Kazimir stood rigid against the mountain wind, fingers still clamped around the torn note. Jadwiga held his kin at Volna.
“A trap,” Otylia said, the words flat and certain. “It has to be. Jadwiga knows you would come for her.”
Kazimir shoved the parchment back into his pouch with a violence that startled even Strix, who ruffled his feathers from Otylia’s shoulder. “I don’t care if it’s an ambush, Otylia. She’s my blood.” His voice dropped to a grating rasp. “The last of my line. Do you understand?”
“I understand what Jadwiga does,” Otylia said, closing the distance between them. Pine needles crunched beneath her boots. “She doesn’t just take prisoners. She carves them apart until they break, and through you, everything we’ve built.”
He rounded on her, his eyes blazing with a fury that mirrored her own. “And what would you have me do? Walk away? Let Jadwiga torture her because it’s ‘inconvenient’ for the rising?” He spat the word across the dirt. “You, who claim to want no part of this, want to lecture me about sacrifice?”
“I’m not lecturing you,” Otylia said, her own temper rising. “I’m telling you the truth. Going in blind will only get you caught, or worse, both of you. Jadwiga wants us. Both of us. She’s playing a longer game.”
“And what is your brilliant alternative, Storm-Caller?” Kazimir challenged, thumbs digging hard into his palms. “Wait for old verses to save her while she bleeds in some stone cellar?”
As their argument escalated, a sharp crack echoed from the craggy peak above them. The ground beneath their feet trembled. A massive, jagged shard of rock, dislodged by the vibrations, began to tumble down the incline, gathering speed, aimed directly at Irek, who stood a few paces away, his face impassive but his body frozen.
Panic seized Otylia, not for the prophecy, but for the man. Without conscious thought, an instinct surged. She extended her hand, not with the uncontrolled burst she’d known before, but with a sudden, focused intent. A visible ripple of air, shimmering like heat haze, erupted from her palm, shaping itself into a taut, invisible barrier. It wasn’t a gale, not a devastating storm, but a precise, concentrated shield of pure force.
The rock, still hurtling, struck the unseen barrier with a deafening *CRACK*, not shattering, but deviating. It bounced off the wind shield as if hitting solid stone, arcing sharply to the side and embedding itself deep into the earth a few feet from Irek, leaving a small crater and a cloud of dust. The air around Otylia hummed with residual power, a faint, metallic tang on the wind.
Kazimir, Irek, and even the few other rebels who had been resting nearby stared, their faces a mixture of shock and dawning comprehension. Strix trilled, a proud, high-pitched note, nudging Otylia’s cheek. She looked at her hand, then at the smoking divot in the ground, a small, triumphant pulse of energy thrumming through her veins.
“That,” Otylia said, stepping past the smoking trench, “is my alternative. You charge Volna now, you lose. You lose her, you lose your fighters, and you lose me. But if I harness this—if I master the Rostova Krew-gift—we don’t just carry a name. We carry teeth.” She pointed east toward the jagged spires of the Sunken Rostova Keep jutting above the ridgeline. “We reach the ruins. We finish what was started. Then we take Jadwiga on ground we choose.”
Kazimir looked from the scorched earth to her outstretched hand. The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch, replaced by cold calculation.
“It’s the only way to save her, Kazimir,” Otylia pressed, her conviction unyielding. “To make Jadwiga pay for what she’s done. For what she will do.”
He dragged a sleeve across his forehead. “Fine,” he bit out. “Pack the gear. We march before sundown.”
***
Hours later, as they trekked through the dense, whispering forests of the Perilous Peaks, Irek lagged behind the main group, feigning a need to adjust his pack straps. The rough bark of an ancient Olkh tree scraped his fingers as he pressed his back against it, ensuring he was out of sight. His face, usually a mask of stoicism, was etched with a different kind of tension now.
He pulled a small, smooth river stone from his pocket, worn almost translucent. Beneath the stone, a tiny, rolled parchment, no bigger than his thumb, was hidden. His hands worked with practiced precision, unfurling the message. He scribbled a few rapid lines with a piece of charcoal: *“Heading to ruins. Rostova powers growing. Delay likely.”*
He sealed it, then produced a small, silver bird figurine – a falcon, not a kestrel – from a hidden compartment in his boot. He attached the parchment to its leg. With a barely perceptible gesture, he launched the figurine skyward. It soared, catching an updraft, then vanished towards the east, a silent messenger carrying his treachery.
Irek tracked the silver glint until the canopy swallowed it. His sovereign's orders had been precise: *Sabotage, not annihilation.* Keep the insurgents moving, but blunt every real strike. Feed Jadwiga scraps, never the throat. All to keep breath in his wife and his boy, Tadek, chained three levels beneath Kryo-Hold.
Yet Jadwiga cared nothing for delicate balances. Raiding Volna and dragging Kazimir’s kin into chains signaled an escalation beyond the agreed perimeter. Once she extracted what she needed and crushed the insurgents, she would butcher his hostages in their cells to erase witnesses.
He had danced on the sovereign's strings, convinced he could manage the leash. But the Inquisitor wanted blood on every cobblestone. She would discard him the moment the trap sprang shut.
He would alter the cadence of his reports. Feed Jadwiga hollow trails and stalled marches, buying weeks to pry Tadek and his mother from Kryo-Hold. If Otylia broke open the ancient seals, the ensuing chaos might crack the dungeons wide.
He stepped back onto the dirt path, settling the pack straps against his shoulders. The ancient stronghold ahead promised slaughter or salvation, and he needed Otylia alive long enough to provide the distraction he required.