Roksana slammed the anti-scrying solution onto the workbench, its moonlight contents sloshing in the vial. The fissure in the ward-stone above her main workbench spiderwebbed further, a thin, sickly green light oozing from its depth. The weeping face, etched into her memory, was a direct assault. The Weeping Chanter. It wasn't just observing; it was actively hunting. This wasn't the mindless variant of her past life; this creature was growing in power, in intelligence, aligning with the new, coordinated attacks Kazimir had reported. The timeline was not merely altered; it was weaponized against her. She took a deep, steadying breath, the scent of ozone and burnt reagents filling her lungs. Her hand trembled, not from fear, but from a cold, precise rage. The first life’s blunders, the innocent deaths, the crushing despair—all were fuel now. She had to accelerate her timeline, push her agenda harder, even if it meant taking greater risks. The festival along the Grand Esplanade, her planned testing ground, now felt like a dangerous gamble. The broad avenue pulsed with the clamor of the Hearth-Blossom Festival. Merchants hawked candied radishes and spiced mead from stalls draped in bright crimson and gold. Acrobats tumbled on woven mats, and a troupe of pipers played a jaunty, repetitive tune. Roksana, cloaked in a gossamer shawl of shimmering azure, moved through the milling crowd, her prototype casing clutched discreetly in her gloved hand. It was a simple silver vessel, no larger than a lady’s palm-mirror, its surface intricately etched with stylized sun-petals. Inside, a miniature alchemical array, powered by a diluted fragment of a Sunstone shard, would react to the unique energy signature of Blighted Ash. She paused near a fountain where children tossed copper coins, the air thick with the smell of roasting nuts and blooming jasmines. Her eyes scanned the familiar faces, the oblivious joy that she fought to preserve. Then, a shadow fell over her, heavy with pungent rosewater and thinly veiled condescension. “Lady Vereska,” a voice purred, dripping with saccharine malice. Lady Elzbieta Volkov, Zorian’s distant cousin and Roksana’s self-appointed social rival, materialized beside her, flanked by two simpering companions. The noblewoman was a creature of sharp angles and sharper wit, her crimson gown a deliberate clash with Roksana’s azure. “Lady Volkov,” Roksana replied, her voice a soft ripple in the noise, her smile unwavering. “How delightful to see you enjoying the festivities. Are the performances not enchanting?” The cousin’s lips thinned. “Oh, quite. Though I do wonder what *you* find enchanting, Roksana. Given your… recent ventures. Cosmetics, was it? For detecting blight? A curious pursuit for a lady of your station, wouldn’t you agree? I heard the Iron Gryphon commander himself was quite amused by your ‘innovation’ at the Azure Spire. Said something about it being ‘frivolous nonsense’ before dismissing you.” Her gaze flickered to Roksana’s hand, where the round case lay half-concealed. One of the companions tittered. Roksana’s gaze remained placid, but a steel edge honed in her mind. “General Volkov has a certain… practical disposition,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, drawing the woman closer. “Which is precisely why he finds my endeavors so fascinating. He understands that true influence isn’t found in empty chatter, but in subtle utility.” She lifted the silver disc, letting the light catch its polished face. “Tell me, Lady Volkov, what do you believe is the true mark of a lady’s grace? Is it merely the gown she wears, or the brilliance she reflects? My ‘Vereska Luminous’ is not merely a cosmetic. It is an *enhancement*. A way for a lady to, shall we say, illuminate her presence.” Roksana leaned in further, her eyes sparkling with feigned mischief. “And unlike certain… *accessories*,” she glanced pointedly at a rather garish brooch on the woman's collar, “it actually *does* something.” The patrician's meticulously painted face flushed. Her companions looked away, stifling choked sounds. Roksana smiled, a picture of serene victory, and smoothly stepped around the sputtering noblewoman, leaving her frozen amidst the festive throng. The satisfaction was fleeting, a small victory in a much larger war. From a covered balcony overlooking the walkway, General Zorian Volkov stood, his arms crossed over his armored chest. His gaze, sharp and assessing, followed Roksana as she navigated the