“Tomorrow?” Zhulya stepped back from the doorway, her voice flat and low. She glanced at Ozen, still hunched inside the wool blanket, trembling with practiced precision. Even knowing the boy was feigning weakness, the sight of his sunken collarbones tightened her ribs. She was not ready. Her ledger of debts and bribe routes had barely taken shape on paper. Tariq’s frantic gaze swept the room again, confirming the urgency. “The dawn-watch bells. They’ll be here by then.” Tariq was simply the courier of bad news; Yadan was the architect setting the snare earlier than expected. “What do you want, Tariq?” she demanded, her voice sharper now, cutting through the quartermaster’s panic. “You said you can help. How?” Tariq flinched, then straightened, a desperate resolve hardening his features. “My family archives. The ledgers Yadan altered, implicating my kin in the Gharaq Embezzlement. They are stored in an iron cellar beneath the judicial wing. I know the corridor layouts and the watch rotations. Break the lock, and the ink speaks against her. Clear my lineage before she feeds us to the executioners.” Zhulya stared at him, weighing the offer. A risky alliance, a treacherous bargain. But the clock had just struck midnight on her execution. “An iron cellar under judicial guard,” she said, evaluating the odds. “Bring the floor plans before noon.” A brass horn sounded outside, its blast reverberating against the stone bastions. Steel horseshoes clattered across the outer causeway, far too sharp and synchronized for routine wardens. Tariq retreated against the wall, skin draining of color. “The crown magistrates,” he muttered. “The desert court does not ride at dawn unless a scaffold is already framed.” Zhulya pushed Ozen to his feet, throwing a cloak over his blanket-wrapped form. “Stay close. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Look pathetic.” Ozen nodded, lowering his chin until his lashes brushed his cheeks. *Stay close.* He pressed the instruction into his ribs, letting the sound of her voice settle like hot embers against his ribs. The bone-handled stilettos tucked into his waistband stayed dormant beneath wool and silk. If she commanded slaughter, he would cut throats until the flagstones ran red; until then, he would play the shivering orphan. The Grand Altar courtyard was already packed with students and tutors arranged in rigid lines. In the center square, six black-lacquered coaches bearing the Sun and Viper crest rested on iron axles. Gilded constables, their visors closed, formed a cordon around the lead carriage. And then she appeared. Matriarch Yadan, a vision in deep vermillion silks, her silver hair intricately braided with pearls, emerged from the lead wagon. She descended to the paving stones without wrinkling her hem, her expression mild and pious. Only her gaze, hard and dark as cooled slag, cut through the ranks to find Zhulya. “My dear Artaq kin,” Yadan’s voice, clear and melodious, carried across the courtyard. “And Prince Ozen, of course. How delightful to find you both gracing our morning assembly.” She gestured to a stern-faced Inquisitor Captain, whose helmet bore the mark of the Emperor’s personal guard. “Commander Veraz, these are the two I mentioned. The Artaq decoy, and the illegitimate princeling.” The commander, clad in dark plate, advanced with his gauntlet resting on his scabbard. “Matriarch Yadan has submitted a formal grievance,” he announced, the brass baffles in his helmet projecting his words across the yard. “Prince Ozen stands accused of harboring forbidden ritual relics on academy ground. Forbidden sorcery carries the block, as does complicity.” Rage flared behind Zhulya’s temple. Yadan had moved the timetable to leave no room for defensive maneuvering. A physical search would reveal Ozen's contraband, or the guards would slip an illicit relic into his folds, binding both of them to the same treason charge before the sun fully climbed the wall. “Forbidden relics?” Zhulya stepped directly into Veraz’s path, laughing loud enough to echo off the masonry. “Commander, the prince carries nothing deadlier than a persistent cough and an allergy to morning drills. Unless you are counting my conditioning gear.” Murmurs rustled through the ranks of cadets. “Your conditioning gear?” Veraz’s visor tilted down. “Explain yourself, Artaq.” “The iron that builds bone,” Zhulya said, closing the distance between them until she stood an arm's reach from his breastplate. “House Artaq tempers its heirs with heavy steel and dense lead. Perhaps palace regiments are too pampered to recognize brutal conditioning.” Before his guard could shift, Zhulya struck. Her fingers locked onto the grip of the notched steel hanging at Veraz's belt, torquing the leather catch with a stunt-fighter’s leverage. The sidearm broke free into her palm. Veraz jerked back, off-balance, his hand clutching an empty scabbard. She spun the heavy steel across her knuckles, letting the cold metal flash in the dawn light. “A fine counterbalance,” she said, projecting her voice toward the students. “Weighted at the pommel, ideal for forearm drills. When my wrists burn, the prince carries the spare iron. Take it back, Commander, before you trip on your cloak.” She tossed the weapon hilt-first into his breastplate; Veraz caught it reflexively against his chest. Dead quiet fell over the yard. Cadets gaped, paralyzed by the sheer lunacy of disarming an imperial officer and mocking his weapon as gym iron. Behind her, Ozen lowered his head, pressing his lips together to hide the curl of his mouth. *My insolent, violent shield.* The phrase rooted itself into his ribs. She would burn the fortress down before she let them touch him. And if anyone laid a finger on her, he would dismantle this entire bastion stone by bloody stone. Yadan’s lips thinned into a pale seam. The public spectacle she intended had been derailed into an absurdity of martial bravado, leaving the magistrate holding his own returned blade like an inept recruit. But Yadan was a viper, adaptable and cunning. She took a slow, deep breath, then her smile returned, colder and sharper than before. “Remarkable, my dear Zhulya,” she purred, her voice dripping with false admiration. “Such… spirit. Perhaps we should discuss this further. Privately, of course.” Her gaze flickered to Ozen, a chilling gleam in her eyes. “Join me for a family tea, this evening, in my personal chambers. Bring the boy. Let us see if his blood is as weak as his lineage.”

The Matriarch's Fang