The stench of the Undercity’s bowels was a familiar companion, but never before had it felt quite so pressing. Nusha stumbled, her hand scraping against a slimy brick, the grimy water splashing up around her worn boots. Levan’s grip on her arm tightened, pulling her along. Murtazi, bless his six-legged, abysmal heart, navigated the gloom like a disgruntled torpedo, his multiple glowing eyes cutting through the inky blackness. Each thud from above was a fresh punch to Nusha’s gut, echoing the destruction of her clinic, her only sanctuary.
“A beacon?” Nusha hissed, wrenching her arm free. The anger was a hot, desperate thing in her chest. “My magic is a beacon? And you knew about it? You just let me—let Giorgi—get caught in your idiotic rebellion?”
Levan spun, his face a sharp mask in the sparse light filtering from a grimy grate overhead. “I didn’t know you possessed *that* kind of power, Zakarova. Nobody did. But yes, your bloodline has been hunting a particular kind of resonance for years. A power signature that only a select few in your lineage have ever manifested.” He gestured impatiently at Murtazi, who had paused, twitching an antenna towards a narrow, almost invisible slit in the wall. “Through here. It’s a smuggler’s run; tight, but we’ll be safe enough from blasts.”
The tunnel was a miserable crawl, just wide enough for one person, the air thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the sickly sweetness of decay. Murtazi squeezed through first, his chitinous body scraping against the rough-hewn stone. Nusha followed, her shoulders brushing both walls. Levan brought up the rear, his breathing steady, too steady. Her own heart thrummed like a trapped bird.
They emerged into a slightly wider, equally foul chamber. The air here was still and heavy, the kind of stillness that pressed against the eardrums. Levan immediately began pulling crates, hastily stacked against the far wall, creating a makeshift barricade. Murtazi settled himself atop the highest crate, his eyes fixed on the entrance, a silent, furry gargoyle.
“Giorgi,” Levan began, his voice low, “was a valuable asset. He supplied us with information, small things at first, then larger movements within the Zakarov network. He worked with us to find a link between your family and the Gray Blight’s origin.”
Nusha scoffed, a bitter sound. “Giorgi? A rebel? He was a simple Stitcher, mending the poor and forgotten. He hated politics.” The words felt hollow, like old bones rattling. She pictured Giorgi, his kind eyes, his weathered hands, always gentle, always steady. The man who taught her everything, who swore off the world beyond their clinic’s walls.
“He was an idealist,” Levan countered, his voice firm. “He saw the blight devouring the city, Nusha. He saw the ruling class's opulent enclaves untouched, magically warded, while the poor choked on their own flesh. He couldn’t stand by.” Levan’s eyes, even in the dimness, held a glint of conviction that Nusha found both infuriating and undeniably compelling. “He was looking for something specific. A ritual, a place. Anything that could explain why the blight seemed to follow your house's movements.”
Nusha leaned back against the damp stone, the revelation a cold shock. Giorgi, her quiet mentor, a spy? It twisted everything she thought she knew, ripping a hole in the carefully constructed anonymity of her life. Her world had just exploded twice in one night, first her clinic, now her past.
Before she could form a coherent thought, a shimmering, spectral image bloomed in the air before them, coalescing from motes of light and shadow. It was Vardo. Her grandmother. The image was perfectly rendered, a cruel masterpiece of arcane projection. Vardo’s silver hair was coiled into an elaborate braid, secured with obsidian pins that caught the faint light. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, fixed on Nusha, then flickered to Levan, a predatory glint within their depths. The air in the cramped tunnel grew heavy, suffocating, as if Vardo’s very presence sucked the oxygen from the space.
“Anoushka,” Vardo’s voice, a silken whip, echoed through the chamber, making the water droplets on the ceiling tremble. “What a delightful mess you’ve made. And so quickly, too.” A thin, humorless smile touched her lips. “Such raw power, my dear. Untamed, but undeniably potent. I felt it, even across the city. A roar in the arcane currents, a beacon indeed.”
Nusha pushed herself off the wall. “You have no right to come here, Grandmother. My life is my own.”
Vardo merely raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Your life? My dearest, you are a Zakarova. Your life is our legacy. And you have squandered it on this… squalor.” Her gaze swept over the filthy tunnel, lingering contemptuously on Levan. “And this… street urchin. Tell me, Anoushka, does he know what you truly are? Does he understand the curse of the blood that flows in your veins?”
Levan stepped forward, shielding Nusha slightly, his hand subtly dropping to the hilt of a concealed dagger. “She is no one’s property, Matriarch. And her power serves the people, not your clan’s greed.”
Vardo’s laughter was a brittle, chilling sound. “Such pretty words, boy. Such brave defiance. But do you truly believe you can protect her from what is hers by birthright? From what she is destined to become?” Her gaze sharpened on Nusha. “Return, Anoushka. Return to the estate. Accept your inheritance, your place. This… rebellious phase… will be forgiven. Giorgi’s transgression, too, can be overlooked, for a time.” Her eyes flickered to Levan, then back to Nusha. “Though I fear your little rebel friend here would find the consequences of your continued absence rather… unpleasant.”
The veiled threat was unmistakable, a cold blade pressed to Levan’s throat through the ethereal projection. Nusha gritted her molars. She knew Vardo. Her grandmother didn’t use violence as a first resort; she used leverage. And Levan was the perfect lever.
“You won’t touch him,” Nusha growled, the words tasting like ash.
Vardo’s smile widened, devoid of warmth. “Oh, Anoushka. Such passion. Such misplaced loyalty. You always were too soft, too sentimental. But that can be remedied. The family needs its heart back, Anoushka. Come home, or I will come and carve it out of this dying world myself.”