Sleep was as thick and viscous as bck mosses.

  In it, I stood again in the middle of a scorched field. Ash swirled in the air, heavy and grey, like the remains of incinerated cities. It settled on my hair in a heavy crust, filled my nostrils until I sneezed, and crunched between my teeth. The sky pressed down on my shoulders with its weight—low, violet-bck, and torn by the scars of crimson lightning that didn't strike the ground but crawled across the clouds like living serpents.

  There was no wind. Only a crushing, dense stifling heat in which even the beating of my own heart felt like a deafening arm.

  In the center of this ndscape, defying all ws of logic, stood a cradle.

  It hadn't changed since the st time. Bck wood, polished to a mirror shine, with carvings of intertwined serpents biting their own tails—a symbol of infinity and self-destruction. And that same soft, barely audible weeping that made everything inside me knot into a ball of ice. The cry of a child who had been abandoned. Who had been betrayed.

  I took a step. My feet sank into the ash up to my ankles. It was hot, scorching even through the soles of my shoes. It was alive. It breathed under my feet, trying to pull me down.

  *— Mother...*

  The whisper sounded not from outside, but within the confines of my skull. It was raspy, like the grinding of stones, yet simultaneously childish and pintive.

  “I’m coming!” I shouted, but my voice vanished, swallowed by the cotton-like silence of this pce.

  I lunged forward, overcoming the resistance of the viscous, jelly-like air. Every movement was a struggle, as if I were walking through deep water. I ran to the cradle and gripped its sides, feeling the wood sear my palms with cold.

  Empty.

  There was no one inside.

  Only a small, toy figure of a knight carved from obsidian. Bck, polished, with a sword raised for a strike. The knight had no head. The cut at the neck was jagged and chipped, and from it seeped not blood, but a thick bck resin.

  *— They are coming, Mother. The fire is coming. It will burn us all.*

  The earth shuddered. Ash billowed up like a wall, obscuring my vision. The horizon fred with a blinding, orange fme—not natural, but magical and toxic...

  I woke up with my own scream ringing in the room.

  It was dark, with only a thin sliver of light peeking through the heavy curtains. I sat up in bed, gasping for air. My heart hammered with a dull roar in my ears.

  My hands shook. I pressed my palms to my face, trying to compose myself. The nightmare receded reluctantly, its sticky fingers clinging to my consciousness. The headless knight. The fire. The whisper.

  I lowered my hand to my stomach. It was quiet there. No pain, no movement. It was far too early for that.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered into the darkness. “We are safe. We are with the Chernovs.”

  But I didn't believe my own words.

  Morning at the Obsidian Pace began not with sunlight and birdsong, but with a disturbing, oppressive silence. Not the peaceful, sleepy stillness before dawn, but a tense, heavy quiet, ready to snap at the slightest touch.

  The sense of dread hadn't vanished with the dream. If anything, it had intensified.

  I got up, threw on a robe, and walked to the window. I pulled back the heavy velvet curtain.

  Below, in the inner courtyard, everything seemed normal. Gardeners in grey jumpsuits were trimming the bck rose bushes into perfect geometric shapes. Servants with brooms swept invisible dust from the paths. Everyone moved with measured precision.

  But I saw the tension in their backs. I saw how they winced at every loud noise—the rattle of a cart, the caw of a crow. I saw how often they cast quick, frightened gnces toward the gates.

  And at the gates, there were six guards on duty instead of the usual two.

  All of them were in full combat armor of matte bck steel. Their faces were hidden behind visors, and magic discharge artifacts glowed at their waists with a faint blue light. In their hands were assault rifles fitted with magical amplifiers.

  This wasn't an honor guard. This was a checkpoint.

  But the real change wasn't below. It was above.

  I looked up.

  The sky over the estate shimmered. A barely perceptible, transparent ripple distorted the clouds, making them tremble and blur, like the world seen through the heat haze over a bonfire.

  The defensive perimeter. It had been reinforced. Significantly.

  Usually invisible, it now announced itself with a hum on the edge of hearing—a low, infrasonic vibration that made my teeth ache and birthed an irrational sense of danger, an urge to hide under the bed. Birds avoided the estate, sensing the tension in the ether. Even the wind seemed to die down, hitting the invisible barrier.

  A pang hit my heart. What had happened? Why such security? Had Demyan returned?

  A soft knock came at the door.

  "Come in."

