The lead officer, his voice a gravelly boom through the brass horn, held the warrant aloft. "Vasek Volkov! By decree of the Ministry, you are placed under arrest on charges of contraband trade and fraudulent commerce!"
Four constables advanced, their polished boots thudding on the grimy floorboards, each step measured. Vasek, still gripping a bolt of the newly treated, acid-proof silk, merely arched a brow. His usual roguish smirk flickered, a dangerous glint entering his eyes. “Contraband? Fraudulent? My dear sirs, I operate a perfectly legitimate textile enterprise.”
"Your sudden prosperity," the lead officer retorted, his gaze sweeping over the burgeoning stacks of fabric, "has raised considerable interest. An interest that aligns precisely with an inquiry into illicit ledger entries and—" He paused, his dark eyes narrowing on Otylia, who stood a few paces behind Vasek, a single, delicate thread of platinum silk draped over her hand. “—connections to certain unsavory syndicates.”
Otylia’s wide, placid smile, usually as fixed as a painted cherub’s, faltered. Her fingers tightened on the silk. It was a miniscule tremor, barely perceptible, but Vasek caught it. He turned his head slightly, an unasked question in his eyes. He had never seen her lose that facade, not once.
"Unsavory syndicates?" Otylia asked, her voice still pitched high, but laced with a sudden, brittle edge. "I assure you, Inspector, my husband is a pillar of honest industry. We merely discovered a superior method for fiber treatment."
The lead officer snorted. "We are not here for your textiles, Lady Volkova. Though their sudden appearance is certainly… convenient. We are here because the Ministry has uncovered a series of forged loan notes, drawn from the Shadowmark Syndicate, intended to cover the exorbitant fees for a Vice-Marshal's commission." His gaze, sharp as a whetstone, flickered between Otylia and Vasek. “Documents bearing the unmistakable signature of Radovan Vesnick. Documents that, curiously, were notarized with a financial seal legally linked to your own dowry account, Lady Otylia. A dowry account that, until recently, was shared with your half-sister, Sabina Belik.”
The air thickened. The humming looms seemed to die away, and the dust motes drifting through the blue aether-light appeared frozen. Otylia felt a cold dread seep into her bones. Sabina’s stupidity hadn’t just created debt; it had woven a snare that implicated Otylia in high treason. The legal linking of dowry accounts, a common practice for noble sisters until marriage formally severed the ties, was now a noose.
"Treason," one of the younger constables muttered under his breath.
Vasek took a step back, positioning himself fully in front of Otylia. His arms spread slightly, shielding her. The playboy's careless charm was gone, replaced by a raw, unyielding protectiveness. His shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the squad. “My wife has no knowledge of such dealings. Any connection is purely… circumstantial.”
"Circumstance," the lead officer stated with a thin sneer, "is often the first thread of a conspiracy. Lady Otylia, your name is tied to a matter of profound gravity. The Ministry requires your presence for questioning." He gestured sharply. "Take them both."
The constables lunged forward. Vasek, without a moment's hesitation, moved. He swept Otylia behind him with one arm, his other hand instinctively going to the heavy lead pipe leaning against a loom. His eyes blazed, a feral intensity Otylia had only glimpsed in their most private moments. He was ready to fight, to shed blood, to die for her. Her heart twisted, a complex knot of fear and profound, unexpected warmth.
But this was not the time for sentiment. This was the time for calculation. The saccharine smile, the one that had been her shield for years, finally shattered. Her face became a canvas of cold, aristocratic command. Every soft line hardened, every hint of cheerful oblivion vanished. Her voice, when it came, was no longer high and lilting but deep, resonant, and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Stop.”
The single word, spoken with an authority that had once commanded entire ducal households, cut through the warehouse with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. The men hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden snap in her tone. The inspector paused, lowering his brass horn.
Otylia stepped out from behind Vasek, placing a steady hand on his forearm to lower the iron pipe. Her gaze fixed on the inspector with chilling clarity. "I understand the state's concerns regarding illicit ledgers, Inspector. Especially in these… volatile times." Her voice softened, cutting and low. "The impending purge, I presume?"
