A guttural cry tore from Ignac’s throat, a sound raw and untamed that silenced the buzzing banquet hall more effectively than any command. His hand shot out, not to the grotesque trophy at his feet, but to the hilt of his ceremonial dirk, drawing it with a metallic rasp that scraped across the sudden silence. Every noble present stiffened, some pushing back from the table, their faces a canvas of fear and repulsion. Duke Paul, however, merely watched, a cold, pleased glint in his eyes. “General,” Paul purred, his voice too calm, too smooth for the scene unfolding. “Is there a problem with my hospitality?” Ignac’s jaw was a granite slab. He did not answer, his gaze fixed on the severed head, a storm brewing in the depths of his usually impassive eyes. The messenger, still on his knees, began to sob, his body trembling with exhaustion and terror. Sabin watched the General with detached assessment. Ignac’s fury was a weapon, poorly aimed. It promised chaos, an opening. Sabin pushed away from the table, a quiet, deliberate movement that drew no attention amidst the rising tension. “Your Grace,” Sabin’s voice cut through the stunned quiet, clear and sharp. “This attack on General Rostoch’s… staff… suggests a breach in the Citadel’s outer defenses. Perhaps a more immediate response is warranted than further feasting.” The Duke’s gaze flickered to Sabin, then back to Ignac, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips. “Ah, young Sabin. Ever practical. But this is merely a… setback. General Rostoch will, I’m sure, see to his affairs. We shall continue.” Ignac ignored them both. He knelt, not in supplication, but with the grim resolve of a predator claiming its kill. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping steel, closed around the physician’s matted hair. He lifted the head with a deliberate, almost tender care, then rose, his eyes sweeping across the nobles, lingering for a fraction on Duke Paul. The threat hung silent in the hall, sharper than the grease of the roasted venison. “The feast is concluded,” Ignac’s voice was a low growl, devoid of pleasantry. “All heirs report to the training grounds at first light. Those found absent will face immediate forfeiture of all claims.” He turned on his heel, the physician’s head cradled in his arm, and strode from the hall, his boots echoing with a grim finality. The messenger, forgotten, collapsed fully to the floor. Later, in the scalding steam of the Citadel’s Iron Baths, Sabin unlaced the taut leather of the chest binder, feeling the immediate, painful relief as the tightly cinched fabric loosened. The binding was chafing, red lines scoring the skin beneath the armpits. Sabin leaned against the rough-hewn stone wall, letting the intense heat envelop ‘him’. The steam curled around the bare torso, obscuring the precise contours, a welcome veil. Sabin carefully adjusted the positioning of the binder, pulling it tighter to minimize the slight swelling of the chest, preparing to re-fasten the straps. “Working hard to maintain that ‘masculine’ physique, Volkov?” a voice drawled from the swirling mist, laced with a familiar, cynical amusement. Antonin Krest emerged from the steam, a towel draped low around his lean waist, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips. He leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on Sabin’s movements. Sabina froze, the binder half-repaired in her hands. She had underestimated the noise of the bathhouse, the way sound was swallowed by the steam. Her pulse remained steady while an icy tally took shape behind her eyes. Exposure meant death. Antonin had seen too much. Antonin watched Sabin’s rigid posture, the barely perceptible tremor in her hands. His smirk widened, but a flicker of something else, something sharper, colder, entered his eyes. “Don’t worry, ‘Sabin’. Your secret is safe with me. Though I must admit, it’s quite the performance. Even for a Volkov.” He pushed off the wall, walking closer, his steps slow and deliberate. “My sister, Anya, was… an inconvenience to Duke Paul. A pretty little flower with too many secrets. He had her thrown into the Grey Spire, where she conveniently ‘slipped’ from the highest window.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet the words carried a weight that vibrated in the humid air. “She was sixteen.” Antonin stopped directly before Sabin, his gaze unwavering. “I swore then, on her grave, that I would see that viper choke on his own ambition. And you, ‘Sabin’, are the most magnificent poison I’ve ever seen him forced to swallow.” He extended a hand, palm up. “A blood-oath, Volkov. Against the Duke. Are you with me?” Sabina’s gaze met his. The sharpness in his eyes was not malice, but a honed edge of shared purpose. He offered not alliance, but complicity. A weapon, presented for use. Sabin took his hand. The touch was firm, a cold, wordless pact forged in the scalding steam. The next morning, the sparring rings were a cacophony of grunts and clashing steel. Ignac Rostoch moved through the throng of heirs like a storm front, his blows precise, devastating. He sought out the largest, the most aggressive, discarding them one by one. His face was a mask of cold fury, each strike a discharge of bottled rage. He worked with a relentless, brutal efficiency, punishing himself as much as his opponents. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, finally landed on Sabin. He stalked forward, a silent challenge in his stride, his practice sabre a blur in his hand. Sabin met his gaze, the General’s intensity a physical force. Sabin raised ‘his’ own wooden blade, a light, balanced piece that felt almost delicate in comparison to Ignac’s heavy weapon. “Volkov,” Ignac’s voice was rough, strained. “Your footwork is sloppy.” It was an invitation, a thinly veiled accusation. He attacked, a blur of controlled aggression, aiming for Sabin’s chest, then sweeping low for the legs. Sabin parried, the light blade deflecting the heavy blows, the impact jarring through ‘his’ arms. Ignac pressed, not retreating, forcing Sabin to give ground. The General’s movements were driven by something beyond training, a raw, desperate energy. Each lunge, each slash, felt like an attempt to excise a deeply rooted affliction. Sabin observed the frantic intensity, the way Ignac’s brow furrowed, his teeth grinding audibly, the muscles in his neck standing out. This was not merely a sparring match; it was a battle against himself. Ignac lunged, a powerful overhead chop intended to shatter Sabin’s guard. Sabin did not meet it head-on. Instead, ‘he’ ducked beneath the descending blade, slipping past Ignac’s guard with a sudden burst of speed. Sabin twisted, using the momentum of Ignac’s own attack against him, grabbing the General’s wrist and shoulder. With a surge of measured leverage, Sabin shifted, pulling Ignac forward, then using ‘his’ hip as a fulcrum. The General, massive and unyielding, stumbled, his feet losing purchase on the slick mat. Ignac went down with a heavy thud, the air expelling from his lungs in a sharp gasp. Sabin landed on top of him, straddling his torso, one knee pressing into his side, the other against his hip. Sabin’s forearm clamped across Ignac’s throat, pinning him to the mat, the wooden blade discarded. Their faces were inches apart, chests pressed together, the General’s heavy breathing hot against Sabin’s cheek. Ignac’s eyes, wide and startled, stared up at Sabin, a flush creeping up his neck, a desperate battle playing out in their depths. Sabin felt the tremor in the General’s large body, the sudden, fierce intake of breath. Sabin released him, rolling off with a clinical detachment. Ignac lay there for a moment, chest heaving, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling of the sparring hall. He pushed himself up slowly, avoiding Sabin’s eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Back in the austere confines of ‘his’ chambers, the lingering scent of sweat and cedar from the bathhouse clung to Sabin’s skin. Sabina reached beneath the loose stone in the hearth, retrieving the next letter, sealed with the Volkov crest. Her cold fingers broke the wax. *My dear Sabin, the time draws near. Paul will host the ‘Crimson Mask’ masquerade, a decadent affair to herald the winter solstice. His ledger, detailing his alliances and the true extent of his usurped fortune, will be in his private study. It is imperative you acquire it. To do so, you must attend. Not as ‘Sabin’. But as the ghost of the Volkov matriarch. You will go as a woman.*

The Tonic of Madness