Archive of Our Own

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DANIIL ARRIVES IN TOWN.
Daniil stood at the edge of the Bridge Square, the map that Isidor had drawn for him held tightly in his gloved hands. His brows furrowed as he studied the inked lines and twisting roads, but the layout made less sense the longer he stared at it. The town was a maze—streets that should have connected didn’t, landmarks that were supposed to be close together stretched impossibly far apart. He turned the map sideways, then upside down, pursing his lips. What kind of town was this?He was still puzzling over the mess when movement in the corner of his vision made him pause.A woman.Half-hidden behind a crumbling brick wall, watching him.Her dress clung to her form like it had been painted on, thin and light despite the creeping cold of the evening. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, loose strands of hair framing a face that was flushed—flushed like she had been running, or laughing, or drinking. Or all three.But her eyes—her eyes gleamed. At him, he realized.Daniil cleared his throat, looking around the empty square before turning back to her. No one else is here. Well. He wasn’t above asking for directions.“I’m sorry,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag. “But could you help me? I’m looking for the… Crucible.” He glanced at his map again. “This is the Bridge Square, isn’t it?”The girl stiffened, her fingers tightening around the edge of the crumbling brick wall she had been half-hiding behind. Daniil had the distinct impression that she thought she had been much sneakier than she actually was. It was almost cute, the way she cleared her throat softly, shifting her weight like a child caught playing where they shouldn’t be.“Yes, this is the Bridge Square,” she said at last, her voice suddenly demure. “Are you lost?”Daniil raised an eyebrow, watching her carefully. “I wouldn’t say lost,” he replied, tucking his map into his coat. “Just momentarily misdirected.”The girl tilted her head slightly, considering his words. “I’ve never seen you around before,” she said. “You’re visiting the town, aren’t you?”Daniil nodded, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Something like that.”“Are you staying at the Crucible?” she asked, her tone casual, but there was something curious beneath it.Daniil frowned. “No, not really. I haven’t found accommodations yet.”The girl perked up immediately, her entire demeanor shifting from quiet curiosity to something bordering on excitement. Daniil narrowed his eyes slightly. Why the hell was she excited that he had no accommodations?She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a faint blush dusting her cheeks as she swayed slightly on her feet. “If you’re looking for the Crucible,” she said, her voice lilting, “then you’re here for the Kains, right?”Daniil hesitated before nodding. “That’s right.”She smiled, pleased. “I know them,” she said lightly. “I could take you there… or”—she tilted her head, her blue eyes glinting—“if you’d like, you could come to my house first. Freshen up before seeing the Kains.” She then added “I could offer you a room!”Daniil considered this. He was feeling uncomfortably stiff and travel-worn from the long train ride, and he certainly wouldn’t mind a place to clean up. But something about the way she had offered—so easily, so eagerly—made his stomach twist with suspicion.He glanced at her again, taking in the way she looked at him, the way her fingers fidgeted slightly against her skirts as if barely containing some unspoken excitement.“…Why are you offering your own home?” he asked at last, his voice slow and measured. “You barely know me.”The girl visibly stiffened at his question, her earlier confidence faltering as a furious blush crept up her cheeks. Daniil watched her carefully. He sensed no immediate danger from her—just a strange sort of nervous excitement—but who knew in a place like this? Isidor had said in his letter that it was a peaceful town, but one could never be so sure.She hesitated, shifting slightly on her feet before replying, “I just… love meeting new people.” She offered him a small, somewhat sheepish smile. “And you seem to have come from far away. Your clothes—well, you don’t seem like the kind of person that lives nearby.”Daniil considered this and finally gave a small nod. “I come from the Capital.”At that, her entire face lit up with delight. She clasped her hands together, practically bouncing on her feet as she nearly yelled, “Really?!”Daniil blinked, startled by her sudden enthusiasm.She seemed to catch herself immediately, clearing her throat and smoothing down her skirts as she repeated, much more composed, “I mean, really? That’s—amazing.” She giggled, then turned and pointed toward a house in the distance.“That’s Stillwater,” she said. “My home. Come on, I’ll help you get settled first, and then I’ll show you where the Kains are.”Daniil followed her gaze toward the house, his stomach twisting slightly. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the offer—it would be good to freshen up before meeting the Kains—but something about her excitement unsettled him.Still, she didn’t seem dangerous.Daniil sighed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Lead the way.”To his surprise, the girl stepped closer and, with a natural ease, locked her arm with his. Daniil stiffened slightly at the unexpected contact, glancing down at her. She was a bit shorter than him, looking up at him through dark blonde eyelashes, her eyes bright with amusement.She was beautiful, he realized. He raised an eyebrow at her antics, and she giggled at his expression. They started walking, the uneven cobblestone streets echoing softly beneath their steps. Suddenly, Daniil became acutely aware of the fact that he was arm-in-arm with a woman he didn’t even know.Clearing his throat, he said, “I apologize, I should introduce myself. I’m Daniil Dankovsky, I’m—”Before he could finish, she gasped, her grip on his arm tightening. “The head researcher of the Thanatica!”Daniil blinked in surprise.“You’re a living legend,” she continued, her smile widening with something like genuine awe.Daniil felt his ego swell—just slightly. He wasn’t above admitting that he enjoyed the recognition. It was a rare thing among these parts.Raising an eyebrow, he looked at her expectantly. “And you are?”She blushed again, lowering her gaze for a brief moment before meeting his eyes.“Eva Yan,” she said softly, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”
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DANIIL AT EVA’S HOUSE.
Daniil stepped inside Stillwater and was immediately struck by how… lovely it was. The air was thick with the scent of flowers—lavender and lilac, soft and lingering. He realized, faintly, that she had smelled like that too.The space was warm, inviting in a way he hadn’t expected. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting golden light across wooden furniture and delicate lace curtains. Yet, despite its charm, the place was cluttered. Papers were scattered across tables, chairs, even the floor, a chaotic sprawl of notes, sketches, and diagrams.But it wasn’t disorderly. No—Daniil recognized this sort of mess. It was the kind of organized chaos only a researcher could achieve.Eva hesitated, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Oh—I didn’t even think—” She blushed, wringing her hands together. “I should have cleaned up, I—this is a mess, I’m so sorry—”Daniil waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine.” He stepped closer to one of the papers, tilting his head. Intrigued, he reached for it, his sharp eyes scanning the page. “You’re mapping constellations?”Eva blinked, caught off guard, before a delighted smile replaced her flustered expression. “Oh! Yes—yes, I am.” She moved beside him, looking down at the parchment. “The stars are always shifting, but some patterns stay the same, you know? I like finding the ones that linger.”Daniil hummed in thought, studying the intricate sketches of celestial formations.He had been expecting—well, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. But this? A woman so clearly fascinated by the mysteries of the universe, mapping the constellations like she was trying to understand something grander than herself?He found himself… impressed.Eva turned to look at him, eyes bright. “Do you like the stars, Daniil?”He is thrown off guard by how she so carefreely uses his first name, but realizes he doesn’t mind. Daniil exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “I prefer things I can study under a microscope,” he admitted.She giggled at that, shaking her head. “Oh, but the stars can be studied,” she insisted. “You just have to know where to look.”Daniil glanced at her then, watching the way her face lit up as she spoke.…Perhaps he had misjudged her after all.Eva kept talking, her words spilling out like a rushing river, her excitement unrestrained.“The stars make me feel small,” she admitted, gesturing loosely as she spoke. “Not in a bad way, though! Just—when you think about how vast the universe is, how endless the sky seems, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? To know that no matter how much we fret, no matter how much we try to be something grand, we’re just… tiny specks in the grand scheme of things.”Daniil leaned against the table, watching her with something close to amusement. She spoke with the breathless enthusiasm of a teenager describing a newfound passion, her eyes bright, her hands moving expressively. It was… endearing, in a way. She looked like a woman, spoke like one too, but there was a fresh, almost naive quality to her. A certain youthful wonder that gave her an air of something untouched by cynicism. Something that, despite himself, Daniil found refreshing.Eva sighed, clasping her hands together as she gazed at the scattered papers. “I think that’s why I love them so much. The stars. They don’t change for us. They don’t care about our little tragedies. They just keep burning, keep existing, no matter what we do.”Daniil tilted his head slightly. “And does that comfort you?”She blinked at him, then smiled softly. “Not exactly comfort, but it gives me hope… That I could be something bigger too, even among everyone. Something special in the grand scheme of things.”There was a moment of silence, not an awkward one, but a contemplative one. Daniil studied her carefully, taking in the way she seemed lost in her thoughts, and for a fleeting second, he envied her.But then, just as quickly as her introspection had settled, she snapped back to focus. Turning her bright gaze back to him, she tilted her head. “But enough about me…”Her expression shifted, becoming something more curious, more knowing.“You’re here for your research, aren’t you?” she asked, voice light, but with an unmistakable interest. “After all, you aim to defeat death, right?”Daniil smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Yes, death is my enemy,” he said, voice smooth with certainty. “And I fully intend to defeat it.”Eva sighed, clasping her hands together as she gazed at him with something close to awe. “The foe you’ve chosen for yourself is formidable,” she murmured, admiration thick in her tone. “But if anyone could do it, it would be you. You’re brilliant, truly, to take on such an impossible task.”Daniil chuckled, pleased by the praise. He wasn’t modest, never had been, and he certainly wouldn’t start now. He found that he liked the way Eva looked at him—like he was someone important. Someone legendary.“Well,” he said, smoothing a hand over his coat, “I think Simon Kain is the key to my research. That’s why I came.”Eva’s expression flickered, something unspoken flashing across her eyes, but before he could place it, she was smiling again, tilting her head as she studied him.“Speaking of the Kains,” Daniil continued, stretching his arms slightly, “could you show me to my room? I really do need to get ready before I see them.”At that, Eva’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. “Oh! Yes, of course. Right away.”She turned swiftly, leading him upstairs to a circular room. The space was warm, cozy in a way he hadn’t quite expected. It was a mix between a study and a bedroom, shelves lining the walls with books stacked in odd but deliberate arrangements. Papers were scattered across a desk near the window, and a small but well-kept bed was tucked into the curve of the wall.Daniil set his things down, glancing around with interest. He could work with this.“There’s a bathroom through that door,” Eva said, pointing to the far side of the room. She hesitated for a brief moment, then smiled softly. “I’ll give you some privacy.”Daniil nodded, already beginning to shrug off his coat. “Thank you, Eva. You’ve been very accommodating.”Her blush deepened slightly, and she clasped her hands together. “It’s my pleasure, really.”With that, she turned and left, the door clicking softly shut behind her.Daniil exhaled, rolling his shoulders before stepping toward the bathroom. Time to prepare. The Kains were waiting.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY ARRIVES IN TOWN.
