My fingers, usually stained with soil or charcoal, now trembled as they traced the elaborate scroll. *King’s Advisor for Agricultural Advancement.* The ink smelled faintly of wet gall, fresh against the parchment. Power, real, tangible power, hummed beneath my skin. Just yesterday, I was scrubbing pots, praying Grozdan wouldn’t decide my face needed a good lye wash. Today, I had a title, a workshop, and a Prince Regent who, against all odds, seemed to understand that crop rotation wasn’t witchcraft, but basic scientific methodology. Ksaver’s warning about vipers and stolen weapons still echoed in my ears, a discordant note in my triumph. "Trust no one," he’d said, his eyes flicking towards the door where Volkov had been. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach, but I pushed it down. I had bigger problems than court intrigue. I had fields to fix, a duchy to save, and a mental library of chemical reactions screaming to be put to use. The workshop, once a forgotten storeroom, was now my sanctuary. The air, though still musty, carried the faint, exciting scent of fresh earth and the sharper tang of various concoctions I’d begun mixing. My immediate focus: saltpeter. Without it, I couldn't make proper gunpowder, and without gunpowder, Volin’s meager military was little more than a scarecrow brigade. I had envisioned a system of nitrate beds, carefully cultivated piles of compost, ash, and urine – a disgusting but effective method for cultivating potassium nitrate. It was slow, tedious work, but the payoff would be immense. For three weeks, I toiled, my hands calloused, my hair perpetually matted with dirt. I oversaw the construction of the shallow pits, directed the collection of raw materials, and meticulously monitored the moisture levels. It was a delicate process, a ballet of decomposition and chemical conversion, and I guarded my beds with the ferocity of a dragon protecting its hoard. Success would mean not only gunpowder but also a more potent fertilizer, a double boon for the struggling duchy. Then, one morning, I found it. The first pit, the most promising, was shimmering with an unnatural sheen. I knelt, my breath catching in my throat. My heart gave a sickening lurch. The surface was encrusted with white crystals, but not the delicate, needle-like formations of potassium nitrate. These were coarse, cubic, glinting in the pale dawn light with malevolent brilliance. Salt. Pure, unadulterated salt. Enough to sterilize the soil for a decade. The delicate microbial balance, the carefully nurtured nitrification process – wrecked beyond repair. Weeks of back-breaking labor, gone. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. My hands, still hovering over the destroyed bed, began to shake. A saboteur had done this deliberately, determined to leave Volin unarmed and vulnerable. Fury, hot and blinding, surged through me. My temper, a constant companion in my former life, flared. Who? Who could be so relentlessly, maliciously stupid? The head cook? Perhaps, but this was beyond simple malice; this was calculated destruction. This was war. I sprinted through the castle, heedless of the stares, my coarse wool skirts flapping around my knees. I needed help. I needed a guard captain to take action. My mind, still reeling from Ksaver’s warning, dismissed Duchess Zorya. She’d probably applaud the sabotage as divine intervention. Ksaver, yes, but he was often away, engaged in his endless princely duties. That left… Volkov. He had offered friendship, protection. I found him in the training yard, observing a group of fresh recruits clumsily swinging wooden swords. He stood tall, a formidable presence even in his relaxed stance, his eyes sharp beneath a brow furrowed with concentration. When he saw me, his expression softened, a familiar, easy smile gracing his lips. “Ivana, what troubles you, little star?” “My beds,” I gasped, clutching at my ribs, winded. “The nitre beds. A vandal salted them. All of them. Ruined. Gone.” My voice cracked, raw with a grief that felt disproportionate, yet utterly real. Volkov’s smile vanished. His eyes narrowed, suddenly cold and hard. He dismissed the recruits with a brusque hand gesture and led me to a quiet alcove. “Salted? That’s… a grave offense. Who would dare?” “I don’t know! But it was deliberate. It has to be.” I wrung my hands, frantic. “It will set us back months. The gunpowder… the fertilizer…” He listened patiently, his gaze unwavering, a comforting presence. “Tell me, who knew of these beds? Who saw you working there?” “Everyone! The stable hands who brought the manure, the kitchen staff who brought the ash and… other things,” I