The scent of aged oak and something vaguely metallic—Krevan’s cologne, perhaps, or residual gunpowder from last night’s ‘negotiations’—was usually a comforting lullaby. Not today. Today, it was a thin veil over the sharp, insistent crack of what sounded suspiciously like a rifle. Tazia Morvane shifted, burrowing deeper into the silk sheets, willing the disturbance away. Her eyelids, heavy with the promise of a rare afternoon nap, twitched. She had meticulously curated this moment: the velvet curtains drawn, blocking out Rovigrad’s perpetual grey haze, the low hum of the estate’s distant generators a rhythmic thrum against her temple. Peace. Absolute, unblemished peace. Then came the shriek of tires, abruptly cut short by a guttural roar, followed by a series of rapid-fire pops. Too close. Definitely too close for comfort. Tazia’s eyes snapped open, a crimson fury instantly igniting behind them. She had worked twelve years in the grim maw of the Ironclad Foundry, inhaling soot and the despair of a life half-lived, just to escape this precise, grinding cacophony. She hadn't traded one form of relentless noise for another. A heavy thud shook the floorboards beneath her, rattling the crystal decanter on her bedside table. The delicate chime of glass against glass scraped across her nerves like chalk. Enough. She sat up, the silk pooling around her, revealing the slim, taut line of her shoulder. Her gaze landed on the offending decanter, then slid to the massive, cut-glass ashtray beside it—a gift from some unfortunate client of Krevan’s, heavy as a brick and sparkling like a trapped rainbow. Her hand closed around the cold, faceted glass. The weight felt good. Satisfying. She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet muffled on the plush carpet, and stalked to the window. Yanking open the heavy drape, she peered down into the Blackwood Estate’s courtyard. Below, a chaotic tableau unfolded. Krevan, a stark silhouette against the grimy brickwork of the outer wall, was exchanging fire with several men in dark, unmarked vehicles. His usually immaculate suit was smudged with dust, and a thin trickle of blood traced a path down his temple. A glint from the roof of the adjacent warehouse caught her eye—a man in a dark balaclava, a rifle trained on Krevan's head. The sniper. The fury escalated. They dared to interrupt her nap. They dared to threaten *her* peace, *her* husband. With a snarl that was more animal than human, Tazia hauled back the heavy ashtray. She didn’t aim, didn’t calculate, didn’t even think. She simply threw. The crystal missile arced through the open window, glinting in the meager sunlight, a deadly, glittering projectile of pure annoyance. Below, Krevan Dosk ducked instinctively as a bullet whizzed past his ear, peppering the wall with concrete dust. He barked orders to his men, his voice a low, gravelly rumble even amidst the gunfire. Just as he lined up a shot, a peculiar flash caught his peripheral vision. A blur of refracted light, then a wet, sickening thud from the warehouse roof. The sniper, previously a terrifying, unmoving fixture, crumpled. His rifle clattered, then slid, sending a cascade of loose tiles rattling down the wall. “By the Mother!” Brix, Krevan’s perpetually jittery sidekick, stumbled from behind a reinforced pillar, his eyes wide as saucers. “Did you see that, boss? A perfect, curved trajectory! A tactical arc, just like the old legends! She knew!” His voice, high-pitched with awe and a touch of terror, carried above the fading gunfire. “She saw the threat, calculated the wind, the angle… She’s a genius! A sleeping, tactical genius!” Krevan merely stared at the motionless form on the roof, then slowly, deliberately, looked up at his bedroom window. Tazia was standing there, arms crossed, the silk drape still clutched in one hand, her face a mask of profound irritation. He couldn’t quite make out her words, but he imagined they involved the inconvenience of clean-up. The skirmish quickly dissolved. The remaining assailants, demoralized by their sniper’s inexplicable incapacitation, retreated in a squeal of tires and burning rubber. Peace, once again, descended upon the Blackwood Estate, albeit a peace punctuated by the distant wail of police sirens and the diligent scrubbing of bloodstains from the cobblestones. Hours later, the parlor was still thick with the acrid scent of disinfectant and a lingering tension. Tazia, ensconced on a velvet chaise lounge, was trying to resume her nap when a sharp, insistent *beep-beep-beep* shattered the silence. She jolted, her head snapping up. Her eyes, still slightly heavy-lidded, fixed on the source of the noise: Sanna Tor, a woman with a perpetually harried expression and a severe hairstyle, stood before Krevan, holding a clunky, grey device. Sanna’s ambition, Tazia knew, bled through every frantic movement, a buzz that made her look ready to burst. “...and with this, Boss Dosk,” Sanna was explaining, her voice strained, “your men can receive vital messages instantly, no more missed calls, no more garbled radio static! A direct line, always, anywhere in Rovigrad!” She brandished the device again. *Beep-beep-beep!* It emitted another shrill burst, the sound grating against Tazia’s eardrums like a dull knife. “It’s called a ‘pager’,” Sanna added, clearly expecting awe. “A revolutionary communication solution for the modern underworld!” Tazia winced, pressing a hand to her ear. “It’s too loud,” she mumbled, her voice surprisingly soft, yet cutting through Sanna’s excited pitch with chilling clarity. “My head hurts. It's disturbing the peace.” Krevan, who had been listening to Sanna with a detached, professional air, turned his head slowly. His gaze, usually cold and calculating, softened infinitesimally as it met Tazia’s. Then, it hardened, directed at Sanna, a terrifying, silent judgment. Sanna, oblivious, was about to launch into another sales point when Krevan raised a hand. “Silence,” he rumbled, his tone flat as an executioner’s decree. Sanna froze, her mouth agape, the pager forgotten in her hand. *Beep-beep-beep!* It chirped again, a final, defiant gasp. With a flick of his wrist, Krevan gestured to one of his burly guards. “Remove that… thing. And the woman. Tell her her services are no longer required.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And the construction across the street. The incessant hammering. It’s a disturbance. Buy the entire lot. Knock it down. Build a park. A quiet one.” Sanna’s face crumpled. Her ‘revolutionary communication solution’ clattered to the floor as she was unceremoniously escorted out. As the heavy oak doors closed behind her, Tazia heard a faint, choked sob, then a furious, whispered vow, “You’ll regret this, Tazia Morvane! You’ll regret this, all of you!” Tazia, however, was already settling back into her chaise, a small, contented sigh escaping her lips. The silence that followed was truly glorious. The tranquility, however, was short-lived. A shadow fell over her, blocking the last sliver of evening light. Tazia opened her eyes to find her godfather, Vilem Coda, standing over her, a small, ornate box held delicately in his hands. His smile was familiar, a warm, crinkled affair that never quite reached his eyes. His clothes, though always impeccable, seemed a shade too dark, a whisper too sharp. He offered the box. “For you, little bird. Your favorite apricot tarts from the old Nettlebrook bakery.” “Vilem,” Tazia said, a genuine smile touching her lips as she took the box. She loved his visits, loved his pastries. He was a piece of her old life, a comforting anchor in the unpredictable currents of her new one. His smile tightened, becoming less a smile and more a grimace. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the usual warmth replaced by an unnerving chill. “We need to talk about your new husband’s life expectancy, little bird.”

The Silk Trap