Jana slammed the volume shut, the dark hide thudding against the mattress. She wasn’t a chosen one; she was just chosen. Chosen for the chopping block. Pips twitched his whiskers from the velvet cushions, letting out a thin squeak. Radovan stood stiffly, his face a mask of concern, his hand still outstretched from where he’d given her the book. But all Jana could see was a uniform, a symbol of the system that wanted her blood. Bohumil, the grandfatherly vizier, knew every syllable. Kazimir, Olek, Marek—all of them circling the altar. “Jana?” Radovan’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Are you… alright?” “Alright?” A dry, grating bark tore from her throat. “Oh, I’m just peachy, Sir Radovan. Turns out my grand divine purpose is to be the magical equivalent of a triple-A battery for a forgotten eldritch abomination.” She snatched the book from the divan and thrust it back into his hands. “Take it. Hide it. Burn it. I don’t care. Just get it out of my sight.” Her voice rose, thin and strained. She couldn’t breathe in the opulent chamber, surrounded by evidence of her gilded cage. She needed air, silence, anything to clear the ringing in her ears. She shoved past Radovan, ignoring his reach as Pips scrambled up her sleeve to burrow into her collar. She took the servant stairwell two steps at a time, winding past laundry bins until she hit the brass latch of the roof terrace. The platform sprawled under open sky, rings of brass telescopes tilted toward the black zenith. Gusts of mountain air whipped the hem of her linen tunic against the balustrade. Below, the spires glowed with lantern clusters and blue light-gems, thousands of quiet households sleeping through her scheduled execution. “It’s quite the view, isn’t it?” Jana jumped, spinning around. Marek the Artificer stood a few paces away, his spectacles glinting in the faint starlight. He held a small, leather-bound journal, his fingers stained with what looked like iridescent oils. He hadn’t approached from the stairs she used, but from a smaller, hidden door she hadn’t noticed. His presence was unnervingly quiet, like a shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness. “Creeping up on the holy vessel, Artificer?” Jana snapped. “A bold move.” Marek tilted his head, light sliding across his round spectacles. “Apologies, Lady Novakova. I merely wished to measure the celestial flux lines. The atmospheric currents run dense at this elevation.” He paused, stepping into the starlight. “You seem unsettled. Did your evening prayers go awry?” Jana scoffed. “Unsettling doesn’t begin to cover it. More like ‘imminent human sacrifice’ visions.” She bit back the rest, remembering that Marek was still ostensibly a suitor, a potential part of the scheme. But then she remembered the kitchen, the 'residual energy signature' comment. He’d known. From the start. He was an outsider in his own way. “I have suspected an imbalance,” Marek murmured, glancing toward the shadowed roof hatches. “The foundational conduits beneath the foundations thrum with an irregular, voracious frequency. It has intensified since your arrival.” Jana stared at him. “You… you’ve noticed this?” “I’ve been studying it,” he corrected, reaching into a pouch at his belt. He pulled out a small, intricate device, no larger than her thumb. It was a polished orb of dark, dull metal, crisscrossed with delicate, glowing blue lines. It pulsed with a faint, steady light. “I theorized your foreign composition might be drawing it out. The ancient verses omit certain consequences.” “No kidding,” Jana muttered, her gaze fixed on the device. “What is that thing?” “A pulse damper,” Marek explained, leaning forward. “It emits an inverted resonance to briefly deaden surrounding power currents. I assembled it to study interference patterns, but it could sever an unwanted tether. Or mask an escape.” He pressed a tiny button on its side, and the blue glow intensified, then flared, and for a brief, dizzying moment, the very air around it felt thin, inert. He released the button, and the oppressive hum of the world’s magic returned. He held out his palm, resting the sphere in the open air. “I have no desire to see you immolated, Jana. My interest lies in studying your origin, not burning the fuel.” She curled her fingers around the metal. It carried the dense weight of iron, slick with machinist oil. Here was an exit hatch she could actually hold. “So, the Artificer plots in the dark, does he?” Footsteps clicked against the flagstones as Lord Olek stepped from the stairwell arch, flicking open a painted silk fan against his chin. Two guards in silver livery flanked him, hands resting on their pommels. Marek’s jaw set. “Lord Rostova. Taking the midnight air?” “Indeed,” Olek said, eyes dropping straight to the metal orb in Jana’s fingers. “Though terrestrial bodies prove far more compelling. An artificer abandoning his workbenches to exchange clandestine baubles with our revered guest. Do enlighten us, Marek. Are you peddling illicit gadgets, or absconding with the realm’s salvation?” Marek bristled. “This is a private discussion, Lord Rostova. And my intentions are purely scientific. This device is for—” “Scientific,” Olek cut in. “Like your clockwork roaster that leveled a pantry wing. Or the resonance trials that cracked the treasury vault floor.” He took a slow step forward, meeting Jana’s gaze. “Watch your fingers, my lady. Our mechanic is fond of specimens. That bauble may just as easily lock your door from the outside.” “Absurd,” Marek said, voice tightening. “It provides a contingency, should our scriptures prove less benign than advertised.” “A contingency?” Olek tilted his head, fan tapping his collarbone. “Or a leash? You have always coveted odd curiosities, Artificer. And our guest is uniquely unrepeatable.” The bile rose in Jana's throat. Of course. A grease monkey wanting his own lab rat made infinitely more sense than chivalry. She slipped the mechanism into her pocket, fingers slick with nervous sweat. If Bohumil had fed her fairytales while sharpening the knife, Marek was just building a glass jar with air holes. “Enough,” Jana said, her voice cutting through their spat. She looked at Olek, her expression cold. “Lord Rostova, your concern for my well-being is… noted. But I assure you, I am perfectly capable of discerning intent. This conversation is over.” She turned her back on him, presenting a dismissive shoulder. “Artificer, thank you for your… insights. I will consider them.” It was a dismissal for both of them. Olek’s smile thinned into a razor line. He dipped his head in a mock curtsy. “As our divine guest commands. A single caution before I leave you to the draft, Jana: velvet padding does not make an iron bar any softer.” His guards stepped back into the shadows of the stairs, Olek slipping down after them without another sound. Marek stood motionless, his mouth half-open as if to argue, but Jana kept her eyes on the parapet stones until he, too, took the lower landing. Alone against the chill, she pressed the cold orb in her tunic pocket. Downstairs in the hallway, Radovan still stood by her threshold, clutching the dark book with his spotless white gauntlets. An honorable soldier guarding a sacrifice. Did he hold the door to keep danger out, or to make sure the fuel didn't bolt before the fire was lit?

A Moment of Stolen Kindness