“The Saint has returned.”
Nusha’s hand shot out, not to welcome the stranger, but to slam the door shut. The heavy timber shuddered under her force, but the man was faster. A polished boot, impossibly quick, wedged itself in the gap, then a shoulder, broad and unyielding. The door, old and patched, groaned in protest as he pushed it open again, stepping into the cramped clinic with an air of proprietary right.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. He wasn’t just tall; he filled the doorway, his presence an unwelcome invasion in her carefully constructed solitude. His piercing green eyes, framed by dark lashes, fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He looked like he’d walked out of a propaganda poster, all sharp angles and heroic jawline. A zealot, she decided instantly. The worst kind.
“Allow what?” Nusha shot back, her voice laced with venom. “You to come barging into my establishment, declaring nonsense and startling my… patient?” She gestured vaguely at Giorgi, who was still staring at his own hands, utterly bewildered.
The man spared a quick, almost reverent glance at Giorgi, the silver flower pin catching the weak lantern light. “The prophecy spoke of golden light and a touch that defied the grave. The Gray Blight’s grasp broken, if only for a moment. You brought him back, didn’t you? The Saint.” His gaze snapped back to Nusha, bright with a dangerous hope. “Your eyes, they glowed.”
Nusha snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound. “My eyes glow when I haven’t slept for three days. It’s called an optic nerve twitch. And this,” she swept a hand around the dingy room, “is called a medical malpractice lawsuit waiting to happen if you don’t remove yourself from my premises. I’m a medic, not a miracle worker. This man is still dying.”
“But you did it,” Levan insisted, stepping further inside, his voice dropping to a persuasive murmur. “The whispers have been faint, but persistent. A scion of the Zakarov line, exiled, gifted with a power that could stem the tide of the Gray Blight. The Golden-Eyed Saint, destined to heal Aznavan.” He spoke as if it were an undeniable truth, carved in stone, not a desperate fantasy spun from fear.
“The Zakarovs banish anyone who doesn’t fit their mold,” Nusha retorted, her jaw tight. The last thing she needed was her past dug up by some self-important rebel leader. “And ‘gifted’ isn’t the word I’d use. ‘Cursed’ is closer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dead man who needs to finish dying in peace.”
Before Levan could respond, a low growl rumbled from beneath the operating table. A six-legged mass of mangy fur, all teeth and terrible attitude, unfurled itself. Murtazi, Nusha’s Corpse Cat, regarded Levan with undisguised hostility. His six emerald eyes narrowed, reflecting the dim lamplight.
“Oh, perfect,” Nusha muttered, bracing herself. Murtazi had never been one for strangers, especially not ones who brought the scent of ambition and fresh leather into their home.
Murtazi launched himself, a blur of wiry muscle and razor claws. He didn’t bother with a warning yowl, just a guttural snarl as he aimed for Levan’s leg. The rebel leader, despite his imposing stature, let out a sharp curse, leaping back with frantic quickness. Murtazi, however, was equally agile, twisting in mid-air to redirect his attack, sinking his fangs into the thick wool of Levan’s coat, just above the knee.
“Get off me, you oversized rat!” Levan exclaimed, trying to shake the creature loose. Murtazi hung on with tenacious fury, his six legs scrabbling against the fabric. The sound of tearing cloth joined the chaos.
Nusha, despite the dire circumstances, felt a flicker of perverse amusement. “He’s not a rat, he’s a Corpse Cat. And he takes offense to being called names, especially by people who break into our clinic.”
Levan grunted, trying to fend off the snarling beast without actually harming it. “Your… pet… is a menace! It has six legs and teeth like a serrated saw!” He stumbled, nearly tripping over a stack of medical crates.
“And an excellent judge of character,” Nusha added, stepping forward with a calm authority that Murtazi immediately recognized. “Murtazi, release.”
The Corpse Cat, after one last defiant tug that tore a significant chunk of wool from Levan’s coat, let go. He landed silently, a low growl still vibrating in his chest as he stalked back to Nusha’s side, rubbing his head against her shin, all six eyes still fixed on the intruder.
Levan smoothed down his torn coat, his face a mix of indignation and grudging respect. “That creature is a horror. And you, Saint, are clearly mad.”
“And you, Zealot, are clearly persistent,” Nusha countered, crossing her arms. “Now, get out.”
Before Levan could argue further, a dull thud vibrated through the floor. It was a familiar sound, one that sent a cold dread through Nusha’s gut. The methodical rhythm of a siege ram, or something far worse. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the walls.
Levan’s confident posture faltered. His head tilted, listening. “What was that?”
Nusha didn’t answer. She knew. Her grandmother's sigil wasn’t just a crest; it was a tracking collar. The thud came again, louder this time, followed by a high-pitched whine. This wasn’t a ram. This was directed magic. Heavy-grade, house-clearing magic.
“They’re here,” Nusha whispered, her voice devoid of its earlier sarcasm, replaced by a chilling resignation. “My family.”
The wall opposite the door, a sturdy but ancient brick barrier, buckled inwards with a deafening roar. Dust and plaster exploded into the room, followed by the acrid smell of ozone and burnt stone. A hole, jagged and smoking, appeared, revealing the silhouette of hulking figures. Noble house enforcers. Their polished armaments glinted in the dust-choked air, and the menacing hum of their arcane blast-cannons was unmistakable.
The man's mouth thinned, the romantic idealism instantly hardening into a combat assessment. He saw the Enforcers, their brutal efficiency, the way they moved. He saw the target they were so clearly after, standing defiant and furious amidst the crumbling plaster. Not just a legend, but a prize.
“They’re coming for you,” he said, his voice urgent. He didn’t wait for her confirmation. He moved with a speed that belied his earlier clumsiness, grabbing Nusha’s arm in a vice-like grip. “We need to go. Now!”
“Let go of me!” Nusha struggled, but Levan was stronger, pulling her towards the floor hatch that led to the Undercity’s winding sewer system. Murtazi, sensing the immediate danger, let out a furious hiss and darted ahead, kicking the hatch open with surprising force.
“No time!” Levan hoisted Nusha over the gaping hole. “They’ll tear this place apart to find you!”
The first arcane blast ripped through the clinic, narrowly missing where Nusha had been standing moments before. The operating table exploded into splinters. Levan didn’t hesitate, shoving Nusha down the ladder into the stinking darkness below. He followed quickly, sealing the hatch above them just as another blast shook the foundations.
They landed in a narrow, grimy tunnel, the air thick with the smell of stagnant water and decay. Murtazi was already a few paces ahead, his six eyes gleaming in the gloom, an unlikely guide.
“This way,” Levan grunted, pulling Nusha along the slippery path. The sounds of destruction above them were muffled but still terrifyingly present. “You didn’t just bring him back, Saint. You lit a bonfire in the dark. Resurrection magic… it’s a beacon.” He paused, his gaze intense, even in the near-total darkness. “Your grandmother, Vardo. She knows exactly where you are.”