Air caught behind Ziva’s ribs in a sharp, strangled scrape. She twisted, trying to shield Drazhan with her own body, but Vesna was too swift, too consumed by a maniacal zeal. The blue glass spike arced toward her spine. Just as its freezing point kissed her skin, a heavy, dust-caked arm shot out from beneath her embrace.
Drazhan had clamped down around Matriarch Vesna’s wrist. His grip was not the desperate clutch of a fading boy, but the unyielding vice of iron. Vesna’s shriek of triumph transmuted into a gasp of pain. Her gnarled fingers, still clutching the frozen glass, trembled. Drazhan’s eyes, though no longer glowing with the violet fire of his full transformation, held a cold, unwavering intensity that hung heavier than the chapel's settled soot.
“My… my Prince!” Vesna rasped, the malice on her mouth collapsing into an oily sneer. “You are awake! The Taint still lives! The plan can proceed!” She tried to pull her wrist free, but Drazhan’s hold was absolute, unbreakable. Her struggle was pathetic, a fly caught in amber.
He did not speak. He merely watched her with those dark, bottomless eyes, a silent judgment that seemed to flay her soul.
Vesna’s eyes darted from Drazhan’s unyielding face to Ziva’s, then back. A spark of her old malice reignited. “Foolish boy! You think this… this *whore* can save you? I nurtured your lineage, carved a path to the throne! She only seeks to cage you, to domesticate your gifts! I will rip the curse from your wretched corpse and rule Gvozda as its true sovereign, a queen of the frozen wastes!” Her voice rose, regaining its theatrical grandeur. “Your blood, Drazhan, is the key! The crown of Gvozda will bend to my will, once your heart’s last beat gives it-”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Ziva interrupted, her voice shrill and bright, cutting across Vesna’s dramatic monologue like a rusty saw through silk. “Rip the power from his corpse? Rule Gvozda? How much, exactly, are you paying for that?”
Vesna's teeth snapped together mid-sentence. Her eyelids twitched, the rehearsed venom stalling in her throat. “What… what did you just say, girl?”
“The price, old woman!” Ziva pressed, leaning in conspiratorially, as if discussing the cost of a bolt of silk. Her hand, still pressed to Drazhan’s back, gave a reassuring, gentle pat. “You’re talking about, what, a continent-spanning, magically-infused coup, powered by the life-force of a royal prince with a unique bloodline? That’s not a cheap transaction, is it? You can’t just go around expropriating royal blood without proper compensation!”
Vesna gaped, her face a mask of utter bewilderment. The glacial spike, still trapped in her hand, pulsed faintly. “Compensation? What in the blighted name of the Snow King are you babbling about? This is conquest! This is destiny!”
“Conquest, destiny, sure, sure. That’s just market jargon, Matriarch,” Ziva waved a dismissive hand, her cheerful facade now fully re-engaged, a shield not just for herself, but for Drazhan. “But even destiny has a price point. What’s your offer? Ten thousand scions of silver for the prince’s soul and a frozen Gvozda? Twenty? Because, honestly, for a whole continent, plus a prince with *unique* monstrous qualities, I’d say you’re looking at a starting bid of at least a hundred thousand, cash upfront. And that’s before factoring in the cost of post-apocalyptic infrastructure management. Do you have a contingency fund for the inevitable famine?”
Drazhan, still holding Vesna’s wrist, shifted ever so slightly. A low rumble vibrated in his chest, a sound Ziva recognized as a stifled laugh, a rare and precious thing.
“You… you insolent, imbecilic merchant!” Vesna shrieked, her face turning a mottled puce. Her theatrical rage was gone, replaced by genuine, sputtering fury. “Are you mocking me? I am Matriarch Vesna! I wield the power of the ancient sorcerers! I hold the staff of the Frost Speakers!” She gestured wildly with her free hand toward the rune-carved cypress staff leaning against a shattered stone pillar nearby. “My will bends the ice and the snow! My magic can crack the very mountains!”
“Oh, that old thing?” Ziva squinted at the staff, as if appraising a chipped ceramic pot. “Looks a bit brittle, doesn’t it? And those runes, are they even authentic? Seems like a knock-off from the Black Market of Krivda. I saw a similar one go for five copper pieces and a half-eaten smoked fish, last spring. Not really worth a prince’s soul, is it? Not even a quarter of a prince’s soul.”
Vesna’s eyes bulged, her entire body trembling with impotent rage. “You… you…!” She stammered, words failing her. Her voice was lost in a choked gurgle.
Before the woman could gather her breath, Drazhan moved. With no warning, no visible effort, he casually reached out his other hand, still clutching Vesna’s wrist with the first. His fingers closed around the weathered cypress staff. There was a sickening *crack*, sharp and loud, echoing through the courtyard. The Staff of the Frost Speakers, the symbol of Vesna’s power, snapped cleanly in two, showering dry cedar splinters across the rubble-strewn ground. Its faint, blue aura sputtered and died.
Vesna stared at the two broken halves of her staff, then at Drazhan’s impassive face, then back at the useless wood in disbelief. All the color drained from her face, leaving it ashen and slack. The sliver of winter glass slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering onto the stones.
“See?” Ziva chirped, picking up the discarded blade with a grimace. “Poor quality. Didn’t even last five seconds. I told you.” She then gave Drazhan a firm, almost exasperated look. “Seriously, Drazhan, that was *my* negotiation. You just cut a good third off my leverage!”
Drazhan finally met her gaze. The hint of a smirk played on his lips, a truly terrifying sight given his current ferocity. He then released Vesna’s wrist with a dismissive flick. The Matriarch stumbled back, clutching her throbbing hand, staring at her ruined wrist in stunned silence.
Ziva, her expression hardening, pointed to a tangle of heavy iron chains coiled against the fractured masonry. “Fetch those, Drazhan. And make them *tight*.”
With a silent, almost eager obedience, Drazhan retrieved the chains. Ziva directed him with brisk efficiency, binding Vesna’s wrists, then her ankles, then securing her to a broken stone pillar. The chains clanked, cold and heavy, reflecting the grey sky. Vesna struggled weakly, whimpering, her eyes still fixed on the shattered pieces of her staff.
Once Vesna was secured, Ziva leaned in close, her cheerful mask dropping to reveal a glint of steel. “You will tell us everything you know about this sickness, Matriarch. Everything about the Tsar’s weaknesses. And you will do it nicely, or I will personally ensure that every single one of your precious teeth is extracted with a blunt rock, one by one. I’m quite good at haggling for pain, you know.”
Vesna lifted her head, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stones. A raw, ragged laugh tore from her chest, devoid of humor. “You truly believe this is over? You think you’ve won? You foolish, naive girl!” Her eyes, though duller, still held a flicker of triumph. “My signal flare… it was sent hours ago. By now, the entire Tsarist army, the Northern Legions themselves, are marching on this cursed Keep! To eradicate the Taint once and for all!”