The blade, a shard of polished obsidian, tore through the door with a shriek of splitting timber, aimed directly at Luka’s heart. Briska’s mind went blank, her body freezing even as a guttural cry ripped from her throat. Just as the razor edge was a palm’s width from Luka’s fragile chest, a blur of dark motion erupted from the corner of the room. A boot, heavy and precise, slammed into the doorframe, shattering the remaining wood and sending the killer sprawling backwards into the grimy alleyway. Mirek, no longer the groveling, miserable heap, now moved with the terrifying efficiency of a predator. He was inside. The attacker, a hulking figure wrapped in rough-spun canvas, scrabbled for purchase on the icy ground, a second dart already poised between two gloved digits. But Mirek was faster. He launched himself through the splintered doorway, a furious whirlwind of frost-rimmed fur and cold steel. The clash of his gauntlet against the blade echoed sharply in the narrow passageway, a jarring clang of iron on iron. Briska shoved Luka behind her, her gaze fixed on the frantic scuffle. Then, a metallic glint. A small, wicked projectile launched from the cloaked man's hand. Mirek, lunging to deliver a crippling blow, twisted mid-air. The dart wasn’t meant for him. It was arcing, deadly, towards Briska, who stood exposed in the gaping doorway. The projectile tore into Mirek’s collarbone as he lunged forward, the violent impact spinning him around. He stumbled back, colliding with Briska, his arm instinctively wrapping around her waist to steady them both. The cloaked figure, seizing the momentary disarray, melted into the deeper shadows of the alley. Briska felt the warmth of Mirek’s blood bloom rapidly through his thick coat, soaking into her threadbare sleeve. “You absolute fool!” she snapped, pushing away from him, her voice trembling with a fury that bordered on terror. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Mirek sagged against the doorframe, a pathetic groan escaping his lips. His face, usually a mask of haughty control, was now pale and contorted. “Helping, apparently,” he managed, a wheezing cough following. He clutched his collar, his fingers coming away stained dark. “And getting poisoned for my trouble. How very ungrateful of you.” “Poisoned?” Luka’s voice was a reedy squeak from behind Briska. Briska spun to face Mirek, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare try to manipulate me with dramatics, Danilov. I’ve seen enough of your theatrics for one lifetime.” But even as she spoke, she noticed the faint, shimmering blue-green residue on the dart’s fletching, a stark contrast against the dark fabric of his coat. Frostbane. The same poison Yulia had tried to administer to Luka. A cold dread settled in her stomach. “Is it… Frostbane?” Mirek nodded weakly, his teeth gritted. “Feels like it. My arm is already… going numb. Splendid.” He slid down the doorframe, landing unceremoniously on the dirt floor, his long legs splayed out. “And my knees,” he whined, genuinely, “they’re absolutely freezing. I might never walk again. A ruined Lord, paralyzed from the waist down, all because he heroically saved a vile, ungrateful heiress.” He looked up at her, his eyes wide and pleading. “You can’t just leave me out here to perish, Briska. Not after I took a dart for you.” Briska stared down at him, her chest heaving. The sheer audacity. The calculated, infuriating helplessness. She longed to kick him and shout him down. But the shimmering dart in his shoulder was a stark, undeniable reality. And the threat to Luka was still very real. With a raw, frustrated growl, Briska tore a strip from a discarded flour sack she’d been saving for patch-work. “Get in, you overgrown walrus,” she bit out, yanking him roughly by his uninjured arm. “And if you think I’m going to be gentle, you’re sorely mistaken.” Mirek, despite his earlier theatrics, allowed himself to be hauled inside, collapsing onto the rat-gnawed mattress beside Luka’s cot. His injured arm dangled uselessly. “A little compassion wouldn’t go amiss, Karsev,” he murmured, attempting a weak, charming smile that only made him look more pathetic. “Compassion is a luxury I cannot afford, Danilov,” Briska retorted, her hands moving with fierce precision. She grabbed a small, tarnished steel paring knife from the table, holding it over the sputtering lamp. “Hold still.” Mirek flinched as she probed the wound, her touch surprisingly firm. “Are you enjoying this?” he rasped, watching her face, which was set in a grim, unreadable mask. “Immensely,” she lied, her voice devoid of inflection. The dart was deep. Too deep to pull out easily. “It’s remarkably satisfying to cause you pain, actually.” She braced her hand on his chest, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him, and yanked. Mirek let out a choked cry, his body arching off the mattress. He collapsed back down, panting, his face gleaming with sweat. “You barbaric… Karsev,” he gasped. “You should have thought of that before you decided to become my personal human shield,” Briska snapped, tossing the dart onto the floor. She poured a splash of diluted spirits onto the open wound, ignoring Mirek’s anguished hiss. Then, with grim precision, she began to bind his torn muscle with the flour sack strips, pulling the knot so tight he let out another pained groan. “Now,” she said, stepping back, her voice suddenly colder, “explain what you were doing outside our hovel like a stray dog, and why that brute was after Luka.” Mirek touched his linen wrap, wincing. “I was… securing the perimeter. And the strike was likely ordered by Yulia. My sources confirmed her movements earlier.” He paused, looking genuinely surprised. “Wait. You knew it was Yulia?” Briska knelt beside the still-shaking Luka, whose fingers were clutched around the open ledger. “Luka found proof,” she said, her voice flat, emotionless. She pointed to the faded cipher. “Her signature. On all the transfer documents.” Mirek stared at the ink, horror dawning across his features. “The Danilov bankruptcy… the Karsev ruin…” “All of it,” Luka whispered, his voice still hoarse. “She authorized it all. She destroyed us.” Briska felt a sickening lurch in her gut. Sweet Yulia. Her dependable cousin. The one who had always been there. The deception was a venomous serpent coiling around her heart. She glanced toward the entryway, noting the dropped gear left behind in the snow. “Search the threshold,” she commanded Mirek, her voice low and dangerous. With his good arm, Mirek grunted, retrieving a leather pouch abandoned near the doorstep. He tipped out copper tokens and something small and metallic. He held it up. It was a signet ring, intricately carved with the symbol of the ancient House Lyskov—the Duchess Briska had humiliated. But beneath the Lyskov crest, etched almost invisibly, was a unique flourish. Luka gasped. “That’s her cipher key! It’s the same as the one on the ledger! Yulia’s secret mark!” Briska snatched the ring from Mirek, her fingers tightening around the cold metal. The truth struck with vicious clarity. Yulia wasn't merely embezzling; she meant to bury them both in a potter's field. “She’s clearing her tracks,” Luka said, his small face pale with grim comprehension. “The Lyskov family is a distant branch, but still connected to the High Court by blood. If Briska and I… if we’re gone, then Yulia becomes the primary Karsev heir. She could claim a seat on the High Court.” Briska looked at Mirek. His face was a mixture of shock and dawning fury. “She wants to wipe out the Karsev bloodline tonight,” he said, his voice a low growl. “All of you.” A sudden, rhythmic crunching of snow outside caught their attention. Briska moved to the frosted window, wiping a clear patch with her sleeve. Her breath caught in her throat. A dozen figures, cloaked in the deep purple and grey trim of the Royal Guard, were marching in formation into their narrow slum alleyway, their polished boots crunching in perfect unison. At their head, a figure in flowing furs stood silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Even from a distance, Briska recognized the elegant, cruel line of her cousin’s jaw. Yulia. She was here. And she had brought the entire might of the High Court to finish them. “They’re here,” Briska said, her voice devoid of inflection, a death knell in the frigid air. “We’re trapped.”

Poisoned Darts and Pathetic Pleading