The splintering of the manor doors sounded like a felling axe splitting dry pine. Zoya scrambled through the servant corridors, her silk train trailing over grease-slick flags, her ribs aching with every ragged draw of air. Behind her, steel boots clattered across marble. Men shouted the Regent’s name, their voices thick with the feral eagerness of hounds unleashed upon a deer. She tucked herself into the cold storage vault beneath the eastern pantry. It reeked of salt pork, aged tallow, and bruised winter apples. The heavy iron latch slipped into place under her shaking fingers, but the thin bar offered little comfort against halberds and iron shod boots. Zoya pressed her back against a brine barrel, sinking onto her heels. The cut on her forearm burned, weeping a thin trickle that gathered at her wrist. It wasn’t normal blood. Where the drops hit the dusty floorboards, tiny golden sparks fizzled, leaving scorched pinpricks in the grain. *What did I do?* She had only meant to push Laska out of the blade's path. Laska was the clever one, the precious one, the girl whose cradle had been blessed by the elders of the lower river. Zoya was the kin who sat near the pantry doors at dinner so she wouldn't crowd the visiting dignitaries. "Quiet," a voice rasped against the crown of her head. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth. The leather smelled of rain and wolfsbane. Zoya stiffened, her spine rigid against the barrel. Above her, a figure melted from the rafters—a specter draped in charcoal wool and reinforced boiled leather. The assassin. The killer from the banquet hall. His silver-threaded cowl slipped back, revealing cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood, a pale throat marked by a faded ligature scar, and irises the dull, matte gray of river slate. He didn't look monstrous. He looked tired, precise, and terribly young. "Make a sound, and I will be forced to slit your windpipe before the Iron Guard takes off your head," he murmured, his voice flat, stripped bare of cruelty or pity. "Understood?" She nodded, her chin jerking against his leather palm. He released her mouth, stepping back into the gloom without making the floorboards creak even once. His right hand remained loose near the hilt of a curved hunting blade. He looked down at her arm, squinting at the faint, stubborn glow dancing along the split skin. "The Radevich house presented Laska as the vessel," he said, speaking more to the shadows than to her. "The chartings, the stars, the lineage scrolls. Everything pointed to the older cousin. You were not even recorded in the ledger of baptism." "I am nobody," Zoya managed, her voice cracking like dry reed. She rubbed her sleeve over the cut, desperate to smother the embers, but the warmth seeped straight through the cloth. "I’m just... Zoya. My mother was the third daughter. Please. Take whatever you came for and leave. The Regent’s men—" "The Regent’s men will skin you to find the marrow that lit those windows," he interrupted. He crossed his arms, his knuckles scarred from old brawls. "I am Krsnik. The Silent Vigil does not miss its targets, yet here I stand, staring at an anomaly that should not exist." "The Vigil?" The word tasted like ash on her tongue. Even in the secluded sitting rooms of Belokamen, women murmured of the Vigil: monks who took no vows of peace, hunters who watched the horizon for the first sign of the ancient fire. "You murder girls who haven't done anything." "We prune the briar before it chokes the field," Krsnik said evenly. "You believe the tales of the Sunken Queen? That she brings spring back to Varosnya? The old songs are lies crafted by poets who never saw an empire burn. Zorya's Ember is not a gift. It is an unmaking. If that fire takes root in your flesh, it will consume your mind, then your bloodline, then every forest from here to the southern sea. It is a rot masquerading as dawn." Footsteps thundered directly above their heads. A copper kettle clattered against the floor of the kitchen above. "Check the butteries!" a guard roared. "The witch threw fire at Lord Radevich! Check the cellars!" Zoya pulled her knees to her chest, curling small. Self-doubt was an old friend, but right now it was an anchor dragging her under. If she died here, they would bury her in unconsecrated clay as a monster. And Laska... Laska would remain safe, untarnished. "Kill me then," she muttered, closing her eyes. "If you're supposed to. Do it before they drag me through the square." Krsnik stared at her for a long, silent moment. His slate-colored eyes narrowed, catching the faint amber glow radiating from her skin. He did not draw his dagger. Instead, he caught her by the collar of her ruined betrothal gown, hauling her upward with sudden, bruising strength. "Get on your feet," he muttered. "You said—" "My contract was signed in salt and bone for Laska Orlova," he snapped, dragging her toward the rear of the vault where curing hams hung from iron hooks. "I do not butcher bystanders on a botched mark. This is not mercy, girl. This is a correction of an error. If you die to the Regent's dogs, my order will never know how the line corrupted. Move." He reached behind a row of cedar shelves, his fingers finding a concealed latch hidden behind a salt brick. The masonry gave a dry, grinding groan as a slab swung inward, revealing a dark, downward-sloping tunnel smelling of mold and ancient damp. "Go," he commanded, shoving her toward the gap. Before Zoya could cross the threshold, the outer oak door rattled violently. The latch held, but the wood cracked along its central seam. "Open! In the Regent's name!" Then, another sound—light, frantic footsteps skittering down the short wooden flight of stairs leading to the cellar room. "Zoya!" The voice belonged to Laska. She squeezed through the partially broken doorway, her fine silk skirts torn, her honey-colored hair escaping its pearl pins. She didn't look relieved to find Zoya alive. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving, her eyes darting between the dark assassin and the girl with the glowing wound. "Laska!" Zoya lunged forward, her hand outstretched. "He has a way out! Come, quickly, before—" Laska slapped Zoya’s hand aside. The sting was sharper than the cut on her arm. Zoya blinked, frozen, as Laska stepped closer, pulling a heavy gold band from her thumb. It was the Radevich signet—the crowned otter set in deep carnelian, the mark of the family's chosen heir. Laska grabbed Zoya’s fingers and shoved the ring into her palm, closing Zoya's hand around it with bruising force. "Take it," Laska hissed. Her voice was not the melodic coo she used in the parlors; it was sharp, brittle, and frantic. "What are you doing?" Zoya asked, confused. "You need to come with us! They're looking for the sorceress—" "They are looking for the *Queen*," Laska corrected, her voice snapping short as wood gave way upstairs. She glanced at Krsnik, then back at Zoya, an expression of desperate calculation twisting her features. "The Regent knows the signet. His hounds will smell the gold and that... that cursed light spilling out of you. Run. They will think you are me." "Laska, please—" "You always wanted to be useful, didn't you?" Laska whispered, her smile tight and ghastly. "Save me, then." With both hands, Laska threw her weight against the secret stone door. "Wait!" Zoya cried out, but Krsnik caught her around the waist, hauling her backward into the dark just as the slab slammed shut with a deafening thud. A heavy iron bolt dropped into place on the other side. From beyond the stone wall, Laska’s voice rang out, clear, high, and terrified: *“Help! She went down the cellar stairs! The witch took the passage!”* Darkness swallowed them whole, save for the faint, terrified amber pulse still beating beneath Zoya's skin.

A Reluctant Mercy