Dragomir’s gaze, usually an obsidian pool of composure, fractured. “That is madness, my Queen. A suicidal gambit.”
“No, my Lord. It is the only way to sever their hold. They feed on fear, on resistance. If I give them none of it, if I walk in with a clear mind and an unbroken will, their magic will unravel.” Otylia’s voice held a new, crystalline edge, as if the last fragments of her timidity had finally shattered. “We need to know where and when. Kasyan, ready your operatives. We have a courier to intercept.”
She turned from the broken wards, the chill wind stirring the hem of her simple dress, and walked towards the inner chambers. Dragomir followed, his footsteps soft but insistent. “My Queen, you speak of defiance, but you must look the part. You must embody the Empress of old, not the girl they discarded.”
Otylia stopped before a full-length mirror, its polished surface reflecting a figure she barely recognized. The heavy veil, a shroud she’d worn for years, was still clutched in her hand. With a sudden, decisive motion, she let it fall to the floor, a pool of dark silk around her feet. Her face, pale but resolute, stared back. She suppressed the instinctive shudder in her shoulders, fixing her chin against the glass.
“Bring me the dress,” she commanded, her voice no longer a shy murmur, but a clear, ringing declaration. “The one I saw in the armory. The midnight silk with the ashen embroidery. And no more of this… this faded linen.”
Moments later, attendants, their movements swift and deferential, presented the gown. It was a stark contrast to her previous attire, crafted from threads as dark as a winter night, with intricate, silver-grey stitching that mimicked frost crawling across glass. The fabric flowed, embracing her form without restricting it, culminating in a high, regal collar that framed her neck. As she shrugged it on, the heavy silk settling around her, Otylia felt a strange transformation. The gown was not merely clothing; it was armor, a skin she was reclaiming.
Dragomir watched, his dark eyes tracing the transformation. He stepped forward, a velvet-lined casket in his hands. “My Queen,” he began, his voice a low thrum that vibrated with reverence, “there is one more item. Something I swore to keep safe until the rightful moment.”
He opened the casket. Inside, nestled on crimson velvet, lay a circlet of darkened silver, intricately wrought. It was austere, yet undeniably potent, its design depicting intertwining thorns and blossoming nightshade. A few dried, dark specks, like ancient rust, clung to its inner band. Otylia reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the cool metal. It wasn’t pristine; it was worn, aged by centuries, and those dark flecks…
“The blood of Queen Danica,” Dragomir stated, his voice barely above a breath. “Spilled when the usurpers struck her down. I retrieved it from a black market auction, ages ago, piece by excruciating piece, paying a king’s ransom. It was a blasphemy for it to be trafficked. I vowed then that it would rest only upon your brow once more.”
Otylia lifted the crown. The chased metal bore down on her brow, cold iron and tarnished filigree. The dried blood, rather than repelling her, drew her in. It was a gruesome heirloom, a chilling reminder of her past, yet in its grim reality, she found strength. This was not merely a symbol; it was a connection, a tangible link to the life she sought to avenge.
She looked at Dragomir, her gaze steady. “Place it on me, my Lord.”
He did so, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he settled the circlet upon her hair. The jagged points bit into her scalp, cold and uncompromising.
Before Otylia could fully absorb the sensation, Kasyan entered the chambers, his good arm cradling a rolled parchment. His burnt forearm remained wrapped in fresh linen, but his posture stood rigid.
“My Queen,” he announced, a slight bow of his head, “news of the Vranovs. The Council has deemed them incompetent. Their failure to deliver you, their repeated blunders… the oligarchs have stripped them of their assets. Their estates have been seized, their coffers emptied.” He paused, a cruel smile touching his lips. “They were last seen huddling beneath the eaves of the Guilder’s Market, begging for alms in the sleet. Exiled to the streets, my Queen. Reduced to the very poverty they inflicted on others.”
Her knuckles did not unclench. The ruin of her cousins meant nothing while the usurpers ruled Drahoslav.
“And the courier?” she asked, her voice cutting through Kasyan’s relish.
“Intercepted, My Queen. An initiate of the Ninth Sigil, caught crawling through the Rookery’s abandoned sewers. We hold him in the lower vaults.”
The cells beneath the Keep reeked of damp saltpetre. The prisoner, a gaunt courier with yellowed sclera, was strapped to an iron chair, bleeding into his collar. Dragomir stood beside Otylia, his immense frame a bulwark.
“Where is the ritual to take place?” Otylia asked, her voice soft but unwavering. She met the fanatic’s stare without flinching back.
The man merely laughed, a ragged, choking sound that echoed off the stone walls. “The Queen of Ash returns… to her rightful place in the ground! You cannot stop us. The Ascendants will rise!”
Dragomir stepped forward, a single, heavy boot striking the stone. The sound was like a thunderclap. “His ‘Ascendants’ are nothing but desperate, blood-hungry leeches,” he snarled. “Tell us the location, worm, or I will ensure your soul becomes an eternal plaything for the Void-Maws.” Dragomir's gauntlet clamped shut around the prisoner's jaw, cranking his skull against the iron chair. “Speak.”
The courier's pupils contracted, his gaze jerking toward Otylia as bone creaked beneath Dragomir's fingers. “The… the crypts…” he stammered, his voice raw. “Beneath the Grand Cathedral of the Ascendant Flame. Tonight. Before the moon reaches its zenith. The… the Blood Anointing must be completed there.”
Otylia nodded, a plan already forming in her mind. The Grand Cathedral. A place of supposed piety, now a nest for her destroyers. It was poetic, in a twisted way.
Dragomir dropped his hand; the prisoner slumped forward against his leather restraints, gasping. “Tonight,” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Then we prepare for tonight.” He turned to Otylia, his gaze intense, unwavering. “My Queen, the catacombs beneath that cathedral are vast. An ancient labyrinth of forgotten graves and crumbling tunnels. I have already dispatched my engineers. They are rigging a failsafe.”
Otylia raised an eyebrow. “A failsafe?”
“A lethal gas trap. Churning out a colorless, odorless vapor designed to asphyxiate anything living within its reach.” Dragomir’s expression was grim, devoid of any remorse. “If we fail to break their magic, my Queen, I will ignite the catacombs and bury us all.”