Jadwiga didn't lower the knife. "I found something much worse, Your Grace." Volkov’s gaze flickered from the blade she held with white-knuckled intent to the leather-bound book pressed against her ribs. Moonlight glinted off the wolf-head clasps on his coat, making him seem less man, more predator. The air in the study, already thick with dust and the scent of aged parchment, tightened around them. He didn’t flinch at the dagger. He merely took another measured step, his boots silent on the plush carpet. “Worse?” His voice was a low thrum that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. “That’s a rather bold claim, Lady Olenka. Are you suggesting this magistrate, whose hospitality you are currently violating, is involved in something more heinous than treason against the Crown?” “Much more,” Jadwiga spat, her voice tight with a cold fury that made her forget the dagger was supposed to be a deterrent, not an extension of her own rage. “He’s a pawn. A filthy, paid pawn in an assassination scheme.” She watched his eyes narrow, the calculating glint sharpening. He didn’t dismiss her. He hadn’t in her first life either, when she’d been a blubbering mess. Now, sharp and reckless, she held his attention completely. “An assassination scheme,” he repeated, the words dropping flat and deliberate. “And you have evidence of this grave accusation?” Jadwiga thrust the account book forward, her wrist rigid. “Not just evidence. Proof. Records of bribes paid, ciphered columns, and dates matching the exact onset of the fever that swept our household.” She omitted the final entry, the damning 'R.M.' She wasn’t ready to utter that name, to give it form in the air between them. Not yet. Volkov took the heavy book. His gloved thumb traced the worn leather, his eyes scanning the cramped script within. She watched his expression, searching for any tell, any flicker of disbelief or amusement. There was none. Only a chilling stillness. His gaze lingered on a specific page, then another, his jaw hardening with each passing line. He had spent enough campaigns decrypting border intercepts to recognize ciphered columns when he saw them. “A false plague diagnosis,” he murmured, his voice now devoid of any trace of mockery. “And a physician paid handsomely to ensure its… efficacy.” He looked up, his eyes locking onto hers. The usual contempt had been replaced by something far more unsettling: a detached, clinical interest, like a hawk spotting prey. “My sister Stefania,” Jadwiga said, her voice dropping to a near growl, “was meant to die of this ‘Weeping Pox.’ Just as she did in my first life. But this time, I know it wasn’t an act of God. It was an act of a monster.” Volkov closed the volume with a dry snap. “And you suspect this… monster is also connected to the traitor I tasked you with finding?” “It is all tied together,” Jadwiga countered, her conviction absolute. “The pamphlets, the rigged steeplechase, the military dispatches, the engineered illness. Someone is systematically dismantling our bloodline, piece by piece, and they adapt to every turn. Every time I derail their strike, they find a fresh route to destroy us. Your traitor is just an errand boy.” He leaned back against the magistrate’s mahogany writing desk, the bound volume resting flat against his knuckles. The moonlight cast deep shadows across his face, making his features stark and unreadable. “And what do you propose, Lady Olenka? You wish for me to credit this… elaborate tale of premonition and conspiracy, based on notes seized during a nocturnal break-in?” “I do not ask for your faith, Your Grace,” she shot back, her temper flaring despite her best efforts. “I ask for your leverage. You want your traitor unmasked. I want the neck of whoever marked us for slaughter. An eye for an eye, a secret for a secret.” Volkov stared at her, a long, assessing silence stretching between them. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, seemed to bore into her, dissecting her, searching for the crack in her resolve. He saw the recklessness, the barely contained rage, the desperate courage. And perhaps, something else. Something he hadn’t seen in anyone before. “An alliance, then,” he finally said, his lips curving into a slow, almost imperceptible smile that was more unsettling than any frown. “You, the woman claiming miraculous foresight, and I, the Duke of a frigid land, pursuing shadows that adapt to your every move.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the bound sheets. “This is a cunning adversary you’ve uncovered, Lady Olenka. One that operates with impunity, even within my own circles, it seems.” Jadwiga felt her pulse quicken, not with fright, but with wild, reckless momentum. She was no longer begging. She was negotiating, and he was listening. “They are formidable,” she agreed, her voice surprisingly steady. “But they underestimate me. And they certainly underestimate a Duke with an army at his back.” He pushed off the desk, taking a step toward her. The silence stretched thin, cold and brittle as winter glass. “You will give me every detail, every suspicion, no matter how outlandish. I will give you the resources of my household, my networks, and my protection. But know this, Lady Olenka: betray me, mislead me, or waste my time with fanciful delusions, and you will regret it more than any accident, any plague, or any execution.” His voice was a silken threat, a promise of utter ruin. “And you, Your Grace,” Jadwiga retorted, meeting his gaze without flinching, “will find that my foresight is only matched by my tenacity. Fail to protect my family, or use them as pawns in your own game, and you will find that a furious Olenka is a force even a Duke cannot contain.” His smile widened, a genuinely amused flash of white teeth in the dim light. “A force, indeed.” He offered the bound pages back to her. “Consider this our first shared secret, Lady Olenka. A pact sealed over stolen ink.” Jadwiga took the volume. The cracked calfskin chilled her fingertips. Volkov extended a gauntleted right hand. It was a gesture of courtly ritual between highborn houses, yet in a burglarized chamber over evidence of poison, it carried the weight of a blood oath. She hesitated for a beat, her eyes searching his. There was no warmth there, no kindness, but a stark, undeniable intelligence and a hunger for control that mirrored her own desperate drive. This was not a bond born of loyalty, but of sharp, reciprocal utility. This man, who she had once despised, was now her most critical, most terrifying asset. Jadwiga took his palm. His grip clamped down like a vise, freezing calfskin against her bare knuckles. She pulled her fingers back, the cold of his leather lingering on her skin. The magistrate's hall remained dead silent, but the trapdoor under Varaz high society had swung wide open.

An Unlikely Alliance