Chapter 5
Two massive shadows greeted her, stretched longer by the dying sun as she walked across the cobbled path toward the capital.
The road ended beneath a pair of stone titans standing sentinel at the threshold, their faces smoothed by time and weather.
They were shaped into heroic poses, as if welcoming people into their great city, yet by their sides were spears and shields.
Even from this distance, Ksenia could hear it—a low, constant hiss that never ceased. A thin waterfall of meltwater had begun to carve through the wintry ice from the peaks behind Hearth’s blackened spires.
A river separated the citadel of Hearth from the surrounding towns. The spray of water and low-rolling fog cascading into the ravine made the ground slick and cold beneath her feet.
As she neared the gates, Ksenia’s stomach turned.
Along the spiked iron fencing, lined neatly, were the decapitated heads of dissenters and bondsmiths.
The display was adorned with brightly colored silk ribbons with embroidered insignias: a grotesque competition amongst headhunters, each hoping their kills might curry favor with the king.
Purple ribbons dominated the scene, the shade repeated across dozens of spikes—one headhunter claiming the most kills.
When she was a child, the banners around Hearth had celebrated master bondsmithing families, had seen them as symbols of pride and legacy. Now those same families rotted on spikes festooned with sashes.
She couldn’t stop herself from taking in the bloated forms, noting that some of the skulls were already stripped clean by ravens and carrion birds.
There, front and center, was the king’s latest prize, draped in a fine blood-red sash; her own decapitated head on a spike. She gulped, staring at her sunken flesh as a fly landed on her eyeball.
In the span of a couple of nights, she had ceased to exist, and the world kept moving.
Ksenia retched before shaking her head and stumbling toward the citadel’s main entrance, slotting into the line of people clamoring to enter.
She froze and paled.
One by one, they pricked their fingers.
Routine.
Unremarkable.
The same thing many had done at every gate between here and any city they’d passed on their journey to Hearth.
She had avoided this moment as long as possible.
He has no power over me; he never will.
Her heart hammered anyway.
It wasn’t the pain. It was about the performance. The mask she’d have to put on.
But she had no choice.
“Pledge fealty if you wish to enter.”
She moved with the throng, awaiting her turn.
When she reached the front, the castle guard presented his bloodied blade. She grimaced, unsheathing Caromir.
Ksenia pricked her index finger on its point, and blood formed at the tip.
She held it there a moment.
One breath, two.
The guard raised his brow.
She swallowed thickly as he forced her hand over the opening of the crystalline bottle until a drop fell in.
Ksenia pushed past the guard without another look.
Massive iron gates yawned open, connected to a two-storied curtain wall with a peaked wooden roof.
At the entrance, a notice board was thick with postings. Trade permits, tax announcements, advertisements. Amongst them was a freshly inked bounty sheet.
Ten gold pieces for a confirmed bondsmith. Fifteen for a child. One for information leading to capture.
The child bounty had doubled since she last saw this.
They’ll grow up knowing no other king but me. Ksenia shuddered.
And beyond, the streets thrummed with a restless, tightly woven crowd in an expansive courtyard.
Merchants hawking spices, fabrics, and trinkets from different townships shouted over the clatter of hooves and carts.
Diplomats and nobles were cloaked in rich fabrics and jewels, ushering each other into business dealings.
She spied royal guards sprinkled amongst the crowd, dressed in their steel-plated armor, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their broadswords.
Two little girls sat cross-legged on the steps of a black marbled fountain, their palms slapping in rhythm.
‘Bound blade, bound blade, where’d your master go? Down below, down below, where the dead things grow!’ They dissolved into giggles and started again from the top.
She tightened her cloak and moved on.
Hearth rose from the ground like a dark crown, with lancet quatrefoiled stained-glass windows that winked in the light.
She pressed her back into a stone-and-brick building as she craned her neck upward. The spire tips were lost in the clouds, crowned with twisted, watchful gargoyles, and blackened stone that seemed to drink in what little daylight remained.
When she walked to the side, she spotted ribbed buttresses and arches that protected the back half of the enormous building, welling with darkness.
Ah, there it is. The beating heart of a broken body. Ugly, isn’t it? whispered a soft, lilting voice in her ear.
Ksenia cringed from the voice, only for it to whisper on her other side.
Beautiful too. That’s the trick with power—gilded on the outside, hollow inside. Are you sure you’re ready to face its depths?
