Jerusalem
"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked."
"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."
Kahlil Gibran – Lebanon
From Pevek, where the research station stood, to Moscow—a journey over 10,000 kilometers—Mia wished to stop at Novosibirsk, home to the grand Novosibirsk State Opera and Ballet Theatre, one of Russia's most renowned venues, famed for its striking architecture and world-class performances.
The distance from Pevek to Moscow spanned over 10,000 kilometers, so Zandik agreed to a layover in Novosibirsk for a few days of leisure. The coveted tickets to Swan Lake—notoriously hard to secure—were already in hand, courtesy of Zandik's "professional methods." The theater director himself delivered them personally.
VIP balcony seats for two—spacious, private, discreet. Mia gaped at his smug expression.
"How?"
"The theater's backed by Pantalone's funds," he said casually. "I'm the Second Harbinger, after all."
The next morning, Zandik took Mia to a salon 20 kilometers from the city center—a fair distance. His excuse? A detour to visit the Monument to the Laboratory Mouse.
Mia stood beside him, her freshly trimmed hair catching the light. Zandik smiled, holding her hand, kissing her before the statue of a mouse knitting DNA.
"After this afternoon's ballet, I've got a surprise for you."
"If it's a surprise, you shouldn't hint at it," Mia teased, eyes squinting with a smile, fingers interlaced with his, head resting on his chest.
A few soft kisses on her crown, Zandik tightened his embrace, then glanced at his own ring finger, grinning foolishly.
"By day I wear feathers,
By night I wear sorrow.
Only love can lift the curse,
And love, alas, is blind."
The actors' fervent voices, the music, the atmosphere—Zandik's gaze drifted to Mia, utterly captivated. Her eyes sparkled, lips curved in a faint smile.
Her hair neatly pinned, soft strands cascading over her shoulders like lunar waterfalls.
Mia flinched slightly, turning to Zandik as he leaned forward, kissing her cheek. The stage lights dimmed, then flared, the symphony swelling to a crescendo.
"I was not cursed to become a swan.
I was cursed to still believe in love —
Even as my wings burned."
Mia's fingers were cool, adorned with a rare, meticulously cut Alexandrite ring—Zandik had bartered with Pantalone to secure it at auction.
"..." She blinked, staring at the shimmering ring on her ring finger.
Zandik watched, her complex expression puzzling him under the flickering theater lights. Too soon? Did she dislike it? Alexandrite's shifting hues fascinated him, but perhaps women preferred diamonds or pearls. If Mia wanted, he'd gift her amethyst bracelets next time.
"Mia?"
"Thank you, Zandik. It's beautiful... I'm so happy."
She cut him off, her embrace soft as silk, floral scent enveloping him. Zandik's strong arms held her, squeezing until it stole their breath.
On the way back, through bustling streets, Mia held his hand in silence. At a corner, he glanced at a flower shop closing for the day.
"When the war ends, open a flower shop."
Mia tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips, eyes drifting to her feet.
En route to the airport, Mia pulled her suitcase ahead, while Zandik checked his phone, sending final messages to the institute.
A sharp pain stabbed his neck. He looked up—the airport nearly deserted, just him, Mia, and a few stragglers.
Touching his neck, dizziness overwhelmed him, his body collapsing. His vision blurred, Mia's silhouette fading as she walked away. He wanted to call out, but his body betrayed him. 'Mia's in danger—run!'
The palace gates opened with a low, funereal clang. Inside the gilded hall, silence reigned, each footstep screeching on cold stone.
Zandik entered, flanked by two guards in silver-white armor. Still in his rumpled sweater from the airport, his eyes blazed red, stubble darkening his jaw, yet his stride remained defiantly proud.
At the hall's end—a throne.
Mia sat there, petite, shoulders frail, a delicate gold crown pressing her brow. Yet her presence shrank the room.
Her brown eyes, once soft as they read beside him over black tea, were now cold—sharp as a blade, sacred as temple stone.
Baldwin.
Behind her, a man sat on a high chair, draped in black silk, face hidden by a silver mask. One glance from him, and Zandik felt choked.
