Marek’s words had cut through the snarling fury like a honed blade, leaving Borin’s accusations to dissipate into the heavy air. The room had remained silent for a long moment, the scent of fear and damp stone clinging to the shadows. Then, without another sound, the Lord General had turned, his hand settling on my elbow, a silent, unyielding declaration of possession. He’d led me from the council chamber, the stares of the assembled captains and adjutants a physical weight on my back, down the winding corridors of Ost-Kamen, and into my own spartan quarters. The door had clicked shut with a solid thud, and the key had turned in the lock. Not a prison, he’d assured me, but a sanctuary.
Being guarded felt a lot like being caged. Two days had passed since the king’s demise and Marek’s intervention. Two days of pacing the rough-hewn floorboards, tracing the patterns of condensation on the grimy window, and trying to decipher the muffled sounds of the fortress beyond my walls. Ost-Kamen, usually a hive of tense activity, felt muted, its pulse subdued by the dual shocks of regicide and the ‘Silent Consumption’ revealing itself. My mind, usually a whirlwind of tactical scenarios and historical parallels, felt dull, heavy with inaction. I yearned for a map, for a battle-plan, for anything that didn't involve staring at the same four walls. The black veins on my arm, the legacy of my last 'miracle,' throbbed faintly, a reminder of the price of power, and of my dwindling time.
A sharp rap at the door broke the monotony. “Zosia va Kost? Are you still alive in there, or have the dust motes finally claimed you?” Pike’s voice, raspy and laced with his usual irreverence, was a welcome sound. A moment later, the heavy door creaked open, revealing him, his usually rumpled tunic even more disheveled, a half-empty flask clutched in one hand. He winked, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him. “Don’t worry, shielding you from yourself has its perks. Namely, the guards outside are too busy gossiping about the royal bloodbath to notice a thirsty scout slipping through.”
“Thirsty, or just bored?” I countered, a small smile finally touching my lips. “I was about to start conversing with the ceiling beams. My brain is turning to moss.”
Pike chuckled, taking a swig from his flask. “Understandable. Stagnation is the enemy of all good minds, and most good livers. Lucky for you, I’ve brought a cure for both.” He gestured vaguely with the flask. “And a game. You look like you could use a game.”
My eyebrows lifted. “A game? What kind of game are we talking about, Pike? Is it a local version of ‘Spot the Traitor’?”
“Better,” he declared, pulling a set of three gleaming throwing knives from a sheath concealed within his boot. They glinted dangerously in the dim light. “It’s called ‘Eye of the Goshawk.’ A fine Northern pastime for when the mist rolls in too thick to hunt. Or when you’re stuck babysitting an overthinking historian.” He pointed to a knot in the wooden wall panel. “The goal is simple. Pin a coin to the wall with a knife. Each time you miss, you drink. Each time you hit, I drink.” He grinned, a flash of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t worry, your liver will thank me.”
“Knife-throwing? Pike, I’m a historian, not an assassin. And I’m certainly not a fan of impromptu surgery,” I said, though a flicker of interest ignited within me. The sheer ridiculousness of it appealed to my stir-crazy mind.
“Details, details. It’s all in the wrist. Besides, a bit of danger spices up the day. Makes you feel alive.” He tossed me a knife. The hilt was rough, worn from countless throws, but the blade felt surprisingly balanced. He produced a small, tarnished copper coin from his pocket and pressed it against the knot in the wood, then stepped back, indicating I should take the first throw.
I weighed the knife in my hand. The idea was absurd, reckless, entirely *un*Zosia. Which, in my current state, made it irresistible. I squinted, mimicking Pike’s stance, and with a clumsy flick of my wrist, sent the knife spinning. It hit the wall with a dull thud, six inches to the left of the coin. I winced. “Right. My turn to drink.” Pike passed me the flask, and I took a tentative swallow of the fiery, unfamiliar spirits.
