The square near the marble fountain had been busy all morning.

  Merchants argued over the price of rope. A troupe of street performers juggled wooden pins to scattered applause. Two priests debated loudly near a bathhouse—theology, or possibly plumbing. The fountain itself trickled softly, its aged marble gleaming in the autumn sun, while pigeons strutted between the cobblestones, pecking at fallen breadcrumbs with arrogant precision.

  Gale sat on the fountain’s edge, coat folded beside him, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A glass of wine—Kentarian red, mediocre vintage—sat untouched on the stone lip. He’d ordered it an hour ago at the tavern across the square, nursed it for ten minutes, then abandoned it here in favor of watching the world pass him by.

  A week. Seven days since Ludmilla’s ritual. Since Daimon collapsed. Since the longest eighteen hours of his life had finally, mercifully, ended.

  And now, here he was. Back in Kentar. Back in the noise and heat and relentless life of a city that didn’t care what you’d lost.

  The square hummed around him. Carts squeaked past. A woman haggled over figs. Children’s laughter drifted from somewhere beyond the fountain—high, bright, unbroken.

  A group of them, maybe five or six, playing near the base of a crumbling statue—some long-dead magistrate whose name no one remembered. They were running, chasing, shrieking with the kind of joy that came from nothing more complicated than sunlight and freedom. One boy, no older than seven, kicked a leather ball toward his friend. It bounced awkwardly, careening sideways toward a girl with braids who caught it and threw it back with a triumphant shout.

  Gale watched them longer than he should have.

  The boy who’d kicked the ball reminded him, absurdly, of Ezaryon at that age—all elbows and stubborn energy, determined to win even when the rules made no sense. His older brother Aethon had been the one who laughed when he lost, the one who sprawled in the dirt and didn’t care.

  He wondered, briefly, if Ezaryon’s daughters played like this. If they kicked balls and shrieked and scraped their knees. If they looked like their father, or their mother, or some ghost of the boy Ezaryon used to be before the debts and the disappointment swallowed him whole.

  He didn’t know. He’d never asked.

  A sharp pang cut through his chest—not quite grief, not quite regret. Something heavier. Older. The kind of ache that came from futures you’d never considered until they were already gone.

  I was with child.

  Fran’s voice, hoarse and broken, echoed in the space behind his ribs. He could still feel the weight of her hand in his, the way her fingers had gripped him like he was the only thing keeping her from shattering entirely.

  Our child is gone.

  He closed his eyes.

  Small hands. Laughter in the palace halls. Fran’s smile, unburdened for once. A future he’d never truly imagined—because he’d never needed to. It had simply been there, waiting, inevitable. Someday. Eventually.

  And now it wasn’t.

  He’d grieved in Durnhal, or tried to. But he’d been too busy being her anchor, holding her together while she fell apart. He hadn’t let himself break. Not then. Not when she needed him steady.

  But now…

  Now he was alone in a Kentarian square, watching children play, and the grief pressed against him like a hand to the throat.

  If I’d stayed.

  The thought was a knife, sharp and merciless.

  If he’d stayed in Vartis. If he’d followed her to Durnhal instead of chasing ghosts in Kentar. If he’d been there…

  He couldn’t have stopped the raid. But he could have stopped the blade. Could have been fast enough, smart enough, present enough to notice the danger before it struck.

  And he would have noticed. Her. The exhaustion. The pallor. The way she pushed herself past every reasonable limit because she always did, because she was Frances Serenna Elarion and she didn’t know how to stop.

  He would have forced her to rest. Would have seen the signs. Would have known.

  And maybe—maybe—things would have been different.

  But he hadn’t been there.

  He’d been here. In Kentar. Chasing diamonds and coded notes and a dead man’s secrets while she bled on a chapel floor.

  The boy with the ball shouted something, and the others laughed. One of them—a girl with dark curls—tripped and scraped her knee. She sat for a moment, inspecting the damage with the solemn focus of someone deciding whether to cry. Then her brother crouched beside her, said something Gale couldn’t hear, and she grinned instead.

  Siblings. Brothers and sisters. Futures built on scraped knees and shared laughter.

