Vesna dropped to her knees, the icy snow biting through her worn trousers. Taras lay sprawled, a massive silhouette against the swirling white, his chest heaving shallowly. The pale ooze from his shoulder spread, melting the pristine flakes into a dark, shimmering pool. His eyes, usually a calm, deep grey, were clouded with pain and a frightening delirium. “Oh, for the love of the Winter Hag,” she muttered, her voice sharp enough to cut the wind, though the frost bit straight into her chest. “Couldn’t you have just dodged, you overgrown oaf? Now look at this mess. We’re going to need more than a scrap of cloth and a muttered curse.” Her fingers, surprisingly steady, felt for the wound. The lead hadn’t penetrated deep into the dense muscle of his shoulder, but the skin around it was already purpling, the grey-laced toxin working its way inward. Taras whimpered, a sound so raw and unlike him that she almost slipped into the drift. “The cave,” he rasped, his voice barely a breath. “The old…quarantine…near the…Shattered Falls.” “Shattered Falls? That’s half a day’s trek, you absolute idiot. You won’t last an hour.” But even as she spoke, she was trying to haul him up, her smaller frame struggling against his dead weight. He was immense, a mountain of muscle and bone, but now he felt like a crumbling monument. His internal heat, usually radiating warmth even through layers of clothing, was failing. Somehow, through a haze of desperation and adrenaline, she managed to get him stumbling forward, leaning heavily on her. Each of his steps was a brutal effort, his breath ragged. The snow continued to fall, a blessing and a curse, masking their tracks but slowing their progress. Vesna focused on the pulsing throb in her own ankle, the lingering ache from the hound, using it to fuel her anger. Anger was easier than fear. They found the cave just as the last vestiges of daylight surrendered to the gloom. It was a shallow maw in the rock face, choked with stunted, frost-bitten pines. Inside, the air was still, cold, but sheltered from the relentless wind. Scrawled runes on the rock walls, faded with time, hinted at its previous use – a desperate attempt to ward off the Glassplague, long abandoned. Vesna dragged Taras into the deepest recess, laying him gently on a patch of relatively dry earth. He was shivering violently now, his skin clammy. The metallic seep had spread further, a spiderweb of venom beneath his pale skin. She rummaged through her satchel, pulling out a small, portable medical kit – another ‘gift’ from the Institute. It contained a pair of thin surgical blades, sterile wipes, and a bottle of potent disinfectant. “Right,” she announced, her voice too loud in the confined space. “This is going to hurt. A lot. Try not to bleed all over my only clean tunic, alright? It’s hard enough to find decent laundry service out here.” Taras’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Vesna…” His hand, large and calloused, fumbled for hers. His grip was weak. “Your touch…it burns.” “Good. Means you’re still alive,” she retorted, though her fingers tightened around his. She uncapped the disinfectant, the acrid smell filling the air. “Hold still.” The surgical steel was cold, surprisingly heavy in her hand. She pressed it against his skin, just beside the entry wound. Taras cried out, a guttural sound of agony that tore at her. His back arched, muscles tensing, but his gaze remained fixed on her face, even as tears welled in his eyes. “Stay with me, you big lump,” she hissed, sweat beading on her forehead. “You can’t die yet. I haven’t even properly insulted your taste in cloaks.” She cut. A shallow incision, then deeper, following the projectile's trajectory. The murky sludge pulsed with each beat of his heart. Blood welled, dark and viscous, but the metallic sheen was unmistakable. Her hands worked with a frantic, practiced efficiency she hadn’t known she possessed, guided by a terror she refused to acknowledge. “It’s…it’s ugly, isn’t it?” Taras murmured, his voice slurring. His eyes drifted to the left side of his face, the side where chemical fire had melted his flesh, leaving a roadmap of angry, puckered scars that pulled at his eye and mouth. “The scars…they repulse you.” Vesna froze, the blade hovering inches from the wound. Her throat went dry. All the sarcasm, all the carefully constructed walls, wavered. She looked at his face, the ruined landscape of his cheek, the raw vulnerability in his eyes. Repulsion? How could he even think that? “Don’t you dare,” she whispered, her voice dangerously low, stripped of all its usual barbs. She dropped the blade, her hands reaching out, cupping his scarred cheek. It was rough, uneven, but warm. Alive. “Don’t you *ever* say something so stupid.” She leaned in, her lips pressing against the rough, fire-kissed skin of his cheek. Heat flared between their skins, searing away the cold and the pain. It was not a kiss of passion, but of fierce defiance, of desperate comfort, an anchor thrown into the storm. His body, racked with shivers, stilled. His breathing evened, just slightly. His eyes, though still clouded, seemed to focus on her with a spark of recognition. “Now stay still,” she commanded, pulling back, her voice firm again, though a tremor ran through her. She picked up the instrument. “Or I swear, I’ll take out an extra chunk just for that idiotic comment.” The pellet, a tiny, dark slug wreathed in grey discharge, finally slid free. Vesna snatched it with a pair of tweezers, dropping it into a small, sealed vial. She quickly cleaned the wound, packed it with sterile gauze, and secured it with a tight bandage. Taras was still breathing, his color still sickly, but the immediate threat seemed to have receded. She rummaged again, pulling out a small, flat terminal, its screen glowing faintly in the dimness. Her stolen data drive, the key to her revenge, was already slotted in. “Right. Now for the hard part. The counter-agent. The researchers always keep a remedy for their own toxins. They’re not *complete* barbarians.” Her fingers flew across the holographic keyboard, navigating through encrypted files. Schematics, personnel logs, experimental data. She searched for ‘Tracking Agent 7-Delta,’ the specific formula. The results populated slowly, each line of text a torturous delay. She found a reference, then another, cross-referencing against chemical compositions, known neutralizing serums, reversal agents. Then she saw it. Not a cure, not directly, but a procurement order. A large transfer of the raw chemical components for Tracking Agent 7-Delta, dated years ago, to a remote facility outpost. The requesting party was listed. ‘Matron Oksana, acting on behalf of the Veygosh Tribal Council.’ Vesna stared at the screen, her pulse slowing to a dead crawl. Oksana. Not just selling them out to Arkady now. But years ago. Selling the ingredients for a tracking compound. And then, a name on a linked file, a subject number for an early trial with the very same compound: Subject Rho-7. A massive, genetically modified warrior, sold to the Institute for ‘further study.’ Her gaze snapped to Taras’s face, pale in the terminal’s glow. Subject Rho-7. The massive protector who had just taken a slug for her. Oksana hadn’t just betrayed them today. She had sold Taras to the facility years ago, using the funds to finance her private war. Vesna’s hand trembled, a cold fury rising within her, sharper and more dangerous than any poison.

Silver Blood and Scars