Palacký University breathed history. The corridors were unusually wide, with high vaulted ceilings that reliably swallowed every sound. The air here was still, cold and heavy, a far cry from the radiating Haná sun outside. The semester hadn't started yet; the building was dozing in a half-sleep. No crowds of students streamed through, only an occasional cleaner or a suit-clad assistant hurrying to an office with an armful of folders.
Ema felt entirely out of place. In a borrowed, stretched-out flannel shirt, with messy hair and a heavy leather backpack on her shoulders, she felt more like a lost tourist than someone who belonged here.
She stopped a young man who was just pinning a schedule to a notice board. "Excuse me... how do I get to Dean Hradil?"
The young man sized her up over the rim of his glasses. "The Dean's office is on the first floor. But the Dean has meetings all day today, I highly doubt that..." "Thank you," Ema cut him off and headed up the wide sandstone staircase.
She found a massive door with a brass plaque reading DEAN'S SECRETARIAT. She knocked and entered.
The room was bright, filled with neatly lined binders and carefully pruned ficus plants. Behind the desk sat a woman who looked like she had been part of the inventory since the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Her gray hair was pulled back into a strict bun, glasses hung on a gold chain, and her lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line. The nameplate on the desk declared: Milada Koutná.
When Ema walked in, Mrs. Koutná lifted her eyes from the monitor and gave her a look that could freeze boiling water. "School doesn't start for another week, miss," she said curtly. "Enrollment for first-year students is in the building next door. You have no business being here."
"I'm not here to enroll," Ema replied. She tried to sound firm, even though her throat was tightening. "I'm here to see Dean Hradil."
The secretary sighed ostentatiously and took off her glasses. "The Dean is an extremely busy man. Do you have an appointment?" "I don't, but..." "Then I'm sorry. The Dean does not take walk-ins from the street," she cut her off sharply and began turning back to her computer.
"Viktor sent me," Ema blurted out.
Mrs. Koutná's hand froze over the keyboard. "Viktor?" she repeated the name with poorly concealed disdain. "Viktor who?"
Ema stiffened. It hit her right then, and a hot flush of shame washed over her. I don't know. She had spent days with him, he had saved her life, she had kissed him... and she didn't even know his last name. "I don't know his last name. We haven't known each other long," she admitted, her cheeks burning. "But he said I was to give this to the Dean."
She slipped the backpack off her shoulder and pulled a large, wax-sealed envelope from the front pocket. The secretary scoffed. "Miss, anyone could say that. If you don't give me a full name, I cannot..."
Her gaze fell on the envelope. Ema hadn't noticed it until now, but on the back, which she had unwittingly held facing the secretary, a symbol was stamped into the dark wax. It wasn't the university logo. It was a stylized, sharp black thorn, intertwined with an asymmetrical circle.
Mrs. Koutná seemed to jolt. Her bureaucratic arrogance evaporated. Her eyes widened, the color drained from her face, and her glasses slipped from her fingers, clinking against the chain on her chest. She swallowed hard. "Let me see that," she whispered. Her voice was trembling.
Ema held out her hand. The secretary didn't take the envelope; she merely leaned in toward the symbol as if afraid flames might burst from the paper. Then she stood up abruptly. "Wait here. Immediately."
The woman who, moments ago, looked like she wouldn't budge without a written request, was now practically running toward the door of the Dean's office. She knocked and burst in uninvited.
Through the ajar door, Ema heard a muffled male voice: "...no, Chancellor, the rumors about a massive destabilization of power within the von Riese family remain unconfirmed, but I suspect that..." Then Mrs. Koutná whispered something urgent, feverish. Silence. "I apologize, Chancellor, I have to go," the Dean's voice sounded again, this time in a completely different tone. Sharp, taut as a wire. "Something urgent has just come up here. I'll call you back."
The door swung wide open. Mrs. Koutná, noticeably paler than before, gestured to Ema. "The Dean will see you. Come in, please. Sit in the armchair." It didn't sound like a request, but a military order.
Ema walked into a spacious office scented with tobacco, old paper, and coffee. The walls were lined with books all the way to the ceiling. Behind the desk stood a man in a corduroy jacket. Dean Hradil. He had a graying beard and searching eyes that instantly locked onto Ema. There was something hard, predatory about his posture.
Ema sat stiffly in the heavy leather armchair, clutching her backpack in her lap. "Hello. I... I just came to drop this off and I'll be right on my way." She placed the envelope on the empty desktop and started to stand up.