  Gale turned away.

  The wine sat beside him, still untouched. He picked it up, stared at it, then set it back down without drinking.

  The rumors had started yesterday. Or maybe the day before. Time had blurred since he’d stopped leaving his room at the inn. He’d spent days there, staring at the ceiling, pretending he was resting when he was really just avoiding the world.

  But even locked away, the world had found him.

  Voices drifted through thin walls. Conversations at the inn’s common room below. Gossip from sailors and merchants and travelers passing through.

  “...raiders hit Foher’s eastern border...”

  “Durnhal nearly fell, they say...”

  “The Duchess was wounded—stabbed, I heard—”

  “No, she’s dead. Bled out in a chapel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She killed twenty men herself before collapsing.”

  “My cousin swears she saw the Duchess riding through Vartis just last week, looking pale as death but still barking orders.”

  The details changed with every telling. But the shape of it remained: violence, blood, Fran.

  He knew the truth. The rumors didn’t. And somehow, that made it worse.

  A woman passed the fountain, leading a small child by the hand. The child pointed at the pigeons and babbled something delighted. The woman smiled, patient and warm, and answered in a voice too soft to hear.

  Gale looked away again.

  I would have been a terrible father. Absent-minded. Distant.

  I would have loved them, and they would have known I was always halfway out the door.

  The thought came unbidden, bitter and sharp.

  He’d never truly imagined it. Not seriously. He liked children well enough—had taught a few over the years, enjoyed their questions, their unfiltered honesty. And yes, after Fran, the idea had crossed his mind in vague, half-formed ways. Someday. Eventually. A child with her eyes. Her stubbornness. Her quiet brilliance.

  But he’d never planned for it. Never truly believed it would happen.

  And now?

  Now it felt like mourning something he’d never even had the chance to want properly.

  The ball bounced again, rolling wild. It careened across the cobblestones, past a spice merchant’s stall, and came to rest near the fountain—just a few feet from where Gale sat.

  The children hesitated, suddenly shy.

  Then footsteps—light, confident, accompanied by the click of small claws on stone.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight.”

  Gale looked up.

  Selina stood a few paces away, hands on her hips, grinning like she’d just caught him doing something he shouldn’t. She wore a simple green dress, her chestnut curls pulled back in a loose tie, and carried a woven basket under one arm. At her feet trotted Patzì, tail wagging, mismatched eyes bright with canine curiosity.

  The dog spotted the ball immediately.

  Without ceremony, she trotted forward, picked it up in her jaws, and brought it back to the children with the solemn dignity of a knight returning a sacred relic.

  The kids erupted in laughter. One of them patted Patzì’s head. Another threw the ball again. The dog barked once—sharp and delighted—and gave chase.

  Selina watched, smiling. Then she turned back to Gale.

  “Sulking by a fountain now? That’s new. Last I saw you, you were locked in your room pretending the world didn’t exist.”

  Gale arched an eyebrow. “How would you know where I’ve been?”

  She shrugged, dropping onto the fountain’s edge beside him without invitation. “Daimon mentioned it. Well, ‘mentioned’ is generous. He asked if you were all right. I said probably not, but you’d crawl out eventually.”

  “Comforting.”

  “I’m a realist.” She set the basket down, stretched her legs, and tilted her face toward the sun. “So. What brings you out of your cave? Fresh air? Existential clarity? Wine that tastes like regret?”

  He glanced at the untouched glass. “The last one, apparently.”

  Selina snorted. Then her gaze drifted to the children playing with Patzì. Her expression softened.

  “You’ve been watching them for a while,” she said quietly.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Gale didn’t answer.

  She studied him for a moment—not prying, just observing. Then, carefully: “Do you have children, Master Dekarios?”

  The question landed like a stone in still water.

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, finally: “No.”

  A pause.

  “Did you want them?”

  He looked at her. She wasn’t mocking him. Wasn’t testing. Just asking, the way someone asks when they genuinely want to know.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I never... thought about it seriously. Not until recently.”

  “And now?”

  He exhaled slowly. “Now it doesn’t matter.”

