The ultimatum echoed in Otylia’s mind, sour and heavy. Sacrifice. Martyr. The words were a brand, searing away any remaining illusion of choice. She watched Kazimir, his face still and unreadable in the dim attic light, the silent judgment in his gaze a physical blow. He saw not a woman, but a means. A fire to be lit, then extinguished. The anger that had prickled her skin since her rescue settled into iron: she would break the prophecy before she let it break her. “No,” she said, the word a rasp. It was not a plea, but a vow. “I won’t.” Kazimir’s brow lifted fractionally, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it vanished. “That choice is not yours to make, Rostova. Not anymore.” He turned then, leaving her alone in the cavernous space, the silence of his departure more oppressive than any argument. She watched his retreating back, a bitter taste in her mouth. His cold pragmatism would be her cage. But cages could be broken. And if the prophecy demanded her death, she would find a different path, even if it meant tearing apart the fabric of what they believed. Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of restless sleep and simmering resentment in the attic. Otylia kept to the furthest corner, a blanket draped over a makeshift cot, her gaze often fixed on the dust motes dancing in the infrequent shafts of light filtering through the grimy windows. Kazimir’s presence was a constant, unsettling pressure; he moved with the quiet efficiency of a predator, his eyes always observing, always assessing. Irek, ever silent, brought their meager meals, leaving them without a word, his expression carefully blank. When the attic was empty, save for Strix, Otylia began her experiments. The Drute, ever vigilant, perched on a leaning stack of forgotten crates, its obsidian eyes tracking her every hesitant movement. She started small, focusing on the embers of power she felt swirling beneath her skin. She closed her eyes, picturing a single wooden shaving, a leftover from her carving days, resting on the grimy floorboards. She reached for the heat, the pressure, the dizzying rush that preceded the storms. The first attempts were disastrous. A sudden lurch of power sent a crack through a nearby wall beam. Another time, the air in her hands grew so cold it stung, leaving a faint frost on her fingertips. Strix would hoot softly, a low, encouraging rumble in its chest, and she would try again. Slowly, agonizingly, she began to discern the subtle currents, the way the power hummed before it surged. She learned to draw it out like a thread, rather than unleashing it like a deluge. The wooden shaving trembled, then lifted an inch from the floor, hovering for an instant before dropping. A small triumph, but a triumph nonetheless. Her pride, her innate need for self-reliance, pushed her. She had to understand this force, not just wield it. Not just survive it, but *master* it. The attic, a mausoleum of forgotten things, became her secret training ground. During one such solitary exploration, while tracing the rough grain of a wooden support beam near the wall, her fingers brushed against a loose knot. It gave way, revealing a shallow cavity behind it. Inside, nestled amongst cobwebs and decades of dust, lay a collection of slim, leather-bound journals. Their covers were worn smooth, the Rostova crest—a soaring harrier—faded but discernible. Otylia touched the worn calfskin. These were hers. Her ancestors. She pulled them out, one by one, the brittle paper crumbling slightly at the edges. The script was an archaic, elegant hand, dense with symbols and a language she barely recognized. But as she painstakingly deciphered the flowing lines, phrases began to emerge. Tales of the Rostova Krew-gift, of its ebb and flow, of the Sunken Citadel. And then, a passage, carefully underlined, in a bold, different ink: *“The Storm-Caller’s burden is heavy, but not immutable. The rekindling of the bloodlines requires a conduit, a vessel to channel the essence, not to consume it whole. The ritual binds, not breaks, if the true purpose is understood.”* Otylia reread the lines, tracing each stroke with her thumb. *A conduit.* Not a sacrifice. Not death. A path to survival. A flicker of hope, bright and defiant, ignited within her. Kazimir’s cold pragmatism had overlooked this, or perhaps, he never knew. The journals were not just history; they were a lifeline. She tucked them away, a secret weapon in her burgeoning rebellion against fate. Days later, the air in the attic smelled of wet linden beams and soot. Kazimir and Irek had been out since dawn, their return a muted affair. Otylia, feigning sleep, heard the creak of the door leading to the roof access, an unusual sound. Curiosity, a dangerous instinct, pulled her from her cot. Strix, perched on her shoulder, ruffled its feathers, its low chitter a warning. She crept towards the shadowed eaves, peeking through a gap in the stacked crates. Below, in the main attic space, Irek stood, his back to her, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Opposite him, half-shrouded in the deeper gloom, was a figure. Hooded, cloaked, their face obscured. They exchanged a small, rolled parchment. Irek’s voice, usually a near-silent rumble, was tight with urgency. “The… the location has shifted. The Rostova. Tell them… the sparrow is here.” The hooded figure nodded, a curt, economical gesture, and melted back towards the egress door to the main building. Otylia’s mind raced. A clandestine meeting. A coded message. *The sparrow is here.* Her ribs tightened around her lungs. Irek, silent, steadfast Irek, was a snake in their midst. A traitor. The bile rose in her throat. Someone had been tipped off. Someone knew their exact location. And then, the world outside the attic erupted. Shouts, distant and muffled at first, then closer, clearer. The clang of heavy boots on the street below, followed by the shattering of glass from the ground floor. A shrill, piercing whistle cut through the air – an Inquisitor’s signal. Jadwiga. “Inquisitors!” a Kestrel rebel’s panicked yell tore through the building. “They’re inside! The lower levels are breached!” Kazimir, who must have been inspecting the perimeter, burst back into the attic, his face grim. His gaze, usually so controlled, fixed on the access hatch. He took in Otylia, then Irek, a silent question passing between them. Irek feigned bewilderment, but a muscle twitched below his ear. He knew this was coming. He *orchestrated* this. “Rostova, to the roof!” Kazimir shouted, his voice a roar above the growing chaos. He grabbed her arm, pulling her towards the small ladder leading up. “Irek, secure the rear! We need time!” But there was no time. The heavy thud of boots pounded up the attic stairs. A deep, resonant voice, cold and sharp, echoed from just beyond the door leading into the attic. “Storm-Caller. Your hunt ends here.” The door splintered inwards as Kazimir shouted for them to run.

Whispers in the Walls