On the ground, her ankles buried in gray sand, stood a woman.

  She was naked, too, stripped of everything but her essence. She possessed those exact cold, sharp features and short, dark blue hair cut into a strict bob that didn't even twitch in the windless air.

  She was holding Viktor. Her arms gripped him tightly around the chest, anchoring him to the ground with her entire weight, as if she were the only chain preventing him from vanishing into the darkness above.

  It was an image of perfect, frozen tension. Nothing was beginning; the state was enduring. Viktor was constantly being torn upward, and the woman was constantly dragging him down. They were in a deadlock.

  But the most terrifying part wasn't the tension of their bodies. It was their faces.

  Both Viktor and the woman had their eyes closed.

  Despite the brutal force tearing at Viktor's body, and despite the woman's convulsive grip, they both looked absolutely peaceful. They looked blissful, as if they were sleeping in soft featherbeds, united in some deep, silent harmony that Ema could not comprehend. They were two lovers in the midst of torture who knew nothing of their pain.

  "Viktor!"

  Ema sat up abruptly in bed, gasping for air. The name hung on her lips like the aftertaste of blood. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a panicked bird, sweat trickling down her back.

  The vivid, surreal scene was still before her eyes. The gray beach. The black sky. Viktor's body strained in a spasm, torn toward nothingness, and that woman... that naked stranger with the severe blue bob holding him to the earth. Who was she? Why did she hold him with such possessive intimacy? And why did Viktor, her savior, that unbreakable warrior, look so resigned?

  She felt the familiar shadow of panic creeping in. Anxiety began to constrict her throat. Where is he now? Is he even alive? What if the dream wasn't just a dream, but a cry for help? Tears welled up in her eyes.

  "Enough," she hissed into the silence of the bedroom.

  She gritted her teeth and forced herself to take a deep breath. Hanna's words from yesterday rang in her head like a mantra, cold and soothing: The past does not exist. It is just an anchor dragging you to the bottom.

  Does it make sense to worry about what was? Does it make sense to cry for Viktor when she can do nothing herself? She looked at her trembling hands. They were empty. They were weak. Even if she knew where Viktor was, even if he was suffering exactly as she saw in the dream, she couldn't help him. Not as Ema, the refugee from a bombed-out city.

  But as a member of the Family...

  The thought was sharp and cold as a shard of glass. If I gain their background, if I become a strong Architect, then everything changes. I could find him. I could save him.

  Slowly, with the knowledge that she was making a fateful decision, she clenched her hand into a fist. Her nails dug painfully into her palm until the skin turned white. It was a pain that anchored her.

  When the maid dressed her in the heavy, flowing emerald dress, Ema stood motionless as a statue. She felt no stage fright, only cold purpose. She was determined.

  Stolen story; please report.

  She headed straight for the dining room.

  Friedrich sat at the head of the table, immersed in the morning papers, a cup of hot coffee before him. When he heard footsteps, he looked up.

  Ema stepped up to him. She didn't hesitate. Without a word, with the expression of a gambler betting everything on a single card, she offered him her hand.

  Friedrich was momentarily surprised. He set aside the newspaper, stood up, and looked into her eyes. Then his face lit up with a triumphant, gallant smile. He understood.

  He firmly squeezed her palm.

  "I have considered your offer, Friedrich," she said firmly, her voice not wavering in the slightest. "My answer is yes. I will marry you."

  She paused briefly, significantly, and fixed him with a gaze burning with cold fire. "And ideally, immediately. I do not want to wait."

  Friedrich paused. The cup he was about to lift to his lips remained suspended in the air. A flash of sheer astonishment flickered in his eyes—he hadn't expected this. He had expected resignation, quiet consent, perhaps even shyness, but certainly not such ferocity. The sudden shift in dynamic threw him off balance for a second.

  Slowly, with a clink, he placed the china back on the saucer.

  "I am... pleasantly surprised, Ema," he said, the corner of his mouth playing with that typical, slightly haughty yet gallant smile of his. He stood and walked over to her. "Thank you. I immensely appreciate that you have reached this decision, and your impatience, I admit, flatters me."

  He gently grasped her shoulders, as if to soothe her.

  "However, even though certain circumstances press us, there are things that cannot be rushed, even if we both wished it," he continued in an apologetic tone. "The Ritual of the Union of Lines is not merely a signature on paper. It requires the preparation of energies, alignment... Unfortunately, it cannot be done immediately."

  He looked deep into her eyes, as if begging for her understanding. "The earliest possible time is in three days. Believe me, my dear, I too would wish to have it behind us this very evening, but we must honor the rules of our power. Three days."

  Ema looked at him, and despite all her internal turmoil, she conjured a calm, resigned smile. "I don't mind," she nodded slightly. "I trust you know what you are doing."

  Ema sat down next to him, and they shared breakfast. Everything felt perfect—the aroma of fresh coffee, the clinking of silver against china, and Friedrich holding Ema's hand firmly across the table. His thumb gently stroked the back of her hand, as if assuring himself she was real.

  "An Architect's wedding is not just a social event, dear Ema," he explained in a soft, almost professorial tone. "It is a ritual as old as our blood. Representatives of all the main branches of the Family will converge on the location—from Vienna, from Rome, from Paris. Everyone will want to see the one who carries such a pure flame within her."

  He paused, took a sip of coffee, and continued more seriously. "The ceremony itself will be conducted by a priest of the Order. It won't be just words. We will be working directly with the raw power of the Architects. We will both have to take an oath—promising absolute loyalty not only to each other but above all to the Family and its mission."

  Friedrich squeezed her hand a little harder and looked deep into her eyes. "And then comes the most important moment. We will permanently connect our Shards. Your power and my power will cease to exist separately. We will become a single pillar, an inseparable whole. It is... definitive."

  Ema wanted to say something, to ask if it would hurt, but the words stuck in her throat.

  At that moment, the heavy double doors flew open with a bang that shook the glass in the windows. The Commander of the Guard burst into the room, breathless, helmet under his arm, wearing an expression of sheer panic.

  Ignoring etiquette, he almost ran to the head of the table. He leaned down to Friedrich and whispered something urgently into his ear, emphasizing every syllable.

  Friedrich's expression instantly turned to stone. The kind fiancé vanished, replaced by a warlord. He dropped Ema's hand as if it burned him and stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair.

  "Stay here, Ema. Not a step!" he barked at her, his voice like frost. "Please. Heinrich, guard the door and let no one in or out!"

  Without another glance at his bride-to-be, he turned on his heel and, with a quick, brisk stride, followed the commander out of the room.

  Chaos erupted in the hallway outside. Ema heard the thundering of many feet and shouting orders. Is it Viktor? flashed through her mind. Did he find me?