  Selina didn’t push. She just nodded, her gaze drifting back to the children. Patzì had returned, panting happily, and flopped at Selina’s feet.

  “I had a brother,” she said after a moment. “Little thing. Looked a bit like Daimon, actually—all wide eyes and scraped knees.” She smiled faintly. “Used to follow me everywhere. Called me ‘Lina.’ Couldn’t say the ‘Se’ part.”

  Gale glanced at her. “What happened to him?”

  Her smile didn’t falter, but something flickered behind her eyes. “Sold. Same as me. My father needed money for debts.” She shrugged, like it was a simple fact. “Merchant took us both. Kept me. Sold him to a ship captain.”

  “Gods.”

  “Yeah.” She scratched Patzì behind the ears. “I spent years looking for him. Worked in Southbridge for a while, then came here. Thought maybe... maybe he’d end up in Kentar eventually. It’s where everyone ends up, right?”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.” She looked at him, her smile sad but steady. “I don’t know where he is. Maybe he’s alive. Maybe he’s not. But I keep looking anyway.”

  Gale didn’t know what to say.

  Selina leaned back, hands braced on the fountain’s edge. “You remind me of him, you know. My brother. Not in looks—he was scrawny, you’re... less so. But the way you look at things. Like you’re always thinking three steps ahead. Like you care, even when you don’t want to.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “It is.” She grinned. “You’re loyal. To your Duchess, to Daimon, even to that ridiculous investigation you’re pretending you’ve given up on. You’re the kind of man who’d make a good father. If you ever got the chance.”

  The words hit harder than they should have.

  Gale looked away.

  Selina seemed to sense she’d struck something raw. She shifted, softer now. “For what it’s worth... I think you’d have been good at it.”

  He didn’t answer.

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching the children play. Patzì rolled onto her back, inviting belly rubs from a brave little girl who obliged with delighted giggles.

  Finally, Selina stood, brushing dust from her skirt. “Anyway. I didn’t come here to make you sadder. Madam wants to see you.”

  Gale blinked. “Ludmilla?”

  “No, the Queen of Vevy.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ludmilla. She sent me to drag you out of whatever pit you’ve been sulking in. Said, and I quote: ‘Get his ass out of the cesspool and back to work.’“

  Despite everything, Gale almost smiled. “That sounds like her.”

  “She’s been working on those documents. She said something about finally cracking the cipher.” Selina tilted her head. “She wants you there. Said you’d want to know.”

  Gale stared at her.

  The investigation. The diamonds. Ressan’s coded journals.

  He’d forgotten. Or tried to. The last week had been nothing but grief and guilt and Daimon’s pale, unconscious face.

  But Ludmilla hadn’t stopped.

  Of course she hadn’t.

  He stood slowly, rolling his sleeves back down. “How is he? Daimon.”

  Selina’s smile faded. “Recovering. Slowly. He won’t leave his room, though. Won’t see anyone. Not even me.” She looked down at Patzì. “Won’t even let the dog in.”

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  “He’s avoiding you?”

  “Everyone.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t know what happened when you two left that day. But when you came back...” She hesitated. “He looked like he’d been torn apart and stitched back together wrong.”

  Gale said nothing.

  She studied him. “You too.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  Selina sighed. “Look. I don’t know what’s going on. But whatever it is... don’t leave him alone too long. He’s stubborn. He’ll convince himself he’s fine when he’s not.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” She picked up her basket. “Now come on. Madam’s waiting. And if I don’t bring you back, she’ll make me clean the parlor. Again.”

  Patzì barked once, as if in agreement.

  Gale glanced back at the fountain. At the wine he hadn’t drunk. At the children still playing, their laughter bright and unbroken.

  Then he turned and followed Selina into the crowd.

  The Scarlet Crescent smelled the same as always: cardamom, clove, perfume, and something underneath it all that was either expensive wine or poor decisions. Gale climbed the stairs with Selina and Patzì trailing behind him, the dog’s claws clicking against polished wood.

  The second floor was quieter than usual. A few clients passed in the hallway, adjusting coats and avoiding eye contact. A woman laughed behind a closed door. Somewhere, a lute played a melody too cheerful for the mood Gale carried with him.

