The acrid stench of burnt bone and ozone clawed at Dagnija’s throat, a bitter counterpoint to the ringing in her ears. Shards of ceramic glinted on the zinc table, catching the faint, struggling glow of the remaining gas lamps. Her gaze swept over the damage: pipettes splayed like broken fingers, a crucial pressure-valve apparatus fractured, the calcified blood sample, now a scorch mark on the floor. Seventy days, and they had just lost half a night’s work and a significant portion of her irreplaceable equipment.
Ignat stood unnervingly still amidst the wreckage, his silhouette stark against the sputtering lamplight. A smear of gray ash smudged his sharp cheekbone, making his piercing eyes seem even colder. He surveyed the destruction, then slowly turned his gaze to Dagnija, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "A most… *explosive* setback, wouldn't you say, Rostova? Even for your legendary precision."
“My precision is irrelevant when the sample itself is volatile,” Dagnija retorted, though her voice held a brittle edge she despised. She brushed a piece of ceramic from her sleeve, her fingers stinging from the heat, the tremor in her left hand more pronounced now. "This lab is compromised. We need a sterile environment, and more importantly, replacement equipment. Now."
He watched her, his expression unyielding. "And where precisely do you propose we find a state-of-the-art somatic laboratory at this hour, in this quadrant of Voronya? Perhaps you have another secret, conveniently overlooked, tucked away in your genius mind?" The sarcasm was back, a familiar comfort between them, yet it felt less sharp than usual.
“There’s an old apothecary,” Dagnija began, her mind already racing through the labyrinthine streets of the lower city. “My mentor, old Doktor Volkov, kept a small, private clinic near the Whisperwind Docks. It’s antiquated, but it’s clean, and most of his original instruments were built for raw material processing, not delicate tissue grafting.”
Ignat’s brow arched. “Volkov? The one who vanished a decade ago, leaving behind only rumors of his ‘unorthodox’ methods?” He paused, an ember of curiosity igniting in his eyes. “Very well. Lead the way, Rostova. But do try to avoid any further… unscheduled pyrotechnics.”
Navigating the fog-choked streets felt different this time. The earlier confrontation with Casimir's guards and the hound had left them with a raw, shared experience. Dagnija felt a phantom ache in her calcified leg, a constant reminder of the encroaching paralysis. They moved quickly, their footsteps echoing on the slick cobblestones, the distant wail of a grafted hound a mournful lullaby. The lower city was a tangle of leaning tenements and rusted streetlamps, the air thick with the smell of brine and industrial smoke.
Doktor Volkov's dispensary was tucked away down a narrow alley, its grimy windows reflecting the sickly yellow glow of a distant streetlamp. Inside, dust motes danced in the single beam of light piercing a cracked shutter. Shelves lined with forgotten tinctures and dried herbs cast long, skeletal shadows. The air was heavy with the scent of camphor and old paper. A workbench, scarred and stained, occupied the center of the room, flanked by a sturdy, if ancient, iron rotor.
“Hardly the anatomical institute, is it?” Ignat remarked, his voice surprisingly soft as he surveyed the humble space. He pulled a worn chair from beneath the bench, then gestured for Dagnija to sit. “Your hands are bleeding.”
Dagnija hadn't even noticed the small cuts from the shattering glass. Her focus had been entirely on the failure, the ticking clock. She looked down at her left hand, then her right. Crimson beads welled from half a dozen shallow abrasions. Ignat produced a clean, linen handkerchief from his coat pocket, his movements unexpectedly gentle as he dabbed at a cut on her knuckles. The warmth of his touch, the unexpected proximity, was jarring. Their usual verbal sparring was a shield, and without it, the silence felt charged.
“Careful, Zverev,” Dagnija said, her voice a low murmur, the sarcasm a reflex, though it lacked its usual bite. “Don’t smudge your pristine reputation by tending to a disgraced surgeon.”
Ignat met her gaze, his dark eyes unwavering. “Disgraced? That’s what Casimir would call you, perhaps. But then, he also believes a pregnant chambermaid is a suitable replacement for a Rostova. My opinion of your reputation, Dagnija, has always been rather… specific.” He carefully unwrapped a roll of clean gauze he’d found in a dusty cabinet, securing it around her palm. “You know, they used to say you were a sorceress, not a surgeon. That your hands could weave flesh from air.”
