Matabar

Milar and Ardan burst out of the room and bounded up the broad staircase leading to the Imperial Archive's main atrium. The workers and visitors they encountered along the way scattered in all directions, like river pebbles driven aside by the onslaught of a storm surge.

The white marble beneath their feet, partially covered by a gray carpet, blurred into a single grimy streak.

When the duo finally reached the wide, oval balcony, both of them resembled predators that had been unleashed upon unsuspecting prey as they surveyed the spacious inner courtyard.

The Imperial Archive did more than just store documents; it also housed several of the Empire's central administrative offices. For example, there was the Office of Civil Affairs, a branch of the Crown's High Court, the Department for the Settlement of Requests from Nobles, and several others where representatives of the Central Chamber of Parliament worked. All of them carried names as lofty and resonant as their authority implied.

Thus, it was hardly surprising that, in terms of sheer size, the archive was second only to the Palace of the Kings of the Past. Its atrium was much larger than the one at the Grand, for instance. And considering it was the middle of a workday, the sea of humanity in suits was only slightly broken up by a few Firstborn and even a pair of military mages in green cloaks (they were apparently reinforcements for the security detail, given their grim demeanor, epaulettes, and battle staves made from Ertalain alloy).

Milar gripped the railing of the balcony and leaned over its edge, sweeping his gaze back and forth, trying to spot something.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath.

"What?" Ardi asked.

"Magister, I have no idea what Tantov looks like!"

Ardan exhaled. Walking over to stand next to his partner, he observed the crowd. All he could see were hundreds of suits and severe dresses, weaving from one wing to another and climbing an intricate tangle of open staircases arrayed amphitheater-style across three floors. Some of the people disappeared into corridors hidden by plain but sturdy doors, some ducked into offices and departments, others waited their turn in a lounge with small couches, and by the information desk, a line of nearly fifty people had formed a queue.

Ardan's gaze flitted from one figure to the next. How was he supposed to pick out someone he had only seen once before, and whom, truth be told, he hadn't really wanted to see ever again?

"Time, Ard!" Milar hissed, gripping the railing. "We're running out of time!"

"I know," Ardan snapped.

He inhaled, then exhaled, imagining himself on the edge of a rocky precipice. Rather than the interior of one of the Empire's key administrative hubs, he pictured a cliff plateau. Rather than employees and nobles, he imagined ibexes — an entire herd of them. And among them, he had to find just one. The most unusual, the one that stood out. How?

After a few years of practice, it wasn't all that difficult. In order to pick out the weak or the feeble one — the one different from the rest — you just had to watch carefully. Ibexes would cluster in herds, pressing tight against one another. At first glance, they seemed to act the same: nibbling at tiny bits of moss that barely poked through the damp stone, or climbing the crags for a taste of the water trickling along the sharp edges of rocky crests. At a glance, they all looked identical.

Unless you knew what you were looking for.

A herd, a flock, a crowd — they all moved and existed in a single rhythm. Like waves repeatedly crashing against the shore, or a heartbeat pulsing one beat after another. If you knew where to look, you could spot the irregularity in that rhythm. The ibex that's standing just a bit too far from the rest, or chewing moss just a touch slower, pausing too often. Or climbing the rocks a bit less boldly, waiting to be last to get a drink of water.

And so, Ardi was searching for someone in the crowd whose behavior was off. Someone who wasn't simply staring blankly ahead, counting down the hours until they could abandon their post and fly the coop, escaping the building to savor the almost-summer day in the Metropolis. He didn't look for someone who was chatting with a colleague while swapping papers, muffled laughs, and gossip. Nor someone who sat sprawled over a newspaper on a comfy, well-worn couch. Someone who'd queued up at the information desk, eager to resolve their issue as quickly as possible, did not concern him. And certainly not someone strolling away with a casual gait and a cheerful expression — or a not-so-cheerful one if their business hadn't gone as planned — as they headed for the exit.

No. He was looking for a completely different figure. Someone slipping through the throng in a hurry. Someone occasionally looking over their shoulder to check if a skilled hunter was on their trail, even now easily pinpointing its chosen quarry. Someone who, because of all these things — nerves, haste, and the sense that they needed to flee this dangerous place — would make a mistake.