  Selina stopped at Ludmilla’s door and knocked twice. “Madam? I brought him.”

  “Finally.” Ludmilla’s voice came through muffled and sharp. “Get in here, Dekarios. And shut the door behind you.”

  Selina shot Gale a look that might have been sympathy, then retreated down the hall with Patzì at her heels.

  Gale stepped inside.

  The room looked like a battlefield.

  Ludmilla’s parlor—usually immaculate, draped in silk and velvet, every surface gleaming—had been transformed into something between an arcane laboratory and a madwoman’s study. The low table was buried under scrolls, ledgers, and loose parchment. Ink stains marred the cushions. Empty wine bottles stood in a neat row along the windowsill like soldiers awaiting orders. A plate of half-eaten bread sat abandoned on a stack of books.

  And in the center of it all, Ludmilla Yperion sat cross-legged on the floor, hair pulled back in a careless knot, sleeves rolled up, a quill between her teeth and murder in her eyes.

  She looked up as he entered. “You’re late.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had an appointment.”

  “You didn’t. But you should’ve known I’d summon you eventually.” She gestured broadly at the chaos. “Sit. Don’t touch anything. And for the love of every god who’s stopped listening, tell me you brought something useful.”

  Gale glanced around, found a relatively clear patch of floor, and lowered himself onto it. “Define useful.”

  “Anything that isn’t another dead end, another cipher I can’t crack, or another gods-damned blood ward that refuses to break.” She threw the quill onto the table with more force than necessary. “I’ve been at this for a week, Dekarios. A week. Do you know what that does to a woman of my talents?”

  “Makes her unbearable?”

  “Makes her creative.” She leaned forward, eyes bright with exhaustion and something manic. “I’ve tried everything. Every bypass, every unbinding, every counter-charm in five languages. I even tried brute force—just pouring raw energy at the wards until they cracked. Nothing. They held.”

  Gale picked up one of the scrolls. The ink shimmered faintly, reactive to touch but sealed tight. “Blood magic.”

  “Obviously.” Ludmilla snatched it back. “But not standard blood wards. These are... personal. Tailored. Ressan didn’t just seal these pages—he bound them to himself. His living essence. Which means—”

  “—only his living blood can unlock them,” Gale finished. “And he’s dead.”

  “Exactly.” She sat back, folding her arms. “So I started thinking. What’s the principle behind blood magic?”

  “Personal signature. The caster’s essence embedded in the spell.”

  “Right. Blood carries that signature because it’s alive, it’s theirs. But.” She held up one finger. “That’s not the only thing that carries a personal signature.”

  Gale’s brow furrowed. “What else did you try?”

  Ludmilla’s smile turned wicked. “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.” She gestured at a row of small vials on the side table. “Sweat. Tears. Saliva. I even considered—” She paused, eyes glinting with unholy amusement. “—well. Let’s just say there are other bodily fluids one could theoretically use for binding magic. The brothel offers ample research opportunities, if one were sufficiently motivated.”

  Gale’s face went carefully blank. “Please tell me you didn’t—”

  “Of course not. I’m brilliant, not disgusting.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Though I did find a reference in an old Zanatheian text about a merchant who warded his ledger with—never mind. The point is, I tested everything that could theoretically carry a personal essence. And do you know what I found?”

  “Enlightenment? Regret?”

  “A pattern.” She leaned forward again, voice dropping. “The wards reacted differently to different substances. Barely to blood that wasn’t his. Not at all to sweat or tears. But when I used pure, unchanneled magical energy—my energy, raw and unshaped—the wards responded. Not enough to break. But enough to recognize.”

  Gale went very still. “Energy.”

  “Energy,” Ludmilla confirmed. “It’s as personal as blood. More so, even. Every mage’s power has a signature—a resonance unique to them. It’s why portal magic feels different depending on who casts it. Why some wards respond to specific bloodlines. The energy carries the mark of its source.”

  “So if we had Ressan’s energy—”

  “We could unlock the wards.” She smiled, sharp and triumphant. “But he’s dead. His magic died with him.”

