The mire tried to drag them down. Each step was a battle against the sucking mud, the air thick with the metallic tang of stagnant water and the distant, sickening thrum of the Drotva’s pursuit. Kazimir moved with relentless swiftness despite his armored bulk, his palm pressed against the small of her back to keep her upright. They stumbled onto an uneven gravel track, the swamp mist thinning under faint, watery moonlight filtering through sparse birches. The air, though still damp, felt cleaner, carrying the scent of river water. They found themselves on the bank of the broad, slow-moving river Vyrna, its surface a mirror for the fractured sky. Before them, tethered to a gnarled mooring post, bobbed a flat-bottomed skiff. Nestled amidst the river reeds, a small, ramshackle hut leaned precariously, its single window glowing with a weak, flickering light. Kazimir, his movements slowing now that the immediate threat of the Drotva seemed to recede, eased Raina towards the hut. He knocked once, sharply. The door creaked open, revealing a gaunt figure whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles, framed by a wild, salt-and-pepper beard. The man smelled of wet pine and dried roe, his shoulders stooped like a bent oar. His eyes, the color of old river stones, narrowed, then softened, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “Well now,” the old man rumbled, his voice scraping like river stones. “Lost your way, have we? Or found it, perhaps.” He gestured them in with a nod, his gaze lingering on Raina, then shifting to Kazimir. “Come in, come in. The Vyrna’s no place to be loitering after twilight. Especially for… newlyweds.” Raina felt a flush crawl up her neck. Kazimir, ever stoic, merely ducked his head to enter the low doorway. The one-room hut smelled of dried perch, turf smoke, and wet wool. A small fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting dancing shadows. Pyotr, oblivious to their shared discomfort, waved a hand at a rickety table and two stools. “Sit. You look like you’ve been wrestling a river-ghoul. What’s the trouble, then? Young love gone sour already?” He winked, settling himself on a stool by the fire, picking at a loose thread on his threadbare tunic. Raina opened her mouth to protest, but Kazimir’s hand on her arm, a silent plea for discretion, stopped her. The boatman had already drawn his own conclusions. Pyotr peered at them under grizzled brows. “He looks like a storm cloud, and you look like you’ve been crying into the river. Classic.” He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “Always happens, doesn’t it? One of you says something foolish, the other takes offense, and suddenly you’re wandering the marsh convinced the world’s ending. What was it, eh? He forget your name? Or did you tell him you liked his brother better?” Raina lowered her chin. Kazimir stood motionless, iron-still beside the hearth. She pressed her lips flat against a stray curl of nervous amusement. “It’s… not like that, good sir,” she managed, her voice hoarse. “Isn’t it?” Pyotr raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Always is. Let me tell you, I’ve seen more lovers’ spats on this river than fish. But it ain’t the words that matter, it’s the way you look at each other. Like you’d face down a Drotva for her, eh, lad?” He nudged Kazimir with his foot, then sighed. “Ah, to be young and foolish. But you two look truly lost. More than just a squabble. What’s troubling you, girl? You can tell old Pyotr. I’ve heard worse secrets than where you hid the last sweetroll.” His persistence, strangely, opened a crack. Raina glanced at Kazimir, then back at Pyotr. “Our… friend,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “she… she left us. In a terrible place. It felt like… treason.” Kazimir finally spoke, his voice low and gruff. “She led our pursuers to us. Then offered to surrender Raina.” His gaze was fixed on the flickering flames, but Raina could feel the accusation in his tone, a raw edge of gravelly fury. He had been hurt by Stasya’s actions too, not just as Raina’s protector, but perhaps as a man who had trusted her. Pyotr hummed, stroking his beard. “Ah, a friend’s sting. That’s a deep cut, that is. Worse than any lover’s quarrel. Did you know she harbored that kind of poison?” Raina shook her head, the image of Stasya’s calculating expression in the bog still vivid. “I… I thought I did. But then, she helped us escape. With blinding spores. It makes no sense. One moment she’s selling me out, the next she’s saving us. My ancestor, Queen Livoslava… she was betrayed by a Morozova. Stasya is a Morozova. It’s too much.” The words tumbled out, raw and confused. Kazimir said nothing, tracking the soot drifting from the hearth to her hair. “Sometimes,” Pyotr offered, his tone gentling, “what looks like treachery is just a hard choice made for a softer outcome. Don’t judge a river by its surface, child. There’s currents beneath you can’t see. Now, I’ll fetch some water for tea. You two… work out your troubles. Or don’t. Not my business.” He rose, taking an old, dented bucket, and shuffled out into the damp night. The silence he left behind was profound. Raina felt Kazimir’s eyes upon her, measuring and dark. “You believe her motives were… complex?” he asked, the words carefully neutral, but his eyes conveyed a desperate hope that Raina might have an answer. He wanted to believe in Stasya, for Raina’s sake, for the shared history they had. It was a question he couldn’t ask of his own heart, bound by the Klyatva. “I don’t know,” Raina admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “But Pyotr’s right. It doesn’t feel… straightforward.” She felt a pang of guilt. She had been too quick to condemn, too caught up in the horror of Livoslava’s past. She reached into her satchel, rummaging for the water-skin, her fingers brushing against something stiff and unfamiliar. It was a small, leather-bound book, no bigger than her palm, tucked deep inside. Stasya’s notebook, slipped into the leather fold before the run through the reeds. Raina pulled it out, thumbing the scarred binding. It was wrapped in pale pigskin, marked with the intricate cipher used by Morozova archivists in the Citadel. Kazimir had moved to the small window, peering out into the darkness, listening for Pyotr’s return. Raina, her fingers trembling, flipped through the pages. The ink ran in hurried, bird-claw strokes, but the cipher pattern matched old court registries. Her eyes landed on a passage, seemingly innocuous, but the surrounding symbols clicked into place. She read, her mind racing, unraveling the hidden meaning. *“The Vale’s Sorrow will guide them. The Murkfen’s trap, baited with false surrender, must secure their path. The Morozova debt demands this sacrifice of self, to lead the hound to the deeper snare. Forgive my queen, my friend, this necessary deceit.”* Raina caught her breath, nearly fumbling the notebook onto the dirt floor. “Kazimir!” Her whisper cut the quiet. “She didn't abandon us. It was a decoy maneuver—she baited Vorlag's hounds toward the deep silt!” Kazimir turned from the sill, his stance tightening at the sight of the pigskin booklet. Before she could explain further, the hut door creaked open. Pyotr stood there, a strange, grave look on his face, a single wanted poster clutched in his hand. He hadn’t returned with water. His gaze, no longer jovial, fixed on Kazimir. The boatman thrust out the parchment, fingers stiff with cold. “Punched into a willow post down by the landing,” he said quietly. “Ink’s barely dry. It’s you, girl.” He looked between Kazimir and the charcoal sketch. “But it’s the inscription… it’s new.” Kazimir took the poster, his fingers brushing Pyotr’s. Raina leaned close, recognizing the charcoal curve of her own cheekbones, but the jagged imperial runes beneath struck the breath from her throat. The iron-gall ink smoldered along the fibers like dying embers. *TO BE TAKEN ALIVE. HER GUARDIAN IS TO BE EXECUTED ON SIGHT.*

What the River Gave