The decision settled between them, a fragile pact made in the lamplit quiet. They had their lead. A name. Zoya Petrova. Now they had to find the woman who guarded the last secrets, a keeper who believed some truths were better left forgotten. Sineus rose from the table, his mind already charting the path to the Sealed Archive, when the sound came.
A single horn blast, sharp and clear, echoed from the canyon entrance. It was a military sound, a call of brass and breath that sliced through the Scriptorium’s profound silence. The note was not native to this place of paper and dust. It was an intrusion, a declaration.
Kira’s head snapped up, the scholar’s focus shattered. The weariness in her eyes was replaced by a sharp, familiar apprehension. She looked at Sineus, her expression grim.
— The council begins, — she said, her voice flat. — The mountain has arrived.
They left the small reading room, their search for Zoya Petrova interrupted. The corridors, moments before a silent sanctuary, now felt charged with a new tension. Scriptorium acolytes hurried past, their soft-soled shoes whispering on the stone. The horn blast had woken the city of knowledge from its long slumber.
The reception hall was a vast space carved from the canyon’s ochre rock, its high ceiling lost in shadow. Sunlight streamed through tall, narrow windows, illuminating columns of dust in the still air. A delegation was already entering, their presence fundamentally altering the room’s quiet character.
These were the Khevsur. The Mountain Clans.
They were not robed scholars or northern lords in mail and fur. They were warriors clad in dark, interlocking plates of steel, their movements economical and precise. Each man carried a long, straight-bladed sword at his hip, the leather of the scabbards worn smooth. They strode into the hall not as guests, but as men assessing a fortress.
Their leader walked at the front. Levan Dadiani. He was a formidable man, his plate armor intricately etched with swirling lines that seemed to shift in the light. Sineus knew without seeing the Pod-sloy that these were not mere decorations. They were memory-paths, the honor of ancestors forged into the steel itself. A silver ritual mask, shaped like a hawk’s face, hung from Levan’s belt. His own face was stern and proud, his dark eyes missing nothing.
He stopped in the center of the hall, his gaze sweeping over the Scriptorium’s welcoming party. It was the look of a man who did not bend.
— Knyaz Sineus, — Kira murmured, her voice low. — Levan Dadiani. His people’s honor is a currency with a fluctuating value. Be careful.
Sineus gave a slight nod. He had dealt with northern pride, a stubborn thing rooted in hardship and endurance. This was different. This was a pride of intricate rules and sudden, sharp edges.
Levan Dadiani’s gaze settled on Sineus, acknowledging his rank with a curt dip of his head. The air was thick with unspoken challenges. The council would be a difficult birth.
A young Scriptorium servant, his face pale with nerves, moved through the tense silence. He carried a heavy silver flagon of deep red wine and a tray of polished stone cups. His hands trembled slightly as he approached the Khevsur leader. It was a simple gesture of hospitality, a ritual meant to ease the path to negotiation.
The servant’s foot caught on an uneven flagstone.
He stumbled. A small, clumsy sound in the vast, quiet hall. He tried to right himself, but his balance was gone. The silver flagon tipped.
Time seemed to slow. The dark red wine arced through the air, a liquid ribbon against the sunlit dust. It splashed across the front of Levan Dadiani’s ceremonial greave, the polished steel plate protecting his shin. The wine clung to the intricate etchings, filling the memory-paths of his ancestors with a dark, dripping stain.
The flagon hit the floor with a deafening clatter.
The servant froze, his face a mask of pure terror.
There was a sound like a dozen sharp whispers at once. The hiss of steel leaving leather. In perfect, disciplined unison, every Khevsur warrior had drawn his blade. The light from the high windows caught the edges of the swords, turning them into slivers of cold fire.
To the Scriptorium, it was an accident. A spill.
To the Khevsur, it was a public stain. An unforgivable insult to the honor recorded on the armor. An insult to the memory of every ancestor whose deeds were carved into that steel.
The air in the hall turned to ice. Kira let out a sharp, frustrated breath. The servant, kneeling amidst the spilled wine, began to shake. The Khevsur warriors stood motionless, their swords held ready, their eyes fixed on their leader.
Levan Dadiani did not move. He looked down at the wine dripping from his greave, his expression unreadable.
The fragile peace of the council was broken. The meeting was on the verge of collapsing into bloodshed before the first word had been spoken.
Dust motes danced in the silent shafts of light. The scent of spilled wine, sharp and sweet, rose from the stone floor.
In the silent hall, the stain on the armor was not just wine; it was an insult for which honor demanded blood.
