Chapter 34
Crumpled linens were strewn at the foot of her bed from where she’d tossed and turned, chasing peak after peak through the night after they parted ways from the library.
Her fingers worked feverishly against the overstimulated bundle of nerves.
A sheen of sweat coated her body; the temperature of her quarters had risen despite the cold evening.
With a curse, a sixth climax weakly rolled through her body as she lay in a frustrated heap.
Damn him to hell.
She hadn’t gotten any sleep since their encounter, and now the light of dawn beamed through the dew-covered stained-glass window of her bedroom.
She promised herself that she would bury herself into Bohdan’s deepest vulnerabilities until he willingly drowned himself to have her.
She dragged herself from bed and made to get ready for the day.
It was a rare day of sun, and she had an exact timer ticking down on the sleeper’s bane compound that she had mixed into the carafes of water in the sparring hall. The Envorsen always drank heavily after their morning drills.
She only needed for the guards in the hall that led to Karsan’s study to be indisposed a few minutes, but her window was extremely precise. Once she activated the poison, she wouldn’t have long to traverse the hallway and break into the study while the afternoon sun was in the perfect position.
In clear weather, the afternoon sun would turn the study’s glass panes into a glowing beacon so bright that the archers on the perimeter walls had to avert their eyes.
And if she activated the agent too late, the next guard rotation would find their collapsed brethren and raise the alarm.
She watched the rays slant through the hall’s narrow windows as she sprinkled crystals of green ironbark resin into the braziers at the nearest guard post.
At this hour, Karsan would be holding court in his solar as he did every day.
Her original plan with Varka involved eliminating more key individuals, but she longed for deeper knowledge that could become a psychological dagger twisting in Karsan’s gut.
Karsan was secretive, but every man had vulnerabilities, fears, and attachments; if Ksenia could find them and learn the origins of his fears, she could haunt him.
She pulled her shawl over her face, shielding herself from the acrid smoke, and waited.
One by one, the guards passed the brazier on their rotation, commenting on the smell but ultimately moving on.
The thuds of their bodies on the floor a minute later indicated her success.
She stole past their limp forms up the staircase, her hand clutching the steel key that Danika had made. It was covered with geometric patterns and calibrated Grastelian steel segments that attracted and repelled with varying strengths, perfectly matching the lock’s internal layout.
A magnetic fingerprint.
Her legs were burning after she reached the top landing of the king’s study and carefully pressed her ear to the door.
The room was silent and empty.
She studied the sun’s rays as they shifted into position, striking the vast western windows with such intensity that they became blazing mirrors of light.
She slowly inserted the key into the lock, allowing each segment to attract its corresponding weight.
Brina had told her about the patience required with Grastelian steel. She inserted it partway, waited for the first magnetic mechanism to settle, then pushed it further until she heard another satisfying click, repeating the process until the key was flush with the door.
The pendulum lock was in place, and Ksenia pressed the door open.
The study was messy, as before, but it was illuminated in brilliant color. Every ray was amplified through the panes, and Ksenia found herself shielding her eyes to avoid tripping over piles of books, rolls of maps, and loose sheafs of parchment on the floor.
She approached the king’s marble desk and inspected it for hidden compartments, pressing the carved motifs and searching for hidden latches, but found nothing.
She didn’t have enough time to search the paperwork on his desk—she only had a few minutes before the sun ceased to be her accomplice.
She turned her attention to the shelves, crammed with tubed parchment and books. As her fingers skittered over the book spines, she heard the slow-paced clicks of the lock turning behind her.
Shit.
The disembodied scream of Radegast splintered Ksenia’s mind.
King Karsan padded into the room, his crimson silk cape fluttering behind him, papers rustling in his wake. His footfall was quiet over the thick rugs, but Ksenia could hear every carpet fiber crushed underfoot.
She ceased to breathe, hidden beneath his desk.
A stack of papers was dropped onto its surface, scattering a pen to the floor in front of her.
She stared at it, praying he’d let it lie.
She was Sevrant, but he would execute her without a second thought still. And there was no possible way she could excuse her way out of breaking into his private study.
