The cold iron barrel bit into Otylia’s forehead, scraping skin. Her bright smile stayed pinned in place, though her pulse rattled against her collarbone. Her gaze remained fixed on the steel cylinder of the firearm. A sharp, metallic tang filled the air, a scent that always preceded the worst kind of trouble. “Commander,” Otylia trilled, keeping her voice light and musical, “what an uncivil surprise! Did you not enjoy the masquerade? We had such lovely canapés!” His lowered visor hid his features, though his gauntlet rattled faintly against the frame. “Your chatter buys no mercy, Lady Vlasov. You are all under arrest. For treason. For fraud. For disrupting the Crimson Purge.” The hammer pulled back with a dry, mechanical snap that rang between the brick walls. Before Otylia could offer another saccharine retort, a blur of movement. Vasek, still supporting a barely conscious Radovan, surged forward. He shoved Otylia violently behind him, his arm sweeping out like a protective wing. The weapon discharged with a deafening crack, emerald aether fire washing over the damp masonry. Otylia gasped, stumbling back into the wall. The acrid smell of burnt propellant singed her nostrils. A low grunt escaped Vasek’s lips as his body twisted, shielding her completely. He staggered, a dark bloom spreading rapidly across the shoulder of his tailored vest. The impact twisted Vasek aside, spilling Radovan into the muddy gravel, yet Vasek held his footing, his teeth bared at their ambusher. “Get away from her,” Vasek snarled, his voice a guttural rasp. His fingers clamped over his shoulder, his stare locked onto the steel helm before him. Blood welled between his fingers, stark against the dark fabric. Otylia stared at the crimson patch spreading across Vasek's wool coat. Her cheerful veneer strained, muscles knotting in her throat, yet she forced the corners of her mouth to remain curled in an airy, porcelain arc even as her stomach turned to ice. She took half a step forward, her chin tilted high, her empty grin chilling into something predatory and razor-sharp. “You shot him,” Otylia murmured, her voice stripped of its singsong cadence. Every syllable was precise, each word a venomous dart. “You dared to lay a hand on what is *mine*.” The officer stepped back, leveling his sidearm at Vasek’s ribs. “Stand down, Vlasov! You are obstructing the law!” “The law?” Otylia stepped past Vasek, nudging him back against the damp brick with an unyielding arm. “You cite the law when you are merely a bankrupt mercenary in a polished breastplate? Your entire apparatus is crumbling into worthless scrip.” The officer stiffened. “What are you babbling about, woman?” “Babbling?” A faint, humorless smile touched Otylia’s lips. It was a smile that promised ruin. “While you were busy chasing shadows and extorting fortunes from terrified nobles, my dearest Zofia and I were rather busy making sure your ‘fortunes’ ceased to exist.” She gestured lazily with one hand, as if flicking away dust. “Every foreign reserve, every bond portfolio, every last aurum backing your high tribunal... gone. Shorted. Liquidated. The moment the first rifle was cocked tonight, Zofia’s network executed the order. A little something I like to call ‘insurrection insurance.’ Funny, isn’t it? You thought you were purging the city, but you’ve only purged your own coffers.” Footsteps splashed in the puddle at the alley mouth. Zofia slipped through the grate ahead of three print-runners carrying bundles of damp paper. “The press ran clean, Otylia!” Zofia called out, unfurling a broadsheet under the gas lamp. “The midnight edition sits on every tea cart in the Crystal Salons. The tribunal’s defaults are headline news.” The officer’s aim wavered, iron dipping toward the cobbles. The two enforcers trailing behind him halted, staring at the wet headlines being slapped across the brickwork. Otylia took another smooth step forward, her vacant smile settling back into place like lacquered porcelain. “Tell me, sir,” she whispered, her tone sweet as spun sugar, “how does your high command purge the city when you cannot even pay the daily wages of your firing squads?” She glanced at the frozen guards, then back at the commander, her dimpled expression unwavering. It was not the airhead’s smile, not the socialite’s smile, but the smile of a queen claiming her dominion. “Now,” Otylia purred, her voice dripping with lethal sweetness, “shall we discuss the terms of your surrender, or should I buy the military too?”

The Price of a Smile