The moment Artemy Burahk stepped off the train, he thought the scent of home would have welcomed him. Instead, the air was thick with something rotten, something wrong.He barely had time to take in the sight of his town—his home, after so many years away—before movement in the corner of his vision set his instincts on edge.Then, they were on him.Three men. Two grabbed his arms, rough hands clamping down like iron, while the third—a wiry man with wild eyes and a blade clutched tightly in his fist—stood in front of him, breathing hard.“Murderer,” the man with the knife spat.Artemy’s heart slammed against his ribs. He struggled, jerking against the men holding him, but their grip was tight, their intent clear.The knife gleamed as it was raised.Artemy moved.He wrenched his left arm back, twisting hard, and the two men holding him were yanked forward. Their heads collided with a sickening crack, both of them stumbling, their grips faltering just enough.That was all Artemy needed.He drove his fist into the face of the man to his right. Bone met bone with a crunch, and the man reeled backward, collapsing into the dirt.The one with the knife lunged.Artemy saw the glint of the blade and reacted on instinct, his hand snapping up to block the strike. Cold steel bit into his palm, pain slicing hot and deep, but he held the blade with his bare hand.The man snarled, trying to yank it free, but before he could, the last attacker recovered, staggering forward to join the fight. Artemy saw him coming.He made a split-second decision—he let go of the blade.Freed from his grip, the knife was pushed forward—straight into the gut of the man charging toward him.For a moment, everything was still.The attacker gasped, eyes wide with shock as he clutched at the knife now buried in his stomach. The man who had wielded it stood frozen, horror flashing across his face.Artemy didn’t give him a chance to recover.One last punch sent the remaining attacker sprawling. He hit the ground hard and didn’t move.Silence.Artemy staggered back, breathing heavily. His hands were slick with blood—some his, some not. His wounded palm throbbed, fresh drops of red dripping onto the dirt.What the hell just happened?His town—his home—had never been like this. He had been gone for years, but the town he remembered wasn’t a place of violence, wasn’t a place where people leaped at someone with knives the moment they set foot off a train.His breaths were ragged as he knelt in the dirt, pressing his wounded hand against his coat, trying to stem the bleeding.They had called him a murderer.Why?
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ARTEMY MEETS GRIEF.
Artemy’s head was still spinning when he stumbled into the Warehouses. His wounded hand ached, his ribs throbbed from where rough fists had shoved him, and exhaustion settled deep into his bones. He had barely made it this far, barely escaped the madness at the train station—only to be met with more trouble.A group of men emerged from the shadows like a pack of strays that had caught the scent of fresh meat. They blocked his path before he could even think about slipping away.“Lost, are we?” One of them sneered.Artemy exhaled sharply, too tired for this. “I just need a place to—”Hands grabbed at his arms before he could finish.“Be nice,” one of them muttered before driving a fist into his stomach.Pain shot through him like lightning, knocking the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, but they didn’t give him a chance to recover. He was dragged forward, half-lifting, half-dragging his boots over the dirt and grime of the Warehouses.A door creaked open. The dim light inside was a welcome contrast to the harsh glare of the outside world, but the moment they threw him to the ground, Artemy barely had time to register his surroundings before a voice cut through the air.“...Cub?”Artemy lifted his head.The man sitting on a makeshift throne of stacked crates was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. The years had changed him—sharpened him—but there was no mistaking that face.Artemy let out a breathless, choked laugh. “This is one hell of a greeting after six years.”The man on the crates—Grigory Filin, Artemy’s old childhood friend, was sitting there like a King or sorts. For a moment, he just looked at Artemy, as if trying to make sure he wasn’t seeing a ghost.Then he stepped forward and hauled Artemy to his feet.They stared at each other for half a second before their arms were around each other, rough, tight, slapping each other’s backs hard enough to bruise—half an embrace, half a test of who would wince first.The men around them exchanged uncertain glances. One of them hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before speaking. “Boss?”Grigory pulled back, still gripping Artemy’s shoulders, his sharp grin unmistakable. “Don’t worry. I know him.” He turned to the others, voice carrying authority. “He’s Isidor’s son.”The tension shifted instantly. Some of the men looked at each other, murmuring. One of them frowned. “But—”“But nothing,” Grigory interrupted, shooting the man a pointed look. “Leave him be.”There was a pause before the man sighed and muttered, “Whatever you say, Bad Grief.”Artemy raised an eyebrow, giving Grief a look. “Bad Grief?”Grief rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “A title’s like armor, Cub. And in times like these? You need armor.”Artemy hummed, considering this, then smirked faintly. “Still dramatic, I see.”“Still a pain in my ass, I see,” Grief shot back, but there was warmth in his voice, a flicker of something nostalgic in his expression. He let out a low whistle, arms crossed as he looked down at Artemy. “You’re a mess… Did my men do this?”Artemy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Your men? I don’t think so. I don’t know, actually. I was jumped by three guys at the train tracks.”Grief winced, reaching down to grab Artemy by the arm and help him sit properly on one of the crates. “Well, damn. Welcome home, I guess.”He crouched down, opening a small cabinet tucked away near his makeshift throne, rummaging through its contents. It was half-full, mostly bottles of questionable alcohol, a few loose bullets, and—ah. There.He pulled out a roll of bandages and tossed them at Artemy, who caught them clumsily with his good hand. “Put those fancy medical years to good use, Cub. I’ve got no damn clue how to bandage someone.”Artemy smiled despite himself, unrolling the bandages and beginning to wrap them around his cut palm. “Thanks,” he muttered.Bad Grief watched him for a moment before leaning back on his heels, tilting his head. “So… what brought you here after all these years?”Artemy frowned slightly. He had assumed his father would have told people—would have mentioned something. “A letter from my father,” he said after a pause. “He summoned me.”Grief’s expression shifted. The easy smirk faded, replaced by something heavier. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling.Artemy caught the change immediately, his frown deepening. “What?”Grief hesitated, then let out a quiet sigh. “...Cub.” He met Artemy’s eyes, his voice quieter now. “Your father is dead.”The words hit like a punch to the gut.Artemy froze, bandages half-wrapped around his hand. He stared at Grief, his mind scrambling, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. “What?”Grief kept his gaze steady, but there was a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. “Murdered last night,” he said. “Word around says it was a shabnak adyr, but…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Governor Saburov has other ideas. He heard you returned to town.”Artemy’s grip on the bandages tightened. His jaw clenched. “Then I need to clear my name. Talk some sense into Saburov.”Bad Grief let out a long, slow sigh and shook his head. “That’s not how things work, Cub,” he said, rubbing his temple. “You walk up to Saburov’s door, tell him you want to talk? He’ll throw you in a cell before you get a word out.”“I have to try,” Artemy insisted, standing.Grief scowled, stepping in front of him. “Cub. Listen to me—stay here until things die down. I can’t protect you out there.”Artemy’s brow furrowed. “Protect me?” His voice was quiet at first, then sharpened as he took a step closer. “Protect me from what?”Grief exhaled harshly through his nose, shaking his head. “From the manhunt happening outside, that’s what.” His voice was lower now, serious, urgent. “They’re out for blood. If you get caught, they will kill you. Do you understand that?”Artemy’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His mind was still reeling—his father was dead, and the town already had a noose ready for him before he’d even set foot on its streets. It was absurd.His heart pounded. He had to act, now.He shook his head. “I need to try.”Grief sighed again, giving him a long, weary look before muttering, “Always were a stubborn bastard.”Artemy smirked faintly. “I could say the same about you.”Grief snorted. “Yeah, well, one of us is making the smarter choice right now, and it ain’t you.” He shook his head but didn’t argue further. Instead, he turned, rummaging through a wooden crate, and after a second, he pulled something out and tossed it toward Artemy.Artemy caught it reflexively, then frowned as he looked down at the object in his hands. A kitchen knife. A sharp one.His frown deepened as he lifted his gaze back to Grief. “Why are you giving me this?”Grief crossed his arms. “To defend yourself, what else? You don’t know how bad things are yet, but you’ll see soon enough.”Artemy’s grip tightened around the knife. He considered not accepting it, but after what happened at the train tracks... Well. He exhaled through his nose, nodding once before slipping it into his belt.“Thank you,” he said.Grief grunted. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go getting yourself killed before you come back, alright?”Artemy gave him one last look before turning toward the door. His head was still pounding, his body aching from the earlier fight, but none of that mattered anymore.He had a name to clear.And a father to bury.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY MEETS STICKY.