Baldwin.
They called him the Broken King, yet none who disrespected his shadow lived to tell.
"Kneel," Mia's voice rang out, not loud, but sharp as a sword sheathed.
Zandik stood still, his laugh bitter and hoarse.
"You've changed, Mia. From the girl holding a tray of pipettes... to the queen of this gilded prison."
A guard stepped forward to seize him. Zandik shoved him off.
"Don't touch me, filth."
Mia didn't flinch, only tilting her head. "Press his head down."
The guards obeyed, one pinning his shoulder, the other forcing his head toward the stone floor.
Zandik struggled, but hunger, exhaustion, and psychological chains weighed him like lead. His face hovered near the ground.
"Bow to King Baldwin," Mia commanded.
A beat. He stayed silent, eyes like a cornered beast.
"You insult a man who broke every bone for his kingdom. While you dissect others to escape yourself," Mia's voice cracked, like torn silk.
Zandik raised his face, chuckling maniacally.
"I'm Zandik. I've made Snezhnaya's people kneel with a single experiment. I am... I am—"
"A patient under house arrest, who'll lose his dinner if he keeps ranting," Baldwin interrupted, his voice soft as late winter's breeze.
Silence. Long. Then Zandik laughed again, quieter.
"Strange, Mia... He doesn't need to command. Yet I'm afraid."
Mia gazed at him, her eyes wavering—just a fraction.
"Cure him, Zandik. Then you'll be free."
"...And if I don't?"
"Then you'll die. Cell by cell," she whispered. Not angry. Just... weary.
Crashing sounds echoed from Zandik's room. He lay sprawled on the bed, face bruised, guards restraining him after his third attempt to climb out the window.
Unluckily for him, Princess Mia had anticipated everything, instructing the guards to let him try escaping, only to recapture him. A few attempts shattered his spirit, rendering him too weak to eat.
"Eat," Mia said, holding a large spoonful of rice to his lips.
Zandik turned away, stubbornly resisting, his ankles chained, movement so restricted he couldn't even tend to personal hygiene all day.
He endured until Mia ordered his release for a bath or toilet break—otherwise, soiling himself would humiliate him to death.
"EAT. NOW."
She gripped his jaw, forcing the rice in. Zandik choked, grains scattering everywhere.
At this rate, his health would collapse entirely. How could he treat her brother then?
"ублюдок" (Bastard), he spat venomously.
Mia raised her hand, watching Zandik's manic laughter, awaiting the sting. Her fingers gleamed faintly, the Alexandrite ring still on her hand.
She stood abruptly, hands clasped behind her. "If he won't eat, so be it." Turning, she ordered the servants, "From now on, only thin porridge. If he refuses, force-feed him through a tube."
She swiftly left. Zandik watched, his weary, pained eyes trailing her frail back. 'Mia,' he muttered, fingers clawing the bedsheet, gazing at papers, medical records, and herbs. He couldn't believe it—never would.
A sealed room. No throne. No crown. No swords.
Just two men—a captive madman and a king decaying by the day.
Baldwin sat on a long chair, back slightly hunched, gaunt hand holding a mint tea cup. Light from an oil lamp glinted off his silver mask, casting a shadow like a broken statue.
Zandik was led in, hands loosely bound in silver cords. He grimaced at the herbal scent—not from allergies, but the "damned calm" atmosphere irritated him more than dried blood.
"Sit," Baldwin said without looking, voice hoarse but steady.
"This is a conversation, not an interrogation."
Zandik sat, red eyes scanning for cameras, spies, traps—nothing. Just King Baldwin and the scent of mint.
"You seem... disappointed?" Baldwin poured tea, eyes averted.
"I expected more from a dying man. Fire. Screams. Cursing fate. And you?" Zandik sneered.
"Sitting there like a monk renouncing the world."
"I screamed when the disease took my nose. When my hands could no longer wield a sword.
I cursed everything—until I saw a daisy growing by the castle wall."
"It lived, amid cold stone, needing no one's approval.