Like a weary ibex whose hoof would slip clumsily on a treacherous ledge.

"Watch where you're going!" A muffled, indignant voice rang out.

Ardan instantly turned toward the sound. A solidly built, short gentleman had just been jostled by a figure wearing a simple, severe-looking dress with a long skirt and a high corset. Peeking out from beneath its hem, however, Ardi noticed a pair of sturdy military boots with thick soles.

She was holding several folders in her hands, which she'd deftly caught in midair, preventing the papers within from scattering across the floor. Her startling reflexes seemed to have disconcerted the stout man, and he stepped prudently aside, but it was too late.

The young woman turned, and her gaze met Ardi's. At first glance, she seemed exactly as he remembered her from six months ago on that train, when they'd had to repel an attack by mercenaries attempting to seize the Staff of Demons. She had the same face. The same glasses. Even the same hairstyle and hair clip holding a tight bun in place — everything looked identical. But back then, Alla Tantov hadn't been wearing a corseted dress; she'd had on a knitted sweater with a silly design. And perhaps one could chalk that up to a mere change of wardrobe due to the season, but... She now wore glasses that didn't have prescription lenses for nearsightedness, but rather, were an artifact protecting her from a Witch's Gaze. Also, she definitely hadn't glared with such transparent, unclouded hatred at him before.

Gazing into those eyes, Ardi sensed the stench of blood, putrid decay, and crypt-cold dampness.

"There!" He shouted, pointing to the figure below, who was already near the exit. "That's not Tantov! That's a vampire, Milar!"

The moment he said it, everything went sideways. The previous bustle of the archive became a memory of calm, a remnant one could cling to in the middle of a suddenly-raging storm.

It all happened at once. Milar, whipping out a regulation mask from inside his jacket and putting it over his face, raised his revolver and yelled,

"Second Chancery! Nobody move!"

The visitors froze. The guards, including the military mages, exchanged glances and drew their weapons — revolvers and batons. The seals beneath the mages' feet sparked to life.

Ardan, flipping open his grimoire, slipped on his own mask (as protocol demanded, in crowded places where they risked being photographed, they always wore masks). His was a simple blank without any animal features, but thanks to its rigid leather, it concealed the contours of his face well enough.

Meanwhile, the vampire flashed him a bloodthirsty smirk and let a hidden blade slide out from beneath her papers. The portly gentleman, who hadn't yet managed to back away, started clutching at his throat and staggered back awkwardly. Blood spurted through his rapidly-paling fingers.

Why had she needed to kill someone? It was senseless, unless…

Milar and Ardan exchanged glances and, understanding instantly, shouted:

"Get down!"

Just then, the counterfeit "Alla Tantov" let out a cry that sounded almost identical to the real woman's voice. She went all out with an "alarmed" scream:

"Terrorists! There are terrorists here!"

Her now-free hand (the vampire had discarded her knife) pointed straight at the balcony where Milar and Ardi stood.

The Spiders knew that in a place like this, Second Chancery officers would need masks. And they understood that, under these circumstances — especially with the masks obscuring their faces — there would be confusion, if only for a few seconds. The military mages at the entrance, along with the guards, faltered.

Ardan and Milar were already dropping to the floor, joined by everyone else who'd followed their lead. A moment later, as the vampire's grin widened, two explosions ripped through the air.

One erupted somewhere in the depths of a staff corridor ending at a maintenance room. A flash of fire blasted the doors off their hinges, rushing into the atrium. The shockwave swept over everyone who hadn't had time to get down on the ground. Burning sheets of paper, stray bits of stationery, and fragments of furniture flew through the air. Smoke billowed, swelling above the frenzied dance of flames.

A stationary shield, cumbersome and complex, flickered for a moment, then winked out when the building was rocked by a second explosion originating from the lower floors. This one had likely devoured the generators, the ley-cables, and the support staff along with them. Finally, the military mages — who'd reflexively shielded themselves first — tried to launch a volley of spells targeting both "Tantov" and Milar and Ardan. They never got the chance.

