The scent of damp earth and stale river water clung to them as Boro skittered ahead, his small, wiry frame easily navigating the slippery embankment. A long, flat-bottomed barge, its deck crowded with bundled merchants and their wares, loomed in the murky predawn light. It was tethered to a rotting pier, its single mast bare against the bruised sky. “Hurry, step lively!” Boro hissed, pushing past a dozing deckhand. “The first current down to Vorovnya is always the fastest. We want to be lost in the middle of it.” Krsnik followed, his movements fluid and silent even on the creaking planks. Zoya stumbled behind him, the rough wood grating beneath her worn boots. The air on the river was colder than the alleys, biting through her thin gown. She pulled the borrowed cloak tighter, its coarse wool doing little to ward off the chill or the gnawing dread. Finding a spot among the sacks of dried fish and tightly bound lumber, Boro nudged them into a cramped corner near the stern. The barge groaned as it pushed off, the current tugging it with surprising force. Zoya found herself pressed between Krsnik’s unyielding side and a stack of pungent cheese wheels. His scent—woodsmoke and something sharp, metallic—was oddly comforting in the sudden lurch of the vessel. For a long while, no one spoke. The gentle slap of water against the hull, the low murmurs of other passengers, and the distant cry of gulls were the only sounds. Zoya’s arm throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that had deepened into a fiery pulse. She clutched it, trying to ignore the sticky dampness seeping through the linen bandage. Krsnik shifted, his gaze briefly flicking to her arm. His expression was as unreadable as ever, a carved mask of indifference. Yet, a faint ripple of something—perhaps concern, perhaps merely annoyance at a potential hindrance—crossed his features. “Let me see that.” His voice was low, a rumble against the constant sigh of the river. It wasn’t a question. Zoya hesitated, a blush creeping up her neck. The wound felt like a private, humiliating weakness. She slowly unwrapped the soiled cloth, revealing the angry red cut, swollen and weeping a greenish fluid. The skin around it was hot to the touch. Krsnik’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He reached into a hidden pouch on his belt, extracting a small, clay jar and a strip of clean, dark cloth. His fingers, calloused and precise, moved to her arm. Zoya flinched as he gently prodded the inflamed skin. A sharp gasp escaped her lips. “Hold still,” he commanded, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to his earlier brusqueness. He worked without pause, his touch surprisingly gentle as he dabbed away the pus with a corner of the cloth. Zoya watched, mesmerized by the focused intensity in his eyes, the subtle shift in his posture. The cool, pungent salve from the jar spread over her skin, instantly soothing the fiery pain. A strange warmth bloomed where his fingers brushed her forearm, a warmth that had nothing to do with the ointment. Her gaze met his for a fleeting moment, and she saw a flicker of something raw and intense in the depths of his grey eyes, before he pulled away, binding her arm once more with practiced ease. He avoided her gaze as he finished, his earlier detachment returning like a shield. Zoya’s face felt hot, her pulse quickening. The air between them, despite the chill, held a sudden taut stillness. She swallowed, trying to find her voice, but no words came. Meanwhile, Boro, ever the opportunist, had begun to mingle. He moved through the crowded deck like a shadow, a glib smile on his face as he offered to help adjust a merchant’s tarp or tie down a loose crate. His ears, however, were open. He returned a short while later, sliding back into their cramped space with a grim set to his mouth. “Bad news, Lady, Krsnik,” he whispered, his eyes darting nervously around. “Worse than expected. The whispers are thick as swamp mist. The Regent… he’s offered a king’s ransom. For the ‘Witch of Belokamen’.” Zoya’s breath caught. The title, whispered in hushed tones, felt like a brand. “A fortune,” Boro continued, his voice tight. “Enough to buy a small town. And they say… they say she shattered every window in the Radevich ballroom with a single flash of light. A girl, they say, with hair like spun midnight and eyes like the autumn sky. They’re describing you, Zoya. Every guard, every river patrol, every common fool with two eyes and an empty purse is looking for you. They call it ‘Zorya’s Fury’.” Panic clawed at Zoya’s throat. The bounty would turn every sympathetic face into a potential betrayer. She was no longer just a wanted criminal; she was a golden prize. The murmurs of the other passengers now felt like accusations, their glances like daggers. Krsnik shifted his weight, resting one hand upon his pommel. He scanned the deck, his gaze sharp, assessing every face, every shadowed corner. The cheerful din of a nearby group of traders suddenly seemed menacing. He knew this game. A bounty this high meant not only the Regent’s forces but also every scavenger, every opportunist, would be on the hunt. The barge was nearing the wider expanse of the Varosnya River, the tree-lined banks receding into a hazy distance. They were committed now, adrift on the open water. Krsnik’s eyes narrowed, his attention drawn to a figure leaning against a stack of fishing nets at the bow. The man was unassuming, dressed in the plain brown tunic of a common traveler, but the way he held himself, still and watchful, was familiar. Then Krsnik saw it. A faint, almost invisible etching on the man’s leather bracer, just beneath the rolled-up sleeve. Three interlocking circles, barely discernible against the worn leather. The mark of the Silent Vigil. A stiff frost seemed to settle in his ribs. They were not merely being hunted from the shore; they were trapped. Right here, on the very vessel meant to carry them to freedom, another assassin was watching, waiting.

Whispers on the River