  Gale’s mind raced.

  The shard. He’d found it in the abandoned Chapter—Ressan’s hideout. Gerolf Marzahn, the Arcane District alchemist, had examined it, said it was charged. Dormant. Reactive. Watching.

  Could it be...?

  “What?” Ludmilla asked, watching him. “You’ve gone very quiet, which means you’re either having a stroke or a revelation.”

  Gale reached into his coat slowly, fingers finding the inner lining where he’d sewn a small pocket. The ward-cloth was still there, grey and worn from weeks of carrying.

  He pulled it out.

  Ludmilla’s expression sharpened. “What is that?”

  “Something we found in the abandoned Chapter.” He unwrapped it carefully. Even in the dim light of the parlor, the shard caught the glow strangely—refracting it, bending it in ways that made his eyes ache. “Where Ressan was hiding.”

  She leaned forward, breath catching. “Let me see.”

  He passed it to her.

  Ludmilla held it up to the lamplight, turning it slowly. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “This isn’t natural.”

  “No.”

  “And you found it where Ressan was holed up?”

  “In one of the back rooms. Daimon sensed it first—said it felt wrong.” Gale watched her examine it. “I had it looked at. The examiner said it was charged. Not by normal means. Said it was dormant but reactive.”

  “Reactive to what?”

  “Unstable magic. Drift variants.” He paused. “He told me not to keep it near a child.”

  Ludmilla’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the shard. “Smart man.” She turned it again, and the light bent in impossible angles. “This could be anything. A failed experiment. A trap. A weapon.”

  “Or,” Gale said quietly, “it could be Ressan’s.”

  “It’s a guess.”

  “It’s the only guess we have.”

  Ludmilla stood abruptly. “Let’s say you’re right. If this thing carries even a trace of Ressan’s signature—”

  “We can unlock the wards.”

  For a moment, they just looked at each other.

  Then Ludmilla grabbed the nearest sealed scroll and pressed the shard against its surface.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the wards screamed.

  Not audibly—but Gale felt it in his teeth, in his bones, a high-pitched resonance that made his vision blur. The scroll’s surface rippled like water struck by a stone. The ink shimmered, twisted, and then—

  —cracked.

  The wards shattered like ice.

  And the text appeared.

  Ludmilla exhaled sharply. “It worked.”

  “Keep going,” Gale said, already reaching for the next scroll.

  She did.

  One page after another, she pressed the shard to each sealed surface. Each time, the wards broke with that same terrible resonance. Each time, more text revealed itself—dense, methodical, written in Ressan’s tight, precise hand.

  But with each unlocking, the shard’s glow dimmed.

  “It’s running out,” Ludmilla muttered, already moving to the next page. “We need to work fast.”

  They read as they went, snatching fragments between each unlocking:

  “Test Subject #1: Standard diamond, 2.1 carats. Lattice structure: cubic. Result: Immediate fracture upon energy introduction. Specimen destroyed. Conclusion: Cubic formations insufficient for containment...”

  Gale moved to the next page while Ludmilla unlocked another.

  “Test #7: Trigonal structure, minor inclusions. Held charge for approximately four seconds before destabilization. Specimen cracked but intact. Note: Inclusions create weak points. Only flawless specimens viable...”

  “Methodology,” Ludmilla muttered. “He’s documenting failures.”

  Gale stopped reading mid-sentence. “Wait. He’s talking about storing arcane energy. In diamonds.” His finger traced the line again. “Not channeling it. Not amplifying. Storing it. Like—”

  “Like a vessel.” Ludmilla didn’t look up from the next scroll she was unlocking. “Yes.”

  “That’s not—” Gale set the page down. “Is that even possible?”

  “Apparently.” The wards cracked. Another page revealed itself.

  “Test #12: Hexagonal lattice, 3.8 carats, flawless under magnification. Charge held for two minutes before gradual dissipation. No structural damage. Promising. Must test larger specimens with similar characteristics...”

  “Ludmilla.” He waited until she looked at him. “I’ve never heard of anything like this. Crystals focus energy, redirect it, filter it. But holding a charge indefinitely?”

