Chapter 32
Bohdan’s routine ran like clockwork. Around this time of day, he would be out in the training fields with his men, practicing archery, horsemanship, and hand-to-hand combat for several hours.
All she needed was a few minutes.
Petra led Ksenia through the servant’s corridors, quick and sure-footed, toward the east wing.
Bohdan’s quarters were directly below them, and Ksenia moved toward the nearest stairwell, but Petra caught her wrist, pulling her back.
Seconds later, the heavy thud of boots echoed from the landing below.
Petra dragged them down a longer corridor, feet silent on the stone. They wound through a narrow passageway, down a second stairwell before letting out into the hallway near Bohdan’s door.
The little girl pressed herself against the corner and listened.
The rolling, heavy footfall of a second patrol came and went.
She lowered the tiny hand that she’d held flat against Ksenia’s chest.
In the blink of an eye, the girl was gone. Causing chaos among the guards, tearing down the hall, a ring of keys swinging from her fist before they’d noticed it was missing.
A breath of laughter escaped Ksenia before she could stop it. Six years old and pickpocketing castle guards.
She walked the opposite way till she reached Bohdan’s door.
Ksenia tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned closer to the lock, her trusty hooked awl jammed into the hole, prying, poking, and prodding until she heard a soft click.
She slunk into Bohdan’s darkened room, the curtains drawn except for a thin beam of light that broke through the center.
His quarters were utilitarian but still luxurious.
She strode languidly to his gargantuan bed, winding her hand around a post. The silken bedding was dark as midnight and perfectly made, down to the folded covers and fluffed pillows.
If not for his lingering scent, she would not have thought the captain lived here.
She dove onto his sheets, stretching out like a cat on her back. His smell pillowed her delightfully as the silk sheets slipped over her skin.
She rolled onto her front and took a deep inhale. Intoxicating, wine-dark, silvery.
She couldn’t wait to tear him to pieces: first his body, then his mind. But to do that, she had to find something to use against him…
Reluctantly, she dragged herself from his bedding, now slightly rumpled.
She bit the tip of her glove, pulling it off as her eyes scanned the room.
She traced his bookshelves and ran her finger underneath the lip of his desk, searching for anything that would reveal a weakness in the perfect captain’s facade.
She came up disappointingly empty, with not even a speck of dust to show.
She rubbed her fingers together. Everyone had secrets. And this bastard prince was too uptight to have only a few…
Perhaps…there? Vornaya suggested, directing Ksenia’s focus to his closet.
She opened his wardrobe, filled with crimson uniforms, elegant attire for royal dinners, and more casual clothing.
An errant sleep tunic lay on the floor.
She tsked, then draped it over her arm.
She rifled through the fabrics and pressed her hand against the wooden paneling at the back.
Click.
A wicked smile twisted her lips as a hidden panel depressed and then slid to the side, revealing a shallow hiding spot inset in the wood.
A lusty euphoria clouded her mind as she pulled a worn leather-bound journal from the depths, biting her lip.
She could spend a little more time.
Ksenia drew a steaming bath for herself, mixing her favorite oils and soaps from his personal collection.
She stepped out of her stifling dress and into the water’s caress.
With a gentle hum, she traced a finger along his well-manicured writing.
The words documented his personal critiques of his sparring lessons and continuous combat training, along with improvement plans. Ksenia thumbed through the dry, repetitive pages.
He only looked effortless because the effort had long since been buried somewhere no one was meant to find.
And she wanted to find it.
Her teeth almost drew blood as she flipped to his most recent entries.
Entries about her.
Senka is everything I should avoid—reckless, deceptive, and completely without principle. She is a poison, and yet I’m willingly consuming it. She’s hiding something, and I need to figure it out. But I’m failing. And I can’t stop.
Blood formed beneath her canine, and she swiped her tongue across it.
This was delicious. She could ruin him if she wanted to. And gods, she was throbbing with the desire to.
She would make him come to her willingly. Laid bare for her to do whatever she pleased.
Fuck. Torture. Kill.
Carefully, gently, she kissed the blank parchment beneath that last journal entry. The dried-blood color of her rouge smeared onto the page.
Her skin smelled like him now.
No. Like them.
She finished in the tub and pulled his tunic over her head—the collar slipping off her shoulder and linen sticking to her curves as she padded back into his bedroom with wet feet.
Clink.
