Danica moved through the scattered courtiers, their whispers like a swarm of gnats. Nobles clutched at velvet sleeves, their voices rising in frantic barters beneath the late afternoon sun. But Danica didn’t glance at them. Her gaze was fixed on Radoslav Bazyli, a man who seemed entirely immune to panic, his posture as unyielding as polished obsidian.
He watched her approach, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head. The corner of his mouth twitched, not in amusement, but in a flicker of something sharper, more calculating. She stopped before him, the distance between them feeling vast despite the few feet separating their boots. “Lord Bazyli,” she said, her voice steady, betraying none of the tremor that had started in her stomach. “I believe we need to speak.”
“Indeed, Lady Danica.” His voice was a low murmur, rich as aged wine. “It appears the game has changed. Come, there are eyes everywhere.” He turned without another word, leading her away from the crowded square, past the sanctuary's white marble colonnade, and into the paved alleys of the merchant district. His personal guard, a pair of imposing men with faces like carved stone, melted into the shadows behind them, ensuring their privacy.
They arrived at a nondescript building that belied its opulent interior. Inside, a hushed quiet enveloped them. Bazyli led her through a series of dimly lit corridors, past shelves overflowing with scrolls and ledgers, the scent of old paper and beeswax thick in the air. Finally, he ushered her into a private study. The room was small, dominated by a massive, dark wood desk and lined with more books than Danica had ever seen outside a royal archive. A single, guttering oil lamp cast dancing shadows.
“My apologies for the austerity,” he said, gesturing to a worn leather armchair opposite the desk. “I prefer discretion.” He took the seat behind the desk, his movements economical. “Now, Lady Danica. What is it you require?”
Danica didn’t prevaricate. “I require resources. Specifically, wagons of bone meal, clover seeds, and a workforce large enough to prepare a significant plot of land within the month.”
Bazyli leaned back, his fingers steepled. “An ambitious shopping list for a lady whose family vault is, by all accounts, as barren as the blighted fields you claim to heal.”
Her spine stiffened. “My family’s finances are not your concern.”
“On the contrary,” he countered, his eyes sharp. “When the Crown demands a third more grain from a duchy teetering on the brink of insolvency, every ledger becomes my concern. Your father, a man of admirable piety, poured a fortune into clerical tithes and failed purification rites over the past two years. He stripped the Volos coffers bare in pursuit of the very salvation you now embody. The ‘Saintess of the Verdant Hand’ is not merely a title, my lady; it is the sole remaining asset preventing the complete dissolution of your lineage.”
Danica felt a flush creep up her neck. He was right; Duke Volos had stripped their stores dry chasing divine favor.
“So,” he continued, his voice softer, but no less penetrating, “you have nothing to offer me in exchange for such a substantial investment.” He paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy with her predicament. “Except, perhaps, the craft behind your green touch. And the exclusive rights to whatever this harvest yields.”
Danica swallowed. This was it. The price. The knowledge she possessed, the modern science, was her only currency. "The method is not for sale to just anyone. It is for the kingdom, to prevent mass starvation."
“And who will implement them?” Bazyli asked, his voice laced with a dry skepticism. “The priesthood? Their methods are clearly… ineffective. The monarchy? They’re too busy squabbling over quotas. I, Lady Danica, have the reach. I control the trade routes, the storage, the distribution networks. If you wish your knowledge to truly feed Olenya, you will need me.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze unwavering. “Tell me, Lady Danica, what makes your soil different? What makes your prayers… effective?”
She met his stare. “It’s not prayers, Lord Bazyli. It’s a method. A precise application of scientific principles.” She explained, concisely, the need for calcium, for nitrogen, for organic matter, for careful pH balance. She spoke of soil testing, of crop rotation, of the meticulous work required to restore the land’s health, all the while watching his face for any sign of disbelief.
He listened intently, his expression unreadable, occasionally offering a sharp nod. When she finished, he remained silent for a long moment, simply observing her. Then, he rose from his seat and walked slowly around the desk. He stopped beside her chair, his tall frame looming over her. The scent of his fine wool tunic, a subtle blend of cedar and something metallic, filled the air around her.
He reached out, not quite touching her, but his hand hovered near her face. His thumb brushed just beneath her jawline, catching a stray strand of hair, then moved lower. His gaze fixed on her hands, then specifically, on the faint smudges of dark earth still clinging beneath her fingernails, remnants of her nocturnal excursions to the blighted fields. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.
“The court sees an altar piece, Lady Danica,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “They see divine grace and fragile beauty. I see a woman who is not afraid to get her hands dirty. That is a far rarer and more valuable commodity.”
A dry warmth rose in her throat. He stood close enough that the scent of cedar cut through the tallow smoke, his stare stripping away the clerical title she had worn like armor all week.
Just then, the study door creaked open, shattering the spell. A sharp, clear voice cut through the sudden silence. "Forgive the intrusion, Lord Bazyli. But I believe Lady Danica has forgotten her obligations."
Danica spun around in her chair. Standing framed in the doorway, her elaborate robes a stark contrast to the dim room, was Lady Zofia Rostova. Her eyes, usually alight with fervent devotion, now held a cold, unwavering disapproval as they swept from Danica to Bazyli. Her chin was held high, her posture rigid. “High Priestess Elzbieta has deemed it appropriate that I personally oversee Lady Danica’s… experimental endeavors. To ensure the faith's sacred agricultural practices are not sullied by heretical farming.”
Zofia stepped fully into the room, her gaze locking onto Danica. “Consider me your shadow, Saintess. From this day forward, I will observe every seed you sow, every drop of water you apply, every ‘miracle’ you attempt to conjure. I will be there to witness your success—or your eventual trial.”