The stench of wet earth and decay clung to Zovya’s nostrils, a familiar greeting in the perpetually shrouded expanse of the peat-bogs. A growl, like stones grinding in a forgotten grave, tore through the mist, followed by a guttural curse from Jarvan.
“Wretch! Get off me, you bog-cursed beast!”
Zovya, perched precariously on a gnarled, skeletal tree limb that jutted over the bog, didn’t hesitate. The rot-hound below, a mangy mass of matted fur and oozing sores, had the foreman by the leg, its fangs tearing at the thick, mud-caked leather. The foreman, a man whose sneer was as constant as the fog, thrashed uselessly, his peat-hoe clattering into the mire.
This was her cue. Every muscle in Zovya’s body, honed by years of defying gravity and pain, tensed. She launched herself, a shadow dropping from the grey sky, aiming for the rot-hound’s spine. It wasn’t a jump; it was a controlled plummet, a stuntwoman’s precision honed for impact. In her right hand, a polished iron cleaver, heavy and wickedly sharp, glinted briefly through the gloom.
The beast barely registered her descent before the blade bit deep, severing muscle and bone with a sickening crunch. It shrieked, a high-pitched, agonized sound, and released Jarvan, thrashing wildly for a moment before collapsing into the murky water with a final, wet gurgle. A plume of black fluid bloomed outwards, staining the bog dark.
Zovya landed softly beside the carcass, her boots barely splashing. The smell of copper and decay filled the air. Jarvan scrambled away, clutching his bleeding leg, his face a mask of pain and grudging relief.
“Bloody hell, Zovya! About time! You aim to stand there all day?” he rasped, his usual derision already returning.
She ignored him, her gaze fixed on the pooling blood. The bog water, disturbed by the death-struggle, shimmered. And there, etched into the dark, reflective surface, a familiar, terrible script began to bleed into existence.
[Execution Date Accelerated. 5 Days.]
Her lungs seized, ribs aching under the strain. Five days. It had been seven just yesterday morning. The system, a phantom tormentor only she could perceive, had never accelerated the countdown before. It had only ever ticked steadily, relentlessly forward. The thought was a claw around her throat. Drazhan. He was closer. The Sovereign was always closer when the numbers shifted.
“Well? What are you staring at, hag? The beast’s going to rot! Get the others to haul it out before it draws more of its kind!” the foreman snapped, trying to stand, then wincing.
Zovya didn’t bother to respond. Her mind was a whirlwind of frantic calculations. Five days. Not nearly enough. Valka. The image of Valka’s small, vulnerable face flashed behind her eyes, eclipsing the fog, the foreman, the dying rot-hound. She had to get back. Now.
Without a word, she turned and sprinted across the treacherous bog, ignoring further indignant shouts. The damp, moss-covered path back to the village stretched on through the gloom. The hovels, little more than mounds of peat and rough-hewn timber, huddled together against the encroaching fog, their meagre fires doing little to ward off the oppressive chill.
She burst through the low door of her own hovel, the smell of damp earth and simmering herbs clinging to the air inside. Valka, her adopted daughter, sat on the dirt floor, meticulously carving a small wooden bird. Her hair, the same unusual shade of dark auburn as Zovya’s own original hair, framed a delicate face that, in a cruelly ironic twist of fate, was eerily similar to Zovya’s long-dead previous self. This was why Drazhan would find them. This was why she had to leave.
“Valka!” Zovya’s voice was sharper than she intended, laced with a fear she fought to conceal.
Valka looked up, her wide, intelligent eyes, a striking green, meeting Zovya’s. “Zovya! You’re back. I made you a… a bird.” She held up the small, unfinished carving. Then, with a shy smile, she extended her other hand. “And look what a kind lord gave me.”
In her palm lay a coin, not the dull copper or worn iron common in the village, but a disc of pure, gleaming white-metal, intricately embossed with an elegant, unfamiliar crest. It pulsed with a faint, cold energy Zovya immediately recognized as arcane, a subtle masking charm woven into the metal itself. The heat pulled from her cheeks.
“A lord?” Zovya knelt, her voice barely a whisper. “What lord, Valka? Tell me everything.”
“He was very pale, and in a grand carriage, Zovya. Not like the miners. He stopped just past the old bridge. He asked about you, if you were well, if you liked the settlement.” Valka’s eyes were innocent, oblivious to the terror her words ignited. “He said I reminded him of someone very beautiful. Then he gave me this.”
The masking tonics. The daily draughts Tavric prepared, meant to veil their scents from the blood-aristocrats, meant to render Zovya and Valka invisible to the ancient senses of Drazhan. They had failed. Completely. The minted coin was a calling card, a mark, a promise. The Sovereign was here. He hadn’t just accelerated the countdown; he had found them.
“Did you tell him anything?” Zovya pressed, trying to keep the panic from her tone, her fingers tracing the cold metal of the coin.
“Only that you were very kind, and sometimes a little angry, but that you always protected me,” Valka replied, a faint frown touching her brow. “Was it wrong, Zovya? To take the coin?”
“No, love. No. Just… just don’t take anything from strangers again, alright?” Zovya pulled Valka into a fierce hug, burying her face in the child’s hair. The scent of woodsmoke and childhood innocence was a fragile shield against the encroaching dread. She needed stronger draughts. Immediately. Tavric. He was their only hope. He always knew what to do.
The fog had thickened further by the time Zovya reached Tavric’s apothecary, a small, crooked building on the edge of the settlement. The air hung heavy with the competing scents of dried herbs, sulfur, and something sharp and metallic. Tavric, a thin, stooped man with perpetually stained fingers and eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets, looked up from grinding herbs in a large, polished stone mortar as she entered.
“Zovya. Back so soon? Did the rot-hound trouble you?” His voice was a low murmur, comforting in its familiarity. He looked up, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Ah, your Valka was just here. A sweet child. I gave her a few candies for her troubles. She seemed quite delighted.”
Zovya felt a pang of relief. Tavric was always kind to Valka. “Tavric, the masking tonics aren’t holding. There was a… a pale lord. He spoke with Valka. He left her this.” She pushed the silver coin across the scarred wooden counter. “I need something stronger. Draughts that can cloak us completely. Something to buy us time. We have to go, Tavric. Sooner than I thought.”
Tavric picked up the coin, examining it with a careful, almost clinical detachment. He turned it over and over, his expression unreadable. “A potent charm. Most unfortunate, Zovya. I’d warned you the weaker draughts were merely a temporary veil. But to find you so quickly… remarkable. Your unique essence is proving more difficult to suppress than anticipated.” He placed the coin back on the counter, his gaze meeting hers, a flicker of something unreadable in his deep-set eyes.
“I understand. I’ll brew something far more potent. It will take time, though. The reagents are rare.” He gestured to the mortar, where a dark, viscous paste bubbled softly. “This batch is almost ready, but it’s for… another purpose.”
Zovya nodded, fingers curling against the rim of her tunic. Tavric always came through. He was her anchor in this nightmare. She glanced at the mortar, the swirling, reflective surface of the potion catching the dim light of the apothecary.
[Traitor in proximity.]