Damir’s query hung in the air, a fragile bridge built between them from shredded trust and dawning resolve. The candlelight danced, catching the sharp angles of his face, illuminating the stark shift from despair to a fierce, rekindled fight. Anya met his gaze, her own focus narrowing. “The sleeping draught Krysztof has prepared for Vasha,” she began, her voice low and steady, “was meant to buy us time to steal the locket. But Vasha is too cunning for a simple knockout. She knows the layout of this keep, she knows your family’s history, and she suspects me. We need more than a few hours. We need an advantage she won’t anticipate.” She moved closer, gesturing to the scattered letters. “She wants to corrupt the locket during a specific alignment, tied to the blood moon. We don’t have much time. Krysztof knows the keep’s hidden passages. We use them, not to escape, but to gain the element of surprise.” “Surprise against an Archivist who anticipates every move?” Damir’s brow furrowed, but the question held less skepticism, more a demand for detail. “And her Enforcers? They are well-trained.” “They’re trained for open confrontation, for brute force. Not for shadows and misdirection. Krysztof will administer the draught, as planned. But it won’t be enough to incapacitate her. It will be a distraction. A signal. When he makes his move, I will create chaos from the passages. We draw her Enforcers away from her, and from you. We won’t fight them head-on. We disarm, we disable, and we retrieve the locket before she can begin her ritual.” Anya watched him, the raw intensity in his eyes mirroring her own. “This will be dangerous. She will expect us to flee. She won’t expect us to fight for what is rightfully yours, not in your own home.” A grim smile touched Damir’s lips, a flash of the haughty lord she had first met, now tempered with a desperate understanding. “Then let us give her what she least expects.” *** The grand banquet hall lay stiflingly quiet, the silence broken only by pine logs snapping in the hearth. Archivist Vasha sat at the head of the polished obsidian table, a porcelain cup of spiced wine cradled in her slender hands. Her gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over Damir, then to Anya, before settling on Krysztof, who stood dutifully by her side, ready to pour. Two Guild guards, cloaked figures with an intimidating stillness, stood sentinel by the massive archway leading to the gallery. Krysztof’s fingers shook against the silver flagon as he extended it towards Vasha’s cup. His expression was a mask of practiced servitude, but Anya, watching from her seat beside Damir, saw the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. This was it. “More wine, Archivist?” Krysztof’s voice was reedy, though he tried to imbue it with his usual deferential tone. Vasha smiled, a thin, humourless curve of her lips. “Generous, Krysztof. But I believe I’ve had quite enough of your hospitality for one evening.” Her eyes, cold as winter shards, flicked to the flagon. “Or perhaps, more accurately, enough of your *draughts*.” The words were an airy dismissal, yet they struck hard. Krysztof froze, pewter rattling against porcelain. His face, already pale, lost what little colour it possessed. The first jolt of alarm shot through Anya. Vasha knew. She had known all along. Vasha leaned back, her smile widening into a predatory grin. “Did you truly believe a simple sleeping potion, concocted in your dusty little alchemical nook, would escape my notice, old man? I have been observing your pathetic attempts to suppress the Sarkov curse for decades. Your incompetence is a constant source of amusement.” She snapped her fingers, a sharp, decisive sound that cut through the silence. Before Krysztof could react, the two Enforcers were upon him, their movements shockingly swift. Heavy gauntleted hands seized his arms, wrenching the flagon from his grip. He cried out, a strangled sound of protest and terror, as they dragged him towards the centre of the hall, away from Vasha. “Damir,” Vasha purred, her gaze fixing on him, a triumph blazing in her eyes. “Did you truly think you could outwit me? Did you trust that this disgraced relic hunter and her doddering steward could stand against the might of the Archivists’ Guild? Foolish boy.” Damir pushed his chair back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His hand went to the talisman concealed beneath his tunic, his eyes blazing with fury. “What is this treachery, Vasha?” “Treachery?” She laughed, a brittle, chilling sound. “It is the end of your resistance. It is the dawn of a new era for Vorosnya, powered by the boundless magic of the Sarkov bloodline.” Her hand swept out, and two more armored mercenaries emerged from the shadowed recesses of the chamber, moving to flank Damir. He was surrounded. “The relic, Damir,” Vasha commanded, her voice hardening. “Surrender it. Your foolish attempts to cling to humanity are over. The true form of the Sarkov power will finally be unleashed.” Damir stood his ground, his shoulders tense, but four seasoned fighters with cold, impassive faces promised an overwhelming fight he couldn’t win alone. He glanced