At that moment, two hands dropped onto her shoulders. It was Mrs. Koutná, who had silently moved behind her. Gently, but with an unyielding, almost inhuman strength, she pushed her back down into the seat. Ema felt a strange, unnatural heat radiating from those palms right through the fabric of her shirt. You're not going anywhere, the gesture said.
Hradil never took his eyes off her. "Who gave this to you?" he asked quietly, but authority vibrated in his voice. "Viktor," Ema replied. She felt her heart start to race. "He's waiting for me downstairs."
The Dean didn't answer. His gaze slid to the envelope. He studied the symbol for a very long time. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and a mix of fear and unease swirled in his eyes. Then, very carefully, as if handling live explosives, he broke the wax seal. From the envelope, he pulled several old, yellowed parchments, densely covered in text and strange sketches.
The silence in the office was thick enough to cut. Hradil studied the parchments briefly but with growing horror, and then looked up. "Do you know what you have just brought me, miss?" he asked icily. "No," Ema shook her head.
The Dean leaned across the desk. The politeness vanished; his voice cracked like a whip: "Are you telling me you've truly never seen this symbol before?!" He tapped a finger against the black thorn.
Ema faltered. She stared at the mark. "Not drawn like this," she answered shakily. "But... I've seen something similar with my own eyes. In reality."
The Dean swallowed hard. He walked around the desk and stood directly in front of her. "Stay calm," he said in a quiet but dangerous tone. "I just need to verify something."
Before Ema could flinch away, he reached out and grabbed both her forearms. His grip wasn't physically painful, but in that second, it felt as if an electric shock had slammed into her skull. Her mind exploded. Images began flashing before her eyes—not her own memories, but as if a stranger were violently projecting a film directly into her cerebral cortex. She saw a black beach lashed by a gray, dead surf. Gigantic thorns jutting from the ash. She saw the pulsating, dark circle of power in the villa. She saw mutated people whose faces were twisted in grotesque, crazed smiles while black shoots sprouted from their flesh.
"Stop!" Ema screamed. Panic awakened an animalistic strength within her. She jerked her arms and slapped the Dean's hands away as if they were glowing red-hot.
The sheer force of her resistance—or perhaps the aftershock of whatever the Dean had sensed in her—made Mrs. Koutná jump back two steps with a soft gasp. Ema was breathing heavily, pressed deep into the armchair, staring at Hradil with pure terror.
The Dean stepped back as well. He had his hands raised in a calming gesture, though he himself looked utterly shaken. His face was ashen, beaded with sweat. "Calm down, it won't happen again," he said quickly. A deep respect now resonated in his voice. Perhaps even fear. "I just wanted to verify what you had seen. Whether you were... infected." He examined her as if looking at a live grenade with the pin pulled. "Do you even know why he sent you here?" he asked, much more gently this time.
"I have no idea," Ema blurted, clutching her backpack like a shield. "And I don't care. I did what he wanted. I delivered it. Now I'd like to leave."
The Dean slowly nodded. He was no longer blocking her path. "You may go," he said quietly, leaning against his desk. "I'll wait for you right here."
Ema paused with her hand on the brass doorknob. She turned and furrowed her brow. "Excuse me? Why would you wait for me? We're never seeing each other again."
The Dean didn't reply. He just looked at her with that sad, understanding expression. He sat motionless, his hands clasped over the unrolled parchments with the thorns. "Just go," he repeated.
Ema stared at him for a second. Her mind was racing. Why would he wait for me? I'm leaving with Viktor. I'll get in the van and we'll disappear. And then, like ice cracking beneath her feet, it hit her. That calm. That terrifying certainty in his voice. He knows I'll come back. Because I won't have anywhere else to go.
A cold sweat broke over her. Her heart skipped a beat and then started pounding wildly. "No..." she breathed out.
She threw the door open and rushed out into the corridor. She tore through the secretariat like a hurricane. Mrs. Koutná, still visibly shaken, was cowering by the window and didn't even try to stop her.
"Viktor!"
She bounded down the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. Her breath burned in her lungs. He's waiting there. He has to be waiting. He said so. He promised. She shoved the heavy front doors open and burst into the sharp, blinding sunlight.
Her gaze shot to the spot where the van had been parked. The spot where he had sat on the edge of the open door, smiling at her.
It was empty.
Just gray pavement, crossed by a small group of laughing female students. No van. No Viktor. No exhaust smoke. Just nothing. As if he had never been there at all. Ema ran straight to the spot. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, spinning in circles, panicking as she searched the sea of cars for that battered chassis, for that figure dressed in black.
Left. Right. Nothing. Just strange cars, strange people, a strange city.
"You liar," she whispered into the hot air, feeling her knees give way. "You damn liar."