Chapter Text
The wheels of the royal carriage sang against the stones, their rhythm steady as a heartbeat. The countryside outside blurred in ribbons of green and gold, autumn sunlight painting the Ravkan landscape in deceptive peace. Inside, the air smelled faintly of polished leather and lavender oil — the Queen’s scent.
Inej Ghafa sat opposite Queen Zoya Nazyalensky, her back straight, the weight of her blades a familiar comfort beneath her cloak. Nina Zenik lounged beside her, her red scarf carelessly draped, a grin perpetually hovering on her lips as if no amount of peril could rob her of mischief.
It had been years since Inej first saw Zoya— a lifetime ago, when the girl with the blue eyes had been no more than a curious face in a small Ravkan village.
She remembered it vividly: the caravan lanterns glowing amber in the dusk, the smoke of sandalwood incense wafting in the air, the clatter of hand drums, her mother’s laughter, her father’s hands spinning a tale in the flickering firelight. And a girl— not a traveler, not a performer, but one of the villagers— had watched with wide eyes from the edge of the crowd. Her skin the same shade as Inej’s, her braid thick and glossy, her gaze bright as a shard of the sky.
“I’ve never seen a Suli before,” the girl had confessed when Inej offered her a sweet.
“And I’ve never seen a Suli who stays in one place,” Inej had replied.
They had been two halves of the same coin— one who wandered, one who stayed— and neither had known how their paths would one day converge in the corridors of power.
Now, Zoya sat crowned in silks and sapphires, her blue eyes heavy with the kind of wisdom only battle and loss could teach. And Inej was no longer a child with a caravan, but the Crown Guard of Ravka— a shadow sworn to protect her Queen.
“Too quiet out here,” Nina murmured, glancing out the window. “Makes me nervous.”
Zoya arched a brow. “You’re always nervous, Zenik.”
“I’m always right, Your Majesty.”
The Queen smiled— faintly, like sunlight on steel. “We’re almost at the crossroads. After that, the Little Palace isn’t far.”
Inej’s hand brushed the hilt of her dagger, a reflex born from years of training and darker experience. Her eyes flicked to the horizon. The trees were growing thicker, the path narrower. Perfect ground for an ambush.
And right on cue, the carriage lurched.
The horses screamed— a terrible, panicked sound— as the driver shouted. Then came the crack of a musket, the splinter of wood, the metallic scent of fear.
“Down!” Inej barked, already moving.
She didn’t draw a sword. She didn't carry one. Unconventional as it was for the Crown Guard of the Royal Army, she preferred weapons with less draw-time. Two daggers flashed into her hands, the curved steel glinting like silver crescents.
The first man appeared by the carriage door, his mask smeared with dirt, sword raised. Inej was already gone from her seat. She kicked open the carriage door, swung onto the roof, and launched herself into the fray.
Speed, not strength; dexterity, not power— that was her creed.
She dropped from above like a hawk, her blade sliding cleanly between the seams of a man’s armor. He staggered, howling, and she twisted, using his own momentum to slam him into another attacker.
The second man came at her with a blade— she ducked, spun, her braid whipping like a strike of shadow, and drove her knee into his stomach. He fell with a grunt. Two down. Three more to go.
She was a blur of motion— light, silent, relentless. Every strike calculated, every movement precise.
A sound— behind her. She turned too late. The last man lunged, sword flashing.
Before she could parry, a red scarf shot out of the carriage window, wrapping around the attacker’s throat and jerking him back. The man gurgled, dropped his sword, and crumpled.
Inej glanced back. Nina, grinning, red scarf in hand.
“You’re welcome!” she shouted.
Then Nina’s expression shifted. “Inej— they took the trunk! There’s a hole in the carriage floor!”
Inej froze. Ice filled her veins.
The Queen’s trunk— the sealed one that held royal correspondence, military codes, and Saint only knew what else — was gone.