  Marta Ivanovna stood on the threshold. In her hands was a silver tray with breakfast: steaming coffee, toast, fruit. Everything as usual. But the housekeeper's face, usually an inscrutable mask, looked weary today. Deep shadows haunted her eyes, her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and a nervous tic twitched at the corner of her mouth.

  “Good morning, Anya,” she said. Her voice was steady but cked its usual starchiness.

  “Good morning, Marta. What’s going on?”

  She set the tray on a small table by the window, careful not to ctter the dishes.

  “The Prince has decred a ‘Yellow Code.’ A state of high readiness.”

  "Why?"

  Marta hesitated, smoothing a snow-white linen napkin embossed with the Chernov crest. Her fingers, usually so deft, trembled slightly.

  “The Ogneva Cn,” she breathed the name like a curse. “This morning, they blocked the supply of magical crystals to the Lower City.”

  “Blocked the supplies?”

  “Officially, they call it a ‘customs quarantine.’ Allegedly, the shipment is infested with mana-eating parasites. Unofficially—it’s the beginning of a blockade.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the chill creep under my robe. *Blockade.* The word smelled of hunger, cold, and war. Without crystals, the Lower City would be without energy. There would be no light, no heat, and the magical water purifiers would stop.

  “Is it because of me?” I asked softly. “Is Elisa... seeking revenge?”

  Marta looked at me with a long, searching gaze. There was no judgment in her grey eyes, only the dry, ruthless wisdom of a woman who had lived far too long.

  “Elisa Ogneva is always seeking revenge, Anya. You are merely a pretext. A convenient excuse. The reason is power. She has always wanted to destroy the Chernovs, to erase the memory of the Shadows. Your child...” she faltered, casting a quick gnce at my stomach, “is just the spark that fell into the powder keg.”

  She stepped closer, her voice turning harder, more official.

  “Starting today, new security protocols are in effect. You are strictly forbidden from leaving the estate grounds without personal written permission from the Prince himself or the Chief of Security, General Brutus. No walks near the outer perimeter, even with guards. No orders from the city. All mail is magically screened. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. Am I under arrest?”

  “You are under protection,” Marta corrected. “And believe me, there is a great difference. In prison, they at least feed you for free; here, they pay for your life with the blood of guardsmen.”

  She turned to leave but stopped at the door.

  “And one more thing, Anya. The Prince... he is out of sorts today. Advisors have been pressing him since dawn, demanding retaliation. The war council has been going on for three hours. The sickness is exhausting him, and maintaining the reinforced barrier is burning through his reserves. Be careful if you decide to go to him. Right now, he is... unstable.”

  “I have to see him.”

  “Why?” She turned back, surprise flickering in her gaze.

  “Because I live here. Because I am... part of this problem. And because I think I can help.”

  Marta gave a bitter, clipped chuckle.

  “You aren't part of the problem, child. You are perhaps the only bright spot in this cursed crypt. But remember: light attracts moths. And some moths know how to vomit fire and burn cities to the ground.”

  ***

  After Marta left, I couldn't touch the food. The coffee grew cold, the toast stale. I quickly put on a simple grey gown, applied minimal makeup, and stepped into the corridor.

  The emptiness of the house was oppressive. The dark wood-paneled walls seemed to absorb all sound.

  I went down to the library. I needed a distraction; I needed information. The word "Resonance" wouldn't leave my head. Viktor Sergeyevich, the healer, had mentioned it. Adrian had spoken of it.

  The Chernov library was vast. High shelves disappeared into the gloom of the ceiling, packed with thousands of leather-bound volumes. It smelled of old paper, dust, and magic.

  I wandered aimlessly between the rows, trailing my fingers over the spines. *History of the Cn Wars.* *Treatise on the Nature of Shadows.* *Anatomy of Chimeras.*

  I stopped at the "Magical Theory" section and pulled out a heavy tome titled *Links and Bonds: The Nature of Magical Partnership.*

  I opened it at random. The pages were rough, yellowed with age, the text written in Old Imperial, but the transtion magic built into the library obligingly shifted the letters before my eyes.