at Anya, a flicker of despair in his eyes. She met it with a silent promise. Not yet. Vasha watched the silent exchange, a sneer twisting her lips. “Ah, the little relic hunter still believes she can save him. How quaint. Do you know, Anya, what the true conditions of the Sarkov curse are? Krysztof’s journals are incomplete. The ancient texts are far more… poetic.” She savoured the moment, drawing out the reveal. “The curse can only be broken by an act of true love. A grand, selfless sacrifice made by one who loves the cursed, and is loved in return.” She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “A fairytale, an impossible dream. Who could ever truly love a beast? A broken man? Certainly not a mercenary like you, Anya. You’re only here for the prize.” The final piece of the curse. True love. Anya absorbed the words, her thoughts steadying as the depth of Damir’s torment—and the sharp reality of her own feelings—snapped into focus. Vasha was wrong. She was terribly, magnificently wrong. Vasha clapped her hands again. “Secure them both! The rite begins now.” The armored brutes moved, one reaching for Damir, another for Anya. But Anya had already anticipated the advance. As the man lunged, she dropped from her chair, rolling beneath the table. The man stumbled, thrown off balance. She scrambled to the far wall, pressing herself against a hidden panel, one that Krysztof had shown her just hours before. “Foolish girl!” Vasha shrieked. “Get her!” Two soldiers broke off from Damir, turning to cut Anya off. She waited until their backs were turned, then shoved the panel. It swung inward silently. A gust of cold air, smelling of damp stone and moss, billowed into the hall. Anya slipped inside the masonry cleft. Shouts rose behind her as they realized she had vanished. “Search the corridors! Find her!” Vasha’s voice was a furious snarl. This was her chance. Using the labyrinthine concealed shafts Krysztof had described, Anya moved with the silence that had once defined her reputation. Heavy boots clattered against stone, followed by curses when the guards found only empty dark. She wasn't fleeing; she was orchestrating. In the hall, with half her men diverted, Damir seized his opportunity. His gaze, wild and defiant, found Vasha, who was now standing over a low, ornate stone altar she had conjured from somewhere within the keep. On it rested a shallow, obsidian basin and a collection of strange, dark herbs. She had already begun to chant, her voice a low, guttural thrum that vibrated with unnatural power. As the two remaining brutes lunged to pin him, Damir roared, a sound that was half man, half beast. His strength, always considerable, surged with his rage. He bucked against their hold, throwing one man off balance, his foot catching the Enforcer’s knee. The man crumpled with a grunt. Before the second could react, Damir drove an elbow into the man's jaw. The soldier's head snapped back, and he dropped. Damir was free. But Vasha had seen. Her chant faltered, her eyes narrowing on Damir. “No! Not yet!” Just then, Anya bolted back into the hall through a side grate, timing her strike. A sharp whistle cut through the high rafters, pivoting the two guards who had pursued her into the walls and were now tumbling back out into the open. They spun, weapons drawn, their focus instantly on her. “Over here!” Anya barked. Her footing stayed low and balanced. As the first attacker charged, spear lowered, she stepped inside his path. She feinted left, drawing him wider, then dropped, sweeping her leg out. The man tripped, his armoured form clattering to the flagstones. Before he could recover, she snatched his spear, leveraging its weight against his neck, pressing it down, effectively pinning him. The second guard, stunned by his comrade’s sudden tumble, hesitated. It was all the opening Anya needed. She spun, bringing the spear around in a wide arc. He raised his shield, but she wasn’t aiming for him. The spear’s butt slammed into the ornate, unlit candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Chains shrieked, and the heavy iron fixture swung violently, then crashed into the wall beside the Enforcer, sending a shower of plaster and dust raining down. Dust stung his eyes, throwing his stance off. Anya dropped the haft and closed the gap. Her grip locked onto his elbow joint, wrenching hard to the side. Bone popped, and the man screamed as his sword fell away, his shoulder wrenching out of true. Vasha watched, her face contorting into a mask of pure disbelief and rage. Her incantation was broken. “You insolent cur! You dare defy me?!” Damir surged toward the altar, fixated on the pendant Vasha had somehow stripped away and laid in the obsidian basin. But Vasha was quicker. She snatched a curved dagger from the altar, its blade glinting darkly in the torchlight, and spun, pressing steel against Krysztof’s neck. He whimpered, his eyes wide with terror. “Stop!” Vasha shrieked, her voice echoing with a maniacal fury that rattled the very stones of the keep. Her eyes, wild and malevolent, locked onto Anya. “The locket, girl! Bring me the locket! Or your loyal friend dies!”

The Heart of the Matter