Dagnija scoffed, a dry sound. “Idle gossip. My hands were merely… precise.”
“More than precise,” Ignat corrected, his voice quiet, almost reflective. He paused, his fingers still brushing hers as he finished the bandage. “I didn’t hate you, Dagnija. Not truly. I hated that I was always chasing. Always second. Every theoretical paper, every surgical demonstration, you were always a step ahead. A leap, usually.” He looked away, his gaze falling on the ancient iron spindle. “You were the only one. The only mind in Voronya that could truly challenge mine. The only one that made the pursuit of knowledge… exhilarating.”
Dagnija stared at him, caught off guard. She had always assumed his relentless challenging, his sharp-tongued criticisms, stemmed from pure, unadulterated envy and a desire to usurp her position. To hear him admit to a form of reverence, to a shared intellectual hunger, was disorienting.
“When you vanished,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “I thought it would finally be my time. To truly shine, unburdened by your shadow. But it was… hollow. The marble halls became a place of predictable brilliance, not groundbreaking discovery. I kept your lab untouched, you know. Even when the Praetors considered repurposing it. I argued for its preservation, citing its historical significance. A ridiculous lie. I just… couldn’t bear to see it defiled.” He finally looked at her again, a raw vulnerability in his eyes that Dagnija had never seen before. “I always hoped you’d return.”
The quiet between them grew dense and heavy. Before either of them could break it, the creak of the workshop door announced a visitor. Milena Kavčič slipped inside, her cloak dripping with fog, a large, intricately carved wooden crate clutched in her arms. Her eyes, usually sharp and wary, held a gleam of triumph.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Milena whispered, setting the crate carefully on the workbench with a soft thud. “But I believe I have something that might expedite your… research.” She unlatched the crate, revealing a gleaming contraption of polished brass and reinforced glass, its internal mechanisms whirring faintly. A marrow-centrifuge, far more advanced than anything Dagnija owned, or had even seen outside the Praetor’s private vaults.
Ignat’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you acquire such a device, Milena? That’s a Veridian-class separator. Only the wealthiest oligarchs or the high council's inner echelons could commission such a thing.”
Milena’s smile was grim. “Casimir Vlas, in his infinite generosity, procured it. Or rather, his spiraling debts procured it. He’s been liquidating assets at an alarming rate, desperate to regain any shred of credibility. He believes a public donation to the Sanctorum’s ‘advancement fund’ might sway the Praetors. The separator was meant to be the centerpiece of his offering.” She glanced at Dagnija, her expression hardening. “He’s taking his frustration out on Radmila. Her ‘condition’ is becoming a liability, apparently. He demanded she fetch the apparatus from the manufacturer’s vault, then left her stranded in the rain, nearly incoherent with terror.”
Dagnija felt a cold knot tighten in her gut. The image of Radmila, weeping and alone, haunted her. She pushed herself up from the chair, the sudden movement sending a jolt through her left leg. Her vision blurred momentarily, and a spasm seized her right wrist. The glass beaker she had picked up clattered to the floorboards, shattering into jagged splinters.
Ignat moved instantly, his hand reaching out to steady her, his eyes fixed on her shaking limb. Her efforts to hide the calcification slipped past her grasp. The tremor wasn’t a fleeting spasm; it was a deep, bone-rattling vibration, utterly beyond her command. Her face, usually carved from cold slate, tightened into naked panic. Ignat’s gaze traveled from her trembling hand to the faint, ashen pallor beneath her skin, the subtle sheen of sweat on her brow. The gentle concern on his face slowly morphed into something else – a terrifying certainty.
He released her, his movements slow and deliberate, and walked to the reinforced doorway. With a soft click, he engaged the heavy bolt. Then, he turned, his body a solid barrier against the exit, his eyes dark with an unyielding resolve. “You’re not leaving, Dagnija,” he stated, his voice devoid of all sarcasm, all pretense. “Not until you tell me the absolute truth.”