“So I must either let my only friend die, or be killed by him?” Jasker had no answer. The silence in the archives stretched, thick and suffocating, until the distant clang of an iron pot from the scullery below cut through the freeze. Piotr, who had been huddled behind a crumbling shelf of illuminated bestiaries, flinched at the sound. His face, usually pale, had taken on a mottled green hue since Jasker’s revelation. The stablehand’s small frame trembled, not just from the cold seeping through the stone, but from a terror that now mirrored the Queen’s own. “Unless,” Jasker began, his voice rough, “we find a way to stop Borislav. To expose him before the ritual can complete.” Piotr looked up, his eyes wide and unfocused. “Stop the Chancellor? He has eyes everywhere. Ears in the mortar, even. He practically runs the entire Spire.” He wrung his hands, then paused, a flicker of something uncharacteristically determined passing over his features. “But… I know the mortar. And the ears.” “What do you mean, Piotr?” Jasker asked, turning from the Queen, whose gaze remained fixed on some unseen horror in the flickering shadows. Piotr’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, even though only the three of them were present. “The larders. That’s where the real gossip lives. Scullions talk. And the Chancellor’s private meals, they’re prepared with such precision. No one touches them but a select few. The master baker, Old Bartek, he’s one of them.” He shifted his weight, his eyes darting between Jasker and the Queen. “He has been slipping off with the laundress, Elza. Months now. Her husband returns from the border garrison any day. The old man jumps at his own shadow.” Jasker raised an eyebrow. “And you think this… affair… gives us an opening?” Piotr nodded vigorously, a surprising spark in his usually timid eyes. “He leaves his bench to vanish, claiming he must check the yeast crock. His wits are frayed, dreading a soldier's fists. And Borislav, he’s particular about his evening honey cakes. Eats them every night before his final reports.” He straightened his thin shoulders a fraction. “I can get in there. I know the pantry stairs, the service chutes. No one looks twice at a boy hauling tallow or fresh straw.” The Queen, who had been silent, her face a mask of profound despair, slowly turned her head. Her eyes, stark and cold, met Piotr’s. A beat passed. Then, with a slight tilt of her chin, she granted permission. Piotr squared his narrow shoulders. He left the archives with a small pouch containing a carefully dried sprig of Skaviss’ Bane, a fast-acting paralytic herb Jasker had quickly identified from an ancient text. Its effects were temporary, non-lethal, but potent enough to render a man utterly still for several hours. “Just a pinch, Piotr,” Jasker had cautioned. “Too much, and it could stop his breathing. Too little, and he’ll merely get a bad stomach.” Armed with this perilous mission, Piotr slipped into the labyrinthine depths of the palace cookhouse. The air hung heavy with spit-turned pork, leek soup, and crushed grain. Towering ovens radiated a searing heat. Cooks bustled, their faces flushed, their movements practiced and swift. Piotr, small and unassuming, weaved through the organized chaos, a shadow in the periphery. He spotted Bartek, his brow furrowed, meticulously icing a tray of honey cakes, his gaze often flicking towards the back door leading to the laundry annex. Piotr waited, his heart thrumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Just as Bartek’s apprentice turned his back to retrieve a sack of flour, Bartek himself glanced around furtively, wiped his hands on his apron, and vanished through the door. Now was his chance. Piotr crept across the flagged stones, reaching the glazed tray. His fingers loosened the twine on the pouch. He had just slipped the leather neck open when a rasping voice barked, “Hey! Hands off the Chancellor’s pastries!” Piotr froze, the pouch clutched tight. A patrolman from Borislav’s private retinue, thick-necked and scarred, stepped from behind the larder racks. His boots made no sound against the grease-slicked granite as he advanced, knuckles resting against the wire-wrapped hilt of his dirk. “Don’t tell me you were trying to pilfer one of these. That’s a hanging offense.” Panic seized Piotr. His mind raced. His eyes darted around, landing on the apprentice’s turned back, the towering sacks of flour beside him. With a desperate gasp, Piotr lunged, not for the cakes, but for the nearest sack. He shoved it with all his meager strength. The sack, precariously balanced, teetered, then toppled. It struck another, and another, creating a cascading avalanche of canvas and white dust. A massive cloud of flour erupted, engulfing Kaelan in a blinding, choking blizzard. The sentry sputtered a curse, choking on the dense fog as white sediment clung to his eyelashes and wool doublet. He stumbled back, momentarily disoriented. Piotr shook a green dusting of Skaviss’ Bane over three glazed rounds, wiped his palms against his wool trousers, and ducked through the waste chute exit into the back stairwell, breath rasping in his dry throat. He stopped only upon reaching the eastern gallery, an arched hall echoing with the boots of courtiers. Piotr pressed his spine flat against the stone wall beside an embroidered heraldic hanging, working to steady his chest. His hands still trembled, but a strange, exhilarating rush coursed through him. He hadn’t fainted. He hadn’t been caught. His moment of triumph, however, was short-lived. A pompous voice bellowed along the gallery, “Out of my way, scullery filth! Do you know who holds this pass?!” Duke Volkov, a heavy southern provincial wrapped in violet damask, loomed over a young maid who had dropped a crate of gooseberry preserve. The glass jars had shattered, splattering crimson goo across the pristine floor. The girl shrank back, bracing her arms against an impending blow. Volkov raised his hand, as if to strike her. A surge of hot indignation, unfamiliar and potent, bloomed in Piotr’s chest. He remembered Jasker’s fierce loyalty, the way he defended people impulsively. This wasn't a gryphon, or the Queen. This was a frightened girl. This was something he could do. Without thinking, Piotr extended his foot, just a tiny bit, as the nobleman took another stride toward the cowering girl. Volkov’s pointed toe caught the rough leather of Piotr's shoe. The noble tipped awkwardly, arms thrashing, and drove snout-first into the pool of red paste. He landed with a wet, squelching thud, his silks now stained a vivid, sticky red. Jars clattered. Onlookers gasped. The maid stared at the red pool, petrified. From the far end of the corridor, Queen Roksana Kosciusz emerged, attended by two guards. Her gaze, usually impassive, swept over the scene. Her eyes met Piotr’s for a fleeting moment. A minuscule upturn of the corner of her lips, a flicker of something akin to amusement, was quickly masked. It was gone in an instant, but Piotr had seen it. A silent, hidden smirk. He felt a blush creep up his neck, but it was mixed with a heady sense of satisfaction. Later that evening, after the kitchens had been cleaned and the Duke had been huffily escorted to his chambers, Piotr, with a fresh batch of Borislav’s favourite honey cakes, stood outside the Chancellor’s private study. His hands, though no longer trembling, felt cold. He knocked, the sound echoing hollowly. A livery boy, unfamiliar with the domestic staff, opened the door and took the salver without a second glance. Piotr watched as the cakes were carried inside, a knot tightening in his stomach. The plan was in motion. He could only wait for Borislav to take his first bite.

A Confection of Treason