The hulking construct charged, stone claws gouging the street, straight for Leta. The air churned with dust and the grind of pulverized pavement. Leta froze, the world narrowing to the beast's snarling maw and the impossible distance to the Academy’s shattered gates. Veles, dazed and disoriented, fluttered weakly on the cold stones a few meters away. Then, a blur of grey, a forceful shove from behind. Leta stumbled, falling hard onto the slick cobblestones. A sharp, searing pain tore through the air, followed by a choked gasp. Miro. He had thrown himself between her and the charging creature. The impact was sickening, a dull thud followed by the wet tear of flesh. The monstrous entity slammed into Miro’s side. Its stony forearm, edged with jagged shards, raked deeply across his ribcage. Miro cried out, a sound Leta had never expected from his usually serene composure, and crumpled. The beast lumbered past, turning its head to bellow at the fleeing Heirs in the distance before it dissipated into swirling black mist, leaving behind only the chill of its passage. “[Objective: Protect Prime Echo Bearer. Status: Critical. Minor Penalty to Attacker: Kirill Ivashin. Protective Aura Granted: Minor (Miroslav Orlov).]” The glowing script flared on Leta’s wrist, then faded. The protective energy from the system, a cool, almost metallic sensation, settled over Miro instead of her. She scrambled to his side, her hands trembling as she reached for him. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his face pallid against the dark stone. A dark stain spread rapidly across the pristine white linen of his uniform, the scent of fresh copper thick in the air. The wound was deep, jagged, and horrifyingly close to his heart. “Miro!” Her voice was a strained whisper. She pressed her hands against the gash, trying to staunch the flow, but it was useless. Her fingers were slick with his blood. Kirill appeared at her side, his expression tight with a cold fury. “Fool,” he bit out, not at Leta, but at Miro. He knelt, assessing the wound with a clinical gaze. “It missed the lung, barely. But the damage is… extensive.” Stellan, his face grim, was already tearing strips from his own heavy outer cloak. Demyan, for once, was silent, his usual smirk replaced by a mask of horrified concern. He gripped his arcane pigment set like a weapon, though it was useless against this. “I’ll… I’ll be fine,” Miro rasped, pushing Leta’s hands away with sudden vigor. “It’s… not as bad as it looks. Just… help me up.” “Not as bad as it looks?” Kirill scoffed, though the edge of concern in his voice was undeniable. “You’re bleeding like a freshly butchered beast.” “The Academy’s infirmary…” Leta started, looking towards the distant, imposing structure of Aethelgard. Miro shook his head slowly, his brow furrowed in pain. “No. Not there. My chambers. I have… everything I need there.” Kirill eyed him, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “Fine. Demyan, Stellan, assist him. Leta, you come with me. We need to debrief.” “No,” Leta said, startled by her own voice. It was the first time she had defied Kirill directly. “I’m going with Miro.” Kirill’s eyes narrowed, a glacial chill in their depths. “He’s a liability now. Your focus should be on the objective.” “He saved my life,” Leta stated, her voice quiet but firm. “And he’s hurt because of it. I’m going with him.” Before Kirill could retort, Miro managed a weak, grateful nod towards Leta. Demyan and Stellan helped him to his feet, supporting his weight between them. Miro leaned heavily on them, his face pale and beaded with sweat, but he gave Kirill a look of quiet resolve. Kirill held Miro’s gaze for a long moment, then let out a sharp sigh of exasperation. “Fine. But don’t think this absolves you of your duties, Volos.” Leta followed Miro, Demyan, and Stellan through the Penumbra’s warped streets, the spectral afterglow of the hunt still clinging to the air. They navigated back to a less damaged quadrant of the campus, its grand architecture eerily intact in the spectral realm. Miro’s dorm room was not like the sparse, functional living spaces Leta imagined for elite students. It was an anomaly, a clandestine infirmary disguised within the opulent stone quarters. Shelves lined with gleaming medical instruments and vials of iridescent liquids replaced the usual display of textbooks. A sturdy, polished wooden table, usually reserved for study, was bare save for a neatly arranged selection of sutures, surgical clamps, and a bowl of steaming water. Stellan gently lowered Miro onto a plush velvet settee, then, without a word, began heating water on a small, concealed burner. Demyan, looking strangely subdued, pulled thick velvet curtains across the room’s large window, plunging the space