The scent of honeysuckle mingled with the acrid tang of fowl muck. Zorina, crouched behind a cluster of prickly juniper, tracked the six monstrous birds as they pecked at the gravel path behind the Volenska manor. Burak, perched on her shoulder, twitched his snout toward the nearest bird's crested head. The afternoon heat signaled the start of Lady Morawska’s annual garden gala, where Radomysl’s prickliest dowagers traded venom over iced ratafia. “Right, Burak,” Zorina whispered, digging her boots into the dirt. “Operation Feathered Fury is a go. Remember the plan: direct them towards the main gate. The rest, my friend, is up to their divinely inspired chaos.” Burak produced a wet rasp, a creaturely grunt that conveyed utter contempt for her melodrama alongside brisk approval of the target. He dropped lightly to the ground, a furry shadow darting between the ornamental rose bushes. Zorina took a deep breath, adjusted the worn leather straps of her work apron, then slipped toward the wire pen that held the strutting menagerie. Lady Bogdana had spared no expense on the birds themselves, but surprisingly little on their containment. The fence was old, patched in places, and secured with a single, rusty latch. Krystof and Irena, who rarely ventured beyond their gilded chambers, considered the peacocks ‘exotic lawn ornaments’ and left their care to the lowest-ranking stable hands—a role Zorina had often filled, enduring the birds' screeching vanity. With a gentle tug, the latch groaned open. The birds, preening in the afternoon glare, barely registered the unlatched wire. Zorina, with Burak snapping at their scaly shins, steered them forward. Puffed up on sweet mash, they had never learned to dodge a determined badger. They strutted, indignant, in the direction she guided them, their raucous cries echoing across the manicured lawns. They waddled through the wrought-iron gate, headed straight toward the neighbor's pruned hedges and the clinking crystal beyond. Within minutes, the first indignant squawks ripped through the genteel chatter of the party. Zorina slid behind a row of birches at the boundary line, watching the lawn. A collective gasp rose from the assembled guests, followed by exclamations of alarm. Then, pandemonium. Attracted by silver plate and spun sugar, the flock charged the lawn with raucous squawks. The fattest cock bounded onto the sideboard, kicking a pyramid of glazed honey-cakes into the flagstones. Another flapped at an emerald silk wrap, rattling its quill fan with an ear-splitting screech that sent the hostess's prize hound scrambling beneath a banquet cloth. Ladies shrieked, clutching their elaborate coiffures as the birds’ sharp talons scuttled across polished marble and delicate lace. Gentlemen bellowed, attempting to drive off the marauders with gloved hands, collecting bloody knuckles and smears of lime-green dung across their polished boots. It was a symphony of chaos, a cacophony of offended propriety. And at the heart of it all, a single, horrified figure stood frozen by the grand fountain: Lady Bogdana Volenska. Her usually immaculate visage was a mask of disbelief, then dawning horror. Her perfectly styled auburn hair had begun to unravel, and a streak of berry compote adorned the sleeve of her exquisite silk gown. Other guests, their own amusements curtailed, pointed. “Are those not… the Volenska peacocks?” murmured a stout baroness, fanning herself furiously. “Indeed! Irena was boasting about their lineage only last week!” whispered a sharp-nosed duchess, her eyes alight with uncharitable amusement. Bogdana’s reputation, so carefully constructed over decades, was being shredded quill by squawking quill, all while Burak watched from the roots, grinding his teeth in quiet satisfaction. [Approval Merits Gained: 1. Case File ZV-1138. Precedent 113: The Goose-Herd's Gambit – Successful Application. Current Status: Awaiting Retribution Protocol 7C: Public Humiliation of Primary Antagonist. Proceed with Caution.] Zorina grinned, her pulse steadying. The glowing text, shimmering briefly on the polished surface of her belt buckle, was a balm to her righteous soul. She had done it. Holy, lawful ruin, indeed. Her satisfaction, however, was short-lived. By the time she slipped back to the tack room, dusk stained the sky violet and sulfur. She was whistling between her teeth, rubbing tallow into a dusty curb chain, when the plank door banged against the stone wall. Lady Bogdana stood silhouetted against the twilight, no longer just disheveled, but utterly unhinged. Her face was blotchy, her eyes glittering with a venomous rage Zorina had rarely seen unleashed so openly. Her lace cuffs were shredded, and damp grass stained her hem. Before Zorina could even register a thought, a sharp, stinging blow landed squarely across her cheek. The impact rattled her teeth, leaving a fiery imprint of Bogdana’s palm. “You insolent little vermin!” Bogdana’s voice was a low snarl, thick with fury. “You think that little spectacle was clever? You think humiliating me before the entire district counts for anything?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper, utterly devoid of the earlier histrionics. “It means nothing, girl. You are nothing. And you will *have* nothing.” Zorina’s cheek throbbed, but her own temper, long simmering, began to boil. She met Bogdana’s gaze, her eyes blazing. “I have the law, Aunt. And the heavens. Those lawn pests were only the opening gambit.” Bogdana let out a brittle, humorless laugh. “The law? The heavens? How quaint. While you were busy playing shepherd to those ridiculous birds, I was busy securing our future. Krystof, my dear, sweet Krystof, has been betrothed.” She paused, savoring Zorina’s sudden, sharp intake of breath. “To Lady Serafina of House Chodkiewicz, daughter of the Grand Hetman of the Ostrovska March. The contract will be signed, officially, publicly, in one week’s time.” The air in the stable grew heavy, cold. Zorina’s triumph curdled into a sickening dread. The Hetman: master of twenty border regiments, whose coffers rivaled the Crown's treasury. If Krystof married his daughter, the entire Volenska fortune, the manors, the lands, the very silver Zorina meant to claw back, would merge into the Hetman's marital contract. It would be untouchable. Unassailable. She would lose everything, forever. “Your little legal gymnastics mean nothing against a ducal alliance,” Bogdana continued, her voice dripping with triumphant malice. “Once those papers are signed, the fortune becomes locked under the Hetman's seal. Even your ‘divine’ law won’t untangle that knot.” She smoothed her torn dress, her composure returning, cold and sharp as polished steel. Just then, the familiar rumble of an Imperial carriage sounded from the estate’s main drive. Archivist Zahorski stepped out, charcoal coat uncreased, spectacles catching the lantern light as his ledger case tapped against his knee. Bogdana caught sight of him, a sliver of her composure faltering, but only for a moment. She looked back at Zorina, her lips curving into a predatory smile. “Let’s see your divine protector file paperwork faster than a duke’s notary.”

A Plague of Peacocks