Chapter 10
In the next heartbeat, the distortion fell away, leaving them upon a cobbled street before the Perillo home. The house rose in quiet dignity, a two-story brick townhouse with tall windows framed in dark shutters and a narrow iron railing climbing its stoop. It bore the mark of a merchant family whose fortunes had climbed near the edge of high society—well-kept, respectable, yet still restrained compared to the grand mansions uptown. A single lamp burned faintly at the entryway, spilling its glow across the polished wood of the door, familiar and aching with memory.
The woman's gaze lifted, and for the first time in a very long time her composure faltered. Her eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in reverence, as though some hidden tide pressed against her from the quiet bricks and shuttered windows. There was power here—terrible in its majesty, ancient in its patience. The house did not stand merely as a merchant's dwelling; it breathed with wards sunk deep into its foundation, as though its very bones had been tempered in secret fire. She felt it at once: this was no casual charm, no apprentice's trinket. This was the work of a master whose craft defied the boundaries of what the Tribunal deemed possible.
A single lamp burned faintly at the entryway, spilling its glow across the polished wood of the door, familiar and aching with memory. Yet it was no ordinary lamp. Its flame, steady and unyielding, had been bound to burn without end—time itself bowing before the intricacy of its making. More than a light, it was a sentinel: a protection wrought so carefully, so seamlessly, that it had become indistinguishable from the object it dwelled within. Within its glow pulsed a charm unbroken by storm, spell, or siege—a living bulwark of enchantment.
Her breath stilled, and when she spoke it was not in mere recognition, but in solemn confession, each syllable heavy with awe: "Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov."
The world knew protection charms, crude shells against the dark, wards to delay what would one day break through. But nothing like this. Nothing so enduring, so fiercely alive, that it carried the shape of its maker's soul. To the Tribunal, such a wonder would be worth a war. To those who had eyes to see, it was revelation: that Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov—hidden beneath the humble mask of Mira—had woven her true might not in temples or courts of magic, but here, into the Perillo home, where legacy and love had become one and the same.
The woman's breath had scarcely finished shaping the name when the lamp stirred. Its flame, steady until now, flared high as if seized by an unseen wind. The light bent, spilling upward in a twisting column that hissed like molten gold poured into cold water. Fire tore free of the wick, climbing into shape, and from that impossible blaze a figure began to form.
The flame convulsed, and from it rose the Sphinx—wrought in fire yet older than fire, its leonine body no larger than a hound's pup, yet bearing a presence vast as the ages themselves. Small though it was, the air bowed to it, wings of flame unfurling with the weight of forgotten epochs. Its visage burned with a beauty both terrible and inscrutable, neither wholly human nor wholly beast, but something wrought in the crucible of beginnings. Even in its diminutive form, the very stones beneath their feet seemed to quiver, as though the city itself remembered to fear.
When it spoke, the voice was not sound alone, but the grind of ages shifting, the echo of mountains dragged across the deep. Each word landed heavy, immutable, carved as if into the marrow of the world:
"Why art thou here, woman?" the Sphinx intoned, every syllable slow, ponderous, eternal. "Thou shouldst not be here. Why hast thou come?"
The question was not a courtesy, but a command of reckoning, spoken in a tongue that tasted of dust and eternity. It weighed upon her as judgment, testing her right to stand before the wards Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov had left behind.
The woman bowed her head, her voice taut with urgency. "There is not time to explain. Please—let us through." Behind her, Micah shrank back, half-hidden in her shadow, unwilling to meet the molten gaze that bore down upon them.
The Sphinx's fiery eyes narrowed, its wings curling inward as its voice ground forth like stone over stone: "Us? Of whom dost thou speak, woman?"
Micah hesitated, then leaned out from behind her. The moment his face came into view, the Sphinx froze. Surprise rippled across its fire-wrought visage, and with a solemn grace it bowed low, wings folding against its sides in reverence. Its voice, when it returned, no longer thundered with judgment but rang with the weight of homage:
"Thou art the blood. The heir of Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov. Long hast thou been veiled from mine eyes, yet now the flame knoweth thee. By her hand wast thou hidden, by her craft preserved. Child of her soul, thou standest where none else may."