A clatter of metal sounded as she replaced his journal into the hidden compartment.
Her brow furrowed, fingers digging deeper. They closed around a thin coin of sorts and a loose sheaf of paper.
The blue-gray metal of a wayfinder coin gleamed dully in the strip of light from the curtains. Ksenia’s hand clutched tightly around it.
How many children had Bohdan caught in the Vein? What of the four children she had last ushered into its depths? She’d been a fool to think they would all make it.
She turned her attention to the sheaf of paper, turning it over in her hands. Perfectly blank.
Her heart stilled.
No. No.
Her trembling hands jammed into her dress pockets for a spare match, and she hurried to strike it against the stone wall.
She lit the wax taper by his bedside till a weak flickering flame took hold.
Her heart thundered in her chest as she shakily held the paper over the flame. Her hand was clammy as she passed the coin over the warmed parchment.
Her stomach dropped as shimmering ink revealed itself.
Shepherd,
Twelve children are awaiting safe passage at the safe house near the Brannfels warehouse docks.
—North
The missive slipped from her shaking fingers, catching the flame as it fell.
Ksenia’s hand darted forward with a curse, quickly stamping out the flame with her hands, but the damage was done.
The corner had become curled and charred.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
This was much more dire than she could’ve ever anticipated.
If he knew how to decipher their codes and had intercepted a message meant for the Shepherd outlining where children were being held in the Brannfels safe house…
Heated pressure choked her throat and crept behind her eyes, clenching her jaw. She questioned the accuracy of the number of families Danika had reunited.
Her fingernails dug into her palms, sharp and severe at her sides as she replaced the damning evidence in the hidden compartment and slid the panel back.
She would ruin him and Karsan, and then she’d burn Hearth to the ground.
Her breath came in quick gasps, sending white puffs into the night.
Her pupils narrowed to tiny pinpricks as she frantically searched for the servant girl over the balcony edge.
Darkness stretched beneath her, and the white water of the falls crashed through the jagged cliffside and plunged into the empty void.
Without hesitation, she took a few steps back and then sprinted to dive over the edge.
One hour prior.
Her first mark.
When Archbishop Serafin called for pledges of loyalty, hundreds of churches across the kingdom responded in unison.
Destroying him would eliminate a passionate religious voice that spoke in favor of Karsan.
She had noted the flimsy iron latch pins on the church windows in an earlier patrol.
Someone had recently bent the one near the pulpit so it would catch at a specific angle. Completely secure-looking from the inside. But from the exterior, if you knew where to check, the right pressure to apply, and targeted the correct point with something thin, perhaps a blade—
Click.
Caromir shifted the pin out of the catch without force.
A thunderous sermon carried through the rafters and reverberated down the rows of pews, full to the brim of nobles and their families.
Ksenia snuck closer to the opening and slipped through to land softly on the ground. Her leather-soled shoes were a whisper compared to Serafin’s booming voice.
For someone so old and decrepit, he held a surprisingly deep timbre, and Ksenia found herself momentarily dazed as she adjusted to the ear-splitting volume.
It didn’t help that she was right next to the pulpit where he was passionately gesturing during his sermon.
Dust motes swirled in the colored light filtering through the stained glass overhead—crimson martyrs and golden gods watched her press herself against the cold stone wall in the shadowy alcove beneath the pulpit staircase.
He was ending his sermon with a foreboding warning. “The fires of hell await those who stray from Lord King Saranov’s law. The wicked shall know neither rest nor mercy…”
Ksenia could hear the creak of his joints as his hands grasped the edge of the pulpit, knuckles pale against the black marble. The bright metallic tang of blood lingered, mingling with the smell of aged tomes and stale air.
Her nose wrinkled. This was the smell of all churches in Kraal, pungent with bloodletting and lies.
“By blood and bone, we are bound,” Serafin concluded as he raised a brass goblet, the edge lined with needles—clearly not for drinking. The chalice was filled from the congregation.
The crowd rose with a rustle of fabric and shuffling of feet. As they filtered toward the exit, a small gray-clothed figure lingered, a cloak hanging loose on her narrow shoulders.
She approached Serafin with her yellow-blonde head bowed, hands twisted together.
“Your Eminence.” Petra’s voice was barely audible. “May I confess something?”
Archbishop Serafin descended from the pulpit, his black woolen robes sweeping the floor. “Speak, child.”
Her tiny hands beckoned him closer.