A low murmur rippled through the gathered crowd as Artemy approached his father’s house. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against their faces, casting wavering shadows on the walls. Some faces were familiar—others were not. Townsfolk and Kin alike stood together, their expressions ranging from wary to hostile, their whispers cutting through the silence like a knife. Artemy tried to ignore them, approaching the house and trying for the door. Locked. Of course.He turned around, swallowing hard. He could feel their eyes on him, studying him, judging him. Murderer. The word was whispered just loud enough for him to catch, and his blood boiled. His fists clenched at his sides as he turned sharply, scanning the faces, daring someone to say it louder.Before he could open his mouth, a high-pitched voice cut through the tension.“Hey!”Artemy frowned, looking down.A small boy stood in front of him, practically vibrating with indignation. He had messy yellow-blonde hair, brown eyes burning with determination, freckles speckling his nose, and front teeth that were just slightly too far apart.And he was yelling, the sound contrasting heavily with the silence the townsfolk provided.“He didn’t do it! Old Burahk summoned him, and I know that, because I was his apprentice!”Artemy blinked, taken aback. His father had an apprentice? After he left?The boy, as small as he was, stood his ground fiercely, fists clenched, legs planted like he was about to brawl the entire crowd himself.Artemy sighed, running a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was a kid throwing himself into danger on his behalf. He reached out, ruffling the boy’s hair lightly.“Kid, I don’t need a bodyguard.”He scowled up at him. “You’re welcome,” he muttered, clearly unimpressed by Artemy’s lack of gratitude.Suppressing a smile, Artemy crouched slightly, lowering his voice. “Do you know where my father’s body is? Or anything about what happened?”He hesitated, shifting on his feet. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re really him, right? You’re Artemy?”“Were you planning on brawling the entire crowd for me without even knowing?” Artemy raised one eyebrow, amused. The boy huffed and blew his bangs out of his eyes, shrugging. Artemy had to suppress a smile. “And you are?”A grin split the boy’s face, wide and full of exaggerated bravado. He gave an exaggerated bow, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.“Sticky. Doctor in the making, at your service.”Artemy nearly laughed. Despite everything, the weight pressing on his chest, the tension in his limbs, he almost laughed.He held it in though, since more pressing matters were at hand.He straightened, turning back to the crowd.He inhaled deeply, voice steady but firm as he called out, “I am Artemy Burakh, Isidor’s son. I just returned. I don’t know what happened—but I need to know.” His dark eyes swept over the gathering, searching for someone willing to speak. “What happened to my father?”For a long, heavy moment, no one answered. The murmurs died down. The candle flames wavered.Then, finally, a woman stepped forward. A Kin woman, her long hair braided beautifully down her back, worry creasing her brow. She swallowed, glancing warily at the others before meeting Artemy’s gaze.“The Odongh say you didn’t do it,” she murmured, voice trembling slightly. “And they don’t lie. So we know you’re innocent.”Artemy exhaled softly, tension easing slightly from his shoulders.“But we don’t know who did it,” she continued, her grip tightening around the candle she held. “Word is… a shabnak adyr took him. Killed him.”A chill settled in Artemy’s gut. He stared at her, processing.A shabnak adyr. A creature of legend. A woman made of bone and clay, an impossible thing. The Kin spoke of them like warnings whispered in the dark, but Artemy had never believed.Now, standing before his father’s darkened house, the weight of the town’s suspicion pressing against him, he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.His father was dead.And a monster had taken the blame.Artemy clenched his jaw, nodding once.“I see,” he murmured.He didn’t believe in monsters.But he did believe in murderers.And he would find the one responsible. Artemy turned back to the boy, crouching down to meet his eager gaze. Sticky was still practically buzzing with energy, despite the heavy weight of grief and suspicion pressing in around them."Do you know Stahk Rubin?" Artemy asked, his voice low but steady. "Or Lara Ravel? Are they still in town?"Sticky nodded quickly, straightening with the pride of someone finally being useful. "Yeah, yeah! Rubin’s still here, lives nearby—uh, old place, same as always. And Lara’s got the Shelter over at the Flank”.Artemy exhaled, some of the tension in his chest easing. Good. His friends hadn’t moved. At least something had stayed the same in the town.He pushed himself to his feet, nodding. “Thanks, boy.”He turned to leave, but barely made it two steps before he heard the quick patter of footsteps behind him.He stopped, looking over his shoulder. Sticky was right on his heels.Artemy frowned. “What are you doing?”Sticky grinned up at him, utterly fearless. “I’m gonna help you clear your name!”Artemy inhaled sharply, biting back a groan. He could use help—hell, right now, he needed all the allies he could get—but not from a kid. Especially not one who was already sticking his neck out for him, who could barely see over a counter without standing on his toes."Sticky," Artemy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Listen—this is dangerous. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I don’t need a child trailing me while some bastard is waiting around the corner to put a knife in my back."Sticky scowled, clearly not happy with the decision.Artemy hesitated before adding, "I do need something from you, though."Sticky perked up slightly."Stay here," Artemy said, voice firm. "Keep an eye on my father’s house. Just… watch it. But only until nightfall—after that, you go home. No wandering around after dark, got it?"Something flickered in Sticky’s expression—something quick, something nervous—but before Artemy could question it, the boy nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y-Yeah. Sure.”Artemy narrowed his eyes slightly. “You will go home, right?”Sticky’s grin was a little too forced. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”Artemy didn’t have time to dig into that. He had other matters to deal with.He sighed, turning on his heel. “Good.”Then, without another word, he bolted in the direction of Rubin’s apartment, the cold air from dawn biting at his skin as he ran.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY MEETS DANIIL.
Artemy knocked once, twice, at Rubin's apartment and the door creaked open on its own.His stomach tensed.Something wasn’t right.The apartment was dark, the air thick with the scent of old herbs, ink, and something sharper—antiseptic, maybe. He stepped inside cautiously, his boots barely making a sound on the wooden floor.A silhouette shifted in the dim light.Artemy exhaled, steadying himself. “Stahk, I need your help—”The figure stepped forward.It wasn’t Rubin.It was a stranger—a short man, pale-skinned, dark-haired, with a sharp, impatient gaze that flicked over Artemy as if already assessing his worth. His most definite feature was a black, leathery-looking trench coat he wore that seemed to make him look bigger than he actually was. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked vaguely annoyed, as if Artemy had interrupted something important.Artemy frowned, already on edge.The man spoke first, his voice dry and clipped. “You must be Vorahk.”Artemy’s frown deepened.“I’m Bachelor Daniil Dankovsky,” the man continued, standing with the sort of arrogant ease that made Artemy’s jaw clench. “But you must already know about me.”Artemy narrowed his eyes. “Actually, it’s Burahk—and no, I have no idea who you are.”For the briefest moment, Daniil looked put off—like he wasn’t used to people not knowing who he was. But he quickly covered it with a sigh, as if this whole interaction was an inconvenience.“Hm. I expected you to be more educated since you studied in the Capital, but oh well,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. Then, with a pointed look, he added, “You owe me.”Artemy’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”Daniil exhaled, sounding almost bored. “You came here looking for Rubin, yes? Well, had you arrived thirty minutes earlier, he’d have stabbed you to death.”Artemy stiffened. His blood ran cold.“Rubin wouldn’t—”“Oh, but he would,” Daniil cut in smoothly, shaking his head. “He believes you’re to blame for your father’s death. And, frankly? I managed to persuade him otherwise.”Artemy clenched his fists.Daniil raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the upper hand. “I told him you didn’t, couldn’t have possibly done it, but he still thinks it’s your fault somehow. He isn’t happy.”Artemy inhaled deeply, forcing himself to stay calm.His father was dead. His childhood friend had turned against him. He was already being hunted like a criminal. And now, this Bachelor, whoever he was, was standing here in Rubin’s place, acting as if Artemy owed him something.Artemy’s eyes darkened.He straightened his shoulders.“…And where is he now?” he asked, his voice low.Daniil tilted his head. “Gone. Stepped out. For now.”Artemy exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He needed to talk to Rubin, needed to get him to understand—but right now, there was a bigger problem standing in front of him.“So,” Daniil said, watching him closely. “Now that I’ve saved your life, Burahk… What exactly do you plan to do next?”Artemy blinked, caught off guard by the question. He frowned, exhaustion already creeping into his bones. “I’m going to clear my name,” he said, voice firm. “And find out who did this to my father.”Daniil nodded, as if that was the answer he’d been expecting.But then, to Artemy’s surprise, Daniil let out a tired sigh and said, “I’m not telling you what I know. Not yet.”Artemy’s frown deepened. “Why?”“Because I don’t know if it’s true,” Daniil admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I don’t need anyone spreading rumors and creating havoc before I have proof. What I do know is that if my suspicions are correct, we’re going to need every medic in this town.” He gave Artemy a sharp look. “That includes you. So don’t do anything reckless, don’t let yourself get caught, and take care of yourself.”Artemy’s arms crossed over his chest, skeptical. “And what exactly do you suspect?”Daniil shook his head. “That’s my business for now.”Artemy’s scowl deepened. “You expect me to sit back and wait?”“I expect you to stay alive,” Daniil shot back.They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension crackling between them. Then, Daniil sighed again and adjusted his coat. “I have urgent matters to attend to with the Kains. You—don’t create chaos.” His dark eyes lingered on Artemy, sharp and assessing. “I need you in one piece if my fears are true.”And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the apartment, leaving Artemy utterly confused.Artemy stood there for a moment, exhaling slowly. What the hell was that supposed to mean?But he couldn’t dwell on it now. Rubin wasn’t here, and he wasn’t about to sit around waiting. Lara was next.He turned to leave the house, but before he could take three steps, two small figures darted into his path, blocking his way.A girl and a boy—thin, scrappy-looking, their faces smudged with dirt. They couldn’t have been older than eleven or twelve. The girl stepped forward boldly, her hands on her hips.“You’re Burahk, right?” she asked, tilting her head.Artemy raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”“We’re part of the Soul-and-a-Halves,” the girl said proudly, puffing out her chest.Artemy blinked. “…The what?”“The gang,” the boy clarified impatiently. “And three of our members got poisoned last night.”Artemy’s expression darkened. “Three of them?” he repeated. “And no one did anything?”“We asked the big city Bachelor to help,” the girl huffed, crossing her arms. “But he didn’t.”Artemy let out a slow breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. That figured.“All right,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Lead the way.”The children wasted no time grabbing his hands and pulling him along, their small fingers tugging insistently at his coat.Then, just as they turned a corner, a sharp, agonized scream ripped through the air.A woman’s scream.The worst kind—the kind that clawed at your ears and made your stomach twist, the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.Artemy froze.His gut told him to turn back. To help.But the children were still pulling at him, their grip tightening. “It’s too late for that!” the girl insisted, voice urgent. “We need you!”Artemy clenched his jaw.He heard more distant yelling, the sound of people gathering. He had a choice to make.He swallowed hard, pushing down the instinct to run toward the scream, and let the children drag him forward.There was nothing he could do for that now. But if there really were three poisoned children waiting for him… Then he had to do something for them.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY MEETS NOTKIN AND MURKY.