A third explosion thundered. Fire reduced the mages and guards to bloody pieces, the flames licking at both those inside the building and those near the entrance. Chunks of masonry began to fall as deep cracks snaked through the walls and raked the marble floor like a seething foam of destruction.

There was no time to wonder how many months — or even years — the Spiders had spent planning their escape from the Imperial Archive, or why they were here right now, when Ardan and Milar had arrived, rather than coming here earlier or later. Even the mystery of why the vampire had bothered to kill someone, only to then bound away like a cat through the carnage of screaming, bloodied survivors and the shredded remains of the dead would have to wait.

Coughing due to the dust and acrid smoke, Milar got up, hoisted his revolver, and took aim, but "Tantov," as though she had eyes on the back of her head, snatched up a nearby civilian as a human shield. It was a man nearly twice her own size. She lifted him by the scruff as though he were a helpless kitten. He screamed, clutching the bloodied stump of his severed limb, utterly lost in the chaos.

"Damn it!" Milar cursed, moved his revolver to his side, looked down, and then, without a second's hesitation, jumped over the handrail.

The investigator flew a few meters through the air and landed precariously on the top shelf of the cabinet behind the information desk, rolling down the pneumatic mail pipes and mumbling something unintelligible as he tried to get to his feet.

He couldn't.

Ardi, once again making a mental note that it would be a good idea to develop a spell for these kinds of situations, jumped down after him. He fared a lot better than Milar, bending his knees as he landed on the floor.

Literally dragging his partner to his feet, Ardan held his staff out in front of him. Several spells that he was ready to cast flashed through his mind, but he never did. His hesitation was motivated by the same thing that had stopped Milar from firing his gun. "Tantov" was jumping between the bodies and throwing them behind herself like a child playing with toys.

"Fucking vampires!" Milar shouted, reaching for a signal medallion without letting go of his revolver.

"There's no time to wait for backup!" Ardan snapped, tugging him away.

Thank the Sleeping Spirits that Milar didn't waste time asking "what" or "why." He simply took off after her.

Ardan, thanks to Professor an Manish's lectures, knew that these kinds of buildings always had at least a double, or even a triple defense system. And after the main generators were taken out and the external cables severed, less than a minute would pass before the emergency backup kicked in. When they activated the building's secondary shield, the entire archive would become a colossal magical sarcophagus inside which no one lacking the proper "keys" would be able to move, or even cry out, let alone leave or enter.

And the faint shimmer spreading across the walls suggested that these backup generators were already firing up.

That was why "Tantov" was racing toward the exit.

"Fucking wonderful!" Milar bellowed upon catching sight of the ominous flickering.

They ran, leaping over bodies and dodging chunks of mosaic falling from the ceiling. They weren't as fast or agile as the vampire, but they moved swiftly enough that, by the time the impenetrable golden dome closed its unyielding embrace around the archive, they'd managed to make it outside. At the very last moment, too.

The edge of the stationary barrier brushed across Milar, cleanly slicing off the rear brim of his hat (which had somehow stayed on his head through all this chaos) and grazing his left leg, opening a deep cut in it.

The captain stumbled, but Ardan caught him again.

Outside, the panicked shouts of bystanders filled the air. People still vividly remembered how the Imperial Bank had once been bombed, injuring plenty of ordinary citizens. Sirens wailed, howling like a wounded Shaggier. Billows of smoke — no longer visible within the dome — continued to wind their way into the sky. Cars were screeching to a halt on the street, colliding, flipping over, and bursting into flames. Their drivers and passengers would simply climb out and flee in every direction after an accident.

"Tantov," without glancing back, dashed down the partially-shattered steps and vanished into a car that paused for a heartbeat at the curb.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"We can't let them get away, Ard!" Milar grit out, dragging his injured leg behind him.

"I know!" Ardan repeated in that same tone.

Letting his grimoire dangle on its chain, he wrapped one arm around his partner and forced himself into a run. Not long ago, the invigorating brews would have drained Ardan's body so much that he would have collapsed by now. And while it wasn't easy and he was slower than he would have liked, he still managed to get them both down the steps.

He basically threw Milar into the car, glanced quickly at his partner's wounded leg, mentally went over the Basic Seal of Healing Flesh, and struck his staff against the ground.

