Chapter 16
The dead man would not leave her alone in the three days that passed since the first trial.
Ksenia roused upright in bed at Beranek manor, and scrubbed the heel of her palms into her eyes.
But the image of his skull caved inward like a cracked egg, blood pooling in the hollow, remained burned behind her lids.
When she opened them, shadows at the edge of her vision took his shape, lurching toward her with his gaping wound.
The visions were worsening. Bile rose in her throat.
You know what you need to do… Vornaya clicked her tongue.
It appeared that only blood spilled by Caromir would be recognized as a sacrifice to the God of Crossroads. Unlike her murder of the headhunter, she wasn’t met with a rush of heady power zipping through her veins. She remained at the same strength, speed, and health.
In a few more days, her next trial would begin. And if it was anything like Catch and Kill, Ksenia needed more leverage if she was to survive. Luck and desperation wouldn’t be enough.
She needed to hunt. And she knew exactly where to find prey.
Ducking out of the manor under the cover of darkness, Ksenia made her way underground into the Vein beneath Rothaven. Affluent as it was, she knew that no one would miss another body down there.
The ruined brick walls of the Vein near Rothaven were whitewashed in some places. They could afford the upkeep.
A maker’s mark here and there bled through, half-covered.
‘Old Hollow, Light my Forge.’ Carved so deeply, no amount of paint could fill it.
Papered over it were more bounty posters.
And beneath everything, almost invisible, a single name gouged into the stone: Aleksander. Someone had tried to chisel it out, only for someone else to recarve it.
She picked her way around the market stalls. The occasional weapons dealer caught her eye.
A wiry man with crooked fingers slowly turned a blade near an oil lamp for a prospective buyer. “Genuine Voronov make. See the pattern? Seven folds—you won’t find a better blade.”
The patterning was surface deep. Ksenia could tell from several paces away. No resonance, no hum, nothing. Just a common steel dagger, dressed up with a dead bondsmith’s maker’s mark.
Her mouth opened before she stopped herself.
The Crooked Lantern was her destination, her preferred tavern that sat at a junction of three passages, making it a natural gathering point of information and criminal traffic.
Its sign hung from a rusted chain, and Ksenia was always wary of passing beneath it, as if it might break and send the leaded glass through her neck.
Inside was better. Barely.
The familiar smell hit her the moment she pushed through the door, making her eyes water.
The scent of sour sweat and even sourer ale mixed with old stew, the kind that had grease floating on top in iridescent pools.
It was a low-ceilinged room with oil lamps hanging on iron hooks. The windows were rusted shut from the catacombs’ dampness and covered in dirt and grime.
None of the tables and chairs matched—some wood, some stone slabs laid across barrels. Benches and stools were of varying heights. Everything was scuffed and stained but sturdy enough to survive several brawls a night.
The bar top consisted of a massive wooden slab that looked like it had been there since the catacombs were above ground.
Behind it stood a one-eyed woman named Marta.
Her face was scarred and partially hidden beneath an eye patch.
She was missing two fingers, but she poured drinks and enforced order like no one else.
The tavern’s clientele was a mix of merchants selling illegal drugs, thieves planning their next heist, refugees looking to stay low, and mercenaries between contracts.
Ksenia felt a pang. Years ago, this had been one of the last locations where bondsmiths still gathered openly. Where she had rested her hands on the bar and wasn’t afraid of who would recognize her.
She sidled up to the bar, her fingers finding the grooves on the surface. Maker’s marks, branded directly into the wood.
Her thumb stopped moving on one she recognized. The Drazan mark, branded on the edge of the bar almost a decade and a half ago because Danika bet she wouldn’t do it.
Danika never dared; she wagered what she could afford.
Ksenia had heated the brand beneath the bar top with a match while Danika sat pressed against her side, her knee jiggling against Ksenia’s. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.
The prize had been Danika’s weekly allowance, and Ksenia spent it all on sweets.
She snapped out of her reverie and was met with a jagged frown.
“I’ve never seen you here before.” Marta’s voice was as rough as her face. At the sound of her words, the patrons closest to Ksenia quieted, and she felt their hands lay upon their weapons.
She retrieved a cigarette from her pocket, then lifted it to her lips.
“You mind?” Gesturing to the lit taper between them on the bar.
