“We’re trapped.” The words were a brittle shard of ice in Briska’s mouth. She could feel the tremors in Luka’s small hand as he clung to her skirt. Her gaze snapped to Mirek, who was swaying slightly, the dark stain on his tunic spreading ominously. The poisoned dart had done its work. He was still upright, still defiant, but his face was slick with sweat, his movements just a beat too slow. “Not yet,” Mirek rasped, pushing himself off the wall with a grunt. He stumbled, then caught himself, his good hand going to the leather pouch at his belt. “She wants to gloat. She’ll waste time.” As if on cue, Yulia stepped forward, her expensive ermine cloak rustling like a predator’s wings. The soldiers fanned out behind her, their spears tipped with glinting, frost-hardened steel. Yulia’s smile, usually so sweet, was now a predatory slash across her face. The pale moonlight made her eyes gleam with a chilling, almost maniacal triumph. “Cousin Briska. How quaint,” Yulia purred, her voice carrying unnaturally clearly in the still night. “Such a humble abode for the Karsev’s last bastion. Tell me, does the mud taste as bitter as your pride?” Briska felt a sudden, sickening lurch in her gut. It wasn’t just the venom of Yulia’s words, but a cold, hard memory, sharper than any blade, that pierced through her. A memory from years ago, buried deep, now clawing its way to the surface. *Briska, barely sixteen, had stood in the study of their ancestral manor, the scent of rare elderflower tea heavy in the air. Her father, Lord Karsev, had been slumped over his ledger, a single, ornate goblet overturned beside his hand. His skin was pale, his lips blue. Yulia had been there, her eyes wide with what Briska had thought was grief, pressing a linen cloth to her father’s clammy forehead. “He complained of a chill, Briska,” Yulia had whispered, her voice trembling. “Drank a special tonic to warm him. But it was too late.” Briska remembered the faint, metallic scent on Yulia’s breath, the way her eyes had flickered towards a small, crystalline vial hidden beneath a pile of parchment on the desk. A vial identical to the one Luka had spotted on the assassin’s belt. And then, the frantic search for a scapegoat, for someone to pin the Karsev’s sudden, devastating financial collapse on. The Danilovs. It had been so easy to twist the narrative, to weave a tale of their rival’s reckless speculation and vengeful sabotage. Yulia had orchestrated it all, even then. The poisoned tonic, the planted evidence, the carefully crafted rumors that had led to the Danilovs’ public ruin and exile. All to clear the path, to eliminate competitors, to feed her insatiable hunger for power.* The memory snapped shut, leaving Briska breathless, a cold rage burning behind her eyes. “You poisoned my father,” she accused, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the alley’s oppressive quiet. Yulia’s smile widened, devoid of any pretense. “A necessary inconvenience. He was… resistant to my vision for our family’s ascension. And the Danilovs? Merely useful scapegoats. A delightful bonus, really, to watch the mighty Lord Danilov fall so spectacularly. What a pity you had to survive, Mirek. Almost ruined my perfect revenge.” She gestured with a dismissive hand. “Seize them. Bring the boy to the Obsidian Spire. The Karsev bloodline ends tonight.” “Not while I draw breath, you treacherous viper,” Mirek snarled. He swayed, his face alarmingly pale, but a raw, desperate energy surged through him. He ripped open the leather pouch at his belt, pulling out a small, stoppered glass vial filled with a dark, viscous liquid. With a grimace, he uncorked it, pressing the opening to the fresh wound on his arm, allowing a steady stream of his own blood to mix with the vial’s contents. The dark fluid began to churn, a faint, metallic tang filling the air. Yulia’s eyes narrowed. “What is that abomination?” Before she could react, Mirek flung the vial into the snow at the feet of the advancing guards. The glass shattered, and the dark liquid splattered, instantly congealing into shifting, inky forms. From the expanding pools, spectral claws and teeth materialized. Two hulking shapes, like starved wolves forged from midnight, rose with guttural snarls, their eyes twin points of crimson light. Shadow-hounds. The sentries, trained for human combat, faltered. The lead beast lunged, a blur of shadow, tearing into the closest spearman's leg with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, collapsing into the snow as the beast vanished and reappeared, attacking another. Chaos erupted. Spears clanged against spectral bodies, arcane frost-bolts hissed through the air, but the apparitions were too fast, too ethereal. Mirek coughed, a wet, rattling sound, but his eyes were fixed on Yulia. “Get Luka to safety, Briska! I’ll hold them!” Briska grabbed Luka, pulling him tight against her side. The alley was a swirling maelstrom of dark shapes, flashing steel, and desperate cries. One of the beasts slammed into a soldier, sending him flying into a stack of frozen crates. For a moment, the odds seemed to shift, the royal lines breaking under the onslaught of Mirek’s terrifying summons. Then, Yulia’s hand plunged inside her cloak, emerging with a flat, circular relic that glinted with an otherworldly sheen. It was an Ice-Mirror, intricately carved, its surface swirling with arcane frost. She held the disc aloft, its cold light illuminating her triumphant, cruel face. “A fascinating display, Mirek,” Yulia said, her voice dripping with mock admiration. “But you forget, I always have a contingency for your… theatrical flair.” She focused the glass’s shimmering surface on Luka. “This ends *now*.” Before Briska could move, an icy blast slammed into them. Luka screamed, a high, terrified sound, as he was ripped from her grasp, pulled into the swirling depths. His small form dissolved, swallowed by the frost, and in the next instant, the glass showed a fleeting image of the Obsidian Spire’s highest tower, before Luka vanished entirely from sight. Yulia laughed, a chilling, triumphant peal that echoed through the alley. With a vicious twist of her wrist, she hurled the frost-relic to the ground. It shattered into a thousand glittering shards, each fragment reflecting the mayhem, then winking out of existence, taking with it the only apparent portal to her destination. Her eyes, brimming with a cold, victorious malice, met Briska’s. “He’s at the palace. Find him, if you can. But choose carefully, Briska. Your precious beasts won’t hold my men forever.” Then, with a final, mocking glance, Yulia turned and melted into the shadows, leaving Briska alone, trembling, in the brutal fight, watching the last vestiges of her brother disappear into a shattered, impossible reflection.

Shattered Mirrors and Shadow Hounds