“Stop!” said Ksenia harshly, clutching her head as a few bystanders gave her a wider berth.
Vornaya chuckled, amused.
Careful, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, not with so many—
Envorsen.
Ksenia paled as she spotted crimson cloaks slipping through the crowd like blades through silk.
She hesitated when a light flashed in her vision. Squinting, she saw a figure walking alone atop the stone pathway of the curtain wall, a gleaming gold brooch on his chest.
She blinked, then stared again: there he was.
Captain of the Envorsen.
The Bastard Prince.
The man who had dragged her to death’s doorstep.
He leaned over the balustrade, cloaked in black, his dark, curled hair ruffling in the wind. He watched the crowd like a vulture over a fawn.
Anger seethed through Ksenia’s veins. This was her chance.
She crossed the market square, ducking behind wooden stalls as she plotted.
She would need to lure the pair of guards stationed at the stairwell entrance to the curtain wall.
Her gaze assessed the marketplace. At its center, merchants were unfurling bolts of textiles, a spice seller with precarious piles of saffron and peppercorns, and a produce vendor quartering fruit with a knife.
Up ahead, a horse-drawn cart loaded with six wine casks presented a solution. She crouched low and watched the driver show his permits to the castle guard.
Heart racing, she drifted behind a passing cart stacked with sugared dates and nuts. When it brought her close enough, she darted forward and pressed herself flat against the wine cart.
Ahead of her, a dull thud drew her attention. She could smell the apple’s sweet tang as it hit the flagstones with a hollow thud, bouncing and rolling toward the gate. The produce merchant chased after it, cursing her bruised product.
The corner of Ksenia’s mouth lifted. With a quick flash of her dagger, she slashed the rope securing the casks.
The barrels tumbled free with a splintering crash. Each one was as thick as a man’s torso; they hit the solid ground and gained speed downhill, careening in different directions with thunderous booms. Their iron bands loosened, wine spraying from cracks in the bent wood.
The little girls screamed. Marketgoers dove aside as their stalls and carts were obliterated. One cask clipped the spice seller’s display and split open entirely. A plume of golden saffron exploded into the air, settling into the wine that now ran in rivulets.
Ksenia ducked beneath the cart, holding position until both guards abandoned their posts and rushed into the chaos. Once inside the cold and dusty stairwell, she took the steps two at a time.
Her fingers were damp from sweat and twitched on Caromir’s hilt, itching to get there faster so she could twist it deep into Bohdan’s back and make him suffer.
She had never killed before. But she couldn’t resist the allure of revenge.
The enclosed wooden gallery ran the length of the torch-lined wall. Thick timber posts created alcoves that doubled as hiding spots should she need one, and she braced herself as the wind whistled through the gaps, carrying shouts from below.
Ksenia remained crouched, her muscles protesting as she peered around the corner and spotted her target, twenty paces away. She pressed forward, keeping to the shadowed sections as the sun sank lower on the horizon.
One foot forward. Two.
His crimson cloak now within reach, she lunged forward.
He turned.
She caught the briefest flash of amusement in his eye as he crushed her wrist in his grip.
She hissed as he twisted her arm and flipped her so her back pressed flat against him, redirecting Caromir up to the hollow of her neck.
“Let me guess, another Bound Eye fighter with a grudge and a knife. You presented your angle of attack so clearly to me.” His whisper was cruel, chafing her ego.
“Envorsen scum,” she spat.
He pushed the razor’s edge into Ksenia’s skin, blood beading on the surface. She felt her face mottle red as she angled her neck, determined to break free.
“You picked a terrible day for martyrdom.” His green eyes bore down on her as the dagger bit deeper into her neck.
Before he could finish the job, a leather-gloved hand intervened, effectively preventing Caromir from slitting Ksenia’s throat.
“Bohdan! Good to see you alive and well.” A woman’s voice cut through the chaos—clear, commanding, almost amused. “But please, unhand my charge.”
The woman’s eagle-eyed gaze locked on Ksenia’s for a beat too long, something unreadable flickering there.
Bohdan wrenched his hand free, releasing her, and she stumbled back and away as she used her tunic to mop up her bleeding throat. The woman nodded once, then leaned casually against a nearby timber post, as though she hadn’t just prevented a murder.
“You know her, Varka?” Bohdan’s tone was low as he readjusted his uniform, cutting a suspicious glare between the pair.
The same question ricocheted through Ksenia’s mind.
Varka Beranek?