Jadwiga. A viper. A chilling gust from the cavern entrance seemed to carry her name on its breath. Otylia squeezed her eyes shut, but the face that swam behind her eyelids was not the cold, cruel Inquisitor described, but a girl with bright, eager eyes and a gap-toothed smile. *** Ten years prior, the iron city of Żelaznogród hummed with the clatter of carts and the scent of coal smoke. Young Otylia, all elbows and scraped knees, knelt beside Jadwiga in a forgotten alleyway behind the market. They were hidden by a stack of empty crates, the sun a distant memory in the grimy lanes. Jadwiga, a year older and already possessing a startling intensity, held a smooth river stone. Her brow was furrowed with a concentration that made her small face sharp. “It has to be today, Otylia,” Jadwiga whispered, pressing the stone to her palm. “My eleventh summer. Mama says that’s when the Rostovy Krew-gift manifested for Grandmother. The earth-whisper. Imagine, Otylia! To hear the stones sing!” Otylia, whose own bloodline had no known Krew-gift – a fact her guardian had always been deliberately vague about – watched with a familiar pang. She yearned for Jadwiga to find her power, to feel the surge of something extraordinary. They had spent countless hours like this, Jadwiga pressing her small hands to the earth, to river stones, to the gnarled roots of the ancient Yggdrasil tree in the city park, waiting for a whisper that never came. “Just feel it,” Otylia encouraged, her voice soft. “Breathe with it.” Jadwiga closed her eyes, her breath shallow. A moment passed, then another, until the only sound was the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. Jadwiga’s shoulders slumped. Her eyes, when they opened, were clouded with a disappointment that was becoming heartbreakingly familiar. “Nothing,” she muttered, tossing the stone away. It clattered against the alley wall. “Just… cold rock. Maybe I don’t have one, Otylia. Maybe I’m just ordinary.” Otylia reached out, her small hand covering Jadwiga’s. “You’re not ordinary. You’re cleverer than anyone I know. And brave. Your gift will come. It’s just… taking its time.” Before Jadwiga could reply, a sudden, guttural roar echoed from the main thoroughfare. A group of older boys, their faces smudged with dirt and aggression, spilled into their alley. They were led by a hulking youth with a chipped tooth, known only as ‘Gorek the Grubber.’ “Look what we found,” Gorek sneered, his gaze fixing on Jadwiga’s worn leather satchel. “Little street rats with something to hide.” Jadwiga instinctively pulled Otylia behind her, her small frame rigid. “Leave us alone, Gorek.” Gorek laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Or what, tiny bird? You’ll peck us to death?” He lunged, his hand snatching at Jadwiga’s satchel strap. She cried out, twisting away, but his grip was like iron. Otylia saw red. A hot, prickling sensation spread through her limbs, a strange pressure building behind her eyes. She didn’t know what she was doing, only that Gorek was hurting Jadwiga. A high-pitched, almost imperceptible whine filled her ears, like distant wind in a chimney. “Let her go!” Otylia screamed, lunging forward herself, a small, furious sparrow against a bear. She shoved Gorek’s arm with all her might. It wasn’t much, but as her hands made contact, a sharp, crackling spark erupted, a tiny, localized burst of static energy that made Gorek yelp and recoil, shaking his hand as if stung. The other boys froze, their bravado evaporating. Gorek stared at Otylia, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. He knew it wasn’t just a regular static shock. Otylia felt the pressure behind her eyes recede, leaving her breathless and shaky. She had never felt anything like it before. Jadwiga, still clutching her satchel, looked at her with a stunned expression, a mixture of awe and something else Otylia couldn’t quite decipher. Then, the sound of heavy boots on the cobblestones. The distinct clatter of iron-clad patrol armor. From around the corner, a patrol appeared, their dark cloaks billowing, the insignia of the Autarch’s Fist emblazoned on their pauldrons. Their leader, a grim-faced man with a scarred cheek, scanned the alley. His gaze, sharp as a hawk’s, landed on the still-trembling Gorek, then on Otylia, who still felt the ghost of crackling energy in her fingertips. “What’s this commotion?” the squad leader barked, his voice echoing. “Trouble, children?” Otylia stopped breathing. She knew what happened when the Autarch's enforcers found manifestations of Krew-gifts, even tiny ones. Her guardian had drilled it into her: *Never draw attention. Never reveal. Hide.* “No, sir!” Jadwiga blurted, stepping in front of Otylia again. “Just a misunderstanding. We were playing.” The squad leader’s eyes narrowed, lingering on Otylia. “Playing? It looked more like… a disturbance.” He took a step closer. The alley grew taut with silent accusation. Suddenly, a hand clamped over Otylia’s mouth from behind. Her guardian, face taut with panic, pulled her back into the shadows of a nearby doorway. Her eyes, usually warm, were now hard as flint. She dragged Otylia away, deeper into the labyrinthine alleys, away from Jadwiga’s desperate, pleading gaze, away from the soldiers, away from the life she had known. Otylia twisted, trying to call out, to reach for her friend, but her guardian's grip was unyielding. Jadwiga’s face, etched with confusion and sudden abandonment, was the last thing Otylia saw before the darkness swallowed her. *** The present. Jadwiga Leska, high-ranking hound of the Autarch, stood in a chamber reeking of fear and copper. A man, a Kestrel rebel by his tattered sash, hung suspended from the ceiling by chains, his head lolling. His eyes were swollen, his lips cracked, but he still breathed. Barely. “Where is she, rebel?” Jadwiga’s voice was as cold as the steel of the implements laid out on a nearby table. She wore the deep purple and black of the Autarch’s elite, her hair pulled back into a severe, intricate braid that mirrored the sharpness of her features. Her face, no longer gap-toothed, was beautiful in a stark, unforgiving way. The rebel coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “Never…” Jadwiga merely tilted her head. “Such loyalty. Admirable. And foolish.” With a flick of her wrist, she picked up a slender, pointed tool. “Let’s see how deep that loyalty runs, then.” Her gaze, however, drifted to a small, crudely carved wooden sparrow clutched in the rebel’s hand. It was a common Kestrel symbol, a sign of their fleeting freedom, but this one was different. It bore the distinct, almost delicate lines Otylia had mastered even as a child. A sudden, violent tremor ran through Jadwiga. Her fingers, usually steady, trembled as she snatched the carving from the rebel’s slack grip. The smooth wood warmed in her palm. It was unmistakably Otylia’s work. The same sparrow she used to carve for her, for good luck, for silent promises. Otylia. With the Kestrels. A furious, twisted smile spread across Jadwiga’s face, a predator finding its long-lost prey. The jealousy, the abandonment, the years of fruitless searching, all converged into a single, burning obsession. She knew now. She knew where to find her.

The Ghost of Żelaznogród