# Chapter 17: The Third Death
The rain had not let up. It fell in a ceaseless, grey drizzle that slicked the cobblestones of the Undercity and turned the air into a cool, damp blanket. Inside the cramped, borrowed room above a noisy tavern, the air was thick with the smell of stale synth-ale and ozone from the jury-rigged terminal. Konto's gaze was fixed on the screen, but his mind was miles away, down in the dark, forgotten arteries of the city's old waterworks. The schematic of the aqueducts was a ghostly blue map on the display, a labyrinth of tunnels and dead ends that promised either answers or a final, watery grave.
Liraya paced, her movements sharp and restless. The worn floorboards groaned under her weight, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant thud of bass from the tavern below. "It's a trap," she stated for the third time, running a hand through her dark hair. "Silas gives us the location, but he also tells us to trust no one, including Moros. He's setting us up to be his personal wrecking ball, aimed at the heart of the Council."
"Or he's telling the truth," Konto countered, his voice a low rasp. He pushed himself away from the terminal, every muscle in his body protesting. The Somnolent Corruption was a constant, low-grade fever, a buzzing under his skin that threatened to crescendo into a roar. "He's a survivor, Liraya. He doesn't profit from a city that's been torn apart by a nightmare god. He profits from the chaos, not the apocalypse. This is him trying to put the genie back in the bottle, using us as the hand."
Before Liraya could retort, the terminal chimed, a shrill, insistent sound that cut through the tension. A news alert flashed across the screen, the Magisterium Council's golden seal stamped in the corner. The image was of a woman with silver hair piled high on her head, her smile serene and confident. The caption read: *Celebrated Visionary Sculptor, Lady Anja Vetrov, Found Dead in Her Spires Studio.*
Konto felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He clicked on the link. The report was slick, professional, and utterly horrifying. The footage cut from a smiling portrait of Lady Vetrov to a live feed from her studio. The room was a masterpiece of minimalist design, all white walls and panoramic windows overlooking the glittering city. But in the center of the room, where her latest sculpture should have been, was a monstrosity.
It was still vaguely humanoid, carved from the same pale marble, but the serene face was now a rictus of silent agony. The limbs were elongated and twisted, the fingers digging into the marble floor as if trying to crawl away from some unseen terror. The smooth, polished surface was cracked and fissured, with dark, weeping stains that looked like blood or oil. The camera zoomed in on the statue's face, and Konto could see the individual carved tears frozen on its cheeks, the mouth stretched wide in a scream that could never be heard.
"Gods," Liraya breathed, leaning over his shoulder. The scent of her perfume, a faint, clean lavender, was a stark contrast to the room's grime. "That's not just vandalism. That's... violation."
The reporter's voice was somber. "…initial reports suggest Lady Vetrov died in her sleep from an unexplained cardiac event. However, the bizarre transformation of her magnum opus, 'Serenity,' has left Arcane Wardens baffled. Sources within the Wardens confirm the presence of a rare, untraceable sedative in her system, the same substance linked to the recent deaths of Councilman Thorne and industrialist Davian Croft."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. *The same sedative.*
"It's accelerating," Konto said, his voice flat. He closed the news feed, the image of the screaming statue burned into his retinas. "We destroyed the lab. We thought we'd cut off the supply. But we didn't. We just destroyed one faucet. There's a reservoir somewhere."
Liraya sank onto the edge of the narrow bed, the frame groaning in protest. She looked pale, the pragmatic mask she wore cracking to reveal the fear beneath. "A stockpile. That means they have a distribution network. They can target anyone, anytime." She looked up at him, her eyes wide with the dawning horror of their situation. "The city's elite must be panicking. Every person of influence is wondering if they're next."
"And they should be," Konto said, turning back to the schematic of the aqueducts. The map no longer looked like a puzzle to be solved; it looked like their only lifeline. "This changes everything. The clock isn't just ticking for Elara and the Arch-Mage anymore. It's ticking for everyone. The plague is out in the open."
