Laska’s desperate cry echoed in the small room, her eyes wide and wet, fixed on Zoya. Krsnik, a shadow at Zoya’s side, moved with fluid grace, positioning himself between the cousins, his hand still resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. The bearded host simply grunted, the corners of his mouth twitching, before he ambled away, leaving the door ajar.
“Zoya, darling, you can’t imagine what I’ve been through,” Laska pleaded, stepping tentatively into the room, her gaze flicking to Krsnik with a wary apprehension. Her clothes, once exquisite, were travel-stained and torn at the hem. A smudge of dirt streaked her pale cheek, and her usually lustrous braids had mostly unraveled. She looked genuinely distressed, a performance Zoya had seen Laska perfect at court whenever she wanted sympathy or a favor.
“Uncle, Auntie… everyone in the manor… the Regent, he’s taken them,” Laska continued, her voice trembling. “He says unless I deliver you, unless I bring him Zorya’s Ember, he’ll execute them all. He assumes *I* am the Sunken Queen, but I told him… I told him it was you, the light, the shattering! He wants to drain your power, Zoya, to consolidate his rule. But I know a way to save them. We need to go back, together. You can free them with your gift.”
Zoya felt a familiar knot of guilt twist in her stomach. Her parents, her kin… she had left them behind. Laska’s words, though delivered with dramatic flair, stirred Zoya’s deepest fears and the lifelong burden of an obligation she had always failed to shoulder. She glanced at Krsnik, his face unreadable, his eyes like chips of river ice. He remained impassive, a silent sentinel.
“Laska, what are you talking about?” Zoya asked, her voice softer than she intended, her resolve wavering. “The Regent would never…”
“He would, and he has!” Laska insisted, rushing forward to grip Zoya’s arm, ignoring Krsnik’s subtle shift in posture. Her touch was cold. “He’s losing his nerve. He’s rounding up anyone with even a drop of noble blood, saying they conspired with the witch. He mentioned the Vigil, too, Zoya. He knows they’re after you. He said he’d release everyone if I simply handed you over, but I couldn’t! Not after what you did for me, pushing me away from that assassin’s blade. I owe you everything. We have to stand together, cousin.”
Krsnik’s voice cut through Laska’s impassioned plea, a low, gravelly sound that seemed to vibrate with controlled menace. “You sealed her into a tunnel, Laska Orlova. You offered her as a sacrifice to save your own skin. What has changed?”
Laska flinched, pulling her hand from Zoya’s arm. Her eyes flashed with annoyance before she forced a look of contrite sorrow. “I was terrified, Krsnik! What would you have done? The manor was swarming. I thought… I thought it was the only way to buy Zoya time, to distract them while she escaped. I was certain she could handle it. I’ve regretted it every waking moment since. I’ve searched for her, followed every rumor, endured bandits and freezing nights, just to find her and make things right.” She wrung her hands, a picture of remorse. “We share blood. We must protect our own.”
Zoya looked between them, her mind reeling. Laska’s story sounded plausible, given the Regent’s ruthlessness, yet Krsnik’s words about the tunnel still stung. Laska had abandoned her. But the thought of her parents, trapped and facing the Regent’s wrath, made Zoya ache to trust her cousin’s words.
“We need to talk,” Zoya told Krsnik, her voice firm, despite the tremor in her hands. “Alone.”
Krsnik’s gaze lingered on Laska, a stark distrust etched on his face, before he nodded once, curtly. He stepped back from Zoya, but remained close enough to intervene if needed. Laska beamed at Zoya, a watery smile of relief.
Later that afternoon, Zoya sat with Laska on a rough-hewn bench outside their shared room, overlooking the sprawling, haphazard camp of Skryty Hreben. Krsnik had gone to speak with the innkeeper about the sudden arrival, his suspicion standing like an iron wall between him and Zoya. Boro, sensing the tension, had vanished to find some local ale.