said, wincing. “But no one would gain from this. Except…” My mind raced. “Grozdan. The man hates me and detests my methods. But this… this is too extreme, even for him.” Volkov stroked his chin, his expression thoughtful. “The cook is a loud mouth, yes. But this smacks of a different kind of anger. A resentment, perhaps, of your… elevation. Have any of the kitchen staff expressed displeasure at your new title? At being ordered about by a former scullery maid?” I thought of Radek, a lanky, sullen pot-scrubber who had openly sneered when I’d been promoted. He’d thrown a bucket of slop at my feet just last week, muttering something about “upstart peasants.” The thought of his bitter face flared in my mind. “Radek,” I whispered. “He’s always had a venomous tongue.” Volkov nodded slowly. “Radek. Yes, I know the type. Always quick with a grievance, slow with a chore. He was seen near the old storeroom, was he not? Near your… workshop?” “He might have been. He delivers slop for the pigs that are penned nearby,” I admitted, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying ease. Radek, the resentment, the proximity… it made a terrible kind of sense. The sheer cruelty of it. To destroy work that would benefit everyone, out of spite. “I will investigate immediately,” Volkov declared, his voice firm, radiating authority. “No one sabotages the Prince Regent’s Advisor and lives to tell of it. Come, show me exactly where this happened.” We returned to the desolate pits. Volkov knelt, examining the salt-crusted earth with a keen eye. I stood beside him, hollow and nauseated. Then, my gaze caught on something partially buried in the loose earth at the edge of the pit, almost perfectly camouflaged. A flash of dark, supple leather. I reached down, pulling it free. It was a glove. Fine, soft kid leather, impeccably stitched, far too elegant for a kitchen hand like Radek. The kind of glove a noble might wear, or a high-ranking guard. I held it out to Volkov. “This was here. This isn’t Radek’s. It’s too fine.” Volkov took the glove, his fingers brushing against mine. He examined it briefly, then tossed it back onto the ground with a dismissive shrug. “A guard’s glove, perhaps. Many of us wear such. It could have fallen from anyone passing by. It means nothing. Radek, however, has motive, opportunity, and a history of insolence. I’ll make sure he answers for this.” His eyes, for a fleeting moment, held a strange, calculating glint that turned my stomach cold, but then it was gone, replaced by his usual reassuring firmness. True to his word, Volkov acted swiftly. Two days later, Radek stood in the castle courtyard, his face pale and contorted with fear. Volkov stood before him, flanked by two burly guards. The entire castle staff had been assembled, a grim, silent audience. Volkov’s voice, usually a rumbling bass, cut through the morning air, sharp as a whetted blade. He recounted the ruined beds, the destruction of my work, the audacity of the act. He spoke of my invaluable contributions to the duchy, painting me as a beacon of hope, and Radek as a bitter, jealous worm trying to extinguish that light. The logic, even to my frantic mind, felt brutally airtight. “Such malice cannot go unpunished,” Volkov thundered, his gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd. “Let this be a lesson to any who would undermine the efforts of our Prince Regent and his trusted advisors!” Radek shrieked, protesting his innocence, but his pleas were drowned out by the crack of the whip. Each lash, each agonized cry, solidified Volkov’s image as my protector, my champion. He had avenged me. He had restored order. And he had, quite effectively, tied up a loose end. That night, a frustrated Ksaver met with his mother, Duchess Zorya, in her private chambers. The draft between the tapestries felt brittle and thin. Zorya, her face a mask of disapproval, swirled the pale wine in her goblet. “She has done it again, Ksaver. Another scandal. Another ‘discovery’ that upsets the natural order. First the fields, now this… saltpeter. A common girl meddling in affairs of war, in the very earth itself! It is blasphemous.” Ksaver sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Mother, the fields yielded thrice what they did before. The people are fed. And the saltpeter… it is for our defense. We are surrounded. Volin needs every advantage it can gain.” “Nonsense! We need faith, Ksaver, not the dark arts of a Vodyan witch. This peasant girl will be our ruin. End this now, or I will.” She leaned forward, her eyes sharp as ice, and placed the mate to the fine leather glove Ivana found onto the table between them.

A Whisper of Sabotage