Artemy stepped into the dimly lit warehouse, the scent of dust and old wood heavy in the air. The moment he entered, hurried footsteps rushed toward him.A girl, no older than ten, stumbled to a stop in front of him, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears. Her hands clutched the hem of her worn dress, twisting the fabric anxiously.“Quickly!” the boy who had brought Artemy called out. “We brought the doctor—”But before he could finish, the girl was already shaking her head.“It’s too late,” she whispered. “They’re dead.”Silence settled over the room like a heavy fog.Artemy’s frown deepened as he looked around, at the solemn faces of the gathered children, their small shoulders hunched under the weight of grief too big for them.“Three children die, and no one says a thing?” Artemy muttered, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “What is happening to this town?”A voice cut through the quiet like a knife.“They weren’t children.”Artemy turned toward the sound. A boy approached him with measured steps, his expression serious, his eyes sharp despite his age. He wore a brown jacket too big for his small frame, but the way he carried himself gave him an air of quiet authority.“They were a puppy and two kittens,” the boy continued.Artemy blinked, caught off guard. “A… what?”The boy crossed his arms. “Soul and a Half,” he said, as if explaining something obvious. “Our pets are our halves. They’re part of the gang.”Artemy studied him carefully. There was something different about this child—something calm, self-assured. He did have the presence of a leader. He let out a slow breath, considering this. He wasn’t going to dismiss the loss just because it was animals. Loss was loss. And grief, especially in children, ran deep.“I see,” Artemy said at last. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting the boy’s. “And you are?”The boy stepped closer, offering his hand without hesitation. Artemy, caught off guard, took it on instinct.“I’m Notkin,” the boy said. His grip was firm, confident. “I run things here.”He let go and took a step back, his gaze unwavering.“And we need your help.”Notkin looked Artemy up and down, his sharp eyes assessing him, weighing something in his mind. Then, with the kind of measured calm that only someone who had seen too much could muster, he asked,“So, Burahk, tell me plain and simple— is murder acceptable in certain occasions?”Artemy’s breath hitched. The word 'no' was at the tip of his tongue, reflexive, automatic. But then he caught sight of the children’s faces—the quiet, knowing way they watched him. And suddenly, he understood.They knew.They knew about the men at the train tracks. They knew he had killed.Artemy swallowed hard, his throat dry. His jaw tensed as he thought back to the fight, the flash of steel, the way he had acted without thinking. It was self-defense, he told himself. It was different.Finally, he exhaled and said, carefully, “If it’s self-defense, or to protect someone you love… then yes, it’s acceptable.”Notkin nodded slowly, as if considering this deeply. Then he hummed, seemingly satisfied.“Yes…” he murmured. “We loved our Halves.”Artemy frowned. Something about Notkin’s tone—so final, so resolute—made his stomach turn.“Thank you, Burahk,” Notkin continued. “We know what to do now.”Artemy froze. His heart skipped a beat.
Did I just—
His eyes widened as the realization hit him like a blow to the chest. Did I just give a pack of children permission to commit murder?“Wait, wait,” Artemy said, shaking his head. “Who did this? Who attacked your… Halves?”Notkin shrugged. “Pretty sure it was one of the children from the Polyhedron. The Dogheads.” His voice carried a note of irritation. “Khan can never control those pests.”Artemy blinked, completely lost. Polyhedron? Dogheads? The words meant nothing to him yet. But what did matter was what Notkin was suggesting.“You can’t—” Artemy started, his voice sharp with urgency. “You can’t just kill the person who did this.”Notkin tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Why not?”Artemy clenched his fists. “Because that’s revenge, not self-defense,” he said firmly. “If you were defending your pets in the moment, that’s one thing. But going after someone for payback, that’s…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right words.Notkin raised an eyebrow, his gaze dark and steady. And then he asked, simply,“And what do you, pray tell, intend on doing to your father’s killer?”Artemy had no reply to that.Artemy imagined it—standing before a faceless figure, his father’s murderer. His hands clenched involuntarily. Even in a vision, the rage burned hot, a suffocating heat that coiled in his chest, urging him forward, urging him to do something.Notkin let out a dry laugh, snapping him out of it.“That’s what I thought,” the boy said, his voice tinged with something knowing, something old beyond his years. “After the number you did on those men at the train tracks, I know you’re not to be messed with.”Artemy blinked, his shoulders stiffening. “How do you know about that? We were alone.”Notkin shook his head, lips pressing together in something like amusement. “Murky saw everything.”He jerked his chin toward a small figure lingering at the edge of the group. A little girl, barely more than a wisp of a thing, wrapped in a faded blue dress and a thin cardigan that did little to keep the cold at bay. Her short black hair framed a pale, pinched face, and when she realized Artemy was looking at her, she immediately lowered her head, frowning, dark eyes hidden behind her bangs.Artemy stepped toward her, lowering himself to one knee. “You saw them?” he asked, voice gentler than before. “So you know they attacked me first, right?”To his surprise, Murky didn’t shrink away or nod. Instead, she scowled at him, lips pressing into a deep frown. When she spoke, her voice was loud, clear, and full of certainty.“There’s nothing to love about you,” she said sharply. “Nothing at all. So I don’t. Nuh-uh.”Artemy blinked. Of all the things she could have said… that was not what he was expecting.For a second, he could only stare at her, at the fierce set of her little shoulders, the way she turned her head slightly, like she couldn’t bear to look at him. He had never met someone so small with so much contempt in their voice.Artemy exhaled slowly. He never thought he’d have the urge to call someone Grumpy before, but damn.Shaking his head, he stood and turned back to Notkin. The boy had his fist raised, expectant.Artemy tilted his head but held out his palm.Notkin opened his hand, and something small and metallic dropped into Artemy’s. He looked down—a golden coin, old and worn but unmistakable.“A fingernail,” Notkin explained. “The Odongh take them in exchange for using their boats. It’s thanks, for helping us out.”Artemy turned the coin over between his fingers, then nodded. “Thanks.”Notkin inclined his head, and Artemy tucked the coin into his pocket. “I need to go. I have to see Lara.”“Good luck,” Notkin said.Artemy didn’t miss the way Murky turned her back to him as he walked away.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY MEETS LARA.