He began to type, his fingers flying across the keyboard, pulling up public records, city permits, anything he could find on the old waterworks. Liraya watched him for a moment, her mind clearly racing. Then she stood up and walked to the room's only window, peering through the grimy glass at the perpetual twilight of the Undercity.
"Anja Vetrov," she said softly, her voice distant. "I knew of her. Everyone in the Upper Spires did. Her work was… transcendent. She used Aspect-infused marble, weaving light and emotion directly into the stone. People said her sculptures could make you feel joy, or sorrow, just by standing near them."
Konto didn't look up from the screen. "And now one of them makes you feel terror."
"She was more than an artist," Liraya continued, her brow furrowed in concentration. "She was a cultural icon. A confidante." She paused, her breath catching. "To the Arch-Mage."
Konto's fingers froze over the keyboard. He slowly turned his head to look at her. "What?"
"Vetrov and Moros," Liraya said, turning from the window. Her face was a mask of dawning realization. "They were close. Not romantically, at least not publicly. But they were intellectual companions. He consulted with her on public works projects, on the aesthetic harmony of the city. She was one of the few people who had regular, private access to him."
The implications crashed down on them like a physical weight. The warning from Silas, "Trust no one. Not even the Arch-Mage," suddenly felt less like a paranoid whisper and more like a declarative statement of fact.
"Two possibilities," Konto said, his mind working through the logic, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "One: The conspiracy is targeting Moros's inner circle. They're taking out his allies, one by one, to isolate him. To weaken him before they make their final move."
"Or," Liraya finished, her voice barely a whisper, "the conspiracy *originates* with him. He's killing his own confidantes. But why? To cover his tracks? To eliminate loose ends?"
"Or to send a message," Konto added grimly. "A message of control. To show that no one, not even his closest friends, is safe from his grand design."
The room fell silent, the only sound the distant thrum of the city and the frantic beating of their own hearts. The third death wasn't just another data point. It was a key that unlocked a terrifying new dimension of the conspiracy. It wasn't just a shadowy cabal anymore. It was a knife aimed at the heart of power, possibly wielded by the most powerful man in Aethelburg himself.
"We have to move faster," Liraya said, her voice regaining its steel. "The waterworks. The archive. It's the only way to know for sure."
Konto nodded, his gaze returning to the terminal. He brought up a new search, cross-referencing the artist's name with the Arch-Mage's public schedule. Dozens of images and articles appeared. Moros and Vetrov at gallery openings. Moros and Vetrov at the dedication of a new park. In every photo, Moros had his hand on her arm, his expression one of avuncular pride. He looked like a benevolent patron, a wise leader celebrating the city's talent. But now, Konto saw something else in the Arch-Mage's eyes. A cold, calculating possessiveness. A predator admiring a creature he had already marked for the hunt.
He found one article, a piece from a high-society magazine, detailing the 'unbreakable bond' between the Arch-Mage and the sculptor. It mentioned their shared passion for order and beauty, for a world where chaos was tamed and refined into perfection. The language was flowery and obsequious, but to Konto, it read like a manifesto. *A world where chaos is tamed.* Was that what the Nightmare Plague was about? Forcing a twisted, horrific order onto the subconscious of the city?
"Liraya," he said, his voice tight. "Look at this."
She leaned in, her shoulder brushing his. He pointed to a paragraph in the article. It quoted Vetrov, describing her artistic process. "I do not create the form from nothing," the quote read. "I find the story already hidden within the stone. My work is simply to release it, to reveal the truth that was always there."
Konto felt a chill crawl up his spine. "Release it. Reveal the truth. That's what the plague does. It takes the subconscious fears and anxieties and releases them into the waking world. It reveals the 'truth' hidden in the mind."
Liraya's face went pale. "It's the same philosophy. Moros's and Vetrov's. A perfect, ordered reality, revealed from the chaos of the subconscious. He's not just using her as a victim. He's using her art as a blueprint."
The screaming statue flashed in Konto's mind again. It wasn't just a random act of psychic violence. It was a statement. A declaration of intent. The monster in the marble was the truth that had been hidden inside the serene form all along. At least, the truth according to Moros.
