“Burn it, Neva,” Cressa commanded, her tone dropping flat. “Burn the ledger in the fireplace right now, or I blow his brains out.”
The acrid stench of burning embers drifted from the hearth. Neva watched the silver muzzle bite into Kestian's temple. Her bubbly veneer cracked, parched and fragile under the heat.
Kestian met her stare, his brow set in a demand to endure.
Neva faked a shrill sob and hurled the singed black volume past the grate, striking the brass fender. Charred leaves fluttered on impact. Cressa's gaze snapped toward the skittering papers, her fingers loosening on Kestian's collar.
It was all the fraction of a second Kestian needed. His head snapped forward, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, and his free hand shot up, slamming into Cressa’s wrist. The pistol discharged with a sharp crack against the wainscoting. Lead tore through Kestian's upper arm, yet his footing held firm. His momentum propelled him forward, driving Cressa back against the heavy oak desk.
Cressa shrieked, a sound of pure outrage, as Kestian wrestled the weapon from her grasp. Her other hand, tipped with perfectly manicured talons, raked across his cheek, leaving shallow crimson lines. The weapon clattered beneath the kneehole as Kestian forced Cressa down across the blotter, blood pooling under his torn sleeve.
“Get out, Neva!” he barked, his voice raw with exertion, pushing Cressa further onto the desk’s surface. “Go!”
Neva remained rooted to the rug. The foolish grin she usually hid behind vanished completely. She snatched the scorched logbook from the fender, tucking the binding against her ribs.
Cressa, fueled by a venomous rage, bucked violently, throwing Kestian off balance. She lashed out with an iron-tipped boot that caught his ribs, sending him stumbling back against the bookcase. Before he could recover, Cressa spun, her eyes glinting with malicious triumph, and lunged for the study door. She was too swift. She burst into the grand hall, Kestian a step behind, staggering.
“She’s going for the guards!” Kestian gritted out, panting, his face pale with pain. “Run, Neva!”
Neva gave chase instead. Cressa fled down the polished stairs, her silk skirts hissing against the marble balusters. Neva gripped the paper bundle, racing down the steps while Kestian limped in pursuit.
Cressa reached the bottom of the stairs and glanced back, her eyes narrowing as she saw Neva still pursuing. A cruel smile stretched across her lips. “Still playing the hero, Relladon?” she sneered, her words bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. “You think this changes anything? You’re still just a ruined beggar, living in a servant’s cubby, playing house with a broken man.”
Cressa sprinted onward. She veered sharply, her destination clear: the manor’s primary egress to the staff quarters, leading straight to the kitchens. Neva knew Cressa was banking on the guards loyal to her, on the fortress-like security of the manor, to deal with Kestian and her. But Neva also knew this was *her* domain now. The scullery, the bustling heart of the manor, was where she had found sanctuary, where she had rebuilt herself, however superficially.
Neva plunged through the heavy double doors into the cavernous central kitchen, the scent of fresh bread and simmering stocks a strange comfort amidst the chaos. Cressa was already there, scanning the room, perhaps for a weapon, or for an exit to rally her hidden guards. Kestian followed, leaning heavily against the jamb, his hand pressed to his collar, red trickling through his linen tunic.
“Look at you,” Cressa spat, her voice laced with disgust, addressing Neva. “You think you belong here? In this… place? With these people? You, who once dined with dukes, now planning strategy amongst the grease traps.” She gestured around the vast room, at the glinting copper pots, the worn wooden tables, the industrial-sized ovens. “This is where you belong, isn’t it? A scullery maid, nothing more.”
The words, meant to shatter, instead ignited a cold, righteous fury in Neva. For so long, she had walled off the pain of her family’s ruin, the shame of her disgrace, the grief for all she had lost. She had plastered on a smile, pretended not to care, adopted the vacant air of a girl too simple to understand the depth of her fall. But Cressa’s taunts, her casual dismissal of Neva’s entire existence, struck a raw nerve. This wasn’t just about Kestian anymore. This was about *her*.
Neva dropped the sunny smile. Her face, usually so bright, went utterly still, her eyes like chips of river ice. Her hand, previously clutching the ledger, reached out, not for a weapon, but for the heavy, greasy rope that ran along the ceiling, from which hung a colossal, ancient cast-iron pot rack. It was suspended by a series of counterweights, designed to be lowered and raised with ease, but its sheer mass was formidable.
“This place,” Neva said, her voice low, devoid of its usual lilt, “is where I learned to survive.” Her gaze locked onto Cressa, a chilling intensity in their depths. “And it’s where you’ll learn what happens to those who underestimate a maid.”
Cressa laughed, a brittle, scornful sound. “Are you going to scrub me to death, Relladon?”
Neva ignored her. She gave the rope a sharp, practiced tug, undoing the safety knot she knew by heart. The ancient mechanism groaned, iron links rattling against the ceiling timbers. Cressa's pupils shrank as the shadow of the descending rack engulfed her. She tried to dart away, but Neva had anticipated her. With a second, powerful heave, Neva released the main tension. The counterweights plummeted, and the colossal rack crashed down with a deafening clang, shaking the very foundations of the manor.
Cressa shrieked, a sound abruptly cut off as the heavy iron frame, laden with pots, pinned her to the stone floor. A choked gasp escaped her lips, her body trapped and immobile, her face contorted in a mask of pain and disbelief. A few copper pots clattered, rolling across the tiles, but Cressa remained ensnared, the air knocked from her lungs.
Before the metal clatter settled, the heavy courtyard doors split inward, hinges shearing from rotten oak. A figure silhouetted against the dim light of the back courtyard stood there, holding a detonator in one hand, his face a grim mask of vengeance. Oryn Vespera. He had heard the gunshot.
“Kestian Dastran,” Oryn’s voice rumbled, thick with years of sorrow and rage. “It ends now. You die. Your manor burns.”
Neva, panting, bruised, and utterly spent, looked from the pinned Cressa to the enraged Oryn. She glanced down at the charred volume in her grasp. With what little strength she had left, she kicked it across the polished tiles, sending it skidding to a halt at Oryn’s worn boots.
“Read it,” she gasped, her voice raw. “She bought the brakes. She paralyzed your daughter.”