  She was quiet for a moment, turning the shard in her fingers. “Old Ishtari practice. Pre-Concord, maybe older. The first mages used gemstones as reservoirs—perfect lattice structures, no impurities, capable of holding power almost indefinitely if properly charged.” She pressed the shard to another page. “The knowledge was suppressed. Deliberately. Three centuries ago, maybe more. Too dangerous. Too much power in something you could carry in your pocket.”

  “And someone brought it back.”

  “Someone remembered. Or rediscovered it.”

  Gale stared at the notes in front of him—Ressan’s careful tests, his methodical failures, his growing desperation. “If this works—if you can actually store raw energy in a stable form—”

  “Then whoever’s behind this,” Ludmilla finished, “has access to power most mages only dream of.”

  Silence. Then she moved to the next scroll.

  “Observation: The crystalline structure must be precise. Not all diamonds are suitable, even among the highest quality. Perhaps only 1 in 40? 1 in 50? Further testing required. This explains the volume—they need hundreds to find a handful...”

  “There,” Ludmilla said. “The ratio. That’s why so many were smuggled.”

  But Gale was already reaching for the next scroll. The shard’s light was flickering now, weak and unsteady.

  “Day 47: Someone has been watching the warehouse. Same figure, three days in a row. I’ve moved the viable specimens. If they find my rooms, let them find nothing...”

  The handwriting was starting to change—still legible, but rushed. Uneven.

  Another page. The shard pulsed weakly.

  “Day 52: Can’t work at the Chapter anymore. Too exposed. The northern storage room is compromised—found signs of tampering. They know I’m here. They know what I have. Must relocate again...”

  “He was running,” Ludmilla said quietly.

  Gale grabbed another scroll. “How many more can we unlock?”

  “One. Maybe two.” She pressed the shard to the next page. The wards cracked, slower this time. Reluctant.

  “Day 58: Attempted full charge today. Used a 4.2 carat hexagonal specimen, flawless under glass. Poured everything I had into it. It held—for six seconds. Then it shattered. Fragment embedded in wall. Couldn’t retrieve it. Left the Chapter immediately. Too dangerous to return...”

  The shard’s light was barely visible now, a dying ember.

  “One more,” Ludmilla said, voice tight. “That’s all we have.”

  She pressed it to the final sealed page.

  The wards didn’t scream this time. They cracked with a sound like breaking glass, slow and terrible. The shard flared once—bright, desperate—and then went dark.

  The page revealed itself.

  The handwriting here was barely legible. Frantic. Words crossed out, ink blotted, the pen pressed so hard it had torn through in places.

  “Can’t sleep. Every shadow moves. Every sound is footsteps. They’re coming. I know they’re coming. Should never have started this. Should never have looked. Should never have—”

  The sentence ended mid-word, picked up again two lines down.

  “He knows. He knows I have them. He knows I’ve been taking them, hiding them, stopping the flow. This was always going to end one way.”

  And then, at the bottom of the page, the final lines:

  “If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. Don’t try to find me. Don’t try to continue this. Just destroy everything. Burn it. Scatter it. Don’t let him have them.”

  “Don’t let him—”

  The words stopped.

  Then, in the very last space, written in shaking letters:

  “He’s back.”

  Nothing more.

  Gale stared at the page. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” Ludmilla’s voice was flat.

  The shard lay on the table between them, dark and lifeless. Just a piece of broken crystal now, all its energy spent.

  Gale picked up the page, reading it again. And again. “Five and a half pages. That’s all we got.”

  “Early tests. Methodology. Paranoia.” Ludmilla stood, pacing. “Nothing about who’s behind it. Nothing about where. No names. No—”

  “Wait.” Gale looked down at the final page again. “He’s back.”

  “What?”

  “He says ‘he’s back.’ Not ‘they.’ Not ‘the organization’ or ‘the conspiracy.’ He.” Gale’s finger traced the words. “Ressan knew who was behind this. Knew him personally, maybe. And whoever it was—he’d been gone. And now he’s back.”

  Ludmilla stopped pacing. “But he doesn’t name him.”