Marta glanced at it and back at Ksenia with an imperceptible nod.
“Thanks.” She leaned in, and the tip burned red.
Fsssssssst.
Ksenia let the smoke curl from her mouth and inhaled it back through her nose.
Marta shrugged, placated momentarily. Amongst folk who frequented the Vein, there were just some mannerisms that were undeniably them.
“What’s your poison?”
Ksenia swung her finger at a keg behind Marta: sootback ale.
The first sip was always a shock if you weren’t expecting it: bitter, ashy, and acrid, but after a while, your mouth went numb to the taste anyway.
And better yet, it was cheap. By the third mug, you barely tasted it at all, which was probably the point.
She had missed its bitterness. It wasn’t classy like the wine and liquor in Varka’s home, but something about it was familiar in its unpretentiousness.
If Danika were here, she’d have chastised Ksenia; she loathed the smell of cheap alcohol.
Ksenia found her usual spot in the back corner of the room, the perfect place to gather intelligence while nursing a drink in the shadows.
There was a little alcove with a round table just big enough for two with a clear view of the door.
With her heightened senses, the whole room became a wash of pleasant noise in her mind, and she could eavesdrop without even straining.
Most importantly, she could slip out the side exit in under five seconds if she needed to.
The incessant tapping of her foot began to quiet as she settled against the grimy wooden wall and let her mind wander.
Her eyes strayed out the window, and she caught a tall, cloaked figure stride past and slip something into their pocket.
She straightened in her seat.
A wayfinder coin. The blue-gray coin broke the monotony of brown, black, and dingy white worn by the surrounding crowd.
She stood up, peering out the window at the figure heading down the alleyway. Her heart leaped to her throat.
What if this were another headhunter? And they had just taken it from a child?
Her mind flew to the little boy’s scared face, at the way he had avoided her bloody fingers when she offered the coin back.
She pushed out the side exit without another word, her drink unfinished.
She tailed the mysterious figure—a man, no doubt. He was tall, strong-shouldered, but light on his feet. He moved like water, slipping between bodies and stalls effortlessly.
She wove between the makeshift wooden stalls hawking fragrant herbs and cookery wares. Somewhere nearby, a reedy voice sang over a hand drum, competing with haggling voices.
She cut down an alleyway and intercepted him as he rounded the intersection of a busy street. A fiddler played a jaunty tune on one corner, a juggler working the other. She crouched low behind a barrel to peer at his profile several paces away.
Her breath stopped.
Bohdan’s elegant nose and cheekbones were apparent beneath the shadow of his hood.
And there—the glint of his green eyes.
She flattened herself to the splintered wood as her heart hammered in her chest, and she pulled her cloak over her tresses and swung her scarf to cover her face.
What was he doing down here?
He continued on his path and she waited a beat before tailing him once more.
If this was a hallucination, it was a rare one in which she wished to remain.
A few dozen paces away, standing in the dead center of the street, was a woman dressed in a dark cloak, her flaxen braided hair finished with a pale blue ribbon.
Ksenia had always noted that the color drew unnecessary attention, but Danika insisted it was the point.
Wisps of her light blonde hair peeked from beneath the hood. The exuberance and life had been leeched from her doe-brown eyes, which were now accented with dark circles and sallow cheeks. She looked different, hollow.
But she looked real.
Ksenia couldn’t stop her feet from carrying her forward, arm slightly outstretched.
Words poised themselves on her tongue. What did they do to you? Where have you been? Are you all right? I’m sorry I didn’t stick with you.
The thoughts ceased as Bohdan’s figure loomed into view. His tall silhouette stood sentry near Danika.
Dread set throughout the crowd in micro movements; their shoulders stiffened, smiles replaced with thin lines, and they hastened their steps. The street performers packed and left.
It wasn’t illegal for citizens to frequent the Vein itself, but plenty of the practices and activities were. Desperate to make ends meet, people risked Envorsen raids.
That still didn’t explain what Danika was doing here. Did Bohdan bring her? Why were they together?
The questions piled high in Ksenia’s mind.
Danika looked around listlessly, her gaze met with jeers and snarls, but no explicit insults came her way; their eyes were wary of Bohdan’s hovering figure.
He stood out like a shark amongst a school of fish.