Artemy stepped off the boat, the wooden planks rocking slightly under his weight as he made his way onto the riverbank. The Flank loomed ahead, its crooked houses and winding streets feeling both familiar and distant, like something out of a dream he could barely remember.He moved quickly through the narrow alleys, ignoring the wary glances from passersby. The Shelter stood before him soon enough, its weathered facade the same as he remembered. He hesitated for only a moment before knocking on the door.For a few long seconds, there was nothing. Then the door creaked open, revealing a pair of wide, familiar blue eyes.“…Cub?” Lara’s voice was quiet, uncertain.Artemy exhaled at the sound of it, his shoulders sagging slightly. He had braced himself for many things—for anger, for coldness, for a door slammed in his face—but not for how tired she looked, how guarded her expression was, how stiff her shoulders remained even as she took him in.“Have room for an old friend?” he asked, trying for something light, but it came out more exhausted than anything.Lara didn’t say anything, didn’t smile. But she stepped back, opening the door wider.Artemy took that as permission and stepped inside.The warmth of the Shelter was immediate, and so was the smell of food. His stomach twisted painfully at the scent, a deep hunger he had been ignoring making itself known. The dizziness hit him all at once, and he placed a hand against the wall to steady himself.Lara sighed, crossing her arms. “You look like you’re about to fall over,” she muttered, tilting her head slightly. “Come on, have a bite.”Artemy’s face burned when, at that very moment, his stomach betrayed him with a low, insistent growl.Lara arched an eyebrow, unimpressed, and turned on her heel, heading toward the kitchen. He followed, still sheepish, and watched as she pulled out a chair for him before moving to the stove.She ladled food onto a plate—fish and potatoes, steaming and rich with seasoning—and set it in front of him, along with a cup of cold milk. Artemy stared at it, suddenly overwhelmed by the simple kindness of it.“Thank you,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.Lara didn’t reply right away. She only sat across from him, resting her arms on the table, watching. It took Artemy a moment to realize—she hadn’t served herself.He frowned. “Why aren’t you eating?”“I only made enough for one,” Lara said simply. “I wasn’t expecting company.”Artemy immediately pushed the plate toward her. As much as he was hungry—starving, really—there was no way in hell he’d eat while she went without.Lara rolled her eyes, pushing it right back. “Cub, eat. I had a hearty breakfast. I’ll stop by the food store later.”He hesitated.“Really,” she added, her voice softer now. “I’m not hungry.”Artemy swallowed. He searched her face for any sign of dishonesty, but all he found was that same tired look, the faintest shadow of a smile, and something that felt too much like an old, worn-out kind of patience.Finally, he picked up the fork.“Thank you,” he said again, and only then did he start eating.The first bite nearly made him groan—it had been too long since he’d had a proper meal. Before he knew it, he was all but devouring the food, and when he glanced up, Lara was watching him, unreadable.For a moment, neither of them spoke.Then Lara exhaled, shaking her head just a little. “Still a mess,” she muttered, but there was no bite to it.Artemy paused, fork halfway to his mouth. He thought about apologizing, thought about making some half-hearted joke. Instead, he only chewed, swallowed, and let the warmth of the meal settle into his bones. He set the empty plate aside once he was done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Lara wordlessly pushed the milk toward him. He took it, fingers curling around the cool ceramic, and sipped. The cold liquid soothed his throat, washing away the heaviness of the meal.Lara was still watching him.Her gaze wasn’t cold, exactly. But it wasn’t warm, either—not in the way he remembered. There was something guarded in her posture, something unreadable in her eyes, and for the first time since stepping inside, Artemy felt truly uncomfortable.He set the cup down, exhaling softly. “Have you heard the rumors?” he asked.Lara nodded once.Artemy studied her face, searching for any flicker of doubt, of accusation, of fear. “Do you believe them?”She shook her head.His shoulders sagged, relief curling in his chest, but the moment was short-lived. There was still something unspoken hanging between them, something unsaid pressing down on the air like a weight.He frowned. “Lara, please talk to me.”Lara looked down at her hands, fingers twisting slightly in her lap. She sighed, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak. When she did, her voice was quiet.“You stopped writing after the first year.”Artemy stilled.The words hit him harder than he expected, settling deep in his ribs, wrapping tight around his lungs.She wasn’t accusing him. There was no anger in her voice. And maybe that was worse.He opened his mouth—then closed it, jaw tightening. He had tried to write, he really had. But the work kept him busy, and the letters—Lara’s letters—felt like a tether to something distant, something soft, something that made him feel… cold.And unloved.Not because of her. Not because of Rubin, or anyone else. But because of himself.Even as a child, he had always felt like an afterthought. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—they had all loved him, in their own way. But he could never quite connect the way others did. Could never bridge the gap between himself and the people who reached for him.And then he had left.At first, he had clung to their letters, trying to hold onto the blurry images of home. But as time went on, the faces faded, the warmth dulled, and writing back felt strange. Cold. Forced.Maybe he should have tried harder.Maybe if he had, Rubin wouldn’t be thinking of meeting him with a blade. Maybe if he had, Lara wouldn’t be looking at him now like he was someone she wasn’t sure she knew anymore.The truth was, Artemy wasn’t sure he knew how to love.Artemy swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the cup.“…Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough. “I did.”Lara didn’t say anything right away, she just nodded, like that was all she had needed to hear. She looked away, her fingers curling slightly against her skirts. Artemy’s chest tightened. He was quick to amend—“I meant to. I just…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat.Lara shook her head, her expression unreadable. “I bet the Capital had plenty of distractions.”“No.” Artemy shook his head again, firmer this time. “Not really. It wasn’t like that.”The Capital had never been warm to him. Not hostile, not outright cruel—but cold in a way that made him feel like an outsider no matter how hard he worked. The small-town boy with dirt still under his nails, forced to push himself twice as hard just to be seen as an equal. They hadn’t dared mess with him—his size alone had made sure of that—but he remembered the snickering. The stiff politeness. The way their eyes passed over him like he was lesser, like he was something they could discard.A face flickered in his mind, sharp and arrogant. Bachelor Dankovsky.Artemy frowned at the thought, jaw tightening—but before he could dwell on it, something pressed against the middle of his brow.He blinked up, startled. Lara had reached forward, smoothing out the crease between his brows with her fingertip. The touch was light, grounding, and when he met her gaze, she was smiling. A real smile, one that softened the edges of her guarded expression.“You still scowl like you used to,” she murmured.Artemy sighed, exhaustion pressing down on him. Without thinking, he reached forward and pulled Lara into a hug.For a moment, she stayed stiff in his arms, caught off guard. But then she sighed and melted into the embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around him.“I’m so sorry, Cub,” she whispered. “I know how you’re feeling right now. My father also…” She trailed off.Artemy leaned back slightly, frowning. “Captain Ravel passed?”Something dark passed over Lara’s face—grief, maybe, or something more complicated than that. She shook her head quickly. “Never mind that,” she muttered. “Rest. You look like you’re about to fall over.”Artemy hesitated, but the weight in her voice told him not to push. So he followed as she led him toward the stairs, intending to head up to the room he had spent so many nights in as a child. But then he paused.Lara was tidying up the couch.He frowned, watching as she fluffed the pillows, straightened the blankets. He had always slept upstairs before—countless times, in the safety of this house. And yet, she was setting up a space for him here instead.Artemy didn’t question it.The couch was large enough. More than comfortable for someone as exhausted as he was. He lowered himself onto it, stretching out with a quiet sigh. Lara lingered for a moment, adjusting the blanket, her movements careful.“I’ll try to put in a good word for you while you sleep,” she murmured. “At least in the Flank, you won’t be hunted down.”Artemy huffed a quiet laugh, exhaustion dulling his voice. “That’d be nice,” he muttered. “Thank you, Lara.”She didn’t respond. But she gave him a small, tired smile before stepping away.Artemy closed his eyes, the weight of the day finally crashing down on him.For the first time since stepping off the train, he let himself rest.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY MEETS CLARA/THE CHANGELING.
Artemy woke with a start, Lara’s hands gripping his shoulder, shaking him softly.“Cub,” she whispered urgently.He blinked blearily, the remnants of sleep clinging to him like cobwebs as he sat up. His muscles ached from sleeping on the couch, but Lara’s expression wiped away any grogginess. She was tense, stiff-backed, her blue eyes darting towards the stairs.“What’s wrong?” he asked, already reaching for the knife at his belt.Lara hesitated, glancing away. “…I was outside for a bit. When I came back, I heard something upstairs.” Her voice was quiet, but there was a nervous edge to it. “I—” She shook her head. “I don’t know who it is, but I was too scared to check.”Artemy was on his feet before she finished speaking. After the attack at the train, after everything that had already gone wrong, he wasn’t about to take any chances. His grip tightened around the hilt of his knife, but he didn’t draw it—not yet.“I’ll check it out,” he said. “Stay here.”Lara’s gaze flickered down to his knife. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded.Now that he was quiet, listening, he could hear it—shuffling, the sound of someone moving things around. Not hurried, not searching frantically, but methodical. Brazen.He climbed the stairs slowly, careful with his steps. The old wooden floor creaked beneath him, but whoever was inside didn’t seem to notice or care.Artemy stepped into the bedroom and stopped short.A girl was hunched over the cabinets, fingers deftly rifling through them. She was young—sixteen at most, with dark brown hair cut just above her shoulders, a pink wool hat slipping slightly over her forehead. Her dress and coat were threadbare, and the shawl wrapped around her shoulders looked barely enough to keep her warm.Artemy cleared his throat.She turned sharply, startled, but the moment she saw him, she didn’t scream or cower. Instead, she narrowed her eyes, gave him a once-over, and then—shockingly—turned back to the cabinets.“Isn’t this supposed to be a shelter?” she muttered, almost irritated. “Where does she keep the bread?”Artemy stared.She rolled her eyes before he could respond. “And don’t say ‘the kitchen’—I already checked.”Artemy frowned, hand resting lightly on the knife at his belt as he took a slow step forward. The girl didn’t flinch. She barely even acknowledged him, still rummaging through Lara’s cabinets as if she belonged there.“Who are you?” he asked, voice low and measured.The girl didn’t stop what she was doing. “Clara.” The name was given carelessly, like she expected him to already know. “And you’re Artemy Burahk, the son who returns home.”Artemy narrowed his eyes, unsure of what to make of her. There was no fear in her, no urgency, just an odd sort of certainty, like she had been waiting for this moment.“But I know what you really are,” Clara continued, finally turning to face him. She raised her hands, palms outward, her dark eyes shining with something almost feverish. “Your path is the one of blood, and that’s what you will do—flood this town in blood. I’ve seen it, I have. It’s in your nature. Your hands are used to killing, not giving life.”Something cold passed through Artemy’s chest at that. His grip on the knife tightened.Clara tilted her head, watching his reaction closely. “As for Brainy,” she added, almost offhandedly, “he has no regard for casualties at all.”“Brainy?” Artemy asked, thrown by the shift in topic.Clara nodded, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “The Bachelor.”Artemy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Why was he entertaining this? The girl was talking nonsense. He took another step forward, gesturing toward the door. “You need to leave.”Clara remained where she was. “Why?”“You invaded someone else’s home without permission,” Artemy said firmly. “Lara doesn’t want you here.”Clara pouted slightly, as if he had just told her something mildly inconvenient rather than ordered her out. “I only wanted bread,” she said. “Hardly a crime.”Artemy scowled, taking another step toward her. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll make you.”That finally seemed to amuse her. Clara’s expression shifted into something sly, her smile sharpening at the edges. “Oh, Burahk,” she said, shaking her head. “You really think you can change your nature?”Artemy didn’t wait for her to keep talking. He reached for her arm, intending to drag her out himself, but the second his fingers brushed her sleeve, a sharp, electric chill ran through him. It wasn’t the cold. It was something worse. Something unnatural.Clara’s smile widened. “See?” she whispered.Artemy let go immediately, stepping back, his breath uneven.Clara giggled. “I’ll go,” she said lightly, as if it had been her decision all along. She turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance at him over her shoulder. “Be seeing you, Butcher.”And then she was gone, disappearing down the stairs before he could think of a reply.Artemy stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the spot where she had been. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head. What the hell had that been?He turned and left the room, already dreading Lara’s reaction when he told her what had just happened.Artemy made his way down the stairs, still unsettled by his encounter with the strange girl. The sensation of cold still lingered in his fingertips, no matter how many times he flexed his hand.Lara was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, her expression expectant. “Who was she?”Artemy exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake something off. “I thought you’d know. She said her name is Clara.”Lara frowned, shaking her head. “Never seen her around before.” Her eyes flickered toward the stairs, as if half-expecting to see the girl peering back down at them. “What did she want?”Artemy rubbed at his temple. “Bread.”Lara’s lips pressed into a firm line. “You should’ve said so. I could have spared some for someone in need.”Artemy shrugged, but his jaw was tight. “Something about that girl wasn’t right.”Lara studied him carefully, searching his face for whatever was bothering him, but after a moment, she just sighed, brushing the matter aside for now. “A messenger from Boss Vlad came by.”Artemy’s frown deepened. “Olgimsky?”Lara nodded. “Vlad the Elder. He wants to see you.”Artemy closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. First Rubin, then the Soul-and-a-Halves, now this. His father’s death had sent ripples through the town, and every powerful figure seemed to want something from him.“Did the messenger say what for?” he asked.Lara shook her head. “Only that it was urgent.”Artemy sighed and adjusted his coat, already bracing himself for whatever came next. “Alright. I’ll go see what he wants.”