Milar screamed so loudly from the pain that he nearly tore his vocal cords.

Apparently, Ardan had messed up some of the runic connections and hadn't been able to properly apply the anesthesia. This meant that while most — though not all — of the wound began stitching itself together in ribbons of fresh skin, the captain writhed, slamming his head against the back of the seat.

By the time Ardan had darted around the hood and climbed in, slamming the passenger door behind him, Milar, drenched in sweat, had already turned the ignition and was grinding the clutch with his bleeding foot, shifting gears.

"You motherfuckers aren't getting away," Milar hissed, stowing his revolver and urging their old government-issue "Derks" to prove why it was still in service.

"Tantov" and her accomplices had a good thirty-second head start, but because of the blasts and collisions, they had to weave their way around overturned, wrecked cars. And so, Milar stomped on the gas, jamming the gearshift so fiercely it might have snapped in a newer car.

He spun the steering wheel so fast that the spokes blurred into a single, rusty haze. Where the criminals' vehicle had to cautiously swerve around obstacles, Milar skimmed by them with mere inches to spare.

It was almost breathtaking to behold: the captain was switching gears, braking, and stomping on the accelerator in a coordinated display of manic skill that Ardan doubted he'd ever come close to.

Ardan's eyebrows climbed higher and higher in astonishment with each passing second. He had only witnessed driving skills at this level once before, with Lisa…

"Light me up!" Milar barked suddenly.

"What?"

"A bloody cigarette, partner! Now!"

Milar's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity, and so, while their car jerked wildly, Ardan reached for the glove compartment.

The captain slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a startled driver who had decided not to stop despite the carnage on the road. The jolt sent a cigarette case flying out of the compartment and it nearly struck Ardan in the face. He managed to snatch it out of the air and, flipping it open, retrieved a cigarette.

He offered it to Milar, who clamped it between his lips, and, battered by the car's shaking — feeling as if he were a sack of bread carried by a sprinting boy — Ardan fumbled to light it for him.

Milar took a deep drag, the tobacco flaring as it caught the flame. Then, angling the cigarette toward the corner of his mouth with his tongue, he growled:

"Now, let's see what they've got…"

He stomped the pedals again, shifting gears, and the "Derks" gave a shudder before lurching forward. The fugitives' car was clearly higher-performing than their government clunker, but Milar's skill served as a great equalizer.

As they rounded a turn leading away from the site of the explosion, the criminals failed to judge it correctly; two of their wheels lifted off the pavement for a moment. Ardan's breath caught — he was sure they'd flip, but the car banged back onto the road. Ignoring the whistle of a traffic officer, it roared on.

"These fuckers are lucky for sure!" Milar snarled, once again jamming the pedals and shifting.

He did everything so quickly and naturally, without taking his eyes off the road, that it seemed like the car was not a separate thing, but a part of the captain's own body. Flying into the intersection, right through the stream of traffic rushing left and right, Milar not only avoided collisions, but also entered the turn itself in a special way. He did not immediately move the steering wheel to the right, turning it to the left instead, ensuring a much wider arc, and, almost without slowing down, he made a wide turn with one side of the car almost touching the curb of the oncoming lane. Only then, after righting the car and shortening the distance separating them by several car lengths, did he let up a little.

"Come on, old buddy, come on," Milar hissed through clenched teeth, easing back into the correct lane and ignoring the furious honking of oncoming cars scattering like startled grasshoppers before them. "Just like the good old days…"

The "Derks," as if heeding his plea, lunged forward like a mustang reined in too tightly by its rider. But Milar still wasn't pushing the engine and suspension to their utmost. He was waiting for something.

Ardan could practically feel the car's every tremor, each vibrating thrum of its mechanical parts as its diesel engine worked tirelessly. Pistons hammered away, sending a tangible buzz through the chassis.

At the next turn, Milar narrowly missed colliding with a stunned truck driver hauling gravel toward the industrial districts. The load of gravel nearly jerked the cover off the truck bed and pelted the roofs of passing cars.

Stony shards rained down on the "Derks."

