Bleed. The word was a familiar taste on her tongue. It was all the Kosta name had ever truly offered her. But this time, she would be the one drawing the blade. Morning arrived with the same grey, churning sea that had greeted her arrival, though inside the Cernak Compound, the gothic gloom of the previous night had been replaced by a quiet hum of efficiency. Mireia, dressed in a simple, dark tunic and practical trousers Davorin’s staff had laid out, sat at a long, polished table in a dining room overlooking the waves. A cup of robust, black coffee steamed before her. She took a slow sip, the bitterness a welcome jolt. “A public display of… unity,” Davorin’s voice cut through the quiet. He stood framed in the archway, impeccably dressed in dark linen, a silver ring glinting on his right hand. He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment, simply moved to the head of the table. “Obrezha’s vultures already scent the shift in power. We give them something to chew on.” Mireia raised an eyebrow. “An engagement stroll, then?” “Precisely,” he confirmed, his eyes, dark as river stones, meeting hers. “A declaration. And a test.” A test for whom, she wondered, herself or the city? She finished her coffee, the scalding liquid preparing her for the inevitable. Outside, the coastal air was sharp with salt and the metallic tang of approaching rain. The Cernak Compound’s imposing gates, forged from dark iron that looked strong enough to repel a siege, swung open with a groan. A sleek, obsidian-colored armored vehicle waited, its engine a low thrum. Davorin’s top enforcer, Ilya, a man built like a granite slab with eyes that missed nothing, stood beside it, flanked by four other grim-faced guards. Ilya’s gaze lingered on Mireia for a fraction too long, a question in his otherwise impassive stare. They moved through the city’s older quarter, the cobblestone streets slick with a recent drizzle, reflecting the garish neon glow of the shop signs above. The air here was thick with the scent of fried fish, stale tobacco, and something faintly acrid, like burnt sugar. Pedestrians, mostly early market vendors and dock workers, averted their eyes or quickened their pace as Davorin’s retinue passed. The message was clear: stay out of the Cernak’s path. Mireia walked beside Davorin, her posture straight, every sense alert. This wasn’t a stroll; it was a parade of calculated risk. She observed the shadowed alleys, the sharp turns in the street, the flickering lights of the taverns already opening. Davorin, seemingly relaxed, occasionally nodded a brief greeting to an elder or a shopkeeper, but his gaze tracked every shadow and rooftop beside her, methodical and lethal. As they turned onto the bustling Zlatibor Promenade, past a cluster of street cafes still setting out their tables, an abrupt crack split the morning air. It wasn’t a gunshot, not yet. It was the sound of a heavy ceramic mug shattering against the paving stones, deliberately thrown to draw attention. Instinct took over. Before Ilya or any of the guards could react, a figure launched from the narrow gap between a fishmonger’s stall and a shuttered bakery. He moved with a practiced brutality, a gleaming chrome-plated pistol already clearing his jacket. His target wasn’t Davorin, whose own hand was already a blur beneath his coat. It was Ilya, momentarily distracted by the sound, his back momentarily exposed. “Ilya!” Mireia’s voice was a whip-crack, startling in its intensity. She didn’t hesitate. A small, steaming cup of espresso had been placed on a nearby outdoor table, forgotten by a fleeing waiter. Mireia snatched it, her fingers barely registering the heat, and, with a swift, economical motion, flung the scalding contents directly into the gunman’s face. A guttural scream tore from the man’s lips, his eyes clenched shut, hands flying up to his burning face. The pistol clattered to the ground, unfired. The attack, so meticulously planned, dissolved into chaos. Davorin was already moving, a blur of dark linen. The first Kosta thug, still reeling from the scalding coffee, didn’t even register the glint of the stiletto Davorin produced from nowhere until it was buried hilt-deep in his throat. He gurgled, a wet, horrifying sound, before collapsing in a heap, his blood blooming dark against the wet pavement. More figures emerged from the alleyways, a half-dozen of them, brandishing crude blades and short-barreled automatics. They were Kosta men, recognizable by the crude, stylized raven tattooed on their forearms. Their bravado, however, evaporated under the sheer, terrifying efficiency of Davorin Cernak and his enforcers. Ilya, his momentary vulnerability erased, moved with the lethal grace of a trained killer, his own weapon now in hand. He slammed the butt of his pistol into one attacker’s face, then pivoted, firing two quick, precise shots that dropped another man instantly. The other Cernak guards, equally ruthless, formed a tight defensive perimeter, their movements economical and deadly. Davorin, however, was a force of nature unleashed. The cold, calculated control he usually projected vanished, replaced by a visceral, animalistic rage. He didn’t just kill; he destroyed. One man tried to flee, only to be caught by Davorin’s hand, slammed head-first into a lamppost with a sickening crack. Another, attempting to raise his gun, found Davorin’s foot crushing his wrist, then the heel of his boot stomping down on his face. Blood splattered, bright and violent against the grey morning. The fight was over in less than a minute. Six Kosta men lay sprawled across the stone, their blood mixing with the rainwater, painting the promenade in grotesque patterns. The air reeked of iron and gunpowder. Davorin stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, his face stark, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. He looked like a god of vengeance, stained with the offerings of his enemies. Then, his gaze snapped to Mireia. His violent fury instantly dissolved into something bordering on pure panic. “Mireia!” he snarled, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure. He was at her side in two strides, his large hands gripping her shoulders, scanning her frantically. “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?” Her tunic was splattered with a fine mist of blood, her hair slightly dishevelled. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing a faint, thin line on her cheek. It was a minuscule graze, barely a scratch, likely from a flying shard of the ceramic mug. Yet, Davorin paused, his pupils dilating with sharp, unmasked panic. His knuckles, still slick with another man’s blood, trembled against her skin. She met his gaze, the sudden, raw vulnerability in his eyes startling her. It was a stark contrast to the monster she had just witnessed, a stark contrast to the cold calculation she expected. His face was inches from hers, his ragged breath ghosting her lips, smelling of blood and adrenaline. For a fleeting, breathless moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, surrounded by death, yet locked in a silent, potent exchange. The silence between them held taut, dangerous and fragile. “I’m fine,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt, the words almost lost in the sudden, deafening quiet. Ilya, who had silently watched the exchange, cleared his throat, pulling Davorin’s attention. “We have one still breathing, boss.” He gestured to a twitching figure near a overturned fruit stall. Davorin released Mireia, though his gaze still clung to her face, as if ensuring she wouldn't vanish. He stalked over to the dying man, his face once again a mask of chilling resolve. He knelt, grabbing the man’s collar, pulling him upright. “Who sent you?” Davorin’s voice was a low growl, devoid of any mercy. The Kosta thug coughed, a wet rattle in his chest, blood bubbling at his lips. His eyes, already glazing over, struggled to focus. “Jovan…” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Jovan… he put a price…” Davorin’s grip tightened, shaking the dying man. “A price on what? On Mireia?” The man managed a weak, deranged laugh, more a gurgle. “No… not just her. On… you. Bigger. So much bigger. He said she was… a gift. A Trojan…” The thug choked, a final spasm wracking his body as his eyes rolled back, his last breath a bloody, gurgling gasp. Mireia, standing a few feet away, heard the words, each one a hammer blow. Her father hadn't just sold her. He had offered her as bait, a poisoned chalice. A Trojan Horse. And the real target was Davorin.

Blood on the Cobblestones