The vault door clicked into place with a definitive thud that deadened the corridor. Mireia slammed her palms against the unyielding steel, the faint vibrations of the distant battle receding with each passing second. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to pierce her resolve. Trapped. Caged. Again.
“No,” she whispered, the word a raw, guttural sound in the oppressive darkness. Not again. Not while Davorin faced a firing squad in the halls above. Not while her revenge was so close she could taste the metallic tang of it on her tongue.
Rostem nudged her hand with his wet snout, a low growl rumbling in his massive chest. He understood. He always understood. Mireia took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the rising tide of fear back into the cold recesses of her mind. Her gaze swept the narrow space, searching for any weakness, any forgotten seam in the ironclad security. She ran her hands along the rough-hewn stone of the walls, her mind already rifling through the mental blueprints she had meticulously memorized during her first week in the manor. Davorin had shown her the escape routes, the emergency protocols, treating her not as a prisoner, but as a co-conspirator. He had trusted her with every secret, every conduit, including the one she was now sealed within.
This panic room was a newer addition, but the corridor leading to it followed the older, original servant tunnels that snaked beneath the estate. Her memory recalled a rarely used ventilation shaft, camouflaged near the ceiling above her, designed to air out the musty tunnels beneath the oldest wing. It was small, dusty, and almost certainly long forgotten by anyone not intimately familiar with the manor’s archaic design.
“Rostem, give me a boost,” she ordered, pointing to a dark grate high above. The huge dog whined, then obediently braced his forepaws against the stone, lowering his back. Mireia clambered onto his sturdy frame, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cold metal. The grate was stiff, crusted with decades of grime, but she felt a faint tremor as she applied pressure. Rust. Weakness. A chance.
She twisted, pulled, then kicked with the sole of her boot, ignoring the scrape of metal on her skin. The grate shrieked, then gave way with a cascade of dust and grit. A narrow, suffocatingly dark opening stared back at her, smelling of damp earth and disuse. “Good boy,” she murmured, patting Rostem’s head before hoisting herself into the shaft. Her knees scraped against rough brick, and she felt the chill of ancient air. Rostem followed, his powerful body squeezing through the tight space with a surprising grace, his low snarl echoing in the confined tunnel. He was not meant for such small spaces, but his loyalty was absolute.
They crawled, inch by agonizing inch, through the subterranean labyrinth. The muffled din of the battle above grew, then faded, then grew again as they navigated beneath different sections of the manor. The scent of gunpowder and scorched stone began to permeate the stale air, marking the fury Davorin unleashed above. Mireia pictured him, a storm of controlled violence, tearing through the invaders, buying her time. Each scrape against the rough tunnel walls, each aching protest from her muscles, was a reminder of his sacrifice.
She aimed for the main hall, specifically the alcove behind the massive, carved fireplace, where a service hatch for firewood deliveries once existed. It was another relic, long painted over and disguised, but she knew it was there. She reached it after what felt like an eternity, her breath ragged, her skin coated in dust and cobwebs. A faint light filtered through the thin wood of the panel. The sounds of combat were clearer here, closer. Shouts. Gunshots. Davorin’s voice, a low roar. And then, a different voice, shrill and triumphant. Jovan.
Slowly, carefully, Mireia pushed against the hidden latch. The old wood groaned, then yielded, swinging inwards just enough for her to peer through the crack. The grand hall was a scene of utter devastation. Chandeliers lay shattered on the marble floor, velvet wall hangings were shredded, and brass urns lay dented across the tiles. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
And there, in the center of it all, was Davorin. He was on his knees, head bowed, his face a mask of exhaustion and blood. His elegant black suit was torn, and a dark stain spread across his side. Three men in Obrezha police tactical gear lay motionless around him, but more surrounded him, their weapons trained on his head. Standing over him, a cruel smile twisting his features, was Jovan Kosta. He held a heavy-barreled carbine, its muzzle pointed squarely at Davorin’s temple.
“Look at him, daughter!” Jovan’s voice boomed, amplified by the hall’s acoustics. “The mighty Cernak, brought to heel by a Kosta! He thought he could steal what was mine, thought he could make a fool of me! But you see, Mireia, the Kosta name endures. And now, I’ll take back what’s owed, piece by bloody piece.” He kicked Davorin’s head, a sickening thud echoing through the vast space. Davorin didn’t flinch, didn’t make a sound, only struggled to raise his head, his eyes, even in defeat, searching for something, someone.
His gaze swept towards the fireplace. For a split second, their eyes met. His chin lifted a fraction of an inch. Jovan, oblivious, raised his weapon higher, preparing for the final, decisive blow. “And with this, my debts are cleared, my power secured, and your little romance ends.”
Mireia pushed the panel fully open. The creak of the old wood was a whisper against the cacophony of the hall, yet every head turned. She stepped into the light, the dust from the tunnels clinging to her clothes, a stolen combat shotgun held loosely in her hands. Rostem emerged from the opening behind her, a low, guttural snarl ripping from his chest, his massive fangs bared, his eyes fixed on Jovan. The hall dropped silent save for the crackle of burning trim. Mireia racked the shotgun, the metallic *clack-clack* a harsh punctuation in the sudden silence.
“You forgot the dowry, Father.”