Meanwhile, the criminals wove through traffic like a skittish flea, weaving between lanes and occasionally dipping into oncoming traffic. Even a far more experienced driver than Ardan would likely have lost them a few turns ago — but not Milar.

He clung to them like a bulldog, refusing to let go. The engine of their car roared, and the battered front bumper, with its chipped chrome, bore down relentlessly on the foe. Milar shifted gears again, his car hugging the left flank of a luxurious model traveling in the same direction. Its driver — an impeccably-groomed man in his forties with a striking young woman beside him — looked furious that some old "Derks" had just passed him.

But none of that mattered.

"Ard, conjure something already!" Milar shouted. "We can only catch them on the corners!"

Ardan, recalling his first chase in the Firstborn District, clutched the handle above the window with his free hand and shouted over the roar of the engine and the thunder of the suspension, "This is a bad idea!"

It seemed like the same thought had just occurred to the false Tantov. She thrust a clawed hand out the window. Scarlet light flared at her fingertips, and a spear made from crystalline blood struck the scaffolding on the façade of a nearby building.

Dozens of wooden beams, each as thick as a man's palm, were sliced apart with the ease of a hot knife gliding through fresh butter. Workers clutching ropes and pulleys cried out. The timbers, like a gutted matchbox, toppled onto the road. Horns blared and tires squealed as suspension springs groaned in protest. In a desperate bid to avoid a deadly collision, cars smashed into each other. A few weren't so fortunate: instead of slamming into someone's trunk, they crumpled under the weight of the falling scaffolding.

Milar did not slow down. It looked like he could sense where the next beam would drop as he wove through the suddenly-cleared road like a hare darting across a field. Meanwhile, the vampire never let up. Again and again, new spears flew from her fingertips, aimed behind her. No matter how skilled a driver Milar was, the distance between them kept growing. And even though the spears turned thinner and more translucent with every new throw, one fact was clear…

"They're going to get away!" Milar growled in time with the engine.

Just then, the fugitives' car burst onto the Port Embankment. It looked like the vampire and her driver were racing toward the Night Docks. Milar, who just moments ago had closed the gap to only a few car lengths, now fought to bridge the chasm again. Unfortunately, it had widened to nearly fifty meters. Behind them, the street still blazed and thundered as fiercely as the Imperial Archive had not long ago.

Ardan glanced at the Niewa. It was slapping its waves against the granite shore.

"They won't get away," he said, then closed his eyes.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

For almost a year, he had strolled along these embankments every day. In the evenings, he would sit and stare at the Markov Canal, peering into the dark depths of this ancient, mighty river that was a lot older than the city that had grown upon its banks. Humans and Firstborn had shackled the banks with lifeless stone, trying to swaddle the black waters with their will. But the river was merely feigning submission. From time to time, it reminded them of its powerful, fearsome temper. Despite dams and tall embankments, it lashed out at the city with massive floods, so that humans and the Firstborn alike — whom it still remembered being mere infants — would not forget by whose grace they walked these shores.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

For a whole year, Ardan had listened to its whispers. Sometimes, they'd been quiet and drowsy, the whispers of frothing ripples on a calm, clear day. Sometimes, they'd been quick and brazen, the whispers of thick droplets as the river devoured the downpour. Sometimes, they'd been nearly feral, the howling of waves pounding the granite during storms and gales. And at times, they had sounded weary, the river sighing as it cloaked itself in ice, seeking a moment's respite from its eternal fight against the stone. A fight it would one day inevitably win, when, as it had done a hundred thousand years before, it finally spread itself across kilometers of valley, and the land bowed once more before its majesty.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

Ardan reached toward those whispers.

He'd been listening for an entire year.

He had learned a lot about them.

He'd grown familiar with them while asking the river what stories it could tell him about the era when the world had still slept, and in turn sharing what he himself had seen. And the river had answered him, as it had once in the mountains of the Alkade. He'd listened to its tales and offered some of his own.

So that when the time came, he could fill his mouth with its whispers, and let his heartbeat become the thrum of its black surface against the granite.

Without opening his eyes, Ardan gripped his staff. Speakers and Aean'Hane didn't always need to connect themselves to the Ley Lines the way Star Mages did.

