The stranger stood motionless outside the pane, draped in dusk-colored wool beneath a lowered hood. A draft seeped beneath the door frame, chilling Veronika's ankles. This was no manor servant, no stray delivery. This was the 'COMPROMISED' made manifest. She took an instinctive step back, her gaze darting to the heavy iron poker beside the unlit hearth. Before she could move, the trespasser lifted a gloved arm. From the heavy mantle, a sudden blur launched itself through the open balcony door, a silent, feathered projectile. It was a hawk, its eyes like chips of obsidian, its talons already extended. It screeched, a piercing sound that scraped against the fragile calm of the manor. Veronika didn't have time to process the sheer audacity. The bird was large, its wingspan filling the immediate space, making a beeline not for her face, but for the open bedroom door, as if guided by an unseen leash to deeper within the manor. A clatter from the hallway, followed by a surprisingly clear, albeit tinny, voice. “Hostile Fowl! Protocol: Avian Incursion! Deploying defensive countermeasures!” Unit 734 slid into the room with remarkable speed for an automaton whose internal gears audibly whirred. He held a silver tea tray, not on its side, but poised like a discusthrower. With a grunt that sounded suspiciously human, the brass retainer flung the tray with unexpected force. It spun through the air, a gleaming blur, intercepting the hawk mid-flight. The impact was a metallic thwack, followed by a squawk of outrage from the bird as it was knocked off course, crashing into a stack of leather-bound travel guides Veronika had yet to organize. “My apologies, Mademoiselle Votochek,” the automaton chirped, already retrieving the slightly dented tray. “A minor miscalculation in trajectory. The objective was merely to deter, not to… re-shelve.” Veronika didn't wait for further explanation. The momentary distraction had given her precious seconds. Her hand closed around the cool, heavy iron of the fire poker. The masked intruder stepped fully into the room, boots grating against floorboards with unmistakable malice. It carried no obvious weapon, yet its posture spoke of lethal intent. “A rather crude instrument for an archivist, wouldn’t you agree?” The intruder's voice was a low rasp, genderless, devoid of inflection. The killer lunged, not for her, but for the hawk, which was now dazed, attempting to untangle itself from the scattered books. Veronika swung the poker. It connected with a sickening thud against the intruder’s arm, not quite the head strike she’d intended, but enough to make the killer recoil. A sharp hiss escaped beneath the cowl like steam from a cracked pipe as wool swirled in retreat. This time, it aimed a kick at her midsection. She barely blocked it with the poker, the impact vibrating through her arms. She wasn't a fighter, not in the way these people were, but she had a pragmatic will to survive that was as unyielding as the iron in her hands. Another dark blur, this one not feathered. The hawk, recovered, launched itself at Veronika, clawing for her face. She ducked, the talons scraping her hair, and swung the poker again, a wild, desperate arc that caught the bird’s wing. It shrieked, falling to the floor, flapping erratically. “Hostile Fowl incapacitated!” Jaskier announced, ever the commentator, his optical sensors glowing a bright red. “Master Kazimierz has been alerted!” As if on cue, a low rumble vibrated through the floorboards. The gaslight above flickered violently. A surge of darkness, thicker than soot, poured through the open doorway. It coiled and writhed, tendrils of obsidian smoke solidifying into grasping claws. They snaked around the intruder, binding limbs and hoisting the body off the floorboards. The captive thrashed against the constricting umbra, calm vanishing in violent panic. Kazimierz stood in the doorway, his face a mask of cold fury, his eyes burning with an unsettling, dark intensity. His Shadow Weaving pulsed around him, raw and untamed, reacting to the lingering presence of the hawk. He was shaking, a barely controlled tremor running through his frame, but his will was a steel cage around the killer. The bird, still flapping weakly on the floor, seemed to draw his gaze, and for a terrifying second, the umbral coils around the struggling body tightened toward bone-crushing pressure. “Who sent you?” Kazimierz’s voice was a low growl, strained, as if each word caused him physical pain to utter. The shadows tightened further, eliciting a choked gasp from the bound assassin. The captive glanced toward Kazimierz, then Veronika. Beneath the hood, a faint smirk touched two bloodless lips. Teeth snapped down with a sharp crack. The body went slack while the dark tendrils still held it aloft. A faint, acrid smell, like bitter almonds, filled the air. Kazimierz released the magic. The limp body dropped to the floor with a soft thud, utterly still. He strode forward, his gaze fixed on the body, his breathing ragged. “Fool,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “They prefer death to capture.” Veronika knelt beside the corpse, pulse hammering against her ribs. The dark wool was thick, concealing much. She searched the pockets, finding nothing, until her fingertips grazed cool metal along the lapel. She peeled back the collar. A silver pin, exquisitely crafted, shaped like a raven’s claw clutching a single, stylized teardrop. The same crest she had seen, briefly, on an official document in Kazimierz’s chaotic office, a document bearing the seal of the Kovelle City Council, linked to Councilman Tibor’s public works proposals. Kazimierz turned, his gaze sweeping from the dead assassin, to the cowering hawk, and finally, to Veronika. His voice was devoid of warmth, a chilling pronouncement. “They were not here for me. They were here for you.”

Whispers in the Gaslight