“Right, now that introductions are over, you’re helping us hunt down the warlord.” Yaroslav stared at the tiny bird, then at the girl, then back at the bird. “Absolutely not,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. He wiped his hands on a clean cloth, the residual resonance of his craft prickling across his skin. He felt a faint ache behind his eyes, a familiar aftereffect. Zima, still hunched on the worn examination table, flinched as if struck. Her slate-colored irises narrowed. “Absolutely not?” she echoed, her voice raspy, laced with incredulity and a nascent, dangerous anger. “You just… fixed me. You brought me back from…” She trailed off, glancing at her side, then at him, suspicion hardening her features. “What are you? An ordained healer?” “I am a mortician,” Yaroslav corrected, his gaze unwavering. “My job is to prepare the dead, not to aid the living in suicidal vendettas. You were a special case. You bled all over my floor.” He pointed toward the crimson pool sinking into the floorboards. The wood slowly leached it dry, an echo of the life force he had just channeled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual corpses to attend to.” Pavel, perched on Zima’s shoulder, puffed out his chest. “Oh, but this isn’t a suicidal vendetta, friend! It’s a heroic quest! A grand adventure! And you, Dr. Mortician, are now an indispensable part of it. Think of the glory! The ballads! Plus, Zima needs a strategic mind. She’s more of a… direct approach kind of girl.” He chirped brightly, entirely oblivious to the insult he'd just delivered. “A strategic mind that wants nothing to do with it,” Yaroslav countered, turning his back to grab a fresh basin and rags. He began meticulously cleaning the table, scrubbing at imagined grime. “Your target is entrenched behind three rings of fortifications in the smog district. He commands a network of Awakened mercenaries and corrupted city guards. You, a single, grievously wounded girl and a talking sparrow, stand no chance.” He watched her reflection in the polished metal of a surgical instrument. Her teeth clicked shut, a tendon knotting along her neck. “My chances are my business,” Zima growled, pushing herself off the table with a grunt. She swayed slightly, but her fury lent her a fragile strength. “I will avenge my family. Voronov will pay for the massacre at Volya Keep. I don’t need your permission or your help.” She took a stumbling step toward the door that led to the reception area, her eyes burning with a desperate resolve. “I just needed to stay upright.” Pavel fluttered between them. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty! We’re all friends here! Perhaps a nice cup of fermented grog would clear the air? Or a rousing song about past glories? Yaroslav, you have such kind eyes beneath that grizzled exterior, I’m sure you’d be excellent at scouting his patrols!” Yaroslav ignored the sparrow, his focus entirely on Zima. “You want to avenge your family? Fine. Tell me your plan, girl. Let’s hear this grand strategy that will fell a warlord.” He crossed his arms, leaning against a cold steel counter, an expression of weary challenge on his face. Zima hesitated, her gaze flickering. “I… I will infiltrate his central estate, the Black Citadel. He expects me to be dead. My Core ability allows me to cloak my outline in total dark.” She tried to sound confident, but her voice held a brittle edge. “Once inside, I’ll confront him directly. His guards are nothing to my blade.” Yaroslav let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Shadow’s Veil, you say? A useful trick for picking pockets in the Lower Sprawl, perhaps. But the Black Citadel? It is warded with ancient runic sigils that seek out stray aether, unraveling foreign shrouds on contact. Any sentry with an iron-grade Core can pick up the ripple from thirty paces. He keeps half a dozen high-tier guardsmen on retainer, and their heavy armor disperses spiritual dampening.” He watched her face drain of color. “You expect to simply walk in, confront him, and kill him? He hasn’t left that fortress in a decade. He eats, sleeps, and breathes paranoia. Every cup of water is tested, every servant is scried. He has escape routes that lead to the Undercroft, a labyrinth only his most loyal know. Your ‘blade’ would be met by a dozen others before you even saw his face.” [Observation: Subject Zima Volya's battle plan confidence: Severely eroded.] Zima’s hands balled into fists, trembling. Her bravado crumbled, replaced by a raw, naked humiliation that warred with her burning hatred. “Then what, you old grave digger? Am I just supposed to… surrender? Let him win?” Her voice cracked. “You are supposed to survive,” Yaroslav said, pushing off the counter. He walked towards her, his presence calm but utterly unyielding. “And staying alive, in Taranov, means understanding the currents, not just thrashing against them. You charge into that fortress, and you’ll end up discarded in the drainage canals before dawn. Or nailed to his gate.” “He’s right, Zima,” Pavel chirped, flying circles around her head. “You do need to survive! Perhaps we could send him a strongly worded letter first? Or challenge him to a duel of wits? I’m terrible at those, but I’m sure you’d be magnificent!” Zima ignored her familiar, her gaze fixed on Yaroslav. “I don’t need your lectures. I don’t need your help.” She spun around, bitter fury propelling her toward the door. “I’ll find another way.” She took two steps, a ragged gasp escaping her lips, and then her legs buckled. Her face went ashen, and she pitched forward. Yaroslav moved without thinking, catching her before she hit the floor. Her body was surprisingly light, thin and fragile beneath his hands. “Stubborn idiot,” he muttered, easing her back onto the examination table. Her eyes were glazed with pain, her breath shallow. “My touch seals torn flesh, girl, but it cannot mend a Core scorched by Blight corruption. Your body is whole, but your connection to the Aetheric flow is barely a trickle. Your cloak would unravel before you crossed the threshold, and your blade would hit like dull lead.” He pressed a thumb against her temple, feeling the faint, erratic pulse of her Core. It was like a dying ember. [Mending: Core Stability. Current Status: Catastrophic. Ability: Suppressed.] “What… what did you do to me?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I saved your life,” Yaroslav replied, tone sharpening. “Yet flesh-craft has boundaries. I can stitch flesh, re-knit bone, even reverse a fatal wound once. But only once. If you die again, Zima Volya, there will be no coming back.” He met her eyes, letting the gravity of his words sink in. “And healing a ravaged Core is beyond even my abilities. You are, for all intents and purposes, magically crippled.” A loud, insistent banging rattled the mortuary’s front door, shaking dust from the ceiling. A deep, authoritative voice boomed from outside. “Mortician Kruk! Open this door immediately! The Ministry tracks a fugitive here! We detected the resurgence signature! Hand over the girl, or we breach!” Yaroslav’s head snapped towards the door. Inquisitors. And they had picked up the resonance of his work. This was worse than he’d imagined. He spun, grabbing Zima by the arm. “Get up. Now.” “What? Who is that?” Zima rasped, trying to push him away. “Hunters from the order. They are here for you, and they care nothing for your injuries. They’ll take you, interrogate you, and turn you into a pawn. Or worse.” He dragged her towards the row of chilled morgue drawers lining the back wall. They were empty now, but usually held the city’s unclaimed dead. One, however, was specially modified, insulated with lead and sound-dampening panels, a secret compartment for his more… sensitive patients. “No! I’m not hiding in there! I’ll fight them!” Zima protested, trying to pull free. “You can barely stand, much less take on an armored enforcer,” Yaroslav whispered harshly, shoving her into the chilled metal tray. The smell of disinfectant and cold steel filled her nostrils. “Stay quiet. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.” He slammed the drawer shut just as the mortuary’s front door splintered inwards with a thunderous crack.

The Sparrow's Terrible Advice