I thought... if I've outlived it, am I worth less?"
Zandik fell silent, staring at his untouched tea, fingers tapping the cup.
"Are you preaching?"
"No. I'm telling a story of living. What is life to you, Dottore?"
"A network of electrochemical signals. Self-replicating DNA sequences. A macro reflex of biological matter."
Zandik smirked. "And something worth rewriting."
Baldwin didn't smile but tilted his head, weighing the words.
"I once thought like you. That everything needed fixing.
That the flawed, the broken, the damaged—weren't worth living."
"Isn't it true?" Zandik growled.
"Then why are you curing me?" Baldwin replied, eyes blazing.
Zandik choked.
"Because Mia's forcing me."
"No. Because Mia believes you can."
For the first time, Baldwin's voice slowed, piercing Zandik's chest like a blade of breath.
"My sister is the only one who believes you're still human.
If I die, she'll die too—not of disease, but of regret.
You may not believe in life, but can you preserve a soul from breaking? You've done it for yourself—with science, logic, denial. Now try... with acceptance."
Silence stretched. Only the sound of tea leaves slipping from Baldwin's silver tongs.
Zandik stared, his gaze no longer defiant but empty, drained of reason.
"I don't know where to start."
"From the daisy." Baldwin pointed to a cracked wall where a sliver of light shone, a small white daisy rising from cold stone.
"And from the fact that my sister still calls you Zandik, not Dottore."
In the days that followed, countless times, with the window open and servants' faces averted, Mia clung to him, her hips rising and falling, sliding over Zandik's stomach.
He dropped his pen, ink splattering chaotic papers.
"Damn it," Zandik gripped her hips, thrusting fiercely upward. Mia clutched his hands, then suddenly squeezed his throat, the choke sending him into euphoric shock.
His release flooded into her. Mia trembled, closing herself off, pulling away from Zandik's quivering body, still reeling from ecstasy.
He longed to touch her, to hold her, but she dressed and left. He glanced at his feet, the cold chain a bitter, painful reminder.
"Am I your sex slave?" he whispered, then swept papers off the desk. Within a minute, he curled up in a corner, collapsing, hiding silent tremors.
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." - Emily Brontë – Wuthering Heights
Jerusalem's nights weren't like Snezhnaya's icy ones. They were quieter, deeper, and... prone to unraveling memories.
Zandik's cell wasn't quite a cell—larger than his old lab, with a desk, books, and lamplight. Yet everything felt cold, shadowed by the crown of the one who brought him here.
The door opened. No guards. No chains. Only the soft rustle of silk on stone.
Mia entered, clutching a thick book, her cloak thin as mist, hair tied high—not glamorous, not regal, but... heartbreakingly weary.
Zandik sat, back straight as always, but his eyes... melting into the darkness.
Mia sat opposite, silent. No apologies. No explanations. She opened the book, flipping pages as if time hadn't passed between them.
Zandik could. He could leap up, snap her neck, take her hostage, pound the door for freedom.
But...
She was still Mia.
Still the trembling girl washing pipettes, the one who held him in snowy nights, who read Tolstoy in his arms, feeding him pirozhki because "the boss gets cranky when hungry."
He studied her wrist. Thin. So thin.
Her neck, pale as the paper he made her scribble Russian on.
Her eyes—still hers—but now deep as an abyss.
He laughed softly.
Not from joy, but from seeing himself as a clown in a white coat.
"All this time..." his voice caught, low, almost a whisper, "...was it all an act?"
Zandik leaned on his elbows, head tilted, voice tearing at itself:
"Like Shakespeare lost in mad love... I'm Dante descending to hell... and you're Beatrice...
... but instead of guiding me to paradise, you drag me to its deepest pit?"
Silence.
The oil lamp flickered, hiding the emotion in Mia's eyes.
She closed the book, set it down.
Looked up.
"Shakespeare died by words.
Dante lived by dreams.
And Zandik..." she paused, "...you never believed in feelings. So why do you hurt?"
Zandik froze, his chest tightening.
