The attic door burst inward, splintering wood showering the floor like shrapnel. A figure cloaked in midnight blue, face partly obscured by shadow, filled the frame. Behind her, armored Inquisitors swarmed the narrow stairwell. Otylia knew the silhouette before the woman stepped into the tallow light. Jadwiga. “Rostova, to the roof!” Kazimir hauled her toward the rungs rising to the glass hatch. Strix, a dark blur, zipped from Otylia’s shoulder to hover protectively near her head, its small talons extended. “Irek, secure the rear! We need time!” Kazimir roared, even as he practically threw Otylia up the ladder. Irek, meanwhile, stood frozen, a flicker of something calculating in his eyes before he slowly drew a short blade. The pretense of bewilderment was thin, almost insulting. Otylia scrambled through the hatch, her palms scraping gritty tar and slate. The frigid night air of Żelaznogród bit at her exposed skin, carrying the distant clang of temple bells and the acrid scent of chimney smoke. Below, the city sprawled, a sprawling beast of iron and stone under the pale moonlight. Kazimir joined her a second later, slamming the frame shut with a grunt. “She’s here,” he muttered, his gaze scanning the rooftops. “She always knows.” “Yes,” Otylia said, teeth set against the wind. “She does.” The intercepted cipher, Irek's deliberate hesitation downstairs—the betrayal left no room for doubt. The thud of heavy boots on the roof tiles announced Jadwiga’s arrival. She kicked through the roof hatch, silhouetted against the moon, her Krew-gift already manifesting. The metal framework of the neighboring attic window began to twist, then stretch, forming a jagged, elongated spear in her hand. It pulsed with a faint, silvery light. “Storm-Caller,” Jadwiga’s voice carried across the rooftop, devoid of any warmth, any trace of the friend Otylia once knew. “The hunt ends now.” “Move!” Kazimir shoved Otylia forward, pulling his own short sword from its sheath. They sprinted across the sloped roof, their boots skittering on loose tiles. Jadwiga’s spear sliced through the air, carving a furrow in the tar just behind Otylia’s heel. They leaped to the next building, a lower structure with a flat, graveled surface. Jadwiga followed, her movements unnervingly graceful. She extended a hand, and the heavy, ornate gargoyle on the roof’s edge began to liquefy, its stone turning to flowing iron, reaching out like a grasping claw. It solidified into a spiked barricade, blocking their path to the street below. “She’s fast,” Otylia gasped, her breath ragged. She aimed a surge of energy at the nearest wall, hoping to blast a hole, but the raw power sputtered, unwilling to coalesce. The fear, the exhaustion, it choked her nascent control. Kazimir grunted. “Too fast.” He kicked at a loose tile, sending it clattering down to the alley. “No choice. Down here!” He pointed to a rusted metal grate covering a ventilation shaft. Without pausing, he wedged his sword beneath the rim, wrenching it free with a sharp screech of iron. They dropped into the chute, sliding through dust and rust into the lower foundations. The shaft emptied into a cramped, fetid maintenance tunnel, thick with the smell of stagnant water and decay. Kazimir pulled Otylia to her feet, his hand warm and firm on her arm. “The sewers,” he rasped, gesturing down the tunnel. “We can lose them there.” But a metallic shriek tore through the silence from above. Jadwiga was not giving up. She was forcing open the ventilation shaft, bending the metal as if it were soft clay. They ran, the confined space pressing in, the air thick with their desperate breaths. They stumbled into the main sewer channel, a cavernous, brick-lined artery beneath the city. A sluggish channel of black runoff cut through the center. The sound of their pursuers intensified, echoing off the damp walls. Jadwiga was already descending, her form a dark blotch at the tunnel's opening. Then, a low rumble shook the ground. The ancient brickwork above them groaned, dust and small stones raining down. Otylia looked up, her stomach twisting. A fissure appeared, widening rapidly, directly over their heads. “Collapse!” Kazimir shoved her under his chest, bearing her down against the stones as the ceiling broke. The world became a deafening roar of crumbling masonry and rushing water. Otylia felt the impact of falling debris against Kazimir’s back, heard his sharp intake of breath. The blow drove them forward into the muck, falling stone tossing them downstream through blinding black. Water closed over Otylia’s head, cold and foul. Panic clawed at her throat. She thrashed, disoriented, feeling Kazimir's arms still tightly around her. When they finally broke the surface, gasping, the air was heavy with the smell of damp earth and rust. The tunnel behind them was choked with fresh rubble, a wall of collapsed stone and shattered brick. Jadwiga’s path was cut off. Kazimir coughed, spitting out brackish water. His grip on Otylia was still fierce, almost bruising. They were pressed close, slick with mud and sewage, his breath warm on her face in the suffocating darkness. The faint glow of a distant grate was their only light. His stare, usually so guarded, held hers in the dim tunnel; the rebellion, the hunters, and the ancient verses faded beside the scrape of their breath against the wet stone. Then, he leaned in. His lips, cold and chapped, met hers, urgent and demanding. It was a desperate kiss, tasting of grit, copper, and raw adrenaline. His hand moved from her arm to cup the back of her head, pulling her closer still, a silent plea and a fierce promise all at once. Otylia found herself responding, a wild, elemental spark igniting in her chest, pushing away the terror of their situation, if only for a fleeting second. He pulled away abruptly, his chest heaving. “This way,” he rasped, his voice rough. “Before she finds another way.” They waded through the reeking shadows, following the foul tide until a service grate opened into a silent lane on the city's hem. The air, though still city-tainted, felt fresh, a balm against the memory of the sewers. As they emerged, blinking in the weak predawn light, a chilling sight met their eyes. In the central market square, visible even from this distance, a massive, molten Kestrel symbol glowed angrily on the cobblestones. Steam still rose from the scorched earth around it, and the air carried a faint metallic tang. Jadwiga had failed to capture them, but she had left a brand upon the square—a public warning to any who dared harbor the Kestrels. “She’s turned them,” Kazimir murmured, his face grim, eyes fixed on the burning symbol. “The people will talk. They’ll fear us.” They moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, slipping through the city's gates just as the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of bruised purple and grey. Once they were clear of the city walls, on a winding dirt path leading into the forested hills of the Veridian Peaks, Kazimir pulled a small, folded scrap of parchment from his pouch. It bore the Kestrel mark, but also a hastily scribbled, unfamiliar sigil. His brow furrowed as he read, his expression darkening with each passing line. Otylia watched him, a knot tightening in her stomach. The color drained from his face, leaving it stark and pale. His fingers shook as he smoothed the scrap. When he finally looked up, his eyes were cold, hard, and utterly devoid of hope. “The Autarch’s Inquisitors,” he said, his voice a flat monotone, “they’ve taken the outpost at Volna. And they have my sister.” The words hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. The wind, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, suddenly felt like a harbinger of doom. Kazimir looked at Otylia, then down at the blood-stained seal, torn between two duties. The prophecy, or his blood. He had to choose.

Escape from the Iron City