The scrape of Damir’s sabre against its scabbard was a sound that should have been lost in the ballroom’s din, yet it seemed to sever the very air. His father, the elder lord, recoiled, livid fury twisting his features. Around them, the conversations fractured, then ceased entirely. A hundred eyes fixed on the spectacle: a son defying his sire, a Kovačić drawing steel in the Emperor’s own hall. “Damir,” his father hissed, voice dropping to a harsh rasp, “lower that weapon. You shame our lineage.” Damir did not waver. His grip on the sabre’s hilt was absolute. The polished steel caught the light, reflecting a sliver of Bogdana’s own terrified face. “My honor is my own,” he stated, his gaze unflinching. “And it dictates I protect her.” From the periphery, two retainers in crimson tunics moved in with swift efficiency, closing the distance. These were men Damir had trained with, perhaps even led. Their faces were set, betraying no emotion as they drew their own shorter, ceremonial blades. Bogdana felt the ballroom tilt. This was not a carefully orchestrated diversion; this was raw, desperate defiance. Her thoughts darted between exits, measuring each footstep across the floor. She saw the familiar, precise footwork Damir had practiced with Radek, now applied with deadly purpose. He parried the lunging blade with a ringing clash, the force of the blow jarring his arm, but held his ground while the second man circled. “Bogdana, now!” Damir’s voice was a strained guttural bark as he twisted, his sabre a blur of silver, deflecting a blow that would have opened his side. He created an instant of chaos, a brief, violent tableau against the backdrop of stunned aristocrats. She didn’t need to be told twice. Her pulse hammered erratic against her ribs as she skirted the edge of the fighters, her silk gown trailing across marble. Her attention locked on the Emperor’s private chambers—a heavy obsidian door flanked by sentries in black-and-gold livery. As she moved, Damir’s sabre met steel again and again, a symphony of destruction. One house swordsman stumbled back, crimson welling through his split sleeve where Damir’s edge had bit. The man’s shock was momentary, replaced by a renewed, savage intent. The elder Kovačić bellowed a curse, shouting for reinforcements, but the sudden brawl kept the crowd frozen. Bogdana reached the obsidian entrance, where the two Imperial sentries stood rigid. “The Emperor summons me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, invoking the lie Damir had planned. They glanced at each other, then at the commotion behind her. Before they could challenge her, Damir disarmed his opponent with a sharp clang that rang off the ceiling. The distraction took: she shoved between the startled sentries before their halberds could cross, slipping inside as shouting and steel clashed behind the thick wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something metallic and acrid. The chamber was not opulent, but stark, dominated by a vast, polished onyx table. On it lay an intricate lattice of bronze and iron cogs, pulsing with faint, sickly green luminescence. Wires thick as thumbs snaked from the apparatus, converging on a high-backed chair of black timber. And in that chair sat Kazimir. Kazimir sat alarmingly still, tethered by shimmering filaments that leached the color from his cheeks. His eyes were open, but distant, unfocused. He looked as if he were dreaming, or trapped in a waking nightmare. Relief and terror warred within Bogdana. He was alive. But this… this was worse than any cage. Emperor Valeriyan II stood beside the onyx table, his aging face etched with a triumphant, manic glee. He turned, his thin lips curving into a predatory smile. “Ah, Bogdana. Perfect timing. The final piece arrives.” “Kazimir!” Bogdana cried, lunging forward, but Valeriyan raised a palm, the sudden warding pressure throwing her balance back. “Don’t touch him,” the Emperor said, his voice imbued with a chilling authority. “Not yet. He is… delicate.” He gestured to the arcane device. “A fitting tribute, wouldn’t you agree? The Rostova line, always so dedicated to the Kosciany Bog. Always sacrificing.” Bogdana traced the bronze gears, the pallid glow, and the shallow rise of her brother's ribs. “What have you done to him?” she demanded, her voice raw. Valeriyan chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Done? My dear, I have merely brought him to his true purpose. The Osseous Mandate, you see, requires a heart. A vessel of pure, nascent life force. And your brother, so frail, so innocent, is a wellspring. The Kosciany Bog scattered its power, yes, but it also left a resonance. A resonance that draws life, not grants it.” A hollow terror dried the moisture in her mouth. “You said… you said the Mandate grants life.” “A convenient lie,” Valeriyan sneered. “The Mandate does not give. It *takes*. It consumes. And the Wskrzesa, your esteemed lineage, you are not masters of life. You are merely conduits. Vessels to channel. To channel *his* entire life force, his very essence, into *me*.” He spread his arms, a grotesque parody of welcome. “For my eternal reign.” “No,” Bogdana whispered, her throat constricting. The words felt like ash in her mouth. Her parents, their ‘final duty,’ the shame… it all clicked into a horrifying mosaic. They hadn't hidden her for her power, but from this. From becoming the tool that would sacrifice her own kin. The Emperor’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. Imagine it. An immortal Wskrzesa, bound to my will, perpetually siphoning vitality to sustain my armies. And you, Bogdana, will be the architect of it. The Kosciany Bog demands its due, and you, its last conduit, will deliver it.” A sudden, violent crash erupted as the obsidian door burst inwards. Damir stood framed in the doorway, his uniform torn, a crimson smear marring his temple, but his eyes were blazing with an unyielding fire. He held his sabre aloft, its tip still stained with a fresh, dark drop. “Get away from her,” he growled, his voice hoarse, but potent. Valeriyan’s face contorted in a snarl. “The lapdog returns. You are too late, Kovačić.” He lunged for a crystal cylinder on the table, clearly aiming to trip the final lever. Damir moved with ragged speed, but Bogdana moved first. Her hands found the two relics she carried: the Vratnik Key hummed against her palm beside the chilled curvature of the Saint’s Ribcage. Valeriyan intended to bind Kazimir's vital spark to his own dying frame. If Kazimir was the conduit's anchor, she would sever the current at its root. Bogdana threw herself toward the seat. Shrugging off the Emperor’s snarl and the searing ache igniting in her blood, she slammed the Vratnik Key against Kazimir’s sternum. Piercing frost traveled through her arm, flooding into the metal. She drove the petrified Saint’s Ribcage over his heart with her other hand, knuckles whitening as power surged through the bone. The chamber flared emerald and bone-white, and Bogdana cried out, “If he’s the lock, then I’m the key!”

Blood on the Marble