When its vow was finished, the Sphinx lifted its head once more and turned its burning gaze upon Micah. Yet the fire within its visage shifted, and what had been reverence gave way to something darker. Fear flickered first, then worry, then sorrow so profound it seemed to hollow the flame itself. Its wings shuddered, and the words that followed trembled with both doom and urgency:
"The inevitable hath come to pass… nay, nay, nay—this bode not well. Dark tidings gather, and we must take action ere they descend. Woman, thou art reckless and witless! Useless in thy silence! Thou shouldst have spoken sooner of what hath transpired, lest the flame be left blind to doom's advance. Yet hear me now—though thou hast erred, the wards shall suffer thee entrance, for necessity presseth upon us."
Then the Sphinx turned its embered gaze upon Micah, and its flame-face softened with both awe and sorrow. Its wings lowered, its form bowing as it spoke in tones carved with reverence:
"Mikhail Andrei Svyatokrov. Fifth of the blood of Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov, first of thy name, great-great-great scion of her line, bearer of the Svyatokrov Mantle, heir of the accursed inheritance. Master of Anima Dominium, keeper of Thanurein, hand of sorrow, child of storm, burdened of legacy, ruler yet to come. Blood of the veiled matron, seed of the house eternal, flame of the hidden bloodline, shadow-walker between the living and the dead. Heir of grief, inheritor of chains, chosen of doom, marked of fire, and bound for all ages.
Thou art named, thou art marked, thou art bound. So hath it been spoken, so is it kept, so shall it be until the unmaking of days.
Thou needest neither plea nor petition. From thy first breath unto thy last, thou art welcome, and welcome shalt thou ever remain, though storm and shadow hunt thy steps. This threshold was wrought for thy house, and the flame shall never cast thee out."
The Sphinx's flame sank low, and its embered eyes turned upon the woman. "Take thou the lamp, and bear it hence. When thou hast gathered thine own strength, hang it where ye shall next abide. There shall its flame take root, and there shall its light keep ward o'er him. So long as it burneth, no shadow shall claim his dwelling, neither shall the wards forget his blood. Such is the charge laid upon thee, and thou shalt not withhold it."
Then the Sphinx turned unto Micah, and its visage softened with awe and sorrow mingled. Its wings bent low, and its voice rolled forth as an oath of ages: "Mikhail Andrei Svyatokrov, fifth of the blood of Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov, first of thy name since her passing, great-great-great scion of her line. Thou art mine to guard. As long as the flame endureth, thou shalt not be forsaken. Though sorrow compass thee and storm pursue thee, the light shall not abandon thee. So hath it been wrought, so is it spoken, so shall it be until the unmaking of days."
At that vow, the lamp's flame leapt high, flaring with sudden brilliance, casting the street in a golden blaze. The fire bent toward Micah as though in recognition, sealing the bond with a spark that sank into his very marrow. Then, with a final bow, the Sphinx's form unraveled into embers and was drawn back into the lamp. Its light steadied—small, constant, eternal—yet within it lingered the echo of promise: he was claimed, and he was bound.
Micah swayed where he stood, the afterglow of the flare still burning behind his eyes. His chest felt heavy, as though the spark the flame had pressed into him was still alive, threading itself through bone and blood. He pressed a hand against his heart, the pocket watch beneath his fingers thrumming faintly, answering the pull of the lamp.
A tremor passed through him—not the weakness of grief alone, but something stranger, deeper. For an instant, he thought he could hear whispers, thin and distant, brushing at the edge of his mind. Voices like echoes through a cavern, neither living nor gone, but bound in some twilight between. His breath caught, and he pulled his hand away from his chest as though the contact burned.
"I… I felt it," he whispered, his voice breaking, uncertain if he spoke to the woman, to himself, or to the shadow of Mira that lingered in every corner of his memory. His knees weakened, and he nearly crumpled before catching himself, eyes wide, the weight of the vow settling upon him like a mantle too large for his shoulders.
The street was silent once more, but Micah knew that nothing was the same. The flame had chosen, the bond had been sealed, and whatever he was before—grief-stricken boy, orphan of ruin—he could never be again.