We continued, the air filling with the rhythmic thud of metal against wood, the clink of the flask, and Pike’s increasingly slurred instructions. My throws gradually improved, though my aim remained wildly inconsistent. Pike, despite his increasing inebriation, seemed to hit the mark with uncanny precision, his eyes never quite losing their keen edge. The alcohol warmed my belly, loosening the knot of tension that had resided there for days. I found myself laughing, a genuine, unburdened sound, as another of my throws sailed wide.
“Alright, your turn, Goshawk,” I slurred, swaying slightly as I handed him a knife. My head felt light, my worries momentarily suspended. He nodded, his movements still surprisingly fluid. He lined up his throw, his gaze fixed on the coin. He pulled back his arm, the knife a silver blur…
And then, a sudden, jarring lurch. The floorboards shifted beneath us, a deep tremor rumbling through the stone walls of the fortress. It wasn’t an earthquake; it was too violent, too sharp. An explosion. Pike, caught mid-throw, stumbled, his arm flailing. The knife, instead of sailing towards the wall, spun wildly, an uncontrolled projectile. It whizzed past my ear with a terrifying *whoosh*, a mere hair’s breadth from my temple, embedding itself with a sickening *thunk* into the doorframe right where my head had been a fraction of a second before.
My breath caught. The ringing in my ears wasn’t just the alcohol now. My heart slammed against my ribs, a sudden, brutal shock. The draft from the corridor felt suddenly sharp against my collar. The smell of singed wood filled the air. I stared at the quivering hilt, inches from my face, then at Pike, whose eyes were now wide and sober. The flask had slipped from his grasp, spilling its contents across the floor.
Silence. Thick, sudden, complete. Then, a choked sound escaped me. It started as a gasp, then morphed into a hiccup, and finally, a burst of uncontrollable laughter. Deep, rattling, entirely hysterical. Pike stared at me, then at the knife, then back at me, a slow grin spreading across his face. He began to laugh too, a ragged, relieved sound that joined mine, filling the confined space until tears streamed down both our faces.
“Well,” I gasped, wiping my eyes, “that was… an eventful throw.”
Pike leaned against the wall, still chuckling. “Nearly gave you a permanent part in Kaskovian history, eh? ‘The Fake Saintess who Died by Friendly Fire’.” He sobered slightly, picking up the fallen flask. “Some disturbance, that. They’ll be busy for a while. Good.” He took a deep breath, the last vestiges of the game fading from his expression, replaced by a grim earnestness. “The chaos from the King’s passing. It created a window. I told you I’d look into that cartography office.”
My laughter died. The change in his tone was stark. My mind, now abruptly clear, snapped to attention. “And?”
“And the maps from the Gryphon’s Pass incident? The ones that nearly got your vanguard butchered?” He paused, his gaze fixed on mine. “They bore the mark of a junior cartographer. A very specific ink, only used by trainees. But the notations, the details… they were far beyond his skill. Someone else was doing the real work, then passing it off.”
“Borin’s nephew,” I stated, the name sour in my mouth. “The boy he was shielding.”
Pike nodded slowly. “Ay. Young Rurik. He’s been a mess for weeks. Found him huddled in a supply closet, weeping. It wasn’t hard to get him to talk, once I explained how much trouble he was in. The enemy… the ones from beyond the mist… they’ve got something on him. Debts, gambling losses, something shameful that would ruin his family name. They threatened to expose it all if he didn’t leak our battle plans.” He spat on the floor. “The fool was too scared to go to his uncle. And Borin… Borin knew. He knew Rurik was compromised. He sent my patrol into that ‘safe’ valley, knowing it was a decoy, knowing we’d be annihilated, just to cover his nephew’s trail. To make it look like the information was compromised from outside, not from within.”
A knot of ice tightened beneath my ribs, distinct from the dull thrum of the Echo Rot. The casual depravity of it. Borin had sacrificed innocent lives, including Pike’s comrades, to insulate a sniveling relative. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The flawed intel, the ambush, the attempts to discredit me. It wasn’t just about tradition; it was about a desperate, murderous cover-up.
A wicked grin slowly spread across my face. “Borin wants a show,” I said, the words a low promise. “Let’s give him one he’ll never forget.”