Danika certainly didn’t fit in, but it was on account that she was a bondsmith who had been on the run. Their wanted posters had been plastered on more than a few buildings in Brannfels, and Ksenia had long grown numb to the contempt with which they had been treated.
Danika’s hand emerged from the dark woolen cloak, and without looking, her finger swung resolutely at three separate stalls.
Her soft voice now had an edge to it. “Machete, sickle, and axe.”
Anger branded itself deep in Ksenia’s stomach as she watched a few cloaked Envorsen swarm the shopkeepers, searching for the contraband that matched her descriptions. They had hidden in plain sight. And Danika was using her bondsense to betray these people, effectively sentencing them to death.
Everyone moved at once—panicked and directionless.
One of the Envorsen had wrestled the sickle from an old woman, her thin wrist caught in his gloved hand.
Danika cocked her head in Ksenia’s direction, whose feet were rooted to the ground as people pushed and shoved to get away.
Ksenia stumbled backward—Danika must be able to sense Caromir.
Their eyes met. Danika’s flickered. “Dagger.”
Her heart felt hollow as her own sister didn’t register her, but her woe was short-lived. Four heads snapped to her in attention. Bohdan’s green eyes bore into hers, and Ksenia didn’t want to stick around for a greeting.
The guards parted the crowd with unnerving ease and brute strength, sending bodies toppling as they strode toward her.
Face them. Fight them. Kill them. At her hip, Caromir grew hot in the leather sheath.
No. She couldn’t. If she fought them and Danika was hurt in the process…
It wasn’t safe for Ksenia to be around her right now.
But still, Danika was alive.
Her insides turned as she forced herself in the opposite direction.
Wooden stalls splintered, goods crashed to the ground, screams punctuated the chaos.
Everything was drowned out by her own heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears.
She had only ever escaped Bohdan by the skin of her teeth, and her instincts caught up to her.
She spun down the side alley, vaulting over barrels and heaps of rubbish. The steady, methodical footfalls behind her were chilling. As if assured, no matter how hard or fast she ran, they would catch her.
Lantern light flickered overhead, illuminating the wet stone floors and the jagged edges of the walls.
Her heart stuttered as Vornaya’s bloodlust pulled at a perverse thrill within her.
She pushed those desires to the back of her mind as she continued racing down the twists and turns of the Vein until she spotted an exit.
She crawled out and braced herself against the grate, sucking in lungfuls of crisp night air.
Before her, Rothaven was quiet. Lamplight behind shuttered windows. A hound barking somewhere distant.
She ran along the backstreets until the Vein’s entrance was far behind her, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing.
She pressed herself into a dimly lit alley and waited. Minutes passed, and no footsteps emerged from the dark.
She had entered the Vein to hunt, but came up empty-handed. She was unsure how much longer her fraying sanity would hold, but seeing Danika had bolstered her with more hope than she had begun her journey with.
She took the long way back to the manor, sticking to the shadows, cutting glances at her surroundings in case anyone had followed her.
Then, in the quietude of her quarters, she once more found herself restless and unable to sleep.
Danika was alive but being forced to use her bondsense to bring people selling contraband to the executioner’s block.
She sat straight up in her bed, sheets tangled around her legs as she swung them over the side and caught her head in her hands.
Why hadn’t Danika just lied? As the last bondsmith, who could call her bluff?
Bondsmiths couldn’t choose who they were, nor turn off their abilities with metal. It was a part of their blood; all they could do was suppress who they were and pray they weren’t caught.
She pushed herself to her feet. In three days, there would be another trial where killing might be the only option. But right now, she wanted to go to a place where she could remind herself that she existed and a piece of her originality remained.
The forge.
She didn’t have the will or the desire to forge a weapon. But she still wanted to feel the heat of the fire and the satisfying feel of transforming unyielding metal into something malleable in her hands.
With a gentle hum in her throat, she designed a maker’s mark. Their old family mark had been destroyed along with their parents and home when Karsan seized the throne.
She scrawled a simple design onto the stone floor with a piece of chalk.
Satisfied, she transferred the design onto her steel blank and carefully engraved the details, fitting it onto a surface no thicker than her fingertip.
An open hand, fingers spread upward, with a single dagger pointed downward from the center of the palm. A sigil of protection.
It was fitting. Cathartic.