Cold rose through the warped floorboards, sharp enough to numb the soles of Briska's boots through their thinning leather. Briska pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around Luka, who shivered despite being huddled against her. Their makeshift bed, a pile of salvaged rags, offered scant protection. The room reeked of stale ash and wet dirt, its single room wedged beneath an overhanging alleyway. A tallow wick spat greasy smoke against the beams. Their only reprieve from the lethal temperatures was a stolen Blood-Heater, a glowing crimson orb the size of her fist, humming faintly from its perch on a splintered crate. It pulsed with faint heat, barely thawing the air two inches past its brass casing. Briska had lifted it from an unattended cart during their descent past the lower sluices. Outside, the gale had dropped to a sullen draft, leaving drifts packed against the rotten sill. Mirek Danilov stood hunched against the doorframe, rime crusted across his collar. He’d been there for six hours, a relentless, miserable sentinel. His expensive fur cloak, now plastered with melting snow, offered little dignity. His face, visible through a gap in the tattered hood, was raw and wind-chapped, his eyes ringed with exhaustion. “Briska,” his voice, hoarse and strained, carried through the flimsy wood. “Please. Just take the coin. It’s enough for a proper room, for food. For Luka.” Briska didn’t respond. She just stared at the small, glowing orb of the Blood-Heater. She had nothing left to lose, but her pride, brittle as glacial ice, remained. “I won’t leave,” Mirek insisted, a fresh gust of wind whipping his words away. “Not until you take it. I’ve earned this, haven’t I? Your contempt.” Luka stirred, coughing softly. “Is he still out there?” he croaked, his voice raspy. “Like a particularly stubborn frost-fly,” Briska muttered, then pushed herself up, grabbing a dented bucket by the door. It was filled with the congealed remains of their last, meager meal—a watery gruel she’d been unable to stomach. She yanked the door open with a vicious tug. Mirek, startled, flinched back just as she flung the contents. The freezing, lumpy slop hit him square in the chest, splattering across his face and down his expensive cloak. A choked gasp escaped him, not of pain, but of utter, pathetic surprise. He stood there, dripping, staring at her through crusts of grey porridge, a clump of cold grain stuck over his brow. “That,” Briska said, keeping her tone flat and razor-edged, “is my counter-offer, Lord Danilov. Choke on it.” She slammed the door shut, the sound a definitive punctuation to her disdain. Mirek, left alone on the stoop, wiped the sour mess from his eyelids, his mouth working silently. He did not leave. He simply pulled his ruined mantle tighter and settled his boots back into the drift. Inside, Luka had dragged himself closer to the Blood-Heater, his small fingers tracing the worn leather cover of their father’s ledger. He’d been poring over its arcane symbols for days, a quiet, focused determination in his pale face. “It’s not just a cipher, Briska,” he murmured, his breath misting in the frigid air. “It’s… a double-cipher.” Briska knelt beside him, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean?” “The first layer, it just hides the accounts. But the second…” He pointed a thin finger at a series of jagged, interlocking symbols, then slid another page over, revealing a neat, elegant script. “This is the key. And this… this is the name.” He paused, tapping the margin with a split thumbnail. “It’s Yulia. Cousin Yulia. Her personal mark. She authorized the transfers, Briska. All of them. The Danilov embezzlement, our… our entire ruination. It all leads back to her.” Briska stared down at the crisp strokes of the wax seal imprint. Yulia. Sweet cousin Yulia, who brought elderberry broth whenever Luka took ill and wept beside them when the bailiffs arrived. “Briska,” Luka whispered. He dragged his sleeve across his running nose, pointing to the flourish at the bottom. “Her cipher key matches the seal.” Just as his finger brushed the faded ink, the shadows in the corner of the room twisted, not from the flicker of the lamp, but with a sudden, unnatural density. A sliver of moonlight, briefly piercing the clouds, glinted off something sharp and dark. The flimsy, rotting door to their hovel exploded inward with a splintering crash. A blade, long and wickedly sharp, burst through the opening, aimed directly at Luka’s chest.

Freezing Knees in the Slums