  “No.” Gale set the page down carefully. “The name must be on one of the other pages. The ones we couldn’t unlock.”

  They both looked at the remaining scrolls—still sealed, still silent, their secrets locked behind wards they had no way to break.

  “We need more,” Ludmilla said quietly.

  “More of Ressan’s energy.” Gale gestured at the broken shard. “Which we don’t have.”

  Silence filled the room.

  Then Ludmilla turned sharply toward the crates stacked near the window—the ones Gale and Daimon had brought from the warehouse almost two weeks ago. “Test #71.”

  Gale looked up. “What?”

  “Ressan’s notes mentioned test subjects. Numbers.” She was already moving toward the crates, kneeling beside the nearest one. “What if one of them succeeded? What if he managed to charge one fully before he died?”

  “We would have noticed—”

  “Would we?” She yanked back the tar-cloth covering the first crate. Diamonds glittered in the lamplight—dozens of them, raw and uncut, piled together. “Have you systematically examined every single stone we brought back?”

  Gale opened his mouth. Closed it.

  “Exactly.” Ludmilla began sorting through the diamonds with methodical precision, holding each one up to the light, checking its weight, its clarity. “If Ressan succeeded even once—if he managed to store his energy in a diamond and it didn’t shatter—”

  “It would be here.” Gale moved to the second crate. “Mixed in with all the others.”

  They worked in silence, checking stone after stone. Most were raw, unrefined—cloudy and irregular. Some were clearer, faceted by nature rather than tools. But none of them felt different. None of them hummed with power or glowed in the dim light.

  Ten minutes passed.

  Twenty.

  Ludmilla moved to the third crate. Then the fourth.

  “This is taking too long,” Gale muttered. “There are hundreds of—”

  “Found it.”

  He looked up sharply.

  Ludmilla held a diamond between her thumb and forefinger. It was smaller than most of the others—perhaps three carats, perfectly clear, with a hexagonal structure visible even without magnification. At first glance, it looked like any other flawless specimen.

  But when she turned it slowly in the lamplight, something shifted inside it.

  Not a flaw. Not an inclusion.

  Light.

  Trapped inside the crystalline lattice, moving like liquid, like something alive.

  “That’s it,” Gale breathed.

  Ludmilla’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Test Subject #71. Ressan’s success.”

  She carried it back to the table, set it down gently beside the sealed scrolls.

  They both stared at it.

  “If we use this,” Ludmilla said quietly, “and it breaks like the shard did—”

  “Then we’ll have whatever information it unlocks, and nothing more.”

  “And if it’s not enough?”

  Gale picked up one of the sealed scrolls. “Then we’re still better off than we are now.”

  Ludmilla nodded once. Then she picked up the charged diamond and pressed it against the first sealed page.

  The wards shattered like dropped glass, and the diamond blazed.

  Light poured from its core—pure, steady, far brighter than the shard had ever managed. The sealed page beneath it unfolded like a living thing, ink bleeding into visibility as if it had been waiting all this time to be read.

  Ludmilla didn’t pull the diamond away. She pressed it harder against the page, and Gale saw her eyes widen.

  “It’s not breaking,” she said. “Gale, it’s not…”

  “I see it.” He leaned closer. The diamond’s light was constant, undiminished. Stable. “How much energy did Ressan put into this thing?”

  “Enough.” She grabbed the next sealed scroll, pressed the diamond to its surface. The wards cracked instantly, smoothly, like ice under a hammer. “Enough to do this properly.”

  The page revealed itself.

  “Day 62: Full success. 3.1 carat hexagonal diamond, flawless clarity, charged to capacity without fracture. It holds. Gods help me, it actually holds. The energy is stable, contained, retrievable. This changes everything. This changes—”

  The sentence ended abruptly, picked up again below.

  “No. No, it doesn’t change anything. It makes it worse. If I can do this, then so can he. And if he can...”

  Ludmilla was already moving to the next scroll. The diamond’s light never wavered.