  *“...True Resonance occurs extremely rarely, usually between wielders of por elements. Light and Dark. Fire and Water. The phenomenon is paradoxical in its essence, as opposites are supposed to destroy each other, to annihite upon contact. However, in the case of Resonance, a field merger occurs. The partners' mana forms a closed loop—an Ouroboros—amplifying each other many times over. It is not merely an addition of powers, but their multiplication.*

  *Legends say that Resonance was the secret behind the power of the first Emperors. But the price is high. An unstable resonance, caused by the emotional imbance of one of the partners, can lead to an instantaneous burnout of the core. The wielder turns into an empty shell, devoid of a spark, or worse, becomes a ‘Rift’—a vortex devouring the magic around it...”*

  *Burnout. Rift.*

  The words danced before my eyes, taunting me with their ambiguity. Was the poison the medicine, or was the medicine the poison? Viktor wasn't there to expin. Adrian was silent.

  I turned the page. An engraving depicted a man and a woman, their hands entwined, a cocoon-like aura glowing around their bodies. Their faces expressed an ecstasy bordering on agony.

  *“...The bond deepens through physical contact and emotional intimacy. The stronger the feelings, the more powerful the flow. At the peak of resonance, partners can hear each other’s thoughts, feel pain as if it were their own...”*

  The book snapped shut in my hands with a dull thud.

  I put it back on the shelf. My fingers were shaking so violently the book nearly slipped from my grasp.

  Suddenly, a wave of weakness hit me. Not the usual fatigue of wanting to sleep. This was hunger—an ancient, predatory hunger waking in my womb. The child demanded food. Not bread, and not meat. He demanded magic.

  My knees buckled. I slid down the bookshelf to the floor, grasping for air. My vision darkened. It seemed to me that the shadows in the corners of the library came alive. They stretched out, turning into long, bony fingers reaching for my throat. They sensed my inner fire fading and hurried to finish off the weak victim.

  “No...” I rasped, shaking off the hallucination.

  My skin broke out in a frost. My teeth chattered as if from an ague. This was it. Magical exhaustion. My reserve was empty. I had given everything to the child so he would live, and now I was turning into an empty shell myself.

  I needed a source. I needed *him*.

  I forced myself up. Staggering like a drunk, I made my way toward the exit. The corridor walls blurred, turning into a tunnel. Only one thought pulsed in my temples: “Adrian.” I needed to see him. See his eyes to understand what was really happening. And simply to survive.

  I headed for the Prince’s study.

  Two guardsmen were on duty at the massive oak doors. They looked far more imposing than the usual household security. Helmets covered their faces, and bluish sparks of static electricity skittered across their armor.

  Seeing me, they crossed their discharge-halberds.

  “Access is closed, Miss Belskaya,” one said tonelessly through his helmet's speaker. “The Prince is in a War Council. Order: let no one in.”

  “Marta said it was ‘Yellow Code,’ not ‘Red,’” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I am his secretary. I need to deliver documents.”

  It was a lie. I had no documents.

  “The order was clear, ma'am. No one.”

  At that moment, a crash came from behind the doors. The sound of a fist smming onto a table. And a voice. The voice of Brutus, the Security Chief.

  “...we cannot sit idly by while these rats rob our convoys! My men at the outposts are starving!”

  “And you suggest starting a war over three bags of rice?!” That was Corvus’s voice. Quiet but poisonous.

  “I suggest we burn their port! Sear this pgue out with a hot iron!”

  The guardsmen exchanged gnces. Their resolve seemed to waver slightly. They also heard the shouting, and they didn't like it.

  Suddenly the door burst open. A young adjutant appeared on the threshold, pale as a sheet.

  “Water!” he shouted. “The Prince is unwell!”

  The guardsmen froze.

  I didn't wait. I shoved the adjutant aside and ran into the study.

  Inside, gloom and chaos reigned. The curtains were drawn tight. On a massive table, a holographic map of the city glowed, blinking with red dots of hostile activity. The air was stale, heavy, permeated with the scent of a storm and fear.

  Adrian was sitting at the head of the table.

  He wasn't just sitting—he was slumped in the chair, his head thrown back. His face was the color of ash. A red stain spread across his white shirt—blood was dripping from his nose, soaking his colr.

  His eyes were closed.

  Around the table, the advisors waited like birds of prey.

  “My Lord!” rasped old Salem, trying to find a pulse on the Prince’s hand.

  “Doctor! Call Viktor!” Brutus yelled.

  I pushed them aside. I simply walked through the line of men, oblivious to their ranks and titles.

  “Move,” I snapped.

  “Anya? What are you...” Corvus began.

  “I said—get out!” I barked, my voice cracking.

  I don't know what they saw in my eyes. Perhaps madness. Perhaps the same darkness that lived in their master. But they stepped back.