crowds. He’d observed the entire exchange from above. A ghost of a smirk, faint and quickly suppressed, touched his lips. *Frivolous nonsense*, he’d called it. Yet, the woman was anything but. Her warning about the aqueduct had been precise, chillingly so. He still didn’t trust her, not entirely, but her ruthlessness, hidden beneath that silken facade, was undeniably intriguing. He saw the way she handled his kin, a predator in a silk dress, and recognized a kindred spirit in the shadows. Suddenly, the prototype casing in Roksana’s hand flared. Not a gentle glow, but a violent, pulsating crimson. Blood-red. The sun-petal etching seemed to throb with an internal fire. A gasp caught in her throat. This wasn’t a distant detection; this was *here*. This was immediate. Before she could react, a horrifying shriek ripped through the air, drowning out the pipers, shattering the festive mood. From the murky depths of a sewer grate, black tendrils snaked out, followed by the hulking, misshapen forms of shadow beasts. Twisted bark, glowing fungal growths, and predatory eyes erupted onto the cobblestones. They moved with an unnatural synchronicity, their claws tearing into stalls, their roars turning the festival into a panicked stampede. This was no random emergence; it was a targeted assault. A trap. Panic seized the crowd. Roksana pushed through the surging bodies, her eyes darting, assessing. A small child, no older than five, stumbled, separated from its mother, caught in the path of a lashing vine-beast. Without a thought, Roksana lunged, scooping the terrified boy into her arms, rolling just as the beast’s thorny tendril scraped the stone where he’d stood. Above them, on the eaves of the Grand Market Hall, a new, chilling sound echoed. A mournful, guttural wail. The Weeping Chanter. Its form, skeletal and wrapped in shadowed moss, was instantly recognizable. Its single, glowing eye fixed on the chaos below. Its cry was not just sound; it was a magical assault, a focused resonance that vibrated through the promenade. Glass lanterns suspended from awnings *exploded*, showering sparks and oil. Alchemical lamps, set to brighten the evening, *shattered* with concussive force, throwing the immediate area into flickering darkness, multiplying the panic. Roksana felt the psychic pressure of its cry, a cold dread seeping into her bones. She clutched the child tighter, instinctively shielding him as she retreated, trying to find cover. But the Chanter’s glowing eye locked onto her, its mournful cry intensifying, singular in its focus. It knew her. It was hunting *her*. Just as a particularly massive root-beast lunged, its maw gaping, the ringing clash of steel on bark erupted through the din. General Zorian Volkov’s Iron Gryphons, a storm of polished armor and grim faces, descended from the surrounding streets. Their formations were tight, disciplined, moving with the practiced precision of Krosnia’s elite. They were here, just as she’d hoped. But the Chanter’s cry shifted, a high-pitched keen, and the shadow beasts, instead of engaging the nearest soldiers, split and swarmed, seemingly anticipating the Gryphons’ movements, targeting their sergeants and officers with unnerving accuracy. Zorian, a blur of motion, cut down a vine-choker with a single, brutal swing of his saber. His eyes, however, were not on his men, but on the rooftop, where the Weeping Chanter had now begun to descend, impossibly fast. It ignored the lines of soldiers carving through its monstrous horde. Its focus, unwavering and terrifying, remained solely on the woman holding the child. It moved with a predator’s grace, dark and swift, directly towards Roksana. “Roksana! Get down!” A voice, hoarse with exertion, shouted her name. Kazimir Mazur, his city guard uniform torn, his face grim, materialized beside her, pushing her back, drawing his saber. He was slower than the Chanter, not nearly as swift as a Gryphon. The monster’s blighted claw, tipped with obsidian-sharp tendrils, was already arcing downwards, aimed directly at Roksana’s head. There was no time to dodge. Kazimir, with a guttural cry, threw himself in the way, planting his feet, raising his saber to meet the blow. The Chanter’s claw tore through his guard, ripping into his shoulder with a wet, sickening sound. A dark, viscous ichor, pulsing with a faint, sickly green light, instantly began to spread from the wound, corrupting the fabric of his uniform, searing his skin.

First Blood at the Promenade