  “Day 65: Intercepted another shipment. Fourteen viable specimens hidden among the low-grade stock. Moved them to the secondary cache. The Chapter is compromised; I’m certain now. Someone’s been through my notes. Rearranged them. Subtle, but I know my own handwriting. I know where I leave things.”

  Gale grabbed another scroll. “Keep going.”

  She pressed the diamond down. The page opened.

  “Day 68: Foher. They’re targeting Foher. Found a manifest in the Chapter records—shipment routes, dock schedules, all leading there. Don’t know why. Don’t know what they’re planning. But it’s Foher. The Duchy. The Duchess…”

  The name stopped Gale cold.

  Ludmilla looked at him. “Did you know?”

  “No.” His voice was hoarse. “Keep reading.”

  She moved to the next scroll.

  “Day 71: The lab. Found reference to ‘the southern facility.’ Velissa. Small mining town, abandoned for years. Perfect place to hide something. Perfect place to do something terrible. I have to…”

  Another page. The writing was deteriorating now, the letters uneven.

  “Day 74: Can’t go to Velissa. Too dangerous. If I’m right—if he’s actually there—going alone would be suicide. Need help. Need someone who understands what this means. But who? Who can I trust? The Chapter is infiltrated. The Council doesn’t believe me. The Duchess… No. Can’t involve her. Can’t put her in danger. Can’t—”

  Ludmilla’s hand was shaking slightly as she pressed the diamond to the next page.

  “Day 78: They know. They know I’ve been hiding the specimens. Found my secondary cache broken into—locks forced, wards shattered. They took everything. Everything except—”

  The sentence trailed off, picked up again in the margin.

  “Moved the last three to final location. Won’t write it here. Can’t risk it. If they find this, if they find me… No. Have to destroy the notes. Have to burn everything. Have to…”

  Another page. The handwriting was jagged now, barely legible.

  “Day 81: Saw him. Just a glimpse. Across the square. Same coat. Same walk. Same cold eyes. He looked right at me. Smiled. SMILED. Like he knew. Like he’d been waiting. Like this was all some kind of game and I’d already lost.”

  Gale’s throat was dry. “How many pages left?”

  Ludmilla didn’t answer. She just pressed the diamond to the next scroll.

  The wards broke.

  “Day 83: He’s coming. I can feel it. Every shadow, every footstep. The warehouse isn’t safe. My rooms aren’t safe. Nowhere is safe. Should never have started this. Should never have looked. Should never have tried to stop him. But I had to. I had to because…”

  The sentence dissolved into a scribble, barely words.

  “Because I remember. I remember what he did before. I remember the lab. The experiments. The screaming. The way he looked at us—at them—like we were nothing. Like they were just materials. Just data.”

  “He’s going to do it again.”

  “And this time, he’ll succeed.”

  Gale stared at the page. “Before?” he said quietly. “He did this before?”

  Ludmilla was already moving to the next scroll. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore. They were steady. Grim.

  The diamond pressed down.

  “Day 85: Out of time. He knows where I am. Knows what I have. The last viable specimens are hidden, but it won’t matter. He’ll find them. He’ll find me. And when he does…”

  “If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Don’t mourn me. Don’t waste time. Just find the lab. Find Velissa. Find the proof. Find what he’s building. Stop him before he finishes. Before he—”

  The page ended.

  One scroll left.

  Ludmilla picked it up slowly. Held it for a moment, as if weighing something.

  Then she pressed the diamond to its surface.

  The wards didn’t shatter this time. They screamed—a sound like tearing metal, like something dying. The scroll trembled in her hands, and for a moment Gale thought it might burst into flames.

  Then the light settled. The wards fell away.

  The final page revealed itself.

  The handwriting was barely recognizable. Letters scratched into the parchment with desperate force, ink smeared, words half-formed. The pen had torn through the paper in places, leaving jagged holes where sentences should have been.

  “He’s back. He’s going to reclaim what’s his. Going to finish what he started. Going to kill me. Going to kill everyone who knows. Everyone who remembers. Everyone who—”

  The words dissolved into frantic lines, meaningless scrawls.

  Then, at the very bottom of the page, written so hard that the pen had torn straight through.

  “KIBAS IS BACK.”