  I fell to my knees beside Adrian’s chair. I grabbed his hand.

  It was icy. Like a dead man's.

  “Adrian,” I called. “Adrian, do you hear me?”

  He didn't answer. Only his eyelids flickered.

  The Magical Pgue. It wasn't just gnawing at him—it was devouring him right now. The stress of holding the barrier and the political pressure had been the catalyst. He was burning through his st reserves.

  I pced my palm on his forehead.

  “Don't you dare die,” I whispered. “Do you hear? Don't you dare leave me alone in this viper’s nest.”

  I closed my eyes and reached for that power living inside me. For that light I had always considered a curse.

  *Come on. Help him. You want to. You're reaching for him.*

  My magical energy was nearly gone; I was empty, with crumbs of magic left that were smaller than grains of rice in a mouse hole. But... the contact was made.

  This time it wasn't like an electric shock. It felt like falling into an abyss.

  The world around me vanished. The study, the advisors, Adrian’s blood-stained shirt—everything dissolved into an inky darkness.

  I found myself inside his soul.

  It was a dead world. A vast, frozen wastend under a bck sky where there were neither stars nor moon. The wind here howled with the voice of a thousand corpses, chilling me to the bone. Beneath my feet, it wasn't snow that crunched, but ash—the remains of charred hopes and incinerated emotions.

  In the center of this world rose a citadel. Enormous, built of bck obsidian, it pierced the sky with sharp spires. But the citadel was ruined. The walls were covered in cracks from which a thick, viscous darkness seeped.

  I saw him.

  He was sitting on a throne amidst the ruins. Bound in chains of his own guilt. Huge hooks were embedded in his flesh, but he didn't try to free himself. Shadows circled him, whispering curses, reminding him of every mistake, every death he couldn't prevent.

  “Go...” his voice thundered over the wastend like a storm. “Here there is only death... I will burn you...”

  His darkness noticed me. It rose like a tsunami, obscuring the horizon. Millions of bck bdes ready to turn me into mincemeat.

  *Oh no, you don't,* I thought, taking a step forward. *You hired me. You pay me. You are responsible for me.*

  I opened my shields.

  I didn't strike with light as if with a sword. I simply let it flow.

  A beam erupted from my chest. Warm, golden, smelling of summer and life. It struck the bck sky, dispersing the clouds.

  The darkness shrieked. It recoiled from me like a scorched beast. The frozen wastend began to melt. Ash turned to grass. The cracks on the citadel walls sealed with golden seams, like in the Japanese technique of kintsugi—where what is broken becomes even more beautiful.

  I approached the throne. The chains binding him hissed and crumbled to dust at my touch.

  Light and Dark collided. But not for war.

  Imagine a drop of molten gold falling into a cup of icy water. Steam, hissing, an explosion... and the birth of something new.

  Adrian on the throne opened his eyes. And in them, there was no longer pain. Only hunger.

  Resonance.

  The darkness didn't attack. It... drank. Greedily, desperately, like a dying man in the desert. It entwined my light, nuzzling against it, becoming soft and velvety.

  And then we were thrown back.

  Ideal, absolute harmony.

  Resonance.

  Adrian’s darkness didn't attack my light. It... drank it. Greedily, gulping it down like a traveler dying of thirst who has found an oasis in an endless desert. It nuzzled it, swirling like bck smoke, calming, becoming soft and obedient. This wasn't a battle. It was a dance.

  And my light, having given part of itself, suddenly fred brighter. It fed on the power of the Darkness, gained depth, became denser and sharper. I felt the boundaries of my perception expanding. I heard the mice rustling in the basement, the weather vanes creaking on the tower roof, the beating of Adrian's heart—first ragged and erratic, then ever steadier, stronger.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  We became a single whole. A closed system where energy circuted endlessly, renewing and amplifying with each cycle. The perfect bance written about in ancient scrolls but considered impossible. A perpetual motion machine powered by two souls.

  Adrian took a deep breath. A noisy, greedy gasp, reminiscent of a diver breaking the surface of the water.

  His shes flickered and lifted.

  I drowned in violet.

  The muddy veil of sickness had vanished without a trace. His eyes shone. They burned with a pure, rich amethyst fire. There was such power in them that I wanted to squint to avoid being blinded.

