The rain was a solid, deafening curtain, obscuring the Vukoja estate’s ornate iron gates from the streetlamps. Tihana, a shadow among shadows, scaled the wet, ivy-choked stone wall with practiced ease, each handhold a memory from her rebellious youth. The biting wind whipped her borrowed cloak around her, but she barely felt the cold, a sharp, singular focus burning away the chill. Lovre’s cough, thin and frail, echoed in her mind. Midnight was only hours away, and with it, the winter solstice. The main aqueduct valve, she knew, would freeze solid if Rytis’s system wasn't connected. If the Royal Guild Seal wasn't secured. Tonight. Rain sluiced down her collar, freezing against her collarbone as she dropped her chin. She dropped lightly onto the manicured lawn, the sodden grass yielding under her worn boots. The manor’s grand facade, usually ablaze with light for some vapid gathering, was dark, save for a single, frantic glow from the ground floor alchemical laboratory. A muffled crash, then another, vibrated through the stone. Ignoring the main entrance, she picked the lock of a servant’s door, a trick she’d learned from a disreputable stable boy years ago. The air inside was thick with the scent of ozone and burnt reagents. The crashing sounds grew louder, more desperate. She moved through the darkened service corridors, her steps silent on the rich, woven rugs. The laboratory door hung ajar, splintered. Inside, Ignas Ruzena was a man possessed. His once-immaculate clothes were torn, stained with corrosive chemicals. His soft jaw jerked with tremors. He swung a heavy iron mortar, smashing vials of milky tinctures and scattering glass across the floor. Shelves groaned under the impact, their contents tumbling, shattering. The lab, once a paragon of precise, methodical research, was a ruin. “Fool!” Ignas shrieked, his voice cracking. He brought the mortar down on a glass distillation column, shattering its fluted neck. “She called me a fool! Her cure, she said! Instant glory, she promised! Liar! All lies!” He kicked at a spilled jar of glistening tinctures, sending a pungent, acrid vapor into the air. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, landed on Tihana, who had stepped fully into the doorway. He froze, the iron pestle raised, dripping amber syrup. “Tihana?” he breathed, his voice suddenly small, bewildered. “What are you… how did you…” “Ignas,” she said, her voice low, devoid of its usual mirth. “Danica used you. She always has.” His face twisted, a raw wound of betrayal. “Used me? No… she loved me. She said I was brilliant. She said my potion would save us all.” He looked around the devastated lab, the reality of his failure finally sinking into his broken mind. His gaze fell upon a small, polished wooden box on a miraculously untouched workbench. “That… that was her true obsession. Not my research. Not my genius.” His shoulders slumped. The cast-iron tool clattered across the flagstones, rolling into a pool of brine. He stumbled towards the box, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. He fumbled with the clasp, then pulled out a heavy, intricately carved brass disk. The Royal Guild of Architects’ seal, gleaming even in the dim, chaotic light, its ancient markings a promise of legitimacy, of power. “She flaunted it,” he mumbled, his eyes burning with a vengeful fire. “Said she’d keep it from you, from Rytis. Said she’d watch you drown.” He looked at Tihana, a flicker of something akin to clarity in his ruined gaze. “She doesn’t deserve it. She deserves nothing but to watch her grand plans turn to ash.” He held out the seal, his hand trembling. “Take it. Take it and go. Let her lose everything.” Tihana took the heavy seal, its cold metal a shock against her palm. It was real. It was hers. She nodded once, a silent thanks, and turned to leave. Ignas slumped onto a stool amidst the wreckage, a defeated, broken man. She moved swiftly back through the manor’s labyrinthine corridors, the seal clutched tight. The rain still lashed down outside, a relentless drumming. She reached the rear courtyard, a wide expanse of flagstone slick with water. A sharp click, metallic and distinct, cut through the downpour. “Leaving so soon, Tihana?” Danica’s voice, sharp and laced with triumphant malice, sliced through the deluge. She stood framed by the manor’s rear entrance, a small, ornate pistol clutched in her hand, its barrel glinting. Her hair was damp, plastered to her furious face, her elegant gown soaked and clinging. “Did you truly think you could just walk in here and steal what’s mine?” Tihana stopped, tucking the brass disk against her ribs. She met Danica’s gaze, not with the cheerful fool’s simper, but with a fierce, protective glare. “It was never yours, Danica. Not the seal. Not the future.” Danica’s lip curled into a snarl. “Then neither will you have it.” She raised the pistol, aiming squarely at Tihana’s chest. Powder flashed orange in the pan, cracking loud against the courtyard walls. A blur of movement, a dark shape launched from the shadows beneath a weeping elm. Rytis, his prosthetic arm a crude, blackened thing forged from Vyrn ironworks scrap, slammed into Tihana, throwing her aside. The lead ball flattened against the plate with a dull clang, ricocheting into the mortar. Rytis grunted, his body absorbing the impact, the crude ironwork of his arm now marred with a fresh gouge. He didn’t falter. With a terrifying speed, he closed the distance between them, his good hand clamping around Danica’s wrist. A sharp twist, and the pistol clattered to the flagstones. Danica choked on a wet shriek. Rytis didn’t release her. He shoved her against the limestone wall, pinning her shoulder with iron fingers. “You will not touch her,” he said, barely above the sound of running gutters. He released her, turning his back as she slid down the wet stone. Tihana was already moving. Rytis caught her sleeve, matching her stride as they broke for the iron carriage gates and left Danica alone on the stones. As they reached the edge of the estate, the grand clock tower of the Cathedral of St. Corvus began to chime. Twelve mournful, heavy tolls echoed through the city, each peal a hammer blow against the coming cold. Midnight. The winter solstice. A low iron groan shuddered through the storm drain beneath their boots as the river gate locked in ice.

The Stolen Seal