The pressure was immense, a physical weight pressing down on them. They were fugitives, hunted by the Wardens, manipulated by an information broker, and now, potentially on a collision course with the most powerful man in the city. And Konto's own mind was a ticking time bomb, the corruption festering with every passing hour.
"We can't go into the waterworks blind," Liraya said, straightening up. Her strategic mind was kicking in, pushing past the fear. "The Dream-Warden is a psychological defense. We need a way to counter it. A way to shield our minds from its influence."
"My shields are gone," Konto said, tapping his temple. "Shattered. I can't protect myself, let alone you."
"Then we don't rely on your power," she countered. "We rely on mine. I'm a mage. I can't walk in dreams, but I can weave wards. Defensive Aspects. Protection, clarity, mental fortitude. It's not the same as a psychic shield, but it might be enough to blunt the initial assault. Give us a fighting chance."
It was a long shot. Weaving Aspect-based wards was a precise, delicate art, and doing it to protect against a purely psychic threat was unorthodox, to say the least. But it was the only shot they had.
"Where can you do that?" Konto asked. "We can't stay here."
Liraya thought for a moment. "My apartment," she said finally. "In the Spires. It's the last place they'd look for us. And I have everything I need there. Runes, crystals, a private ley-line conduit. It's risky, but it's our best option."
Going back to the Spires felt like walking into the lion's den. But she was right. It was a bold move, the kind of move no one would expect.
"Alright," Konto agreed. "We go to your place. You prepare the wards. I'll try to find out everything I can about this Dream-Warden. There has to be a weakness. A back door. There always is."
He turned back to the terminal, his fingers flying across the keys, pulling up fragmented data from old Warden reports, obscure academic papers on psychic security, and black-market forums where dream-tech was debated. The name "Dream-Warden" was rare, almost mythical. It wasn't a standard piece of security tech. It was something else. Something older. Something that didn't just defend a place, but became one with it.
As he dug deeper, Liraya made a few calls on a secure, burner-line, arranging for a discreet, unmarked transport to take them through the checkpoints and up into the Spires. The city outside continued its relentless rhythm, oblivious to the silent war being fought in its shadows. The rain continued to fall, washing the grime from the streets but doing nothing to cleanse the corruption spreading from within.
Hours later, they were in a sleek, silent ground-car, gliding through the pristine, well-lit streets of the Upper Spires. The contrast with the Undercity was jarring. Here, everything was clean, ordered, and beautiful. The very air smelled of expensive perfumes and purified oxygen. It was the world Moros had built, a gilded cage of perfection. And now, Konto knew, it was a world built on a lie. A world that was about to be torn apart by the very nightmares its ruler sought to control.
They arrived at Liraya's apartment, a spacious, minimalist suite on the 80th floor with a breathtaking view of the city. While Liraya began setting up her weaving circle, arranging glowing crystals and etching intricate runes onto the polished floor, Konto stood by the window, looking out at the Arch-Mage's spire, which pierced the clouds like a needle of obsidian and gold.
He thought of Anja Vetrov, her serene face smiling from the news report, and the screaming monster her sculpture had become. He thought of the Arch-Mage's hand on her arm, the look of possessive pride in his eyes. And he thought of Silas's warning. *Trust no one.*
The conspiracy was no longer an abstract threat. It had a face. It had a philosophy. And it had a body count. Three. And if they failed, it would soon have thousands.
Liraya finished her preparations, the air in the center of the room now humming with a low, resonant energy. "It's ready," she said, her voice strained. "It's not much, but it should help."
Konto turned from the window, his expression grim. "Good. Because I think I know what we're up against." He held up the terminal, displaying a single, cryptic line of text he'd found in a corrupted file from a defunct research institute. *The Dream-Warden does not guard the archive. It *is* the archive. A psychic echo of its creator, bound to the place, forever reliving the moment of its own creation.*
Liraya stared at the screen, her blood running cold. They weren't just breaking into a vault. They were about to invade the mind of a ghost.