The sky, which had been azure just moments ago, now bore the color of a fresh bruise. The sun vanished behind unnaturally fast-spinning clouds gathering directly above the castle. The air grew heavy. It was charged with static electricity so fiercely that the hairs on one's arms stood on end. This was no ordinary summer storm. This was the atmospheric consequence of the magical overpressure inside—the collective anger, humiliation, and despair of dozens of powerful Architects had begun to seep through the walls and warp the weather. Nature was reacting to their broken pride with a birthing hurricane.
Viktor immediately pressed himself against the wall of the building. The wind ruffled his coat and began kicking up dust from the paths. He scanned the terrain. The courtyard was in chaos. Viktor set off. He zigzagged between the thrashing bushes. The first drops of rain fell on his mask and on Ema. It wasn't a gentle rain; these were heavy, icy drops that hit the ground with a smack, as if the sky had begun weeping stones. When a patrol approached, he froze with the stillness of a statue behind a tall hedge that tossed wildly in the gusts of wind. He waited for the thud of the guards' boots to fade into the howling of the gale, and then continued onward, toward the rear of the gardens, where the manicured park ended and the high perimeter wall began.
And there, at the foot of the wall, in the shadow of old oaks groaning under the onslaught of the wind, she waited. Hilda. She stood there with five of her people. They had to lean against the wall to withstand the strengthening gale.
Hilda brushed away the hair the wind had whipped into her face. She measured the man in the mask with a gaze that mixed deep respect with wariness. She looked at the sky above the castle, where the clouds were beginning to form into a dark, rotating funnel. She knew what that meant.
"I don't know who you are," she had to almost shout to be heard over the roar of the wind. "But I know we can't stop you. I saw what you did to Friedrich. You broke him like a toothpick, and this..." she waved her hand at the sky, "this is their crying."
She paused, taking a step closer, the rain soaking her face and pasting her hair to her forehead. Water ran into her eyes, but she didn't blink.
"Why do you think we are here?" she shouted to drown out the rumble of thunder. "Her inner self sent a signal. Her soul was screaming for help." She held out her hand, palm up, heavy drops drumming into it. "Please, give her to us. With us, the Primes, she will be safe. We understand what is happening to the world; we know what is waking up. We know how to protect her."
Viktor stopped. The rain ran down the smooth white portion of his mask like tears. He fixed his eyes on her. He stood there in the downpour, firm as a rock, while the trees around them bent in the gusts of wind. "I appreciate your concern," he replied. His voice, strangely calm and clear, cut through the noise of the storm as if the wind didn't exist for him. "But she is in no danger with me. I will not use her for my own ends, nor will I influence her in any way. I will not brainwash her with the doctrine of the Architects, nor with your ideals."
He bowed his head toward Ema, who was shivering with cold in his arms, and pulled her closer to shield her from the lashing rain with his body.
"When she grows stronger, she will have a choice. If she wishes, she can seek you out herself later. No one will stop her." He raised his head and looked Hilda straight in the eyes. "But it must be her will. She alone must be the architect of her own life, not others. Not them. Not you."
The rain thickened. The sky over the castle turned pitch black, and the wind began tearing leaves from the trees. Hilda stood there, soaked to the bone, gazing at the man in the mask. She pondered. She saw his strength, she saw his resolve, and she heard the truth in his voice. Finally, with a heavy sigh that was lost in the thunder, she nodded.
She turned to the high stone wall behind her. She placed her palms against it. The stone rippled beneath her hands like wet clay. The mass parted, the stones rearranged themselves, and with a quiet grating sound, a circular hole opened in the impenetrable rampart—a gate to freedom.
Viktor gave her a slight, deeply respectful bow. He stepped through the opening. The moment he vanished into the darkness of the forest, Hilda and the others passed through, she withdrew her hands, and the wall slammed shut with a boom, just in time to deflect the first wave of the hurricane that descended upon the garden.
Viktor pressed on. The forest roared, the tree canopy closing above him like the vault of a temple. He reached a small clearing by an old forest road.
A van stood there.
An ordinary, white, slightly rusted van. The rain was already drumming a steady rhythm against it, and the wind rocked it slightly. In that apocalyptic gloom, it looked like an ark.
Viktor slid the side door open. The interior of the van was like another universe—dry, warm, smelling of wood and the old paper of books. An oasis of calm in the midst of the apocalypse.
Viktor laid Ema on the bed under a small window, against which ropes of rain were now frantically drumming. She was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold. Her wedding dress, once a symbol of the luxury and power of the House of von Riese, was now just a heavy, wet burden dragging her down and suffocating her.
Viktor didn't hesitate. With professional gentleness, yet decisively, he began to strip away the heaviest pieces of soaked fabric from her. He loosened the lacing, pulled off the heavy, water-logged brocade skirt that must have weighed a ton, and the ornate bodice. He was freeing her. Not just from the cold, but from the symbols of her prison.
Once he had relieved her of that weight, he immediately wrapped her in a thick, dry woolen blanket. He pulled it up over her shoulders and tucked her in carefully, creating a soft cocoon of warmth around her. Ema instinctively curled up inside it. Her breathing grew calm, deep.
Viktor straightened up. For a moment, he watched her as her pale face slowly lost its deathly, spasming expression in the warmth of the vehicle. Then he slowly raised his hands to his own face. He didn't search for any clasps or straps. He simply touched the surface of the mask gently with his palms. Under his touch, that terrifying, black-and-white thing—the symbol of ruin for the House of von Riese—began to change. It didn't shatter into pieces. It began to decompose organically. Miniature, pitch-black bushes and thorny tendrils sprouted from its surface, fractal miniatures of that wild force that had choked the hall. These black shoots writhed in the air for a split second before crumbling into a fine, dark dust that instantly vanished into nothingness. The mask was gone.
While Ema breathed peacefully, his true face was finally revealed in the gloom of the van. It had sharp, firm features, now relaxed with relief. But the most striking thing was his golden eyes.
He climbed out, slammed the side door, walked around the car, and slid into the driver's seat. The engine caught on the first try with a comforting growl, the wipers starting up in a steady rhythm, sweeping streams of water from the windshield.
The white van slowly but unstoppably set off down the muddy forest road, pulling away. In the rearview mirror, Viktor caught one last glimpse of the castle's silhouette. The sky above it was ink-black, spinning in a mad vortex. The magical hurricane, born of the Architects' pure hatred and desperation, had just struck with full force. With a deafening crack that drowned out even the thunder, the wind tore off centuries-old roof trusses as if they were a house of cards. Tiles flew through the air like a flock of startled bats, towers collapsed.
Viktor looked away. That was no longer his concern. He shifted into second gear and vanished into the rain, carrying the only thing in the world that mattered to safety.