And so, when he expanded that shard of its Name that the Niewa had shared with him, the river responded.

Milar was shouting something, probably about how he'd warned Ardan not to use the Aean'Hane arts. But Ardan couldn't hear him.

He heard nothing but the river's roar. He tapped ever more deeply into his will, searching the furthest recesses of his heart, plunging into the deepest corners of his mind, and seizing all he could carry. He had to saturate the whispers, let them grow into a word, then a shout, and finally, a roar.

When he opened his eyes and raised his hand, the river roared with him. Its surface frothed with fury, and from that foam rose an immense hand that mirrored the shape of Ardan's own.

The Niewa thundered and raged.

Dozens of tons of water slammed onto the road, easily scooping up that pathetic little speck — a car that had imagined itself invincible. Like a leaf in a downpour, the watery hand flung the vehicle aside and slammed it into a fence around a condemned building. The boards splintered, and the fugitive car skidded a good ten meters across the ground, yet not a single other car was harmed. The water had avoided them as casually as a river skirts shallows and islands.

Ardan exhaled and severed his connection to the shard of the Niewa's Name. Weariness descended upon him with a weight he'd never felt before. It pressed into every fiber of his being, and even drawing breath became a chore. Beyond that, Ardan sensed short, searing fissures beginning to score his face.

He closed his eyes and…

It seemed like someone was calling him.

He drifted upward through murky depths similar to those of the Niewa, fighting his way back to consciousness.

He managed to open his eyes at last, shaking his head, which rang like a struck anvil.

"We're not done yet, partner," Milar said, yanking the parking brake. Drawing his revolver, he practically rolled out of the now-stationary "Derks."

Apparently, Ardan had blacked out for a moment.

Leaning heavily on his staff and swaying from side to side, Ardan managed to crawl out of the car.

All around them, traffic had come to a halt, forming a wide perimeter around the broken fence and the deserted building. In the distance, sirens still wailed as some people simply fled, abandoning their cars.

"Ard!" Milar barked.

Ardan, staggering as if he were the one bleeding, lurched after his partner. His head buzzed, his ears rang, and his vision swam. And all that after only calling upon a shard… Admittedly, it was a rather large one, bigger than any he had ever summoned before (even larger than the one he'd used against the Selkado fighter recently), yet it was still just a shard of a Name. And not even the Name of a primal element, but simply that of an ancient river.

He dreaded to imagine what his great-grandfather might have achieved... By the Sleeping Spirits...

He and Milar approached the overturned car together. Diesel was leaking from the ruptured tank, and a mangled body protruded through the battered roof. It was as broken and ruined as the vehicle itself.

Milar grabbed the driver's hair, matted with thick blood, without ceremony.

"Recognize him?"

Ardan peered more closely and nodded uncertainly.

"I think I saw him among the Spiders."

"You think?" Milar spat and let go. The man's head lolled back onto his crushed chest.

They turned their attention to the trail leading from the car into the building. The ground was smeared with dark, nearly-black blood that was shimmering in the sunlight. Next to it were clear footprints made by a pair of boots and a long drag mark.

Apparently, the vampire was gravely wounded to the point that even her regenerative powers weren't enough to restore her fully.

"Can you still cast?" Milar asked.

Ardan took a moment to assess his condition. Summoning the shard of the Niewa's Name hadn't used up any of his Stars' rays, but still…

"Only something very simple," he admitted. "And only once."

He doubted that he could focus enough to form the seals properly. His mind was struggling to register what was happening, and forging seals demanded more mental clarity than he could muster at the moment.

"Understood," Milar replied. He drew his saber from its scabbard as well, though how much good that would do against a wounded vampire remained to be seen. "Wait for the right moment."

They both glanced at the building. Ideally, they should've waited for reinforcements, but… there was no time. If the vampire — and more importantly, the documents — got away, the only lead left would be the auction aboard the dirigible. And given that the Spiders had clearly been preparing for this for years, that particular outcome felt too much like losing the entire game.

Milar gave his revolver a small swing.

"Let's move," he growled and ventured inside first.