into a soft, amber gloom. They then both exited, leaving Leta and Miro alone. The quiet tension in the room was almost suffocating. “It’s… my family’s duty,” Miro said, his voice strained, as he carefully unbuttoned his tunic. He winced as the fabric peeled away from the wound, revealing the raw, gaping injury. “We are the healers. Always have been. This… is minor for us.” Leta swallowed, her gaze fixed on the wound. “Minor? Miro, that’s a terrible injury.” He offered a weak smile. “Perhaps not ‘minor’ by ordinary standards, but we have… experience. My lineage, the Orlovs, were once among the most powerful Heirs, not for battle, but for restoration. For generations, we maintained the balance, mending the rifts in the Penumbra, healing the broken souls of those caught between worlds.” He dipped a sterile cloth into the warm water Stellan had left and began to meticulously clean the wound, his movements precise despite his evident pain. “Then why… why are you forced into this game?” Leta asked, remembering his earlier words to Kirill. “Why is it a ‘debt’?” Miro paused, his hands still. He looked at Leta, his kind eyes clouded with a deep, ancient sorrow. “A predecessor of mine, a man named Iosif, believed the Nocturne was a perversion. A cruel, endless cycle of suffering. He tried to dismantle it, to sever the connection between Umbrava and the Penumbra, to free everyone from spectral influence.” A flicker of admiration, quickly masked, crossed his face. “He almost succeeded. But the Nocturne… it has a will of its own. It retaliated. His efforts fractured the system, causing immense instability. To prevent its complete collapse, the Orlovs were bound. We must participate, generation after generation, to atone for Iosif’s attempt. To mend the system, piece by agonizing piece. Our blood, our skills, are forfeit to the game’s perpetuation.” Leta felt a chill that had nothing to do with the spectral air. A rebel trying to destroy the game, only for it to bind his bloodline to its service. It was a cruel twist of fate, mirroring her own involuntary connection. “So, you’re forced to help… perpetuate what your ancestor tried to end?” Miro nodded, a grim line to his lips. “Precisely. We heal the participants, mend the Phantoms, maintain the delicate balance that keeps the Nocturne running. It’s why my studies, my entire life, have been dedicated to this. Every cut, every fracture, every corrupted Phantom… we must mend it. It’s our penance.” He winced as the skin pulled taut. “Hold this for me, would you? Just here.” He guided her hand, pressing a clean pad against the edges of the gash, then reached for a needle and thread, his fingers unnervingly steady. Leta, steady despite the gore, held the pad firm. She watched, fascinated and horrified, as he began to stitch his own flesh, his face a mask of quiet determination. The air filled with the faint, metallic tang of disinfectant and the raw, earthy scent of blood. She found herself instinctively anticipating his needs, handing him instruments, adjusting the light. Her hands, usually clumsy, moved with steady precision. He glanced at her, eyebrows lifted. “You’re… remarkably steady at this, Leta. Most would blanch.” “I… I just want to help,” she murmured, her gaze steady on his work. “You saved me.” He finished the first few stitches, pulling them tight, then leaned back against the settee, a sigh escaping him. “I have been watching you, Leta. For weeks, even before the Weeping Magistrate. In the archives. You always seemed… out of place, yet perfectly suited. Like a shadow among the gilded cages of Aethelgard. I saw the way you handled the ancient texts, the quiet reverence in your touch. I felt… a connection, even then. A similar kind of burden, perhaps.” His eyes, warm and earnest, held hers. “Your quiet strength, Leta. It’s more potent than any display of force.” A flush crept up Leta’s neck. His words, so gentle and sincere, were a stark contrast to Kirill’s cold calculations. She found herself drawn into the quiet intensity of his gaze, a rare moment of genuine, unburdened recognition. Just then, the door to Miro’s chambers burst open. Kirill stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of barely contained fury. His eyes swept over Miro’s half-dressed, bandaged torso, then landed on Leta, her fingers still hovering near Miro’s ribcage. The temperature plummeted. “So, this is how you tend to your ‘duties’, Volos?” Kirill’s voice was low, cutting, each word a shard of ice. He stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with an almost suffocating power. His gaze, sharp and predatory, fixed on Leta, then flickered to Miro, a sneer twisting his lips. “His kindness is a leash, just like my ambition. Choose your poison carefully.”

A Debt in Blood