“I’ll find them,” Inej said, and sprinted into the woods.
Kaz Brekker didn’t like Ravka.
He liked its chaos, its corruption, and the gold that came from exploiting both — but not the country itself. Too many soldiers, too many Saints, too many people who thought prayers could keep knives from their throats.
The trick, he’d learned, was to move faster than belief.
He sat at the front of a hay cart, gloved hands steady on the reins, coat collar turned up against the wind. Jesper was in the back, humming to himself, the trunk— stolen clean through the floor of the Queen’s carriage— hidden under mounds of straw.
“That,” Jesper said, tossing a stray stalk aside, “was the cleanest lift I’ve ever seen. You, my friend, are poetry in motion.”
Kaz scowled. “Flattery doesn’t change the fact that we’re being hunted.”
“Can’t we enjoy one moment of triumph before—”
Jesper’s words died as a hawk’s cry echoed in the distance. Only, it wasn’t a hawk. It was the sound of steel slicing through air.
Kaz didn’t need to look to know what that meant.
“She’s coming,” he muttered.
“Who?”
“The one who killed three men before you could blink.”
Jesper’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, Saints.”
Kaz flicked the reins, urging the horse faster. “Exactly.”
He’d seen her— a blur in motion, twin blades flashing. He’d seen her leap from the roof like a ghost made flesh. Whoever she was, she wasn’t just another guard.
She was a shadow with teeth.
By the time they reached the main road into Os Alta, the sky was dimming to dusk. Patrols lined the route— soldiers checking every cart for stolen royal goods.
Kaz cursed under his breath. He couldn’t risk turning back now.
A figure stepped into the road ahead, cloak fluttering in the wind.
She moved like she owned the silence.
Kaz drew the horse to a halt, his pulse steady, eyes calculating. Jesper’s fingers twitched at his gun.
“Let me handle this,” Kaz murmured.
The woman approached— dark hair braided tight, daggers glinting at her sides. Her armor was leather and chain, light enough for speed.
“Driver,” she called, voice low but sharp as glass, “what’s your cargo?”
“Hay,” Kaz said smoothly. “Fresh from the western farms.”
She walked closer. Her eyes were sharp and glinting— Suli eyes. And when she looked at him, Kaz had the sudden, unnerving sense she could see through him.
“I’ll have to inspect it,” she said.
Kaz’s jaw tightened. “You don’t trust your own people?”
“Protocol must be followed,” she said— and stepped past him to the back of the cart.
Jesper tried to smile. “Evening, uh, ma’am—”
Her gaze cut to him, and Jesper froze. She began to move the hay aside.
Kaz’s mind raced. He had only seconds before she found the trunk. He caught Jesper’s eye and gave a single, imperceptible nod.
Jesper sighed. “Saints save us.”
Quietly, he had untied the harness connecting the horse to the cart. He kicked over the side of the cart to block the road, slapped the horse's rear, and when it neighed and careened into the crowd of guards gathered, he bolted.
From his periphery, he caught Jesper get cut off by a wall of guards before he could follow Kaz.
“Stop him!” she shouted— and in that instant, Kaz disappeared into the copse of trees, hoping the brush would cover the sight of him. He pumped his legs through the pain shooting up his knee so he could meld into the dense woods.
He didn’t get far.
One moment, foliage surrounded him. Verdant and lush.
The next, a shadow dropped from the sky ahead, landing squarely in his path.
Kaz skidded to a halt, his leg screaming in protest at the sudden jerky motion. He spared a swift glance up, a thick gnarled branch dangled above them.
She had used the trees to catch up. His heart thudded.
The woman stood there, daggers drawn, her eyes dark and burning.
He hadn’t even heard her approach.
For the first time in years, Kaz Brekker felt something close to awe.
She pointed a dagger at his chest. “By the law of the Crown, you’re under arrest.”
He smiled— slow, sharp, dangerous. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
“I already have,” she said.