Jadwiga didn’t remember moving. One moment, the drawing-room floor was littered with porcelain shards, the air thick with Renata’s shocked gasp. The next, she was shoving past the terrified footman, her mind a frantic, buzzing hive. Teodor. Seditious pamphlets. Treason. The words clawed at her throat.
“Where are they?” Her voice was a raw rasp, barely her own. “The guardsmen? Where did they take him?”
“The… the city barracks, Lady Jadwiga!” the footman stammered, flinching from her intensity. “They said… for questioning.”
Questioning. In Kraina, that meant a dark cell, a chilling interrogation, and a verdict often delivered before a lawyer was even considered. This wasn’t some petty infraction; this was a capital crime, one that could unravel the Olenka name entirely. A cold dread seeped into her bones, far deeper than any chill of the capital’s perpetual autumn.
“Jadwiga, wait!” Renata’s voice, though sharp, was laced with concern. “You cannot simply march into the barracks. You’ll only make it worse. We need influence. We need…”
Jadwiga didn’t wait. She grabbed her cloak from the hall stand, the heavy wool feeling like a shield against a storm. There was only one man in Varaz with the kind of ruthless, unassailable power to pluck a person from the maw of the city guard. The same man whose horse she had ruined, the same man whose wrath Renata had warned her against. Duke Borislav Volkov.
The carriage ride to the Volkov estate, Obsidian Keep, was a blur of frantic thoughts. Mishka, who had somehow followed her, sat on the opposite seat, a grotesque lump of fur and malevolence, occasionally flicking an ear in her direction. The keep itself was a monument to frigid power, its black granite walls rising like a jagged mountain range against the steel-grey sky. Iron gates, crowned with snarling wolf heads, creaked open to admit her, the sound a mournful groan.
A liveried servant, stiff as the statues that lined the entrance, led her through cavernous, silent halls, past heavy wall-hangings depicting historic, bloody battles. The air grew colder with every step, until she stood before a massive, carved oak door. The servant announced her, his voice swallowed by the sheer volume of the room, then vanished.
Duke Borislav Volkov sat at a vast, polished desk of dark wood, scattered with maps and official documents. He didn’t look up immediately. His head, crowned with hair the color of polished coal, was bent over a sheaf of papers. When he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes, the deep grey of a winter sky, held not a hint of surprise. A thin, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.
“Lady Jadwiga. A pleasure to see you again. Though, I confess, I didn’t expect your visit so soon after our last… spirited encounter.” His voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth.
Jadwiga’s carefully constructed composure threatened to shatter. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand. But Teodor’s face, pale and scared, flashed in her mind. She forced herself to breathe. “Duke Volkov,” she began, her voice hoarse, “I have come to beg a favor.”
He leaned back in his ornate chair, his gaze assessing, dissecting. Mishka, who had silently padded in behind her, let out a low growl, a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. Volkov barely arched a brow at the bog cat, then returned his attention to Jadwiga.
“A favor from *me*?” he mused, a hint of genuine amusement in his tone. “From the man whose prize stallion you maimed, whose reputation you sullied with your reckless display? You must be truly desperate.”
“My brother, Teodor, has been arrested,” Jadwiga stated, forcing the words out. “For possession of seditious pamphlets. It’s a fabrication. He’s innocent. Someone is framing him.”
Volkov’s smile widened, a predatory flash of teeth. “Treason. A severe accusation. And you believe I, of all people, can assist you?”
“You are the most powerful man in Varaz,” she bit out, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “Your word carries more weight than any city guard’s evidence. You can free him.”
He watched her, his grey eyes piercing. “And why should I? What does the Olenka family, or your gentle, studious brother, mean to me?”
The humiliation burned. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to walk out, to fight this alone. But she couldn’t. Teodor’s life hung in the balance. “I offer you… my service.” The words tasted like ash. “My… uncanny foresight.”
Volkov’s amusement faded, replaced by a keen interest that made her skin prickle. “Ah. The precognitive Lady Jadwiga. Now we come to the crux of the matter. Tell me, what could your ‘foresight’ offer the Duke of Volkov?”
“Anything,” she rasped. “Name your price. If it’s within my power, I will do it. Just… free Teodor.”
He steepled his fingers, his gaze unblinking. “Very well. I happen to have a… delicate situation. Someone within my trusted retinue is selling military secrets to the Lycanthian border lords. Strategic placements, troop movements, supply routes. It could lead to a disastrous incursion. I need to identify the turncoat. Quickly.”
Jadwiga pressed her nails into her palms. This was precisely the kind of problem her future knowledge was useless for. She knew nothing of Volkov’s close associates or current military intelligence. “I… I have no information on such matters.”
“Ah, but you have your ‘foresight’,” he said, his voice laced with thinly veiled challenge. “Perhaps it is not only knowing what *will* happen, but what *is* happening. A keen intuition, a knack for seeing past deception. I require that talent.”