He turned to the shelf she had been examining and pressed a lever in the wood’s vertical trim, revealing a compartment.
From the folds of his robes, he produced a well-worn black notebook and deposited it into the space before clicking it shut, his fingers lingering on the wood.
She couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but she waited until that ear-splitting sound faded into the distance.
Only then did she allow herself to suck in a breath. Balled up in a fetal position, clutching her head.
She grasped the edge of his desk, leaning on it for stability. He had left behind a guest list for Kindling in a few days. Her eyes swept over the paper, her finger tracing the parchment, smirking as she noted a strike through Archbishop Serafin’s name.
She turned to the shelf and repeated the same actions Karsan took.
Click.
The panel popped open, revealing the notebook neatly fitted into the wood.
Her gloved hand trembled as she took hold of it. The journal spanned years, starting benignly as the writings of an immature young prince.
Criticizing his brother, his father, and the court.
The criticisms paused when a new name began to appear on those scribbled pages: Vezna.
From there, it took a darker, more obsessive turn.
She asked my opinion on the border disputes. Not Aleksander’s—mine. She values my intellect over his charm.
Another entry.
I dream of her, of a kingdom where merit and hard work, not birth order, determine succession, where Vezna looks at me not as a shadow to the throne but as the one who deserves to sit on it. Why does she scorn me in favor of Aleksander and Iskra? Does she not see the power we would wield together?
The latest entry.
I can’t stop seeing her in my nightmares.
And yet, I would endure her haunting me for the rest of my life because no other woman will ever compare.
I tried to offer her a way out, but I knew she would never bend.
I loved that about her. But it was exactly why I had to break her.
She understood at the end, I think. Some obsessions are too dangerous to refuse.
A slow smile crawled to Ksenia’s face.
She would desecrate everything he held dear.
She snapped out of her reverie as the shifting rays directly shone in her gaze. She quickly returned the journal to its hiding spot and shifted the panel back until she heard the corresponding click.
Hastening down the stairs, her heart beating in her ears, she peered through an open window at the base of them, spying the brazier beneath her. She stuck her hand out of the window and deposited the last few resin shards into the open flame.
Like before, she counted the thudding bodies outside the tower door as she opened it and picked her way around their strewn limbs.
She passed through an open-air hallway, the wind biting through her shawl.
Nobles were leaving from the solar to a nearby courtyard, drawn to the rare bit of sunlight.
“Sevrant.” His voice iced the blood in her veins.
Shit.
“Come.” He stood several paces away, hands clasped before him. Flanked by guards and his ever-present shadow, Bohdan.
Her jaw tightened, but she forced her feet toward him like the obedient bloodhound she was.
He surveyed her for a long moment.
She dropped to one knee at his feet. “Lord King, how may I be of service?”
Her heart palpitated.
“Rise, follow me.”
An exhale began to loosen from her lungs, but her chest remained tight as she fell into step and followed Karsan down the hall.
Karsan spoke without looking. “What are your theories on the killer, Captain?”
“They’re a risk taker, Lord King. They murdered Serafin after a sermon, with potential witnesses nearby.” Bohdan’s voice was cool and even. “This level of confidence suggests someone who knows our security measures enough to exploit them.”
“And you, Sevrant?”
“I agree with the captain. This is someone with access,” Ksenia began. “But they’re not always controlled. The beheadings were rage-driven, not as precise as your typical assassin.”
“Access.” Karsan repeated the word softly. “Yes, that’s what troubles me most. The killing is secondary—I can replace Serafin, there are plenty of clergy members clamoring for my attention already.”
He stopped and whipped around to face them.
The full force of his pale, washed-out eyes held hers with unsettling focus.
“I’m not a fool,” he said quietly. “Someone is testing me. Probing for weaknesses, waiting to see how I respond.” His eyes cut between the two.
“Find the killer. Before they strike again.”
“Yes, Lord King,” came their reply in unison.
The next morning, Ksenia’s legs swung idly as she sat on a sturdy iron table in the morgue, with Bohdan pacing in front of Archbishop Serafin’s body like a caged wolf.