“I know he doesn’t trust me,” Laska said, her voice dropping to a confiding tone. “Krsnik, I mean. He’s always been so… intense. And so loyal to his own cause. Did you know the Regent had his household executed? For treason, they said. It was years ago, when Krsnik was just a boy. A common story, though. The Regent clears out anyone who might pose a threat, anyone with even a whiff of power or influence. That’s why he’s so keen on getting you, Zoya. And why Krsnik is so keen on vengeance. He’s using you, you know. To get to the Regent. He doesn’t care about our kin, Zoya. He cares about his own, long dead.”
Zoya stared, her mind blank. Krsnik had never mentioned siblings, only his mother, hunted for elemental magic. The depth of Krsnik’s personal trauma, so casually dropped by Laska, twisted Zoya’s perception of him. Was he truly just using her as a tool for his own revenge? The thought was a bitter cold draft, chilling the nascent warmth she had begun to feel for him.
“How do you know that?” Zoya asked, her voice tight.
Laska sighed, a theatrical gesture. “It was common knowledge in the court, years ago. A cautionary tale. The Silent Vigil, too, they were involved. He had a sister, I think. Or a brother. It’s all a blur. But I just wanted you to understand, Zoya. His motivations are not pure. Mine are. I want our kin safe.”
Meanwhile, Boro, having secured a flask of potent berry wine, decided to earn his keep. He didn’t trust Laska Orlova. Not for a moment. Her distress felt too polished, her timing too convenient. He’d seen enough double-dealers in the gambling dens of Belokamen to recognize the scent of a rat, even in a mountain sanctuary.
He had slipped away from the main camp, circling the perimeter through the sparse pine trees, seeking a vantage point from which to observe Laska without being seen. He crouched low behind a cluster of gnarled junipers, the biting mountain air reddening his nose. The sun was dipping below the jagged peaks, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and purple. Below, in a small, concealed clearing that wasn’t visible from the main path, Boro spotted movement.
It was Laska. And she was not alone.
She stood before a man in the drab, functional uniform of the Regent’s city guard, though stripped of its usual insignia, making him appear like any traveler. The man was burly, with a scarred jaw and a cruel smirk. Boro recognized him instantly: Varos, an officer among the Regent’s enforcers, the very creditor Boro owed debts to, whom Krsnik had once threatened to seek out. The same man who’d almost caught them in Belokamen.
Laska’s voice was low, but carried on the crisp air. “The girl is here, Varos. She trusts me. She accepts my story. Her bodyguard, the Vigil assassin, is suspicious, but he won’t move against her if she gives the order. She’ll come willingly once she thinks it’s to save her kin.”
The officer grunted, a satisfied sound. “Good work, Lady Orlova. The Regent will be pleased. His bounty on the witch will be rescinded, and a new one issued for the assassin. As for your kin… they will be released, as promised. Once Zoya Radevich is safely in the Regent’s hands, of course.” He paused, a glint in his eye. “And your own reward will be substantial. The Regent values loyalty.”
Laska gave a small, conspiratorial smile, a chilling contrast to the desperate, tearful face she had shown Zoya moments earlier. “I am nothing if not loyal, sir. To the right person.”
A harsh chill clamped around Boro's neck, sharp and bitter. He had been right. Laska was a viper. He had to get back, to warn Zoya and Krsnik, to tell them Laska was leading them into a trap. He turned, careful not to snap any twigs, and began to crawl away, his heart thumping against his ribs. He had almost cleared the dense undergrowth when a heavy hand clamped over his mouth, stifling his shocked gasp. A rough cloth, smelling of something sweet and acrid, was pressed against his nose and mouth, and Boro’s vision swam, darkness encroaching around the edges. He thrashed, clawing at the wrists pinned over his face, but his limbs turned to lead, his vision blurred, and the last sight before darkness took him was the officer's mocking grin.
“Looks like we have another guest,” Varos rasped, his voice full of cruel amusement.