The report reached me through a laundress who traded in castle gossip: Duchess Zorya had confronted Ksaver with the mate to the embroidered glove I found by my spoiled saltpeter beds, demanding an end to my work before I brought down divine wrath upon Volin. Zorya saw every reaction equation as heresy, and Captain Volkov was feeding her suspicion at every turn. But Ksaver, bless his pragmatic soul, held firm. He knew Volin was teetering on the brink. The winter stores were meager, the border raids from Rask increasing, and now a mountain collapse had blocked the only passable trade route through the Kryvan Pass. Days of digging by hand had only cleared a fraction. My proposal to use a controlled explosion to clear it, to reopen the passage before the first heavy snows, was a desperate gamble, but one he seemed willing to take. “The pass must be cleared,” Ksaver had told me earlier, his brow furrowed as he watched me sift charcoal and sulfur in my workshop. “Our merchants are stranded. No trade, no coin. If your… ‘corned powder’ can do what you say, then we must attempt it.” “It’s not dynamite, Your Highness,” I’d clarified, wiping sweat from my forehead with a grimy sleeve. “That’s a few centuries off. But I’ve refined the basic components. Grinding the charcoal finer, using purer nitrates – which I’ll need to make more of, by the way, if we’re going to arm the garrison – and wetting it with spirits before drying it into proper grains. It burns faster, with more pressure. It won’t level a mountain, but it should shatter that rockfall.” He had just nodded, his gaze lingering on the intricate lines of a crude fuse I was fashioning from waxed twine. He trusted my mind, even if he didn’t fully grasp the underlying chemistry. That trust, however, was a double-edged sword, making me a target. The demonstration site was a narrow, wind-whipped gorge, a mile beyond the main gates of Svarona. The stone barrier itself was an ugly heap of broken granite and shale, effectively damming the river and blocking the path. A scattering of nobles, mostly Zorya’s loyalists and a few curious fence-sitters, shivered in their furs, their breath pluming in the crisp autumn air. Duchess Zorya stood at the forefront, beside Prince Ksaver, her face a rigid mask of disapproval. Captain Volkov, ever the picture of loyal competence, barked orders to his men, securing the perimeter. “Are you quite certain this is wise, Ivana?” Volkov murmured to me as I approached the rockfall, carrying my precious wooden crate of corned powder. “Such a… volatile substance.” His eyes, normally crinkling in a friendly way, seemed a shade too sharp, too observant. “It’s physics, Captain, not magic,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “Precise measurements, controlled reactions.” I ignored the small, nagging voice in my head that whispered *don’t trust him*. My hands were steady as I began to pack the charges. I had calculated this meticulously. A few precisely placed charges, a carefully timed fuse, and the rock would fracture into manageable pieces. That was the theory. And, if the universe had any decency, the practice. I bent low, placing the first small satchel of my refined black powder into a natural crevice at the base of the largest boulder. I moved with a practiced ease, remembering my days in the lab, setting up experiments, handling volatile reagents. This wasn't so different, just dirtier, colder, and with much higher stakes. As I worked, Volkov circled, supposedly checking the perimeter sentries, but his presence felt like an unwelcome draft. He moved behind me, his heavy cloak rustling, then moved away. I barely registered it, focused on the task. “All clear, Ivana?” Ksaver called from a safe distance, his voice cutting through the wind. He stood slightly apart from the other nobles, a solitary figure radiating authority and a quiet anxiety. “Almost, Your Highness!” I called back. I double-checked the fuses, adjusted a final satchel – the one Volkov had been closest to. It felt… fuller than I remembered. A quick, uneasy feeling prickled at my neck. No, it must be my nerves. I’d measured everything twice. “Fall back now!” Captain Volkov commanded, his voice booming across the gorge. The soldiers pushed the curious onlookers further back. I gave the charges a final, nervous glance, lit the fuse, and sprinted for cover behind a cluster of pines, spattering slush against my woolen skirts. Ksaver was already there, his hand gripping the rough bark, his gaze fixed on the rubble. Duchess Zorya, her face drawn, clutched her son’s arm, pulling him slightly behind a larger tree. “This is a folly, Ksaver! A dangerous folly!” “Quiet, Mother,” Ksaver said, not looking away. The fuse sputtered, a tiny serpent of smoke snaking across the stone. Time seemed to stretch, thin and brittle. Then, with a deafening *CRUMP*, the ground beneath us bucked violently. Not the controlled *crack* I had envisioned, but a gut-wrenching, earth-shattering roar. The air screamed around us, filled with the stench of sulfur and burning char. Shards of rock, some the size of a man's head, shrieked through the air like lethal birds. The debris heap didn't just break; it *vaporized* in a horrifying plume of dust and shattered stone. A sickening groan ripped through the air. I looked up, horrified. The ancient watchtower, perched precariously on a ridge fifty yards above the gorge, a landmark older than the Duchy itself, swayed. A massive fissure spiderwebbed up its crumbling stone. Before anyone could shout, its upper half detached, collapsing inward with a thunderous crash, sending a cloud of pulverized rock cascading down towards us. The ground trembled again, violently. “Ivana!” Ksaver roared, his posture breaking into a lunge. He reacted with incredible speed, shoving me hard with both hands. I stumbled, sprawling to the ground, my head hitting a root with a sickening thud. A fraction of a second later, a boulder, large enough to crush a man, slammed into the very spot where I had been standing, sending up a shower of splintered wood from the pine tree. Dust and screams filled the air. The nobles were scrambling, some falling, others crying out in pure panic. Duchess Zorya, her face ashen, stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes, wide and horrified, fixed on me. Ksaver, miraculously unharmed but covered in dust, was on his knees, coughing, his face pale. The chaos was absolute, a maelstrom of fear and confusion. Then, through the ringing in my ears, I heard it. Zorya’s voice, shrill and piercing, cutting through the din like a knife. “Witchcraft! She tried to murder the Prince Regent!” Zorya shrieked, as Volkov’s men moved in with drawn iron to surround me.

The Unscheduled Demonstration