The officer’s report sat like lead between them. Her journal, salvaged from the street, now pinned beside a corpse with Cinnabar Rose seeping through linen. The trap had snapped shut. “My shop,” she said, her fingers curling into her palms. “They’ll seal it. My notes, the working batch…” Hrubý looked at her without flinching. “Precisely. And you, Master Kopřiva, will be the prime suspect. A disgraced herbalist, a murdered rival, and a textbook motive.” He turned to the junior officer, his voice now a whip-crack of authority. “Cordon the district. No one in, no one out. Secure the Kopřiva establishment as a crime scene. Do not let a single scroll or flask be touched before Imperial Security arrives. Understood?” “Yes, Duke!” The officer snapped a salute and vanished, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. “He’s good,” Vlasta muttered, her mind racing. “He’ll be there in minutes. We won’t make it through the streets.” Hrubý was already moving, striding towards a concealed panel in the laboratory wall. It slid open with a soft click, revealing a narrow, stone-hewn passage. “Then we won’t go through the streets.” He pulled on a dark, unadorned tunic from a hook, covering his fine linen undershirt. “Follow me, if you want your freedom. Or your sister to live.” There was no choice. Vlasta snatched her satchel, containing what little she’d brought, and plunged into the darkness after him. The passage was cool and damp, a labyrinthine artery beneath the ducal estate, designed for discretion. It opened into a service tunnel, then a series of cramped, dusty stairwells, ascending rapidly. The air grew fresher, tinged with the scent of soot and city grit. “The roofs,” Hrubý stated, pushing open a heavy iron hatch that led to a dizzying expanse of slate and chimney pots. Below, the gaslight glow of Bratoslav stretched to the horizon, a patchwork quilt of terracotta and stone. The guild ward, distinguished by steep zinc spires and chimney clusters, glittered in the distance. “We move fast.” Cold river air bit into Vlasta's collar, steadying her legs. This was a different kind of chase, far removed from the sterile confines of her laboratory or the political maneuvering of the court. This was raw, physical, and utterly exhilarating. She scrambled after Hrubý, her boots finding purchase on the uneven tiles, the wind whipping her hair. He moved with a practiced ease, a predator navigating his terrain, leaping gaps with surprising agility for a man of his stature, his dark silhouette against the moon a stark contrast to her own, more clumsy movements. “Faster, Master Kopřiva!” he called over his shoulder, not waiting for her reply. “The Guard will be forming their cordon even now.” They moved like shadows, a strange, desperate dance across the city’s spine. Vlasta’s breath came in ragged gasps, her muscles burning, but she pushed onward, the image of Milena’s pale face spurring her through the exhaustion. The shop. The notes. The vial. Milena had two days left before the black phlegm rose. As they finally descended into the narrow alleyway behind her establishment, the distant blare of trumpets signaled the arrival of the Imperial Guard at the main thoroughfare. They were moments too late to avoid the cordon, but perhaps not too late to secure her things. Hrubý kicked open the back door to the Kopřiva shop, his hand already on the hilt of a concealed dagger. The air inside was still, heavy with the familiar scent of dried herbs and simmering tinctures. Gaslights flickered low, casting long, dancing shadows. Vlasta rushed past him, her eyes scanning for her hidden compartment beneath the main workbench. She knelt, her hands flying to the latch, pulling free a heavy, leather-bound volume and a small, corked phial containing a swirling, opalescent liquid. “Got it,” she whispered, exhaling sharply. “The last of the research and the current blend.” A sharp hiss echoed from the shadowed corner of the room. Vlasta froze. Hrubý lunged, pushing her roughly behind a towering shelf of ceramic jars. A dark, cloaked figure detached itself from the gloom, moving with a fluid, unnatural grace. The Rival Regressor. A glint of polished steel preceded a swift, arcing strike aimed at Hrubý’s exposed flank. The Duke parried with his dagger, the clash of metal ringing sharply in the quiet shop. Vlasta peered around the edge of the shelf, pressed against the rough cedar boards. The Rival fought with chilling precision, each movement economical, deadly. They weren’t trying to kill Hrubý, not truly. The strikes were aimed to disable, to wound, to make him a burden. A deep gash appeared on Hrubý’s forearm, followed by another across his shoulder. His breathing grew labored, but he held his ground, a defiant bulwark protecting her. But the true menace was directed at Vlasta. When the Rival broke Hrubý’s guard for a split second, they didn’t aim for his chest. Instead, a swift, low kick swept towards Vlasta’s knees, designed to drop her, to leave her vulnerable. It was a familiar move, one she’d seen practiced in sparring matches amongst the Guild’s more aggressive students. A fighting style she recognised. The intent was clear: Hrubý was an obstacle, but Vlasta was the target, and the Rival’s methods were calibrated to end *her* life, not just impede it. Furious, Vlasta reacted instinctively, throwing a ceramic jar of pulverised belladonna powder with surprising force. It exploded against the Rival’s hood, momentarily obscuring their vision. Hrubý seized the opportunity, driving his elbow into their ribs, forcing them back against a rack of bubbling retorts. As the Rival stumbled, their hood slipped back, just for a fleeting moment. Vlasta gasped. She didn't see a face, not clearly, only a blur of dark hair and a flash of metal. But on the exposed hand, a signet ring caught the dim gaslight: a stylized depiction of a soaring falcon, its talons clutching a sheaf of wheat. The crest of House Král. Her mind reeled. *Král?* The Rival recovered instantly, pushing off the rack with explosive force. They didn’t engage Hrubý further. Their gaze dropped toward the glass cylinder in her fingers. With a calculated, brutal swing, they brought a heavy mortar down on the workbench, directly on the spot where she had placed the precious phial. The glass shattered with a sickening crunch, the opalescent liquid splattering across the rough wood, immediately beginning to fizz and evaporate into acrid, useless fumes. The nearly-complete antidote. Ruined. The cloaked figure slipped backward through the frame, vanishing into the fog outside. Hrubý pressed a stained hand against his cut forearm. Vlasta knelt by the splintered wood, watching bitter white steam rise from the floorboards. Hrubý knelt beside her, his grim expression reflecting her own anguish. He picked up a shard of the ruined phial, turning it over in his bloodied, gloved hand. “There’s only one place with the equipment to remake this in time. The Imperial Palace’s alchemy lab. And tonight, we’re breaking in.”

The Fox and the Hunter