Briska’s gaze was locked on the shimmering fragments of the frost-relic, where her brother’s image had just been swallowed by the void. Luka. Gone. The Obsidian Spire’s highest tower. A target, clear as the crystalline air, yet utterly out of reach. Briska stood in the frozen grit, the residual chill clinging to her skin, the stench of blood and frost permeating the air. The night-hounds Mirek had summoned snarled, tearing at the few remaining sentries, but their numbers were dwindling, their spectral forms beginning to fray at the edges. They wouldn’t last much longer. The choice was simple: perish in this gutter, or sprint headlong toward a near-impossible chase. “The palace,” Briska muttered, her voice raw, turning to Mirek. He was still upright, swaying slightly, his arm a dark, oozing mess from the dart, but his eyes were fixed on her, sharp and resolute. The bumbling scribe was gone, replaced by the dangerous lord of the Undercity. “Too many sentries,” Mirek rasped, his voice strained. “Yulia will have reinforced the entire path. It’s suicide.” Briska met his gaze, her own eyes like chips of glacial ice. “Luka is there. What other choice is there?” She made no request; she stated a fact. Her brother was her anchor, her last remaining piece of a shattered world. She would burn Glazov to the ground if it meant getting him back. “Then we make our own path,” Mirek said, a predatory glint entering his tired eyes. He whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the skirmish. The remaining phantom hounds, snarling their final defiance, dissolved into wisps of darkness, flowing back into Mirek’s poisoned arm like ink into parchment. He clenched his fist, the movement wringing a grimace from him, but the darkness coalesced, wrapping around his hand like a gauntlet. “Ready for a siege, Karsev?” “I’ve been ready for a siege since I was five and my mother told me our vault was merely ‘temporarily inaccessible’,” Briska retorted, her sarcasm a brittle shield against the roaring fear. She snatched a discarded spear from a fallen guard, its shaft slick with icy blood. “Lead the way, Lord Danilov. Let’s remind Glazov what happens when you corner a Karsev.” Mirek nodded, a stark, humorless twist to his lips. He moved first, a blur of ink and brutal speed, vaulting over scattered debris. Briska followed, her threadbare gown flapping around her, the cold biting at her exposed skin, but her focus was absolute. They were a hurricane of two, crashing against the meticulously maintained order of the High Court. The first line of defense was an imperial patrol, their heavy ceremonial armor gleaming under the pale, distant glow of the ice-lanterns. They moved in a practiced formation, spear-tips glinting. Briska did not hesitate. “Look at you all,” she called out, her voice clear and cutting, carrying over the wind’s howl. “Standing guard for a woman who just broke her own family’s blood oath for a better seating arrangement at the next gala. Does she even pay you enough to look that ridiculous?” Her words were a poisoned barb, striking home. A flicker of doubt, a momentary break in their rigid discipline, rippled through the ranks. One guard’s posture sagged, another’s spear dipped an inch. It was all Mirek needed. He closed the distance, an eruption of dark ribbons bursting from his outstretched arm, coiling around the distracted spearmen. They cried out, their forms twisting as the darkness crushed their armor, then their bones, leaving only crumpled husks behind. Briska, without missing a beat, plunged her stolen spear into the throat of a guard whose gaze had lingered on her face for a second too long. They moved through the palace’s service passages, a labyrinth of white stone and chilling drafts. Every turn brought new obstacles. A phalanx of armored men blocked a narrow corridor. “Oh, splendid,” Briska drawled, her voice a practiced aristocratic lilt. “Did Yulia specifically ask for the ‘braindead brick wall’ formation, or is this just what happens when you pick your soldiers for their uniform-fitting skills instead of their strategic acumen?” An infantryman stumbled, his focus breaking as he tried to process the insult, and Mirek’s dark whip cracked, snapping his neck with a sickening *thwack*. Another group, armed with arcane Frost-Lances, conjured shimmering shields of ice. “How quaint,” Briska murmured, stepping out with a deceptive air of disinterest. “Are those the new ‘portable igloo’ models? Because if you think those glorified snow-forts will stop us, you clearly haven’t had a proper snowball fight since you were in short breeches. Honestly, the Karsev household had more formidable ice sculptures for our winter feasts.” The guards, momentarily flummoxed by the sheer audacity, wavered, their shields flickering. Mirek capitalized, launching a volley of solidified dark-shards that punched through the weakened ice, striking true. The guards screamed as the shards embedded themselves, cold fire spreading through their veins. The grand staircase, usually reserved for elaborate entrances, was now a killing ground. Briska and Mirek ascended it like avenging spirits, leaving a trail of shattered pride and broken bodies. Her sarcasm was a precise, psychological weapon, stripping away the watchmen’s resolve, leaving them vulnerable to Mirek’s brutal, efficient strikes. He moved with a grace that belied his size, his umbral sorcery a terrifying extension of his will, fueled by an urgency that mirrored Briska’s own. His breathing was growing ragged, the poison in his arm likely spreading, but he pushed through it, a silent, grim promise in his eyes. Finally, they reached the highest levels, the air growing colder, tinged with a raw, spell-forged frost. A vast, echoing hall stretched before them, leading to the grand balcony that overlooked the entire city. And there, at the center of the ornate, frost-rimmed balcony, was Yulia. She stood over a shivering, terrified Luka, her hands glowing with an unnatural cerulean light. A maelstrom of churning, frigid air whirled around Luka, tendrils of ice already creeping up his legs, threatening to encase him entirely. He was screaming, a high, shrill screech that set Briska’s teeth on edge. “Luka!” Briska shrieked, sprinting across the stones, her spear forgotten, her hand reaching out as if to physically pull him from the spiraling frost. Yulia turned, a triumphant, cruel smile twisting her lips. “Too late, Briska. He’ll make a magnificent centerpiece for my ascension.” The funnel of sleet intensified, the ice visibly thickening around Luka’s chest. Mirek, his face a mask of furious determination, let out a primal roar. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t think. He threw his weight through the gale, not at Yulia, but directly into the heart of the freezing maelstrom, between Luka and the churning rime. His body absorbed the impact, the ice tearing at his skin, his clothes, but he held fast, his arms outstretched, shielding both Briska from the worst of the concussive backlash and Luka from the full force of the spell. A blinding flash of void-energy erupted from Mirek, an uncontrolled surge of power that met the freezing cyclone head-on. The two forces clashed, an ear-splitting shriek of shattered sorcery, and then, with a sound like a glacier splintering, the whirlwind shattered. Ice shards exploded outwards, pelting the balcony. Luka collapsed, gasping, freed from his icy prison. Mirek, however, crumpled, his shadow-gauntlet dissolving, his eyes wide, vacant. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, utterly limp, his magical core utterly spent, broken beyond repair. Yulia stared, her mouth parting in disbelief, then narrowed her gaze with an icy fury. “You fool!” she hissed, her voice like grinding ice. She conjured a lethal spear of jagged frost, its tip aimed directly at Mirek’s prone form. “You’ll pay for that, Danilov!” Briska moved in an instinctual leap. She possessed no steel. She commanded no sorcery. All she had was her fierce, unyielding will. She stepped directly in front of Mirek, shielding his depowered body with her own, her arms spread wide, her gaze burning with an inferno of defiance. Yulia’s ice-spear hung in the air, poised to strike, its deadly point mere inches from Briska’s unprotected chest.

Siege on the High Court