The words hung heavy in the damp subterranean air. Matron Ruzha. Torture. Liska’s vision narrowed, the frantic stitching of minutes before replaced by a cold, sharp certainty. An innocent woman, caught in the crossfire of a war she didn’t understand, facing the Inquisitor’s tender mercies because Liska had been careless with a courier bag. “We leave,” Daris said, his voice ragged but firm, pushing himself up despite the raw wound in his gut. His face, pale from blood loss, was etched with a ruthless practicality that made him look older than his years. “Now. Yefim, get the rig ready. We head north, over the Vostov Peaks. They won’t follow us there.” Liska shook her head, a violent tremor that sent strands of hair across her face. “No. I won’t.” “Liska, be reasonable.” Daris swayed, bracing himself against a rough-hewn support beam. “Your bag was found. Mine was found. They’re coming for us. If we stay, we die. Both of us. The entire operation goes with us.” “And Ruzha?” Liska’s voice was a whisper, thick with fury and self-reproach. “She baked bread for half the district. She worried about my marital prospects. She’s an irritant, not a rebel. She doesn’t deserve this.” “She’s a casualty of war,” Daris bit out, his gaze hard. “A regrettable one, yes, but a casualty nonetheless. We cannot risk everything for one life.” “I can,” Liska snapped, pushing away from him. Her resolve stiffened, an icy current running through her veins. “I put her there. I’m getting her out.” “You’re going on a suicide run.” Daris’s eyes burned with a dangerous intensity. “You’ll walk straight into the Inquisitor’s grasp. And then I’ll have lost you for nothing.” “I will not be lost.” Liska grabbed her revolver, checking the cylinder. Six rounds. Not enough, but it would have to do. She strapped a belt of spare cartridges across her chest, the cold metal digging into her ribs. “Yefim, where is she being held?” Yefim shifted, still reeling from Daris’s earlier command. “Under the old town hall, boss. They’ve converted the wine vaults into temporary holding. There’ll be guards.” His gaze darted between Liska and Daris, mutely pleading with his boss to reconsider. “How many?” Liska asked, ignoring the quiet plea. “At least two at the entrance, maybe more inside,” Yefim mumbled. “The Inquisitor won’t leave the plaza unguarded. He wants a spectacle.” Daris lunged forward, grabbing Liska’s arm, his touch surprisingly strong despite his injuries. “Don’t be a fool. We can’t take on the Inquisitor’s entire guard detail, not with you injured and me like this. We flee. We regroup. We fight another day.” “There is no other day for Ruzha.” Liska wrenched free. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, were now flat and devoid of warmth, reflecting a grim, fatalistic light. “Yefim, get my gear from the barn. The climbing spikes, the silenced pistol, the garrote wire. And two smoke grenades.” Yefim stared, then looked at Daris. Daris’s face was a mask of furious resignation. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, gesturing for Yefim to obey. Yefim nodded, his shoulders slumping, and scrambled up the ladder. “If you do this,” Daris said, his voice low, “I’m coming with you.” “No, you’re not,” Liska countered, already checking the buckles on her boots. “You’re barely standing. You’d be a liability. Get Yefim to patch you up properly. Get ready to move us out once I’m back with Ruzha.” She grabbed a small, sharp knife from a wall hook, testing its edge with her thumb. “If I’m not back within the hour, you leave. You don’t look back.” She saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, the brief, raw acknowledgment of the possibility of her death. But he said nothing more, only watched her, a predator assessing its prey, his resolve to protect her clashing with her own suicidal determination. Minutes later, Liska moved like a shadow through the pre-dawn gloom, the narrow alleys of Oporov slick with recent rain. The plaza was brightly lit by harsh arc lamps, casting long, stark shadows. State police patrolled the perimeter, their rifles glinting. At the far end, near the old town hall, a heavy transport wagon had been parked, its canvas cover hiding something bulky. A makeshift gallows stood ominously in the center, a stark warning to the sleeping settlement. She skirted the