Kaven secured Zorina in her private quarters, the heavy door thudding shut behind him like a judgment. He had walked past the night watchmen and brushed aside every muttered inquiry from the hall clerks. Let them speculate; the so-called scourge of the district was decaying from petrifaction, not nursing an appetite for destruction. He had left her with a medic he could trust, a quiet man named Dr. Valeriy from the lower city’s infirmary, not the academy’s official physicians who were likely on Sidorov’s payroll. He had given Dr. Valeriy strict instructions, and a significant pouch of coin. Now, Kaven felt a singular, cold clarity. He needed to move. Fast. He needed to find Dragomir. The annual Patron’s Gala, hosted within the opulent Grand Conclave Hall, was the perfect stage for his impromptu interrogation. The air thrummed with the low hum of conversation, the clinking of crystal, and the saccharine scent of burnished copper and perfumed silks. Veridsk’s elite, those who profited from the city’s constant twilight, navigated the crowded floor, their faces illuminated by the amber glow of gas lanterns. Kaven, still in his aide's uniform, felt a familiar surge of contempt for the lavish display. These were the vultures Sidorov fed, the very people Zorina shielded with her reputation. He spotted Dragomir beside a sculpted pillar of ice etched with runic tracery that shimmered under the chandeliers. Dragomir, resplendent in a tailored midnight-blue tunic, was holding court, a dazzling smile fixed on his face as he gestured expansively to a group of minor officials. The sight of his rival, so effortlessly charming, so perfectly ensconced in the very world Kaven had been cast out of, stirred a bitter taste in his mouth. But it also provided a fresh focus for his rage. Kaven cut through the throng, ignoring the startled glances and whispered comments. He didn't bother with pleasantries. “Orlov,” he stated, his voice a low growl that carried just enough to snag Dragomir’s attention. The smile on Dragomir's face faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance, then a calculating smirk. “Volkov. What an unexpected… pleasure,” Dragomir drawled, dismissing his audience with a practiced nod. “Still playing the loyal dog, I see. Come to beg for another chance? Or perhaps you’ve finally seen the light about your mistress, the great Soot Saint?” Kaven stepped closer, his shadow falling across Dragomir’s polished boots. “Drop the theatrics, Orlov. We both know you don’t give a damn about the ‘Soot Saint’. You want power. And you had no qualms about gutting my career to secure a scrap of it.” “A fair assessment,” Dragomir replied, leaning back, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Unlike some, I understand how this city works. One must make… difficult choices.” “Indeed,” Kaven agreed, his voice dangerously soft. “Like siding with a man who fast-tracks death traps into the heart of the city.” Dragomir’s expression tightened. “Watch your tongue, Volkov. Prefect Sidorov is a visionary. He’s leading Veridsk into a new era of prosperity.” “Prosperity built on unstable power cells that will gut the Undercrofts and obliterate half the Ash-Wards?” Kaven challenged, deliberately raising his voice, letting it carry beyond their immediate vicinity. He saw heads turn, hushed conversations die down. Good. Let them listen. “You offered me evidence of Zorina’s ‘sabotage’. Tell me, Orlov, did your meticulously gathered data ever point to who *ordered* those unstable cores to be deployed? Who bypassed the safety checks? Who pushed for the accelerated timetables, knowing the risks?” Dragomir’s composed façade cracked. His gaze darted around, assessing the sudden attention. His neck stiffened. He prided himself on his control, on his public image. Kaven was stripping it away, piece by infuriating piece. “What are you talking about?” he hissed, his voice losing its customary charm. “I’m talking about Sidorov, Orlov. Your patron. Your benefactor. The man whose coat-tails you’re so desperate to ride,” Kaven pressed, his own voice a relentless, accusing hum. “He’s using Zorina as a scapegoat. He’s orchestrating these ‘accidents’. He’s building his empire on the ashes of this city, and you, with your ambition, are his unwitting accomplice.” Dragomir’s eyes narrowed, a cold fire sparking within them. The humiliation was clear on his face, a raw, exposed nerve. He’d never been publicly challenged like this. He’d always been the one making the grand pronouncements, the one holding the cards. But Kaven had flipped the table. The seed of doubt, however reluctant, had clearly taken root. “You’re deluded, Volkov. Zorina is a menace, a destructive force,” Dragomir spat, but there was a tremor in his conviction. He glanced around again, his carefully constructed mask finally slipping. “Sidorov… he did push for the Xylos-pattern core deployment. Said it was essential for rapid transmission expansion. Overrode three separate safety reviews at the Guildmaster’s Assembly. Called them ‘unnecessary bureaucratic delays’.” The words tumbled out, laced with a new, unsettling uncertainty. The information, once a minor detail in his quest to discredit Zorina, now took on a sinister resonance. “He insisted on the experimental regulators, even when the senior technicians flagged them as volatile. Called it ‘innovation’.” “Innovation that nearly blew apart the Undercrofts and cost Zorina her health,” Kaven countered, his voice dripping with venom. “He is spending her marrow to cover his tracks, Orlov. And he will burn this whole district next.” Dragomir stared, his wineglass tilting precariously against his sleeve. The calculation in his posture gave way to a hollow, defensive stillness as the timeline of his patron's orders turned toxic in his memory. “It’s so good to see our city’s brightest minds collaborating. I expect great things,” a voice purred, smooth as polished obsidian. Kaven felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder, then another on Dragomir’s. Prefect Sidorov stood between them, his smile wide and affable, yet his eyes, Kaven noticed, held a distinct chill, like the glint of a freshly honed blade.

The Rival's Gambit