The glowing lines of Nikolai’s map pulsed faintly, a phantom heartbeat across the oak table. The name struck like cold lead. The Duchess’s forgotten solar. A name that now tasted like a death sentence. Her arm throbbed, a dull ache beneath Nikolai’s makeshift bandage. “Miroslav might know about the hidden passages,” Iviya said, her voice a rough murmur. “He caught me in the scriptorium.” Nikolai nodded, his gaze fixed on the map. “He suspects. But he doesn’t know their full extent, not like I do. He uses them for convenience, not strategy.” He looked at her, his mouth set in a hard line. “He won’t expect us to move against Aleksei yet. He believes Aleksei is his tether to the law, his shield.” “A shield that can be turned,” Iviya finished, a shard of her street-bred ruthlessness returning. “We have to divide them. If Miroslav loses his legal architect, it will throw his plans into chaos.” Nikolai frowned. “Aleksei is cunning. He won’t be easily snared, especially after what you overheard.” “He’s arrogant,” Iviya countered, pushing herself upright, ignoring the sharp protest of her wound. “He thinks he’s smarter than everyone. He thinks he’s the one pulling the strings, not Miroslav. He’s also a coward. He’ll look for an escape route, a way to save himself.” “What are you planning?” Nikolai asked, scrutinizing her. “I’m going to offer him one,” she said, a dry, humorless smile touching her lips. “And then I’m going to make sure he takes the bait, hook, line, and sinker.” The law library was a cavern of hushed reverence, rows of leather-bound tomes rising like silent sentinels to the vaulted ceiling. The air smelled of aged paper and dry dust, a familiar comfort that now felt like a shroud. Iviya found Aleksei hunched over a heavy volume, his spectacles perched on his nose, fingers tracing a line of archaic script. He seemed oblivious to the world, a scholar lost in his dominion. She approached him slowly, her footsteps barely a whisper on the polished wooden floor. Tikho, hidden in the folds of her sleeve, remained still, a grey shadow waiting. “Aleksei Chernov,” Iviya said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the silence. “The architect of my destruction.” He flinched, snapping the book shut with a soft thud. His head rose, his spectacles catching the lamplight before his gaze narrowed into sharp focus. He straightened, pushing himself away from the lectern. “Annelise. I… I didn’t expect you.” He swallowed, his gaze flicking to her bandaged arm, then quickly away. “You were hurt.” “Yes,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “While running from Miroslav’s guards, after I overheard you explaining the Heir’s Lament, the blood magic ritual designed to drain my life force to restore the northern province.” She watched him, unblinking, as the color drained from his face, leaving his skin a pallid mask. “How does it feel, Aleksei, to serve a man who plans to murder me, while pretending to be my protector? Does it make you feel powerful, manipulating a girl who thought she could trust you?” He didn't deny it. Instead, a strange, almost manic energy sparked in his eyes. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. “Trust? There is no trust in this court, Annelise. Only leverage. Only advantage. You were foolish to believe otherwise.” He gestured around the library, his hand sweeping over the vast collection. “My family, the Chernovs, were once keepers of the Izvorian archives, before the Valerievs stripped us of our titles, ruined us for daring to question their entitlements. They erased us from history, just as they erased the true nature of the Serebrya blessing. This isn’t about loyalty to Miroslav; it’s about vengeance. It’s about restoring my house and taking back the northern realm.” He paused, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “But I am a pragmatist. I understand that the game changes. You have a chance, Annelise. A way out. Miroslav is a fool, too blinded by his ambition to see the true power in your hands. Help me. We can work together. We betray Miroslav at the last moment. I know of a legal loophole, a specific series of renunciations tied to the old blood compacts. I can use it to save you from the ritual.” Iviya remained still, her face a mask of detached interest. “And what would I owe you, Aleksei Chernov, for this act of selfless salvation?” He smiled, a thin, avaricious curve of his lips. “You would publicly abdicate your claim to Serebrya, of course. For the good of the province, you would declare that the Valeriev line is no longer fit to rule. You would cede all control of the province's resources—its mines, its forests, its vast, untapped magical reserves—to the Izvorian Crown, with myself as its appointed steward.” He spread his hands, a gesture of magnanimity. “You walk away, free, with your life. I gain what my family lost. Miroslav loses everything. It’s a perfect arrangement.” Iviya’s expression did not change. She simply scoffed, a short, sharp sound that echoed in the quiet library. “You truly are a fool, Aleksei.” The words hung in the air, cold and dismissive. Aleksei’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. Before he could demand an explanation, a rustle of heavy fabric sounded from deeper within the towering bookshelves. The sound drew his gaze, his head snapping around. Lady Zoryana stepped out from the shadows, followed by two imposing figures in the crimson and gold robes of the Imperial Court’s most powerful ministers. Aleksei’s face, which had been pale, now turned to ash. His eyes darted between Zoryana, the ministers, and finally back to Iviya as he understood the trap. “Aleksei Chernov,” one of the ministers, a stern-faced man with a neatly trimmed beard, intoned, his voice resonating with authority. “You are hereby accused of treason against the Izvorian Crown, for conspiring to usurp a noble title, planning the ritualistic murder of a potential Duchess, and attempting to destabilize the political balance of the Empire. Your own words have condemned you.” Aleksei stumbled back, a choked sound escaping his throat. Two palace guards, seemingly materializing from the shadows, moved forward and seized him by the arms. He struggled, a desperate, animalistic cry tearing from his lips. “No! This is a fabrication! A lie!” he shrieked, his voice cracking with panic. He was hauled away, his glasses falling from his face to shatter on the polished floor. As the guards dragged him past Iviya, he twisted his head, his eyes burning with a venomous fury. “You fool! The ritual is tonight! You have no one left to stop him!”

The Archivist's Price