Janna dropped to her knees, shards of glass crunching beneath her slippers. The scent of ozone, acrid and sharp, permeated the air, a phantom echo of the bolt's passage. Her breath, ragged and thin, sawed in her throat. The crossbow quarrel, feathered with dark Gryphon quills, stuck fast in the polished mahogany. An assassin had just missed her ear by two inches, favoring raw force over poison or salon whispers. “My lady!” Feliks shrieked from the doorway, clutching an embroidered napkin to his waistcoat, his sculpted pompadour knocked sideways in fright. “By the Whispering Stars, what in the name of—” “Get down!” Janna snapped, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her hands. She scrambled towards the fallen celestial globe, her eyes darting to the broken window. The blackness outside offered no answers, only deeper shadows. She scooped up the leather-bound volume, pinning it tight against her ribs. Feliks, ever dramatic, finally dropped to a crouch, peering over the edge of a velvet armchair. “Are you injured, my lady? Was it a rival suitor? I knew Lord Krystian’s jealousy would manifest in a violent manner one day, but a crossbow bolt is rather… unrefined for the upper echelons, wouldn’t you agree?” Janna ignored him, her gaze fixed on the black calfskin. This was no rejected dandy. The real Kalina Volkov had been playing a far more dangerous game than Janna had ever imagined. Her stepmother’s petty social machinations, while irritating, felt suddenly insignificant. “Fetch the strongest tea you can brew, Feliks,” Janna commanded, rising cautiously. “And then stand guard outside this door. Allow no one in.” Feliks, recognizing the steel in her voice, nodded, his usual theatricality muted. He scurried out, muttering about assassins and the deplorable decline of manners. Alone again, Janna carried the folio to her desk, glass grinding underfoot. Candlelight caught the rough laid paper, picking out rows of dense, geometric ciphers across each leaf. This was far larger than a list of debts or indiscretions. She recognized the framework of the symbols. Years spent studying aetheric cartography at the Grand Lyceum had embedded the patterns of the invisible currents into her very bones. These were not standard navigational arcs, nor guild-approved conduits. They mapped deliberate bypasses—illicit tap-lines siphoning the high-altitude streams that powered the capital's tram rails and streetlamps directly into private networks. Her mind raced, connecting the dots. Such diversions would destabilize entire districts, cause unforeseen surges, or, more terrifyingly, power something that was never meant to exist. This wasn't just treason; this was an assault on the very infrastructure of the Starevian Empire. And with the record cached in Kalina's private globe, the noblewoman had stood at the center of the theft. Toppling Irena into exile was clean, personal retribution. This, however, meant an executioner's block for treason if the magistracy uncovered the theft before she could steer the blame. She needed an ally. A powerful one. She required an accomplice who grasped the mathematics of the drift, one backed by Imperial authority and suspicious enough of the Volkov line to listen: Stanislaw Czaja. The Royal investigator possessed an inconveniently deep training in celestial charts. He would decipher the theft immediately. Feigning a sudden urge for fresh night air, Janna sent a slip of paper through one of Feliks’s back-alley messengers. It was a single, cryptic phrase: “The constellations are shifting. Meet me at the Old Ossuary, before dawn. Alone.” Hours later, as the first pale blush of dawn touched the eastern sky, Janna stood amidst the crumbling, moss-covered monuments of the Old Ossuary, the chill of the morning seeping into her cloak. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying stone. She held the codex pinned inside her mantle. Stanislaw Czaja emerged from the mist like a wraith, his black coat blending with the deepening shadows between the gravestones. His face was a stoic mask, but his eyes, when they met hers, held a question, and a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. “Baroness,” he said, voice devoid of sarcasm. “An ungodly hour for a walk. I trust your shifting constellations do not signify a dramatic change of heart?” “They signify the floor collapsing beneath my heels, Inquisitor,” Janna replied, holding out the codex. “And a scheme far messier than your files account for.” He took the volume, his leather gloves rasping against hers. His expression remained neutral as he flipped open the cover, his gaze immediately falling upon the ciphered pages. His brow furrowed, a subtle tension tightening the lines around his mouth. He spent long moments poring over the symbols, his thumb tracing the patterns Janna herself had recognized. “These are deliberate bypasses,” he murmured, thumb tracing the margins. “Major celestial flues, diverted through unchartered relays. This is active sabotage of the Imperial grid.” He looked up, his brow level. “Where did you unearth this?” Janna took a deep breath, marshaling her thoughts. “From a hidden compartment within a celestial globe in Kalina Volkov’s study. An hour after I discovered it, a crossbow bolt embedded itself in my wall, precisely where my head had been.” She paused, allowing the implication to sink in. “Someone wanted the logbook buried, and me along with it.” “The Volkov family has never lacked ambition,” Stanislaw mused, glancing back down at the draft. “But this suggests a conspiracy of a magnitude that threatens the stability of the entire capital. Perhaps even the Empire itself.” “Precisely,” Janna pressed, leaning forward slightly. “And I believe Irena Rostova is involved.” She watched for his reaction. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't dismiss it outright. “Not the architect, perhaps, but a conduit. Her household debts run catastrophic sums, sustained only through gray commerce. Moreover, she retains associates in the Lyceum faculties and the Guild who can manipulate high-altitude lines without drawing immediate audits.” This was a calculated risk, a half-truth that twisted Irena’s known venality into something far more sinister, all to serve Janna’s primary goal. “You offer me a field mouse to bait a viper,” Stanislaw said. “Why?” “Because the viper will kill us both if we don’t work together,” Janna countered, her gaze unwavering. “This book maps the entire siphon. I can read the coordinates for you. In exchange, I want your seal of protection, and your assistance in tearing down Irena Rostova's standing until she is expelled from the capital.” He stared at her, his perceptive eyes stripping away layers of her aristocratic facade. For a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of leaves in the pre-dawn breeze. Then, a slow, deliberate nod. “An untidy bargain,” he said, snapping the covers together with a dry thud. “Yet expedient. Very well.” He looked down from his tall frame, setting the folio beneath his arm. “From this moment, my lady, consider yourself my informant within the serpent's den.”

An Unholy Alliance