A guttural chorus of snarls clawed at the ornate ceiling, shaking dust from the crystal chandeliers. Panic gripped the masked revelers, frantic shrieks echoing through the hall as the grand oak doors slammed. Servants screamed, scattering like frightened vermin. The air, once thick with perfume and music, now reeked of canine aggression and human fear.
Inezia, still draped in ruby silk, felt the vibration of the hounds’ approach through the marble tiles. Her eyes, narrowed to slits behind the filigreed mask, scanned the room. Sentry squads in the Bastion’s black livery advanced from the bolted entrances, thumbs hooking their crossguards. Trapped.
Before the lead beast burst through the side archway, grey fur bristling over iron muzzles, Inezia moved. The silk skirt, tailored for mincing steps, caught her shins like an iron ring. With a roar that tore through the chaos, she seized the rich fabric at her hips, ripping it upwards with a sound like tearing flesh. The expensive material split, exposing the lean, scarred muscle of her thighs. She ripped again, the crimson silk shorn away to reveal the practical trousers and boots beneath, leaving only a tattered, asymmetrical hem that freed her legs to move. The discarded fabric, a scarlet stain on the pristine floor, was all that remained of her disguise.
The first hound, a monstrous beast with matted, rust-colored fur and eyes like burning coals, lunged for a fleeing noblewoman. The pit-fighter intercepted it with a butcher's timing. She didn’t bother with her ceremonial blade; her bare hand shot out, catching the beast’s snarling muzzle. With a twist that would have snapped a lesser neck, she pivoted, using the hound’s own momentum to slam its head against a marble pillar. A sickening crack echoed, and the animal slumped, its legs twitching.
“Ignazio!” A voice, harsh with rage and feral astonishment, cut through the din. Thiago Murguia, his own elegant mask discarded, materialized at her back. His obsidian eyes, alight with a terrifying recognition, locked with hers. He parried an enforcer's clumsy swing with a flash of his own steel, ringing true. “I knew you weren’t him.”
Another hound, larger than the first, charged, its fangs bared. She met it, not with a strike, but with a sweeping hook that took its legs out. As it yelped and scrambled, she brought her boot down on its spine, a brutal, bone-jarring impact. She whirled through red and black, breaking bone wherever an animal lunged. Thiago, a whirlwind of calculated violence, matched her pace, his blade a silver streak in the gloom. They fought back-to-back, a terrifying, synchronized dance of death amidst the screaming revelers. The hall had turned into an abattoir.
“Gaspar! Where in the blazes are you?” she bellowed, ducking an axe-thrust to smash her elbow into a soldier's ribs. He crumpled, gasping. Thiago, his chest heaving, sliced through the harness of a charging hound, sending it whimpering to the floor.
“Here! Just… trying to not get eaten!” Gaspar’s terrified voice, thin and reedy, came from near the far wall. He was cornered, three swordsmen hemming him against the plaster, their blades low. His usual, shaky bravado was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. He clutched something dark and pulsating in his hand – the monster gland he’d stolen from the archives, his ticket out of Kaelum’s debt. His gaze darted between the ring of steel and the path she and Thiago carved across the tiles.
“Run, Gaspar! We’ll hold them!” Thiago shouted, parrying two polearms at once. She caught the frantic twitch in Gaspar’s chin, the sudden, crazed resolve taking hold.
“No, you won’t!” Gaspar shrieked, his voice cracking. “Not if I… not if I can help it!”
He didn’t hesitate. With a guttural cry, he hurled the dark, glistening mass of the monster gland at the wall behind the guards. It struck with a wet splat, and for a terrifying moment, nothing happened. Then, the air warped. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the room, growing in intensity, a sound that shook bones and rattled teeth. The men nearest the gland froze, backing away from the pulsing bile.
“GET DOWN!” Inezia shouted, dragging Thiago behind an overturned oak table. The hum became a shriek, a tearing sound, as the raw magical energy of the gland detonated. A concussive shock shattered the clerestory glass, peeled portraits off the walls, and showered the tiles with razor-tipped crystal. A section of the outer wall, stone and mortar, simply ceased to exist, replaced by a gaping, ragged hole that opened onto the moonlit, fog-shrouded valleys of the Serrado.
Dust, smoke, and the acrid smell of ozone filled the air. The remaining hounds whined, disoriented. The surviving sentries lay stunned, groaning within crumpled plate. Gaspar, singed but alive, scrambled through the newly made breach, coughing. “This way! Hurry!”
She did not hesitate. She pulled Thiago to his feet, her gaze sweeping over the devastation. The hole was their only chance. “Move!”
They spilled into the mountain chill, the hall's uproar muted behind stone. Gaspar was already a few paces ahead, his short legs pumping. The forest, a dark, welcoming maw, lay before them. They broke into the underbrush, wet thorns raking what remained of her skirts.
From beneath a twisted elder-tree, a figure lunged into Gaspar’s path. Navarro’s lieutenant, a hulking brute named Vasco, his face scarred and grim, moved with chilling speed. Before Gaspar could react, Vasco’s arm snaked out, a vice-like grip closing around Gaspar’s neck. Gaspar gagged, his feet kicking uselessly above the mossy ground.
“Running so soon, little rat?” Vasco’s voice was a low growl, laced with cruel satisfaction. He held a gleaming dagger to Gaspar’s exposed neck, its tip glinting under the pale moonlight. “The Inquisitor has a message for you, Vargas. He says you can chase your vengeance… or you can save your friend.”
Inezia froze, blood roaring in her ears. Before her, the dark path deeper into the forest beckoned, a path that led to Navarro, to the truth, to her brother’s blood-soaked justice. Behind her, Gaspar choked, clawing at the gauntlet around his throat. The choice was a blade twisting in her gut.