Her question held no blade, yet it cut like shattered glass in his heart.
"I..." he whispered, "I don't know anymore."
Mia gazed at him, her look devoid of anger or blame—just pain. Weariness. Distance.
"I didn't act, Zandik."
"I chose to save my brother.
And I know... if you hadn't loved me, this might've been easier."
Zandik buried his face in his hands.
He didn't cry—couldn't cry.
He only breathed, each breath pulling a noose tighter around his neck.
Mia stood, turning away.
"I don't need your forgiveness.
Just... don't let this love turn to hate.
If you can, let it die... as something beautiful that once lived in us."
The door closed. Softly. Like hope's final whisper.
Zandik sat alone, lips curling into a smile.
"Beatrice...
don't you know...
Dante would rather burn his soul than forget your eyes."
A massive crystal screen cast cold blue light across the dim room. The air was stifling, broken only by the clock's ticking and the idle tap of fingernails on the table.
Pierro khoanh tay, chiếc mặt nạ nửa trắng nửa đen lấp loáng dưới ánh đèn mờ ảo. Đôi mắt sắc lạnh của ông dán chặt vào Pantalone – Regrator – người đang ngồi vắt chéo chân trên chiếc ghế da thuộc, dáng vẻ ung dung nhưng toát lên sự sắc sảo.
Pierro stood, arms crossed, his half-white, half-black mask glinting in the dim light, eyes locked on Pantalone—Regrator—lounging cross-legged in a leather chair, poised yet razor-sharp.
A thick stack of files trembled with each tap of Pantalone's fingers.
Pierro frowned, voice like a boulder: "Summarize."
Pantalone smirked, eyes glinting mischievously. "Two things you won't like, but must hear:
• One: Dottore's truly gone—not one of his usual vanishing acts.
• Two: The culprit is none other than the 'pipette-tray girl.' Her name: Mia."
He tossed an old CCTV photo onto the table. In it, Mia wore a white lab coat, her staff ID tilted on her chest—placed there by Dottore's own hand. The handwritten name remained clear, though faded by time.
Pierro's voice dropped, as if unwilling to believe: "I thought Zandik didn't know love?"
Pantalone scoffed, twirling a gold-plated pen. "You probably thought treasury loans were interest-free too?" He paused, eyes sharp as a blade.
"Moreover, Mia's confirmed as Jerusalem's princess, age 22. Reports say she was found during a military operation. Either she planned this meticulously... or just wandered off."
Pierro raised an eyebrow, voice cold as a blizzard through double-glazed windows. "I doubt a 'lost' princess would conveniently kidnap a Fatui Harbinger's strategic scientist."
"Then let's assume she did it deliberately," Pantalone continued, half-joking, half-serious. "And managed to enchant Dottore."
A frigid silence enveloped the room, broken only by the wind's howl and the crystal screen's flickering blue light.
"This secret's more intriguing." Pantalone pulled a crumpled paper from his vest, scribbled with alchemical symbols: ⬦HgCl₂, ♄ ☿ Δ, and musical notes in ancient Slavic script.
"Zandik ordered reagents through three Levant merchants, encoded in 16th-century planetary symbols mixed with ancient Ugaritic—his signature 'big-brain' cipher for trusted allies."
Pierro glanced at it, a rare spark of curiosity in his eyes. "Organic mercury compounds, sulfadiazine, clofazimine... leprosy drugs." He paused, as if touching a deadly secret.
Pantalone nodded, sliding a freshly received internal fax:
...covered in sores, wearing a silver mask, clad in black silk...
...known as "Baldwin"—emperor, head of Jerusalem's royal line...
Pierro closed the file, voice like cracking ice. "So, Dottore's being forced to cure a dying king. If he succeeds, he's a Holy Land hero. If he fails, Mia will carve him up—and we lose a key asset."
Pantalone shrugged, rubbing his nose wearily. "A heavy loss. My years of investment in 'Il Dottore'... now squandered on pro bono doctoring."
He leaned back, his smile as cold as the crystal screen's glow. "The question is, Pierro, what do we do with this game?"
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