The inspector's mouth tightened. The purge was not public knowledge, not yet. Only those at the highest tiers of military power possessed forewarning of the scheduled executions. How did this airheaded noblewoman know?
“A necessary culling,” he stated, his own voice losing some of its bluster. “To stabilize the capital.”
"Indeed," Otylia replied, her lips curving into a sharp, humorless sliver. "And a culling of such magnitude requires… substantial resources, does it not? High adjudicators, expanded cells, expedited trials… all of it demands coin." She paused, letting the offer dangle. "A cost, I daresay, my husband and I are uniquely positioned to offset. Our textile enterprise produces unheard-of margins. A substantial gift to the purge coffer could easily clarify any lingering misunderstandings about our loyalties."
The inspector stared, balancing the immediate credit of an arrest against the mountain of gold she offered. The coming purge was a bottomless pit of expenditure. A timely infusion of cash could secure his own promotion.
"How… substantial?" he asked at last, the bluster replaced by calculating greed.
Otylia named a figure. It was exorbitant, enough to make Vasek stiffen beside her, and enough to make the inspector's pupils dilate. It was a sum that bought more than freedom; it bought influence, immunity, and time.
The constables lowered their sidearms. The inspector rolled the yellowed paper into his sleeve. "The Ministry values civic responsibility, Lady Otylia. Let us consider this inquiry satisfied for now. We shall expect your contribution by week's end."
He gave her a curt nod, then turned and barked orders to his men. They retreated as quickly as they had arrived, leaving behind splintered doors and an eerie silence. Vasek watched them go, then turned to Otylia, his gaze a mixture of awe and profound concern. “You just bought us out of treason. And you knew about the Purge.”
Otylia’s smile returned, though it was still a strained, fragile thing. “Sabina’s idiocy accelerated things. We need to move faster.” She glanced around the warehouse. “I need to speak with Zofia. Immediately.”
***
The secluded back room of the salon was a sanctuary of hushed rumors and clinking porcelain. Zofia, her quill poised over fresh paper, looked up as Otylia slipped through the velvet drapes. The columnist's usual sharp glint was dulled by jittery nerves. She had witnessed the Tribunal’s visit to the warehouse firsthand, a discreet vantage point from a rented carriage nearby.
"Otylia," Zofia began in a thin rasp. "Are you unhurt? Word in the tearooms says you were named in—"
“I’m perfectly well, Zofia,” Otylia interrupted, her smile back in full, dazzling force, but her eyes were cold, like chips of glacial ice. She settled into the plush velvet chair opposite Zofia, pouring herself a cup of steaming aether-infused jasmine tea. “And fully aware of Sabina’s latest financial gymnastics. Which, I might add, have put the entire city on a fast track to ruin. The Purge is coming, Zofia. Sooner than anyone anticipates.”
Zofia’s hand trembled, spilling a drop of ink onto the pristine white table cloth. “The Purge? What are you…?”
"Don't play innocent, Zofia. You run in the same circles as the magistrates. You trade in their secrets. You know what the purge entails: blood in the gutters, and targeted estates liquidated to fatten the military high command." Otylia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze never leaving Zofia’s face. “You’ve been playing both sides, feeding scraps of information to Sabina and me, keeping your own head above water. But the tide is rising, Zofia. The time for neutrality is over.”
Zofia swallowed hard. Her usually composed facade was cracking under Otylia’s unwavering stare. “What do you want, Otylia?”
“A choice, Zofia. You can continue to dance on the edge, or you can choose a side. Side with Sabina, and burn when her house of cards collapses. Or side with me. And survive. Perhaps even prosper.” Otylia leaned across the table. "I need the names. The targets marked for slaughter. You dine with the magistrates. You have access."
Zofia’s eyes darted around the room, then back to Otylia. She reached into the voluminous sleeve of her gown, her fingers fumbling with a hidden seam. With a quick flick of her wrist, she slid a folded scrap across the mahogany table. It was brittle, sealed with cracked scarlet wax.
Otylia unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the elegant script, the names of prominent figures, military officers, wealthy merchants. Then her gaze locked onto a single name inked at the very top of the ledger. Her chest went hollow, the teacup trembling against her saucer.
*Vasek Volkov.* Right above:
*Radovan Vesnick.*