The stench of stagnant water and cheap spirits hung heavy over the canal-side taproom known as The Sunken Eel. Valeska drove her elbow into the gut of a burly brute named Grish, a man whose face was a roadmap of poorly healed scars. His grip on Olek’s arm faltered, just enough for her brother to squirm free. Olek, pale and quiet, scrambled behind Valeska’s legs, a fragile shadow in the gloom. The floorboards, slick with spilled grog and river algae, offered treacherous footing.
“Leave him out of this, you gutter-scum!” Valeska snarled, her voice raw. Skin had split across her fingers, leaving crimson streaks stark against the grimy lamplight. Grish, his eyes glazed with a mixture of cheap rotgut and malice, lunged again. He was aiming for Olek, always Olek. Valeska didn’t hesitate. She snatched a warped billiard cue from the nearest table, its polished surface slick with moisture, and brought it down across Grish’s outstretched arm with a vicious crack. The cue splintered, shrieking wood protesting, a jagged shard embedding itself in his forearm. Grish roared, clutching his arm, a wet, animal sound.
Just then, the few sputtering gas lamps above flickered, coughed, and died. Darkness swallowed the taproom whole. A collective gasp rippled through the patrons. The perpetual fog of Ostrachova, usually just a misty veil outside, seemed to have seeped indoors, thickening, chilling the very air. Valeska felt it first, that dreadful shift, the sudden, unnatural chill that always heralded its approach. Olek, pressed against her back, began to tremble violently. A soft, high-pitched whine escaped him, a sound of pure terror.
From the deepest, most shadowed corner of the room, a form began to coalesce. It was less a body and more a tear in reality, a patch of deeper dark that pulsed with a malevolent, silent hunger. Wisps of inky blackness, like tendrils of smoke, detached from its main mass, searching. The Murk. And Olek, poor, sickly Olek, was a beacon to them. The low, guttural growls of the remaining thugs died in their throats, replaced by shivers of primal fear. They knew this threat, knew its swift, silent snatching power.
Valeska grabbed the nearest kerosene lamp, a heavy, brass-bound thing, its wick still glowing faintly. With a desperate grunt, she swung it, not caring for the scattered glass or flaming oil. The lamp smashed against the encroaching shadow-mass. A shriek, utterly devoid of natural sound, tore through the air. The Murk recoiled, hissing, shrinking back into the corner, its tendrils writhing as if burned. A jarring shock bit into her wrist from the impact, leaving a numbness that throbbed to the bone. The air around her shimmered faintly, a brief, pale luminescence against the dark. For a moment, she was breathless, the world narrowed to the lingering dread and the faint, acrid smell of burnt shadow.
Before she could even properly steady her breathing, the heavy, waterlogged door of ‘The Sunken Eel’ creaked open. A beam of stark, artificial light sliced through the gloom, illuminating two figures. First, Marika Chernova, Valeska’s cousin, strikingly elegant even in this sewer taproom, her smile a predatory curve in the lantern-light. She wore a gown of rich, storm-grey velour, her hair a meticulously sculpted wave, utterly untouched by canal grime. Beside her stood a portly magistrate in spotless ceremonial wool, his expression fixed in stiff pomposity. Behind them, silhouetted, was Nikodem Volkov, Valeska’s fiancé, his face pale and his usually bright eyes downcast.
“Valeska, my dear,” Marika purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy, “such a sordid display. Still brawling in the sewers, I see. A pity your noble blood has diluted so thoroughly.” Her gaze flicked to the retreating Murk, then to Olek, a flicker of something almost like concern, quickly masked by disdain. “The magistrate is here to finalize the… arrangement.”
The official cleared his throat, unrolling a heavy parchment. “By the decrees of Ostrachova’s Matrimonial Re-assignment Act, and given the presented evidence of… societal incompatibility, the betrothal between Nikodem Volkov and Valeska Chernova is hereby nullified. Furthermore, by the terms of the supplemental agreement, Valeska Chernova shall enter into a marital bond with Casimir Radovan, effective immediately.” He gestured to Nikodem. “Mr. Volkov, you are now free to uphold your new, more suitable engagement to Marika Chernova.”
Nikodem stepped forward then, avoiding Valeska’s eyes. His gaze found Marika’s, and for a fleeting instant, a flicker of relief crossed his features. Relief. Valeska felt a cold, hard knot form in her stomach. He was relieved to be rid of her, of the Drowned Wards, of Olek’s illness, of the constant struggle. He was relieved to escape the slums.
“Sign here, Valeska,” the magistrate insisted, thrusting a quill toward her. Her knuckles, still bleeding from the brawl, stained the parchment a stark, terrible red. She pressed the quill down, a jagged, defiant scrawl, refusing to flinch, refusing to give Marika the satisfaction of a single tear. Air caught behind her teeth, choked off by a rage so sharp it tasted like copper.
As if on cue, a figure detached itself from the deepest shadows behind the magistrate. He was a mountain of a man, his frame scarred and broad, clad in practical, oil-stained leathers. Casimir Radovan. The name carried the raw menace of the lower districts. His face was a landscape of old wounds, one eye milky and clouded, the other a piercing, intelligent dark. He stepped forward with steady, implacable malice.
Two of Grish’s remaining cronies, emboldened by Marika’s arrival, rushed Valeska. Casimir moved with a terrifying speed. His hand, as thick as Valeska’s wrist, moved. A flash of light, sharp and resonant, burst from the rings along his fist. He wore a brutal hand-guard braced with tightly bound, flawless prism shards. A low hum vibrated in the air. He struck the first thug in the temple. The man didn’t fall, he *vaporized*, dissolving into a wisp of grey ash that immediately vanished into the omnipresent fog. The second thug, already reaching for a rusty shiv, froze. Casimir’s weapon drove into his chest. Another flash, another mute dissolution. The shadow-tendrils still writhing in the far corner shrieked, recoiling from the clear light.
Casimir turned to Valeska, his single good eye fixing on her with an unnerving intensity. “Pack your things, Chernova,” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly current, “we’re getting married tonight.”
Before Valeska could even process the words, a colossal, shriek ripped through the sodden wood of the tavern’s outer wall. A section of the wall exploded inwards, sending splinters and brackish water showering across the room. Through the gaping hole, a massive, multi-limbed Murk entity, a leviathan of shadows, began to heave itself into the building, its form hulking and misshapen, cold brine flooding in beneath its bulk. Casimir, without a word, slammed the heavy door shut, the ancient lock groaning under the sudden strain.