession: Kazimir, his habitually stern chin relaxing, describing the gossamer webs spun across the glacial cliffs. Then the aftermath: Kazimir whittling a gryphon figurine out of pine beside a mineral runnel for her hand alone. Dymian had observed the exchange from the horse lines, enduring an ache of jealousy and quiet awe.
“Whisperwind Peaks,” Dymian answered quietly. “Thin frost, air smelling like iron shavings. The hive hung like frozen milk against the shale. But the stream stands out far clearer. You stood in the green moss attempting to spear lumina-trout with a blunt trench fork. You tossed it in the mud and cursed that you'd rather skin a live Volkovyr with a soup spoon than outmaneuver pond carp.” A faint, wry smirk—one Kazimir often wore—curled his lip.
Stasya pulled her chin back a fraction of an inch. A flicker of disorientation twitched across her cheek. The air between them settled into an uneasy hush. She searched his pupils for an error, an invented phrase, but hit solid granite. The staged intimacy coated Dymian's tongue with ash.
“I see,” she said, her voice flattening into soldier's brass. “Your head remains clearer than the medics claim.” She fixed him with a final, unreadable appraisal, then swung on her heel and slipped into the corridor.
Dymian waited until her footfalls died away before returning to the footlocker. He pried open the false cedar base of the iron chest. Beneath rested a bound ledger. Its pages held rows of alien glyphs: material transfers, armory manifests, and dates linked to the names of council ministers. Above every section ran a harsh heading: 'Iron Pact Logistics – Project Sunder'. Dymian traced the chitinous brushwork and branching lines. A Chimera dialect cipher. One he could never untangle alone.