A chill, sharper than the mountain air, pierced Zoya. Laska’s smile, usually so radiant, now seemed brittle, almost forced. They stood in the main hall of Skryty Hreben, where the scent of spiced tea usually lingered. The elder who governed the sanctuary watched Laska with a guarded expression, his fingers resting idly on the hilt of a curved knife. Krsnik, ever vigilant, stood a step behind Zoya, his posture taut. The mountain refugees, a motley collection of wary faces, milled about, their usual evening chatter subdued.
“The Regent isn’t just holding our family, Zoya,” Laska said, her voice dropping to a theatrical plea. “He means to burn them. Unless… unless you show him your power. He believes only *you* can save them.”
Zoya felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “What are you talking about, Laska? You said he wanted you, the true queen.”
Laska’s eyes, usually pools of warm amber, flickered with an unfamiliar coldness. “Oh, Zoya. How naive you still are. The Regent wants power. The prophecy is merely a means to an end.” Her gaze drifted past Zoya, towards the heavy oak doors of the hall. A faint, high-pitched whistle, barely audible above the wind, sliced through the air.
Krsnik’s hand moved to Zoya’s arm, a quick, reassuring squeeze. His eyes scanned the room, then locked onto Laska. “What was that sound?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Laska’s brittle smile spread, losing all pretense of warmth. “That, Krsnik, is the sound of our salvation.”
The oak doors exploded inward, splintering with a deafening crack. Regent’s infantry, clad in polished steel and bearing the serpent-and-crown sigil, poured into the hall. Their polished boots echoed like thunder against the stone floor. The elder gripped his knife, skin taut across his knuckles.
Chaos erupted. Folk shouted, scattering for cover. A few veteran fighters drew their own hidden blades. Krsnik pushed Zoya behind him, drawing his twin daggers in a blur of motion. He pivoted cleanly, turning aside an enemy spear with one blade and striking true through an unarmored throat with the other. His movements were brutal, efficient, a whirlwind of protective fury.
“Surrender the false queen!” a gruff officer bellowed, his voice amplified by the sudden silence that fell over a small pocket of the hall. He pointed a gauntleted finger at Zoya.
Laska stepped forward, positioning herself beside the officer, her chin held high. Her eyes, filled with a triumphant malice Zoya had never seen, locked onto her cousin. “There she is!” Laska cried, her voice ringing with false righteousness. “The monster who stole the prophecy, who brought calamity upon Varosnya! She wields a power that will unmake us all!”
Zoya stared, her world tilting. The words, the betrayal, hit harder than any physical blow. “Laska… what have you done?”
“I’ve secured our family’s future, Zoya,” Laska sneered, a cruel twist to her lips. “I made a deal with the Regent. Your power is too dangerous, too wild. It must be controlled. Or, failing that, extinguished. They will take you, and I will finally claim my rightful place, unburdened by your accidental magic.”
One of the invaders lunged at Zoya, his steel blade arcing toward her head. Krsnik, engaged with three others, couldn’t reach her in time. Fear, cold and sharp, seized Zoya, but beneath it, a new feeling surged—a hot, rebellious ember. Laska’s words, the sheer, brazen betrayal, ignited something deep within her. She was not a monster. She was not a pawn. She would not be sacrificed.
She didn’t think; she *acted*. A rush of heat bloomed in her chest, unfurling outwards. Her hands, without conscious command, lifted. A bright torrent of pure, shimmering amber fire erupted from her palms, focused and blinding. It didn’t burn the man, but slammed into his cuirass with concussive force, sending him sprawling backward into his companions, a terrified yell breaking from his throat.
The entire hall went silent. Enforcers, villagers, even Krsnik, paused, their gazes pinned on Zoya. A low, golden glow pulsed around her, radiating warmth and power. The amber fire vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only a lingering heat in her palms. Zoya stared at her hands, then at the tumbled guards, breath catching in her throat. She had done that. *She* had done that. And it felt… right.
“There it is!” Laska shrieked, her earlier confidence replaced by a desperate, envious fury. “The beast! You see? She *must* be stopped!”
More men surged forward, spurred by Laska’s renewed cries. But the sanctuary folk, witnessing Zoya’s display, rallied. The elder shouted an order, and his people, hardened by years in hiding, met the Regent’s cohort head-on. Krsnik, seeing the resolve in Zoya’s eyes, fought with a renewed intensity, his movements a blur of deadly grace, protecting her flank.
Zoya felt the power hum beneath her skin, steady and warm. She reached out, pressing outward with concussive air that made the assailants stagger, their balance ruined. She struck not to slaughter, but to shield, carving open lanes for Krsnik and the defenders. Each pulse of power felt like a defiant roar, a shedding of the self-doubt that had always clung to her.
A deafening roar tore through the mountain air. The ground trembled. Everyone looked up. Through the jagged opening in the sanctuary’s ceiling, a massive, black-iron airship, adorned with the Regent’s serpent sigil, descended slowly. Its colossal propellers churned the wind, kicking up dust and debris. On its open deck, a figure stood, regal and terrible: the Regent himself. He wasn’t aiming a weapon, nor did he appear to be leading an attack. He merely watched, his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, fixed solely on Zoya.
A cruel smile played on his lips. “Magnificent,” he boomed, his voice carrying over the din of battle, echoing through the hall. “Truly magnificent. I had always suspected the prophecies were… incomplete. It’s not about *killing* the queen. It’s about *taming* her. And her power.” He raised a hand, and the airship slowly descended further, a dark, hungry maw opening in its belly.
“Bring her to me,” he commanded, his voice laced with a chilling authority. “Alive.”