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY MEETS BIG VLAD AND CAPELLA.
Artemy arrived at the Lump just as night settled over the town, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. He hesitated at the large wooden door, his knuckles hovering over the grain for a moment before he finally knocked. The sound echoed, heavy and deliberate.A few seconds later, the door creaked open, revealing a woman from the Kin. She was older, her face lined with experience, and she wore the simple but well-kept garments of a house servant. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him, recognition flickering across her features. Then, without hesitation, she bowed her head.“Master Vlad is expecting you,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.Artemy stepped over the threshold, immediately engulfed in warmth. The inside of the Lump was lavish, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and something rich—roasted meat, perhaps. It was a sharp contrast to the world outside.The floors barely creaked under his steps as he followed the woman deeper into the mansion. When she gestured toward the next room, he squared his shoulders and stepped inside.Vlad the Elder was seated in a grand, high-backed chair—one that looked uncomfortably close to a throne. The dim golden light of the room bathed his heavyset frame in soft shadows, and the moment his eyes landed on Artemy, his broad face split into a grin.“Burahk,” he said warmly, standing and spreading his arms as if greeting an old friend. “I’m so overjoyed you could come.”Artemy frowned as Vlad stepped forward, his heavy hands landing on either side of his arms. Even though the man was tall for his age, he still didn’t quite reach Artemy’s height.“Let me look at you…” Vlad said, his voice rich with nostalgia as his sharp eyes studied Artemy’s face. “Seems like it was only yesterday you were running around the streets with Lara and the other boys.”Artemy hadn’t expected him to remember that. He stiffened slightly under the weight of the man’s hands but didn’t pull away. His childhood in this town had felt like another life—one that had ended the moment he left for the Capital.Still, he simply shrugged. “It’s been a while.”Vlad chuckled, patting his arm before letting go. “That it has,” he agreed, stepping back. “Too long, I’d say.” His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes were sharp, assessing. “Come, Burahk, let’s talk.”Artemy exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. He had a feeling this wasn’t just about catching up.Artemy sat down on a small, but undeniably expensive-looking couch, shifting slightly as the leather gave under his weight. Across from him, Vlad the Elder settled back into his oversized throne-like chair and fixed Artemy with a calculating gaze. Artemy looked around, uncomfortable with the warmth and luxury of the room. It was too different from the dirt and threatening streets he had walked through all day. Finally, he exhaled and met Vlad’s gaze.“Why did you summon me?”Vlad steepled his fingers, considering him for a long moment before speaking. “I imagine the town has not welcomed you kindly,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of someone who already knew the answer.Artemy didn’t reply, only narrowed his eyes slightly.Vlad sighed, shaking his head. “You’ve just lost your father, and now the town hunts you like a wild beast. I know it’s unfair.”Artemy clenched his jaw, swallowing back the bitterness rising in his throat. The words should have felt like sympathy, but coming from Vlad, they felt more like a carefully placed lure.“I know you aren’t guilty,” Vlad continued, watching him closely.That caught Artemy’s attention. He frowned. “And how do you know that?”Vlad only smiled, tilting his head slightly. “Let’s just say I have my ways.”Artemy’s fingers twitched. He didn’t trust that answer, but right now, he needed allies. And beggars, as the saying went, couldn’t be choosers.Vlad the Elder leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile stretching across his face. “I’ve put in a good word for you, Burahk,” he said, his tone almost indulgent. “Your reputation isn’t exactly sparkling, but you can move freely now. No more knives in the dark, no mobs waiting to string you up. If anyone lays a hand on you, they’ll have to answer to me.”Artemy frowned, his arms crossing over his chest. “That’s generous of you.” His voice was wary. He wasn’t naive enough to believe in kindness without motive. “But what about Saburov? He’s after me.”Vlad threw his head back and let out a deep, hearty laugh, the kind that only a man with complete confidence in his power could afford. “Saburov?” he scoffed. “He knows who really runs this town.”Artemy narrowed his eyes, but he remained silent.He knew the truth of the town’s power structure well enough. The Kains were the dreamers, the ones who had built the town from the ground up with their grand visions. The Saburovs held authority through law and punishment, ensuring order with an iron grip. But the Olgimskys—Vlad’s family—brought prosperity. Their wealth, their control over the town’s meat industry, and their deep pockets made them indispensable.And now, apparently, Vlad had decided to extend some of that influence to him.Artemy wasn’t sure if that was a gift or a trap.“I only ask for one thing in return,” Vlad the Elder said, his smile never wavering.Artemy sighed. There it was—the catch. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “And what would that be?”Vlad waved a hand, as if the request were a mere formality. “Medical attention. Just in case anything happens.”Artemy raised an eyebrow. “Anything?” His voice was sharp, skeptical. “What would anything be?”Vlad let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, nothing in particular. Just… in case.”Artemy didn’t buy that for a second. The way Vlad’s tone remained light, yet too deliberate, set off alarm bells in his mind. The man knew something. Maybe it was tied to whatever Dankovsky was keeping close to his chest.He had to figure it out.Artemy exhaled through his nose, weighing his words before replying. “I’m a doctor,” he said carefully. “I’ll treat anyone who needs it—the Olgimskys included.”Vlad’s smile grew wider, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I knew you were a reasonable man, Burahk.”Artemy nodded slowly, his mind already working through the information Vlad had given him. “Is that all you needed from me?” he asked, ready to move on.Vlad the Elder leaned back in his chair, his heavy frame settling into the cushions with ease. “That’s all,” he said, then paused, his smile turning almost generous. “Though, if you find yourself in need of a place to stay, the Lump is open to you.”Artemy hesitated, unsure of whether the offer was meant as genuine hospitality or just another way to keep him within arm’s reach. He didn’t say it aloud, but something about Vlad’s kindness felt less like an invitation and more like he was gently guiding cattle toward the slaughter.Still, he nodded. “Thanks for the offer.”Instead of dwelling on it, he shifted the conversation to something more pressing. “Do you know who has the key to my house? And where my father’s body is?”Vlad sighed, as if anticipating the question. “As for your house? I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But if I had to guess, Saburov probably has the key.”That figured.“I’ll see what I can do about getting your home back to you,” Vlad added, as if it were a mere inconvenience rather than a violation of Artemy’s last remaining ties to his father.Artemy nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing. He was waiting for the more important answer.Vlad exhaled, his jovial demeanor dampening slightly. “Your father’s body is being prepared for burial,” he said, his voice losing some of its performative charm. “Tomorrow morning. The cemetery.”Artemy’s hands curled into fists. Too soon. He needed to see the body himself—needed to confirm, with his own eyes, what had been done to his father. If the burial happened before he had the chance, he might never know the truth.But there was no point in pushing Vlad on this. The man had told him what he knew.Artemy inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “Thank you for your help,” he said, standing.Vlad gave him a knowing look, like he could see the tension rolling off him, but didn’t press further. “Of course, Burahk,” he said smoothly. “You’ll find your way, I’m sure of it.”Artemy didn’t doubt that, but he realized that it wouldn’t be so easy.Artemy was ready to leave, expecting the meeting to be over, but Vlad the Elder stopped him, brushing off his coat as he regarded him with an appraising look. “Stay the night,” Vlad said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “At the crack of dawn, I’ll have a servant wake you so you can go to the cemetery.”Artemy hesitated. He didn’t like being indebted to Vlad, but his options were limited. He had already taken too much of Lara’s kindness, and he didn’t want to try Rubin’s apartment since of his newfound hatred towards Artemy. Grief, for all that Artemy still saw him as a friend, was keeping dangerous company. If he was being honest with himself, he was exhausted—his body ached from the train fight, from the running, from the stress of the day.“…Alright,” he said finally.Vlad’s face broke into a wide grin, pleased as ever. “Good,” he said, clapping a hand against Artemy’s back with surprising force. “Have you eaten?”It had been hours since his last meal, and Artemy could already feel the hunger gnawing at him again. He shook his head reluctantly.“Then you’ll join me for dinner,” Vlad declared, before turning sharply and calling out in a rude, clipped tone. “Girl!”One of the Kin maids appeared from the doorway, her posture stiff. She kept her eyes lowered as she stepped forward, awaiting orders.