courtyard, making her way to the rear of the town hall. A narrow, crumbling staircase led down to a heavy wooden door, undoubtedly the cellar entrance. Two sentries stood guard, their backs to the wall, hunched against the cold. They exchanged bored whispers, their rifles dangling loosely. Liska slipped into the shadows of a lean-to, her boots soundless in the slush. She unscrewed the cap of a smoke grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it to land with a soft thud behind the guards. A thick plume of grey smoke erupted, obscuring their vision. As they coughed and stumbled, disoriented, Liska was already upon them. The garrote wire, thin as a hair, slid around the neck of the first sentry, a swift, brutal pull. Before his body hit the ground, the silenced pistol spat twice, a soft hiss extinguishing the second guard’s life. She shoved the bodies into a dark alcove, then forced open the heavy cellar door. A dank, earthy smell hit her, mixed with the metallic tang of stale blood. Footfalls echoed from deeper within. Liska descended, her revolver held ready. The basement was a warren of stone archways and crumbling barrels. Torchlight spilled from an open cell door at the end of the corridor. Liska moved cautiously, her boots barely disturbing the dust on the floor. She reached the cell opening, peeking inside. Matron Ruzha stood over a sprawling guard, his gray coat soaked with crimson. A crude hairpin, still clutched in Ruzha’s hand, was lodged in the guard’s neck. Ruzha, her usually immaculate hair now loose and wild, turned at the sound of Liska’s entry. Her eyes, usually beady with judgment, blazed with an unexpected ferocity. “Took you long enough, girl,” she hissed, her voice raspy. “They thought a simple old woman would break. Fools. Give me a gun. I’ve been waiting for this.” Liska stared, dumbfounded. “You… you did this?” “Of course, I did this! You think I spent sixty years in this mudhole without learning how to survive?” Ruzha jabbed a stained finger at the fallen guard. “My state loyalty? A performance, child! A distraction! You think I haven’t seen the things they do? The whispers, the disappearances? I learned to be invisible. To be harmless. To be *loyal*.” She snatched the dead guard’s rifle, inspecting it with surprising expertise. “Now, are we getting out of here, or are you going to stand there gawking?” Together, they moved through the corridor, finding no more guards. Ruzha, with the rifle clutched in her frail hands, walked with a newfound purpose. As they emerged from the stone staircase, the first rays of dawn painted the eastern sky in bruised purples and oranges. The market perimeter was still under watch, but the area directly around the town hall was momentarily clear. “The wagon,” Ruzha rasped, pointing a shaky finger at the bulky canvas-covered transport. “It’s the Inquisitor’s, I overheard them. He has something on it. Something heavy.” Before Liska could process the warning, a deafening roar tore through the morning air. The canvas cover of the wagon was thrown back, revealing a mounted Gatling gun, its barrel already spitting fire. The Inquisitor stood beside it, a grin spreading across his face as he manually cranked the weapon. Lead flew, tearing into the muddy ground around them, kicking up clods of earth. Liska shoved Ruzha behind the crumbling stone wall of the town hall, the impact rattling her teeth. “Courier! Brass King’s wife!” the Inquisitor bellowed over the gunfire. “Surrender now, and perhaps your elderly accomplice won’t share your fate!” Liska peered over the wall, assessing their desperate situation. The open ground was a death trap, exposed from all angles. Escape seemed impossible. Her eyes scanned the perimeter, searching for any weakness, any path. That’s when she saw him. Daris. Limping into the plaza from a side alley, his wounded leg dragging, a heavy revolver clutched in his hand. He was coming for her, for them, heedless of the danger, a fierce, reckless determination on his face. The Inquisitor’s gaze snapped to him with cold calculation. The Gatling gun began to pivot, its barrel traversing towards Daris. Liska had only a split second to act, an impossible choice laid bare before her: dive for cover with Ruzha, or expose herself to draw the Inquisitor's fire and save her husband.

The Matron's Secret