The atmosphere in the Vault shifted from perpetual twilight to a deep, resonant silence as the hour of the ritual approached. Elias had prepared the space in the hidden studio. The obsidian bowl, placed on the cherrywood desk, was now the centerpiece. The crystalline orbs surrounding them pulsed faster, their light turning from soft gold to a harsh, electric blue that crackled with contained power.
Lyra stood beside the desk, her heart a frantic bird trapped in her ribcage. She was dressed simply, the silver dagger feeling cold and heavy in the pocket of her jeans—a reminder of her conditional control. Elias stood opposite her, having changed his impeccable suit jacket for a plain, high-collared tunic of dark, heavy silk. The vulnerability she had glimpsed earlier was gone, replaced by the grim focus of a ritual master.
"The window for this process is narrow, Lyra," Elias stated, his voice stripped of all emotion, a pure channel of instruction. "The Moroi are weakest at the dawn threshold. We must complete the transfer before the morning light becomes too assertive, even underground. Are you ready?"
Lyra nodded, unable to speak. She looked towards the hidden portrait of Anya Pramesti, drawing courage from her ancestor's serene, knowing gaze.
Elias approached her, holding the silver stylus. "The procedure is as follows: I will use this stylus, which is magically conductive, to extract a single drop of my controlled blood into the bowl. Then, I must initiate the transfer through direct contact with the Mark. It is this contact that creates the bond. The process will be agonizing, Lyra, but you must remain conscious and focus your will on acceptance."
He placed the tip of the stylus against the faint silver scar on his jaw—the ancient imperfection. Lyra watched, mesmerized and horrified, as a tiny bead of thick, dark liquid, almost black in the electric blue light, swelled on his skin. It was not like normal blood; it was viscous and dense, imbued with a palpable, humming energy. Elias gently guided the drop with the stylus into the obsidian bowl. The drop landed with a sound like a tiny, heavy stone, and instantly, the bowl glowed with an internal red fire.
"Now, the anchor," Elias murmured.
He dropped the stylus and took her left hand in his. His touch was cold, precise, and utterly impersonal. Lyra's breath hitched as his gloved thumb brushed over the key-shaped birthmark on her wrist. The Mark immediately began to pulse with a rapid, golden rhythm, fighting the cold energy of his touch.
"I am binding my power to your lineage," Elias intoned, his voice swelling, vibrating with the authority of the Covenant itself. "I vow my discipline as your shield. I vow my vigilance as your sanctuary. May the Eternal Mark accept the Keeper's Protektorat."
As he spoke the final word, he pressed his thumb hard against the Mark.
The pain was instantaneous and absolute. It wasn't the sharp sting of a cut, but a searing, deep agony that felt as if liquid fire was being injected directly into her veins, branching out from her wrist to her heart. Lyra gasped, her knees buckling. The world dissolved into the electric blue light and the roaring sound in her ears.
A desperate cry tore from her throat, but before she could collapse, Elias's free arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright with iron strength. He pulled her flush against his cold, hard body.
"Hold on, Lyra! Focus!" Elias commanded, his voice raw, close to her ear. She felt the sudden, terrifying shift in his energy. The disciplined control was strained, fighting to maintain its barrier against the chaos of the merging energies. His skin was radiating an unnerving cold that was supposed to anchor her, but it felt like the very chill of death.
It hurts! Make it stop! Lyra's mind screamed, but she couldn't articulate the words. She tried to focus on the key-shaped Mark, focusing on the golden pulse, trying to assert her own human will over the invasion.
She suddenly felt a rush of foreign sensations: the overwhelming, distant scent of a thousand sleeping creatures below the city; the sound of water running in tunnels miles away; and an instantaneous, profound sadness—Elias's weariness, his perpetual solitude, rushing into her mind like a wave.
Lyra squeezed her eyes shut. "Acceptance," she forced the thought. "Protect the world."
The pain peaked, an unbearable climax of burning energy. She felt something snap—a magical seal forming, a new layer of skin beneath the old one. Just as quickly as it began, the searing heat retreated, replaced by a lingering, vibrating chill.
Elias released his hold, and Lyra staggered, catching herself on the desk. She was drenched in sweat, trembling violently, but the light was stable, and the roaring had faded.
Elias was breathing heavily, a slight flush—the first Lyra had seen—high on his cheekbones. He looked strained, his immaculate facade fractured by the intensity of the ritual.
"It is done," Elias murmured, his voice husky. He quickly examined her wrist. The key-shaped Mark was now outlined by a faint, silver glow that pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm. "The bond is complete. You are shielded."
Lyra leaned against the desk, fighting the dizziness. "I… I felt… your loneliness. And the smells. What was that?"
Elias retrieved the obsidian bowl, which was now empty, the blood drop consumed. "That was the immediate side effect. The bond has amplified your senses and momentarily merged our awareness. You now have a glimpse into the shadow world I inhabit. The scent you detected was the Coven, sleeping in the city's deep places. The sadness was my own burden, which you now understand, if only briefly."
He met her gaze, his expression now laced with unexpected complexity. "You are no longer just Lyra Pramesti, the restorer. You are the Protectorate. The Moroi can no longer track you by your blood's resonance. You are now, magically, a piece of my self-control."
He extended his gloved hand towards her again. This time, his hand wasn't cold, but merely cool—and it was offered with a hesitation Lyra had never seen.
"I know the pain was intense, Lyra. I apologize for the necessity, but not for the act. Now, we proceed to training. You must learn to control the senses you've gained before they overwhelm you."
Lyra looked at his hand. She was still trembling, still exhausted, but the raw honesty of the shared pain—and the momentary glimpse into his profound solitude—had shattered the wall between them more effectively than his power had dissolved the stone archway.
She took his hand. It was a covenant, not a truce.
"Tell me everything, Professor Volkov," Lyra said, managing a weak smile. "Every scent, every shadow, every single rule the Moroi break. I need to be more than a key. I need to be a weapon."