“Show our guest to his room,” Vlad commanded with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll have someone fetch him when dinner is ready.”The maid gave a quick nod and turned toward Artemy, motioning for him to follow. He glanced at Vlad once more, uneasy about how quickly things were moving, but said nothing as he followed her out of the room.As he walked through the dimly lit halls of the Lump, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite all of Vlad’s assurances of protection, he was still very much in a lion’s den.The Kin woman guided Artemy up the stairs and into a luxurious room—far too extravagant for his liking. The walls were adorned with thick, ornate tapestries, and the bed looked so soft it almost seemed to swallow the pillows. The air smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax, a stark contrast to the damp, earthy scent of the steppe that clung to his coat.The maid hesitated for a moment, shifting slightly as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it.Artemy caught the nervous flicker in her expression and smiled, offering a quiet, “Thank you, Basaghan.”She froze, her dark eyes snapping to his in surprise. For a brief moment, there was something unreadable in her face—shock, perhaps, or suspicion—but then she quickly lowered her gaze and nodded before slipping out of the room.Artemy exhaled, running a hand over his face before looking around. Everything here felt so wrong—the opulence, the heavy gold-trimmed curtains, the softness of the rugs beneath his boots. He belonged in the steppe, in the dirt and the blood of it, not here, not in this artificial comfort. But exhaustion won out over discomfort. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the day’s tension, and went to clean himself up.By the time he was called for dinner, he had washed the grime from his face and hands, combed his hair back, and left his dirty coat in the room, wearing only the dark blue sweater underneath that Lara had gifted him before he left to study. Even so, he felt out of place as he followed the same maid back downstairs, the weight of his own presence in the Lump pressing against his ribs.Something about all this made his stomach twist—not just the lavishness of the house, but the way the Kin women moved through it. Subdued. Quiet. Servants in their own land, serving him. It was unnatural.As they walked, Artemy’s thoughts wandered to his father, to the nights spent at the Kin’s homes, treating the sick, tending to wounds. The Kin had always sought Isidor’s guidance, had trusted him with their bodies, their blood. And Artemy, even as a child, had followed in his father’s footsteps, learning, watching, fetching bandages, wrapping wounds with steady hands.He needed to start working. To gather Twyre, to brew tinctures, to get back to what mattered. He had spent six years learning medicine in the Capital, but they had stripped it of its soul. The steppe’s medicine wasn’t about sterile tools and cold calculations—it was about instinct, about trust, about knowing the land and listening to it.He clenched his jaw as they reached the dining room, steeling himself. He would eat. He would listen. He would sleep. And then he would get to work.Artemy stepped into the dining room, his boots nearly silent against the polished wooden floors. The room was grander than he expected—even for the Lump. The chandelier above the long table cast a warm, golden glow over the space, the flickering candlelight making the silverware gleam.At the head of the table, Vlad the Elder let out a hearty laugh, raising his wine goblet as he spotted Artemy. “Ah! There you are, Burahk. Come, join us! A good meal will put some color back in that pale face of yours.”Us?It was only then that Artemy noticed they weren’t alone.Seated to Vlad’s right was a girl, no older than seventeen—maybe a little younger. She had straight auburn hair to her shoulders and sharp, intelligent blue eyes that followed him with quiet interest. She was dressed well, but not extravagantly—elegant in a way that was effortless, refined without ostentation.It took Artemy a moment, but then recognition struck.Victoria Olgimskaya the Second.Named after her late mother, the Mistress of the town, whose influence still loomed over it like a ghost. When Artemy had left for the Capital, she had been just a child. Now, here she was—grown, poised, watching him with something that wasn’t quite suspicion but wasn’t trust either.She smiled at him, polite, deliberate.Artemy returned the gesture as he sat, though he couldn’t shake the feeling of being assessed. Not like her father, who measured a man’s worth in power, in debts, in usefulness. No—Victoria’s gaze was different.She wasn’t measuring what he was.She was measuring if he was capable. Capable of what, exactly, he wasn’t sure yet.Artemy sat down at the heavy wooden table, nodding in quiet thanks as a Kin woman placed a steaming plate before him. The scent of roasted meat, rice, and vegetables filled the air, rich and hearty, a stark contrast to the tension lingering between the three people seated.He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. His stomach twisted, half from hunger, half from exhaustion, but he forced himself to eat with measured slowness, pacing each bite. He was a guest here—no matter how strange it felt—and he wouldn’t embarrass himself by tearing into the food like a starved animal.Across from him, Fat Vlad ate with indulgent ease, slicing into his meat with deliberate slowness. He seemed utterly at home in his opulence, the heavy gold rings on his fingers catching the candlelight as he lifted his goblet to his lips.At his side, Capella ate more neatly, though her posture was relaxed, self-assured. Unlike her father, she didn’t gorge herself, nor did she glance Artemy’s way much. She was watching him, though, he could tell—even when her eyes were on her plate.The silence between them was comfortable for a time, filled only with the clinking of silverware against fine porcelain.Then—“More wine,” Vlad barked, gesturing lazily at his goblet.One of the Kin servants hurried over without hesitation, refilling his cup with a steady hand. He barely acknowledged her, lifting the goblet to his lips before she had even stepped away.Artemy frowned slightly, but said nothing. The casual way he ordered them around, as if they were merely another piece of his household, rubbed him the wrong way.He glanced down at his plate, pushing his rice around with his fork as a heaviness settled in his chest.His father had worked tirelessly for the Kin. He had treated them, stitched their wounds, eased their pains, never asking for payment in anything but trust.And now, here they were, in the same house as one of the most powerful men in town—serving, instead of being served.He took another bite of food, chewing carefully. He would have to keep his thoughts to himself, at least for now.Fat Vlad let out a satisfied sigh, stretching back in his seat. “Good food, isn’t it, Burahk?”Artemy swallowed. “Yes,” he said simply, forcing himself to nod. “Thank you.”Vlad grinned, pleased, before taking another sip of his wine.
Capella, silent until now, glanced up from her plate, her blue eyes lingering on Artemy for just a second longer than necessary.He wasn’t sure what she saw, but he had a feeling she understood what he wasn’t saying.Dinner had left Artemy full and drowsy, the warmth of a proper meal settling heavily in his stomach. He followed the quiet footsteps of the Kin maid through the dimly lit halls of the Lump, the house’s grandness suffocating in a way he couldn’t quite place.He wasn’t meant for places like this.The floorboards creaked behind them. Artemy barely had time to turn before a voice, smooth and measured, cut through the silence.“Leave us, please.”The Kin woman stiffened but obeyed immediately, bowing her head before slipping away down the corridor, leaving Artemy alone with the girl standing before him.Her auburn hair caught in the candlelight, glinting like polished copper. Her posture was poised, her gaze sharp beneath dark lashes. Even as young as she was, she carried herself with the air of someone accustomed to being listened to.Artemy tilted his head slightly. “You’re Victoria, right?”At the sound of the name, she made a face—not one of anger, but mild distaste, as if he had misnamed her entirely.“Everyone calls me Capella nowadays,” she corrected.Artemy nodded slowly, taking her in. The last time he’d seen her, she had been just a child. Now, standing before him, she had the presence of someone far older than her years.“…Alright, Capella,” he said, testing the name on his tongue. “What is it you want?”Capella met his gaze, her dark eyes steady and unreadable. “I want you to know I’m on your side.”Artemy blinked. Of all the things he had expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them. She was just a child, wasn’t she? A teenage girl, barely past sixteen, standing in the hallway of her father’s house like she belonged to something much bigger than this town. But the way she said it—calm, certain, like an oath—made him hesitate.Still, he nodded. “…Alright. Thank you.”Capella studied him for a long moment before speaking again. “I know you’re not a murderer,” she said, “despite what I’ve seen.”Something in her tone made his stomach turn. His fingers twitched at his sides. “What you’ve seen?”She tilted her head, her auburn hair shifting over one shoulder. “You will bring blood to this town. Rivers of it.” Her voice was calm, certain, like she was stating an undeniable truth. “I’ve seen it.”Artemy froze. His breath hitched as a memory struck him—Clara, standing in Lara’s shelter, telling him the same thing.His jaw tightened. “Have you been speaking that girl… Clara, was it?”Capella’s lips pressed into a faint line, but she didn’t answer the question. Instead, she sighed. “My visions have never been stronger, Burahk. I know what I saw.” Then, after a brief pause, she added, “But I can also see you’re not a murderer. Or at least—you don’t want to be.”The way she said it sent a shiver down his spine. For a second, he felt like she was looking straight through him, peeling away the layers of his skin, his thoughts, his soul.She turned, stepping away into the dim candlelight of the hall. “I’ll usually be at the Lump if you need me,” she said over her shoulder. “Or with the children.”Then, just like that, she was gone, leaving him standing there, fists clenched at his sides, his heart pounding with something he couldn’t quite name.
