“I will consider your generous offer, General.”
Dymian’s departure from Vorlag’s chambers was a carefully constructed ballet of indifference. He walked past the petrified figures, each a grotesque monument to the General’s power, his gaze sweeping over them without lingering, as if the macabre display was a common sight. The copper link from the courier’s wrist remained fixed in his mind, anchoring his step.
He rejoined Stasya in the damp lower tunnels beneath the fortress. Her face was tight, her eyes searching his for any crack in his composure.
“Well?” she asked, her voice low, barely audible over the distant rumble of the city’s geothermic vents. “What did the viper want?”
“The viper wants an apprentice,” Dymian stated, his voice flat. He recounted Vorlag’s twisted offer, the true nature of the Heart of Voryn, and the horrifying display of victims, not omitting the detail of the courier’s bracelet.
Stasya’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound for a moment. Her features hardened. “Sacrifices. To power *him*.” A pause. “And the Bastion’s core, you said? Founding Day is in three rotations. That’s when the General annually performs the ‘Re-consecration of the Core.’ A public spectacle. He connects himself to it, claims to draw power to protect the city.”
“He doesn’t draw power *from* it,” Dymian corrected, his tone even. “He injects his parasitic curse *into* it. He’s not protecting the city, Stasya. He’s turning it into a giant battery for himself, a giant sacrificial altar.”
“To expose him,” Stasya mused, her brow furrowed in thought, “we need to prove the connection. Show them what he’s doing to the Core. But the Core chamber is sealed. Only accessible through the command annex, and only with the supply chief's security key. Brevost. He’s one of the Pact, a greedy, simpering lout.”
“Brevost,” Dymian repeated. “He’s the one diverting the resource shipments, isn’t he? The ledger was clear on that. ‘Supply Adjustments for Sector Rho-3.’ But Rho-3 has been abandoned for months.”
Stasya nodded slowly. “His personal coffers are overflowing. He’s too careful to leave direct evidence, but the inconsistencies in the log are undeniable if you know where to look.”
“Then we make him careless,” Dymian said, a plan already forming. “We corner him publicly. During the pre-Founding Day inspection of the armory. He prides himself on its immaculate order, its ‘absolute efficiency.’ We will show everyone his true efficiency.”
Two shifts later, the pre-Founding Day armory inspection was crowded with logistics staff. General Vorlag, flanked by other high-ranking officials, moved through the cavernous space, his gaze sharp, occasionally offering a nod of approval. Supply Chief Brevost, a portly man with an overabundance of ornate medals, stood straight beside the pallets. Dymian, playing the part of the dutiful, recently returned hero, walked a few paces behind Vorlag, observing.
Stasya, dressed in her scout's fatigues, moved with practiced ease through the crowds, ostensibly checking equipment manifests. Her hand brushed Dymian’s arm as she passed. “Ready?” she murmured.
Dymian gave a subtle nod.
They waited until Brevost led Vorlag to a new consignment of energy cells, gleaming and pristine. “—Our latest acquisitions, General! Top-tier power sleeves, ready for deployment!” Brevost declared, gesturing grandly.
“Indeed,” Vorlag rumbled, his voice carrying. “A fine addition to our reserves.”
Dymian stepped forward, his voice cutting through the pleasantries, sharp and clear. “Curious. These power sleeves bear the identifying marks of the lower foundries. Their energy output readings are notoriously unstable.” He paused, allowing the murmurs to spread. “And the serial numbers… I recall similar batches were diverted to Sector Rho-3. A sector which has, for months, been nothing but a desolate expanse of rubble and dust.”
Brevost’s confident smile faltered. His face, usually florid, paled slightly. “Nonsense, Commander! Rho-3 is… a strategic reserve! And those foundries are highly reputable!”
Stasya emerged from the shadows, a data slate in her hand. “My apologies, General. But a recent scout expedition through Rho-3 confirmed its status as uninhabited. Furthermore,” she tapped the slate, projecting holographic schematics onto the wall, “the cheaper sleeves have a known critical fault. When overloaded, they rupture. The supply logs show he paid premium prices for these—rates matched only by high-grade stock from the Veshkiv Yards. Yet these are scrap-castings.”
The implications were immediate and damning. Brevost wasn’t just skimming; he was buying faulty, cheap equipment and charging the city for top-grade supplies, pocketing the vast difference. And worse, he was endangering Chernograd’s defenders with explosive, unstable equipment. The murmurs swelled into an indignant roar.
Vorlag’s eyes, fixed on Brevost, were cold, devoid of sympathy. “Brevost,” Vorlag said, his tone quiet, “explain yourself.”
Brevost stammered, his words dissolving into incoherent pleas. The crowd pressed in, their faces contorted with anger. Within moments, Vorlag’s guards had him by the arms, dragging him away, his protests lost in the din.
Later that evening, stripped of his medals, Brevost sat handcuffed across from Dymian and Stasya in a sub-level detention cell. He was a broken man, his greed having finally caught up to him. He practically groveled, begging for mercy, promising anything.
“Your security key for the Core annex,” Dymian said, his voice flat. “And full access codes. We need them.”
Brevost, barely meeting Dymian’s gaze, fumbled at his belt, producing a tarnished bronze key and a data chip. “It’s… it’s all here. Just… please. Don’t tell them about my other accounts. My family…”
Dymian merely took the key and chip, his face impassive. Brevost was a small fish. There were bigger predators to hunt.
Back in Kazimir’s quarters, the lantern burned low. Stasya ran a thumb over the tarnished bronze key. “One obstacle down. Getting close to the Core is still incredibly dangerous. Vorlag’s presence will be overwhelming.”
Dymian nodded, a plan already taking shape in his mind for how to subvert the Core’s energy, how to broadcast Vorlag’s corruption using his acquired data.
“He always took care of everyone,” Stasya said, her voice soft, pulling him from his thoughts. “Kazimir. He… he found me when I was just a raw recruit. Lost and angry after the first Chimera raids. My old scout captain, he was a brute. Tried to sideline me. Kazimir saw something else. Gave me the chance to prove myself. He just… believed.” She looked at Dymian, her eyes filled with a wistful, almost fragile sorrow. “He used to say, ‘The truest strength isn’t in how hard you hit, but in how much you protect.’ He actually meant it.”
The memory, shared with such unguarded tenderness, hit Dymian with unexpected force. It was a shard of the real Kazimir, shining through the harsh reality of their mission. A man Dymian adored, envied, and now, was impersonating. Stasya’s gaze lingered, a question, a memory, a longing. For a fleeting second, Dymian forgot the mask, forgot the mission, forgot everything but the quiet grief in her eyes and the almost imperceptible tremor of her hand as it lay near his on the table. He felt a forbidden spark, warm and dangerous, ignite in his chest, a yearning that was not Kazimir’s, but entirely his own.
[SYSTEM ALERT: PRIMARY SUB-COMPONENT CORRUPTION DETECTED. BASTION CORE STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY AT RISK. INITIATING PHASE 2 OF 'HEART OF VORYN' ADVANCEMENT. EST. COMPLETION: 5 CYCLES.]
The blue projection cut through the dim room. Five days until the foundation became an open drain for Vorlag's parasitic link.