The entries in the journal start rational, scholarly even. Discussions of preservation, of beauty, of saving perfection from decay. But as the pages progress, the tone changes. Becomes obsessive. He describes his victims in loving detail, their final moments, their terror, the way their consciousness remains trapped as their bodies crystallize.
My blood runs cold as I recognize the pattern. Young women, all talented, all at turning points in their lives. All preserved at the moment when their potential was highest.
Like Melara.
The final entries are barely coherent, ranting about eternal beauty, about creating a gallery of living art. But one line stands out:The Shadow Walker hunts me, but he understands nothing.He would destroy my art to save the cattle. He cannot see that I am saving them from themselves.
Shadow Walker. Nezavek.
They're enemies. Have been for centuries.
Which means.
Which means I've been hunting the wrong monster for three years.
The book falls from my numb fingers, and I sit in Päivi's library trying to reconcile this truth with my carefully cultivated rage. If Nezavek didn't kill Melara, if he's been hunting her real killer, then what am I doing here?
What have I done?
NEZAVEK
The cold weight of grief, the electric spark of wonder, and the familiar heat of anger thread through it all. She's becoming more dangerous and infinitely more compelling.
I watch through the scrying bowl as she sits in the library, actually reading the book Päivi gave her. Not pretending to read while planning violence, genuinely absorbing information about dimensional cascade theory. Her mind works at it like a puzzle, turning concepts over, finding patterns.
Then something catches her eye, a book floating near the ceiling whose pages shift like living stained glass. The colors flow and blend, creating impossible patterns. She stands, mesmerized.
"Melara would have painted this," she murmurs.
The name hits me like a physical blow. Melara. Her sister. The piece I've been waiting for her to reveal.
I don't go to her immediately. Instead, I watch as she returns to her reading, unaware of what she's just given away.
Hours pass. She's deeply absorbed in the text when I finally materialize in the library.
"Interesting reading?" I ask.
She doesn't startle anymore. "Educational."
"What have you learned?"
"That if you dissolve, everything connected to you ceases. That anchor bonds are symbiotic. That I'm probably the only thing standing between this realm and nothing."
"Does that change your perspective?"
"It complicates it."
I move closer, and her body tracks my proximity without her permission. The bond hums between us, stronger than yesterday.
"The broker was wrong. Void energy leaves similar marks. The Collector and I, our signatures can be confused by those who don't know better."
She's on her feet now, knife drawn. "You're lying."
"I don't lie. But you're not ready to believe that yet." I dissolve into shadow before she can strike. "Think about what you've learned, Yorika. Then decide if I'm really your enemy."
I rematerialize in my private study, but I keep watching. Her frustration is palpable. She throws the knife at the wall where I was standing, then retrieves it, pacing like a caged predator.
Good. Let her stew. Let her doubt grow.