He pushed a parchment across the desk. On it, three names were written in a bold, authoritative hand: General Kordian Rybak, Colonel Lechoslaw Drozd, and Minister Olgierd Jaskolka. Each name represented a pillar of Kraina’s military and political establishment.
“These are my top three suspects,” Volkov stated, his eyes fixed on hers. “Find the informant among them. Tell me who it is, and provide irrefutable proof. You have one week. If you fail, or if you attempt to deceive me…” He paused, his gaze hardening. “Then consider Teodor’s arrest a direct prelude to the complete annihilation of the Olenka line. Is that clear?”
A harsh knot seized Jadwiga's lungs. One week. Identify an informant in Volkov’s impenetrable high command, armed with nothing but her unreliable future memories and a desperate hope. It was a suicide mission. But Teodor’s life depended on it.
“Understood,” she choked out, forcing the word past the lump in her throat.
Volkov offered a brief nod, then tapped a silver service bell. The stiff servant reappeared. “See Lady Jadwiga out. And then… make the necessary arrangements for Master Teodor Olenka’s release. For now.”
She walked out of Obsidian Keep, the heavy parchment clutched in her hand, the names burning into her mind. Mishka trotted silently beside her, an unsettling companion. The air outside felt no warmer. She had bought Teodor some time, but at what cost?
Back at the Olenka estate, chaos had settled into a tense, hushed anxiety. Stefania, usually calm and composed, paced the drawing-room like a caged bird. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she offered Jadwiga a weak, grateful smile when she heard Teodor was to be released. Jadwiga, exhausted and simmering with a fresh layer of fury, retreated to her room, the names of Volkov’s suspects swirling in her head.
She knew she couldn’t start investigating Volkov’s generals immediately. She needed a moment of quiet, a plan. She needed to think. But the house felt stifling. Seeking a reprieve, she wandered out into the Olenka gardens, a sprawling, neglected expanse of overgrown roses and crooked, centuries-old oaks. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and late-blooming hellebores.
She found Stefania not in the manicured flowerbeds, but in a secluded, walled-off section behind the old stables, a place Jadwiga rarely visited. Stefania was crouched over a small patch of earth, her sleeves rolled up, her hands coated in soil. She was tending to a series of potted plants, each one carefully nurtured under a makeshift canopy of canvas.
“Stefania?” Jadwiga called, her voice softer than it had been all day. “What are you doing out here?”
Stefania started, her head snapping up. Her face, usually serene, held a flash of alarm that quickly smoothed into a tired smile. “Jadwiga! Just… tending to some of my experiments. You know how I am with herbs.”
Jadwiga stepped closer, curiosity overriding her exhaustion. The plants were unfamiliar, their leaves a deep, velvety green, some with delicate, almost translucent petals of a pale, pearlescent blue. One in particular, hidden beneath a larger leaf, seemed to pulse with a faint, ethereal glow. It was unlike anything she had ever seen in the Olenka gardens, or indeed, any garden.
“These aren’t the usual chamomile and mint, are they?” Jadwiga asked, a prickle of unease starting in her gut. She knelt on the damp gravel, her gaze fixed on the glowing bloom. It was exquisite, but also… wrong. Forbidden.
Stefania hesitated, then sighed. “No. These are… more particular. Rarer.” She reached out, her fingers gently touching the glowing petals. “I’ve been trying to cultivate the *Lachryma Noctis*.”
Jadwiga froze. *Lachryma Noctis*. The Night’s Tear. A bloom fabled to hold potent medicinal properties, whispered to be the only true antidote to the Weeping Pox, a plague that had decimated the northern provinces centuries ago. But it was also a plant whose cultivation was strictly forbidden by the Voivodate’s oldest imperial statutes, deemed too dangerous, too volatile, its power too easily abused. Only Jadwiga, with her knowledge of the future, knew that the Weeping Pox was destined to return in less than a decade, and that the cure, once lost to history, was precisely what Stefania was now, unknowingly, nurturing.
“Stefania,” Jadwiga said, her voice barely a whisper, “where did you get these seeds?”
Stefania looked up with tired steadiness, though a guarded wariness hardened her mouth. “From Mother’s old journals. She had a fascination with forgotten herbal lore. There was a sketch, a description… I found a few withered seeds pressed between the pages.”
Jadwiga stared at the glowing flower, then at Stefania’s earnest face. Her mind reeled. Another unforeseen consequence. Another domino falling. The turncoat, the Pox, Teodor’s trial, Stefania's garden plot—every loose wire tangled together with sickening speed. The game had begun, and it seemed the hidden enemy was actively adapting to her changes, twisting them into deadlier snares. And now, Stefania, with her quiet strength and dangerous secret, was unwittingly becoming the game’s most volatile piece. Had she, in saving Teodor, simply doomed Stefania instead?