The wallpaper had been torn away long ago, the parquet removed, and everything that could be salvaged in general was gone. Only bare walls, stripped of their partitions, separated the "outside" of the capital from this hollow interior.

Milar and Ard trod carefully over a layer of cracked concrete, brick and sand. The captain led and Ardan followed. Just then, a shot rang out ahead of them. A bullet ricocheted off the wall, leaving a long scratch along its surface.

"You foul… Speaker," a ragged, gasping, familiar voice found its way to them. It sounded like the vampire had managed to climb to the top floor. "You killed… Artem…"

Pressing their backs against the wall, Milar and Ardan ascended, the captain keeping his revolver trained on the upper landing while Ardan kept his staff at the ready.

"I loved him, half-blood… I loved him since I was a child…" The vampire went on, her breaths shallow. "Ever since I first scraped my knee and he brought me… a plantain leaf…"

Milar and Ardan paused briefly and exchanged glances. She'd scraped her knee? It sounded mundane if you didn't know the details. But if you did…

The youngest vampires were over seventy years old because that was when the Empire had banned the turning of mortals, on pain of immediate disintegration. And the few true vampires, created in ancient times by the Aean'Hane to be "horrors" plaguing the human realms, had almost died out. Those that remained were all registered and reported regularly to the government, alongside other security measures.

Essentially, they were a dying breed of undead, strange as that phrase might sound.

So how had vampires this young suddenly appeared?

Milar gave his revolver another tilt, and they started climbing again. The vampire fired a few more rounds, but none found their target.

When they were just one flight away from the top, Milar halted so suddenly that Ardan nearly walked into him.

"What do you need the documents for, vampire?" The captain asked her. "Are you working for Trevor Man? Is this part of his scheme?"

She laughed, sounding like a crow… or wriggling corpse worms, if those made noise. If they did, it would have been exactly the sound echoing in Ardan's ears now.

"We'll bring them all back…" Her voice wavered. "We'll change everything… We'll save them all… Bring them all back."

Ardi recalled hearing something similar from Ildar Nalimov.

"Why do you want to travel into the past?" He asked, trying not to vomit — his head felt like it was splitting in half. "What happened to you all? Tell us. We might be able to help."

"Help?" She laughed again. "You… All of you… have done enough already… Or rather, you've done nothing… No one… did anything. Now we'll… do it ourselves…"

There was a hiss. It sounded like paper burning. Milar didn't hesitate. He bounded up the final steps, and instantly, a faint, translucent crimson spear was hurtled toward him.

Ardan shoved his partner aside and blocked the attack with a simple Universal Shield. The crimson mist splattered harmlessly across its surface, not even leaving a scratch.

In front of them, slumped against a column, lay the vampire. She was a young woman with pale skin, long fangs, red eyes, and… a ravaged body. Her left leg was hanging on by a single strip of flesh at the middle of her thigh. Her chest cavity had been torn open, revealing a shriveled, rotting heart sagging among organs that were already putrid and nearly decayed.

Beside her were folders filled with documents. They were gradually burning away in the black ichor that served as her blood.

The first folder bore the title "Bri-&-Man's Company Accounts," and the second read "Personal File of Citizen Trevor Man."

"Damn it!" Milar tried to grab the documents, but Ardan stopped him just in time.

"Smart… Speaker…" The nearly-departed undead murmured.

At his partner's silent question, Ardan pointed to the scarlet glow spreading over the floor around the vampire. Anyone who came near her risked a fate worse than death.

"But the documents-" Milar began.

"She had four folders," Ardan cut in. "Every file in the Archive has a copy."

The Spiders had thought of everything. They had planned this for years, Ardi was now certain of it. All that had happened in the capital over the past year was only their crescendo, the culmination of a long, orchestrated game.

Milar swung his revolver in frustration.

"Let's go," he rasped.

They both stared at the dying… or smoldering… or fading vampire. Which word fit best here?

"We'll save everyone… Speaker…" She repeated softly. "And… maybe… I'll even forgive you… because Artem… will live again."

First her jaw dropped away. Then her limbs dissolved into dust. A moment later, all that remained on the concrete was a mound of ash-strewn clothing.

A short distance away, the charred remnants of the documents were still smoking.