The hiss of drawn steel was the only sound in the vast hall. Thirty blades, held by thirty warriors, had turned the reception into a declaration of war. The air, thick with the scent of dust and spilled wine, was a held breath. The young servant knelt on the flagstones, a statue of terror, his spilled flagon glinting in a shaft of sunlight.
Sineus moved. Not with the speed of a warrior, but with the deliberate weight of a Knyaz who owned the space he walked in. He raised a hand, a simple gesture to halt Fedor Sokolov, whose body was already a coiled spring of violence, ready to put himself between his prince and the nearest threat.
He walked past the rigid line of his own guard, past the stunned Scriptorium acolytes, and into the circle of death that surrounded Levan Dadiani. The Khevsur leader stood like a mountain of dark steel, his gaze fixed on the red stain that fouled the honor of his ancestors.
Sineus did not speak. He knelt.
The gesture was a shock, a violation of protocol. A prince of the north did not kneel to a mountain chieftain in a moment of insult. He knelt before the stained greave, the polished plate of steel that protected Levan’s shin. The wine looked like fresh blood against the dark, swirling etchings.
— My lord… I… — the servant’s whisper was a dry leaf skittering across the stone.
Sineus ignored him. He ignored the thirty blades aimed at his back. He reached out and placed his hand gently on the cold, stained steel of Levan’s armor.
The familiar ache bloomed behind his eyes, the price of looking deeper. The world of solid matter grew thin, and the Pod-sloy, the shimmering layer of what was, surged into view. The armor was no longer just steel. It was a library of deeds, a roaring storm of memory. He saw duels under a pale mountain sun, the birth of children, the swearing of oaths on blades still hot from the forge.
He pushed past them, searching. He needed a memory of honor, not just of victory. A memory of will, not just of strength. The chaotic torrent of the Khevsur past washed over him, a thousand lives lived and died, each deed etched into the metal his hand now touched.
He found it.
It was not a grand battle. It was a moment of quiet, desperate resolve. A snowy mountain pass, the wind a razor. An old man, Levan’s great-grandfather, stood with five warriors against a tide of raiders. They were the last line defending a village of women and children. The memory was cold, sharp with the taste of blood and the burn of exhausted lungs.
The old man’s shield was splintered. His arm was broken. But his eyes were clear. He had shouted an oath into the wind, a promise to hold the pass or die on its stones. He had not been defending a border. He had been defending a future. The memory shone in the chaos of the Pod-sloy, a point of pure, unwavering light.
Sineus gripped that memory with his will. He did not try to cut the stain of the spilled wine away. That would be a lie, another wound on the world. Instead, he pulled the light of the great-grandfather’s oath forward. He wove it around the fresh, shameful memory of the accident.
He reframed it.
The dark red liquid was no longer the clumsy spill of a servant. In the new context Sineus was building, it was a splash of blood on the old man’s armor in that high pass. The insult was not an insult. It was a test of composure, a small echo of a greater trial. The shame was not erased; it was contained, framed by the brilliant light of an ancestor’s valor.
Levan Dadiani gasped. It was a sharp, ragged intake of breath. His body went rigid. His eyes, which had been fixed on the stain, unfocused. He was no longer in the Scriptorium hall. He was in a high, cold pass, the wind tearing at him, his great-grandfather’s oath echoing in his soul. He felt the warmth of that unwavering will, a stark contrast to the cold shame that had flooded him moments before.
His hand, which had been resting on the hilt of his sword, fell to his side.
The Khevsur warriors saw it. They saw the change in their leader, the subtle shift in his posture from rigid anger to stunned awe. They did not understand what had happened. They only knew the signal had changed.
One by one, then in a quiet cascade, they lowered their blades. The sound of thirty swords sliding back into their leather scabbards was a final, metallic sigh, releasing the tension from the air. The immediate crisis was over.
Fedor Sokolov relaxed his stance by a fraction, his hand never leaving the pommel of his axe. His eyes were narrowed, fixed on Sineus, his expression a mask of confusion and deep suspicion.
Kira Zaytseva watched from the edge of the hall, her arms crossed. The cynical mask of the archivist was gone, replaced by an expression of pure, scholarly astonishment. She had just witnessed something that was not in any of her books.
Levan blinked, returning to the present. He looked from the stain on his armor to Sineus, who was still kneeling before him. His eyes held a new, profound uncertainty. He looked at the terrified servant, who had not dared to move.
— Go, — Levan said. His voice was rough, strained.
The servant scrambled to his feet and fled, leaving the silver flagon on the floor.
Sineus rose slowly, his gaze never leaving the Khevsur leader’s. The power dynamic in the room had been broken and reforged. He was no longer just a foreign prince. He was a man who could touch the soul of their history.
The scent of wine and dust hung in the air. Sunlight caught the intricate patterns on the lowered Khevsur blades, turning them from threats into art.
The air in the hall eased, but for Sineus, the tension remained. He had mended one memory, but his sight showed him a gaping wound where another had been stolen.