  He slowly straightened in the chair. The nosebleed stopped instantly, the wound closing itself without even leaving a scar. His skin regained a healthy hue, the grey shroud vanished, repced by the pallor of an aristocrat, not a corpse.

  He looked at his hands. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the power flowing through his muscles.

  Then he looked at me.

  A deathly stillness fell over the study. The advisors pressed against the walls, afraid even to breathe. They had witnessed a miracle.

  “Anya...” his voice became deep and vibrating. The rumble of distant thunder could be heard in it.

  He reached out and touched my cheek.

  His fingers were hot. Alive.

  “What have you done?”

  “I...” I swallowed. My strength was nearly gone; my legs were shaking. “I just shared.”

  “Shared?” He smirked, a strange, frightening smile. “You didn't just share. You resurrected me.”

  He stood up.

  Now he seemed taller. More imposing. The shadows in the corners of the room reached for him, not as a threat but as loyal servants awaiting a command.

  He turned to the advisors.

  “Brutus.”

  The general winced and snapped to attention.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “You wanted war?” Adrian walked to the map. He passed his hand over it, and the hologram fred brighter. “You wanted to burn their port?”

  “Um... yes, but... considering your condition...”

  “My condition?” Adrian ughed.

  He smmed his palm onto the table. A violet wave of magic rolled through the room, making the gss in the cabinets rattle. It was a demonstration of power. Power he hadn't possessed for many years.

  “I have never felt better, Brutus. I feel like... a God.”

  He jabbed his finger at the map, in the area of the sixth sector.

  “Corvus's scouts found their base just yesterday. The ‘Drunken Dragon’ bar. A den of mercenaries working for the Ognevas. We didn't touch them because we cked the strength for two fronts.”

  He turned to me. Imps danced in his eyes.

  “Now we have the strength.”

  “My Lord,” Corvus intervened cautiously. “’Yellow Code’ implies defense. If we attack, we will viote the truce. The Council...”

  “To hell with the Council!” Adrian cut him off. “The Ognevas was the first to viote the rules by organizing the blockade. We have the right to a retaliatory strike. A police operation to eliminate terrorists.”

  He smirked predatory.

  “Brutus, prepare a strike group. ‘Shadow-1.’ I will lead the raid personally.”

  “You?” Salem gasped. “But it’s dangerous! You mustn't leave the dome!”

  “I *am* the dome now, old man.”

  Adrian stepped toward me. He took my face in his hands, forcing me to look into his eyes.

  “You stay here. Under guard.”

  “You're leaving?” I whispered.

  “I must. I must show this city that the Prince of Darkness hasn't died. That the Chernov Cn has teeth. And those teeth are very sharp.”

  He leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. Quickly, hotly. It felt like a seal. A seal of belonging.

  “Thank you, Anya. You... you have no idea what you've done. You've awakened a monster. And that monster is going to have breakfast now.”

  He turned abruptly, the hem of his bck cloak fre out like wings.

  “We move in ten minutes!” he threw out as he went. “Corvus, you are in charge. Guard her,” he pointed at me, “with your life. If a single hair falls from her head, I will personally feed you to the Shadows. Piece by piece.”

  “Understood, my Lord,” the spy turned pale.

  Adrian and Brutus left.

  I remained standing in the middle of the study, feeling a strange emptiness inside. I had given him everything. All the light I could gather. And now it was cold inside.

  But there was no fear.

  There was realization.

  I looked at Corvus, who was wiping his gsses with shaking hands.

  “Will he return?” I asked.

  Corvus looked at me with a new mixture of respect and dread.

  “In that state?” he chuckled nervously. “He won't just return, Miss Belskaya. He will return with trophies. Gods, I haven't seen him this strong since the Great War. You... you are a dangerous woman.”

  I walked to the window.

  Below in the courtyard, engines roared. Three bck armored vehicles burst out of the gates, kicking up clouds of dust. Adrian was leaving to kill. Leaving pumped full of my power, my life.

  I pressed my forehead to the cold gss.

  Yellow Code. Reinforced guards. Talk of defense.

  None of that mattered now.

  Adrian had gone on the offensive. He thinks we are safe now. That by destroying the “Drunken Dragon,” he will solve the problem.

  *“It's safe here now,”* his words rang in my head.

  Why then did I have the feeling that we had just made a fatal mistake?

  I looked at the sky. The transparent ripple of the barrier had grown thinner. Adrian had taken part of the energy with him.

  The house was left without a Master.

  And we were left alone.