The squat stone building was a tumor on the canal bank, an ugly knot of Regalis architecture bleeding into the wild green of the Verdant Maze. From the deck of the Myxoid Barge, Anastasya Orlova watched it grow closer, a perfect match for the coordinates on her data-slate. It was designated as a simple water-flow regulator, a mundane piece of infrastructure. But the pained, discordant hum vibrating through the water and up into the living deck of their vessel told a different story. Her objective was to reconcile that contradiction.
Lauri Vatanen, the Silvanus warden, stood at the prow, his eyes closed. He was their living sensor, a tool she was learning to trust over her own faction’s maps. The constant, low-grade tremor in his muscles was a visible reminder of the chaos he embodied, yet his senses were proving more reliable than any instrument forged in the Bastion. He pointed a steady hand toward the bank, to a section of overgrown reeds that looked no different from any other.
— There, — he said, his voice rough. — The entrance is concealed.
Dmitri Volkov, her ever-pragmatic second, guided the barge to the spot. The reeds parted to reveal a low, rusted metal hatch set into the stone foundation, a detail omitted from all official schematics. A violation of protocol. Anastasya felt a cold knot tighten in her gut. She drew her weapon, its Crystalline Myxoid core casting a sterile blue light that seemed to make the surrounding decay look even deeper.
She entered first, her weapon sweeping the interior. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and damp stone, and the rhythmic, heavy thrum of a primary pump echoed through the chamber. It was exactly what she expected. A large, central mechanism, its surfaces clean, its function nominal. Her training screamed that everything was in order. The facility was performing its designated function.
— The main pump is functioning within normal parameters, — Dmitri reported from behind her, his voice a low murmur of confirmation. He was already checking the charge on his weapon’s Myxoid cell, a routine act of maintenance that felt absurdly normal in a place that felt so deeply wrong.
Anastasya’s gaze swept the room again. The walls were bare, the floor clean. The Weft of Vigil was etched into the support pillars, a repeating geometric pattern that was meant to be a comfort, a symbol of the interconnected strength of the Regalis Regime. Here, it felt like a lie.
— It’s not here, — Lauri said, his voice quiet. He walked past her, ignoring the main pump entirely. He trailed his hand along the far wall, his head tilted as if listening to something she could not hear. The empty spot on his belt where his cracked gourd flask once hung was a constant, silent testament to the choice he’d made in the forest clearing. A choice she still didn’t fully understand.
He stopped, his hand hovering over a blank section of wall. — There’s another energy signature. Faint. Behind this panel.
Anastasya’s own sensors registered nothing. No heat, no vibration, no energy variance. According to her data, the wall was solid stone and plasteel. To trust him was to discard years of training, to accept that a savage’s feelings could be more accurate than a machine’s logic. She had made that choice once already. The price had been her certainty.
— Dmitri, — she said, her voice clipped. — Open it.
Dmitri did not question the order. He holstered his weapon and produced a heavy pry bar from his pack. He found a seam in the wall panel that was nearly invisible, a detail only a man looking for it could find. He wedged the bar in and heaved. Metal groaned in protest. Rust flaked away, falling like brown snow onto the clean floor.
With a final, sharp crack, the panel tore free, revealing a dark alcove. Inside was a second machine, a compact network of crystalline tubes and humming conduits connected directly to the main water flow. It was not on any schematic. It was unauthorized. It was active.
Lauri stepped forward before she could stop him. He placed a hand on the mechanism, his eyes closing again. The effort sent a more pronounced tremor through his arm, a visible cost for the information he sought. He pulled his hand back, his fingers coated in a thin, greasy film.
— It’s a catalyst, — he said, his voice grim. — A chemical agent. It’s being injected into the water table in microscopic doses. It doesn’t kill the Myxoids. It… changes them. It encourages the mutation.
The Tears of Ash. Not a natural blight. A cultivated one.
Anastasya pushed past him, her light falling on the machine. Her breath caught in her throat. She knew this design. She knew the manufacturing marks stamped into the primary casing, the specific weave of the power conduits, the signature of the crystal matrix. It was not Umbra salvage. It was not a crude Silvanus weapon.
It was official Regalis state machinery. The serial numbers were from a production run she herself had signed off on two years ago, destined for agricultural purification units in the heartlands.
The truth landed with the force of a physical blow. The pump-house was a weapon. The blight was not an accident, not a failure of Order, not a Silvanus plot. It was a deliberate act, carried out with the tools of her own government. The Chancellery of Forms, the source of all law and reason, was actively cultivating the very chaos they claimed to be fighting. The enemy was not at the gate. The enemy was in the throne room.
She had built her life on a single, immutable principle: the Regalis Regime was the only shield against the Withering. That shield was a lie. It was not a shield; it was the hand that held the knife. This was the ultimate heresy. The system was not just flawed; it was inverted. It was using the logic of Order to produce the purest form of chaos.
She chose the truth. The price was her entire world.
The cold, blue light from her own armor suddenly felt alien, the glow of a faith she no longer possessed. The Weft of Vigil on the walls was no longer a symbol of strength, but the blueprint of a monstrous deception. The mystery was solved. And in its place was a certainty far more terrifying. They were not investigators uncovering a secret. They were heretics who had stumbled upon a conspiracy at the heart of their own state. They were fugitives, and they were alone.
The heavy thrum of the main pump continued its steady, rhythmic beat. The sound of a lie, repeated over and over until it became the only sound in the world.
— We have what we came for, — she said, her voice a stranger to her own ears. It was flat, hollowed out. — We need to leave.
The silence in the chamber was broken only by the hum of the two machines. One performing its duty, the other committing a crime against life itself.