☉ ☉ ☉
DANIIL'S FIRST NIGHT AT THE STILLWATER.
Daniil stepped into Stillwater, shutting the door behind him with a sigh. His entire body ached from the sheer amount of walking he’d done, his mind heavy with the weight of failure.Simon Kain was dead. Isidor Burakh was dead. And that Sand plague... It might be looming over them.Saburov had been quick to point fingers, practically frothing at the mouth to condemn Artemy Burahk. But Daniil wasn’t convinced. He didn’t like the Haruspex—not his methods, not his crude way of approaching the world—but there had been something honest in his sharp blue eyes. Something earnest.No. He wasn’t a killer.Daniil ran a hand through his disheveled hair and exhaled deeply, his thoughts a tangled mess. He was already dreading tomorrow.But then—something broke through his exhaustion. The scent of food. Warm, rich, comforting.Before he could fully process it, Eva rushed toward him, her face alight with excitement. She looked so happy to see him. Genuinely happy. After a full day of scowling faces, whispered suspicions, and dead ends, it was… refreshing.“I prepared a lovely dinner for us,” she said brightly, clasping her hands together. “Will you join me?”Daniil hesitated for only a second before sighing, a small, tired smirk tugging at his lips.“…I suppose I could use a meal. I’ll just freshen up first,” Daniil said, already shrugging off his coat. “Then I’ll join you.”Eva nodded eagerly, practically bouncing on her feet. “Of course! Take your time.” With that, she darted back toward the dining room, vanishing around the corner.As Daniil climbed the stairs, he could almost picture her setting the table, making sure everything was just right. Adjusting the placement of the silverware, straightening the cloth napkins, perhaps even lighting a candle for atmosphere. The thought amused him. What had she prepared, he wondered?By the time he had cleaned himself up—washing away the day’s exhaustion with cool water, reapplying a dab of cologne, and fixing his hair—his curiosity had only grown.Descending the stairs, he found Eva waiting for him by the dining table, hands clasped in front of her. She beamed when she saw him, stepping forward to pull out his chair.“Come, sit!” she said warmly.Daniil smirked at the gesture but didn’t argue, lowering himself into the chair. A second later, Eva was already serving him, carefully placing the dish in front of him with an excited gleam in her eyes.Roasted salmon.Daniil blinked. He hadn’t expected that.His fork hovered over the plate for a moment before he finally spoke. “How did you know I liked salmon?”Eva’s expression remained innocent, almost playful as she served him wine. “Oh? Do you?”Daniil narrowed his eyes slightly, studying her. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It’s my favorite.”A passing remark. A joke he had made in an interview for an article years ago. No one should remember that.And yet, here it was. Perfectly cooked.Eva just giggled, sitting down and resting her chin in her hands as she watched him expectantly. “Well then, I must have just had wonderful intuition.”Daniil hesitated—then, slowly, he picked up his fork and took a bite.The salmon practically melted on his tongue, rich and flavorful, just how he liked it.Eva seemed a bit quieter now, anxious. “Good?”Daniil exhaled softly, setting down his fork. He met her gaze across the candlelit table, watching the flickering light dance in her bright, eager eyes.“… Yes,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “It’s perfect.”Eva’s face lit up, her entire expression glowing with joy, like his compliment had been the most important thing in the world to her. Maybe it was, Daniil realized, watching the way her eyes sparkled.Only then did she start eating, humming happily as she took small, delicate bites.“So,” she said after a moment, tilting her head, “how was your day?”Daniil sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Exhausting,” he admitted. “Simon Kain is dead.”Eva’s fork stilled halfway to her mouth. “… What?”He frowned slightly at her reaction. “Simon Kain. The man I came here to see. He’s dead.”She blinked at him, and for a moment, he swore there was genuine surprise in her eyes, like she was just now hearing this for the first time. “Oh,” she murmured. “I didn’t know…”Daniil studied her curiously. “And Isidor Burakh is dead as well.”Eva’s brows furrowed. “Him too?”Daniil’s frown deepened. “Eva, this was the talk of the town today. Where have you been?”Eva bit her lip, setting her fork down. “I… I guess I was just too focused on getting everything ready for you,” she admitted sheepishly. “I wanted to be a good hostess. I didn’t really pay attention to anything else.”Daniil blinked at her. She had been so wrapped up in making him comfortable that she hadn’t noticed the chaos unfolding in her own town? It was almost… endearing, in a strange way.He considered her for a long moment, then exhaled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re one of the few people in this town who have been kind to me,” he admitted.Eva beamed, visibly relieved by his words. “Oh! Well, I’m glad,” she said, her voice light and cheerful again. “N-Not glad that people haven’t treated you well of course,” she added a bit clumsily “But glad that you find me kind”.They continued eating, the conversation drifting into more abstract topics—stars, the vastness of the universe, the tiny world of microorganisms, the fragile confines of the human body.For the first time since arriving in this cursed town, Daniil felt… normal.For the first time, he wasn’t being interrogated, or scowled at, or suspected of something.He was just having dinner with someone who wanted to talk to him. Someone who listened.He wondered if he should warn Eva about the inpending plague, but... He didn't know how she'd react. What if she panicked? Created chaos? So instead he continued the conversation, if it came to that, she'd know when the time was right.-The dinner had been lovely, the kind of meal that made Daniil feel like he had stepped outside of time, away from the weight of death and failure that had clung to him all day. But eventually, the plates were empty, and Eva stood, gathering them up with delicate hands.“I’ll take care of it,” she said with a bright smile, carrying the dishes toward the kitchen.Daniil rose as well, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “I’ll help.”Eva blinked at him, startled. “Oh, you don’t have to—”“I insist,” he interrupted, giving her a small, knowing smile. “It’s the least I can do after such a well-prepared meal.”She blushed, hesitating. He could tell she wanted to argue, to tell him to sit and relax, but after a moment, she nodded, her smile softening.“Alright,” she murmured, as if he had won some great battle.They moved around each other easily, working in sync as they scrubbed and dried the dishes, their conversation never faltering. They spoke of little things—her maps of the stars, his studies of the human body, the strange contradictions of the world. She was charming in a way Daniil had rarely encountered, a dreamer with both feet on the ground, speaking of constellations with the same certainty he spoke of cells.By the time they finished, the evening had settled into something warm and quiet.“I should go to bed,” Eva said, stretching slightly before giving him a soft, sleepy smile. “It’s been… a wonderful evening.”Daniil nodded. “It has.”She hesitated for just a moment, like she wanted to say something more, but then she gave a small laugh, shook her head, and disappeared toward her room.Daniil retreated upstairs to his own quarters, closing the door behind him with a quiet sigh. He went through his routine methodically—brushing his teeth, washing his face, unbuttoning his vest. He had just slipped it off when—“Daniil.”His name, spoken softly, sent a shiver down his spine.He turned.Eva stood in his doorway, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. She was wrapped in nothing but a towel, her damp hair clinging to her skin, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink.Daniil froze, his breath catching in his throat.She stepped forward, her gaze locked onto his, her eyes gleaming with something deep and unreadable. And then—without hesitation—she let the towel slip from her body, letting it pool at her feet.She was breathtaking.Daniil felt rooted to the spot, his mind blank, his mouth dry as he took her in—her smooth skin, the curve of her hips, the soft rise and fall of her chest.Eva didn’t speak. She simply walked toward him, reaching for his hands, her fingers curling around his with gentle insistence.Daniil let her pull him toward the doorway, his pulse pounding in his ears, his rational mind trying to catch up with the moment.As she led him to her bedroom, her bare skin illuminated in the dim candlelight, he realized he wasn’t thinking anymore.He was just following.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

☉ ☉ ☉ARTEMY MEETS ASPITY AND GRACE
Artemy woke with the first rays of dawn filtering through the curtains. The Lump was quiet at this hour, the weight of wealth and comfort pressing down on him in a way that made his skin itch. He dressed quickly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and ignored the servant who knocked on his door to inform him that breakfast was ready. He wasn’t hungry. Not for their food, not for their empty hospitality. Instead, he stepped out into the cool morning air, his boots heavy against the cobbled streets as he made his way to the cemetery.The graveyard was already crowded by the time he arrived. The Kin stood in clusters, their dark eyes watching him as he approached. Some held candles, their flames flickering against the early morning light, others stood in silence, arms crossed, their expressions unreadable. Artemy swallowed. He recognized some of them—elders, gatherers, people who had once known him as a child. Now, they only stared.The body lay before him, wrapped in cloth. He could see the shape of it, the broad shoulders, the stillness that had settled deep into his father’s frame.He exhaled.He knew the customs. The Kin did not disturb their dead. But he had to know.Slowly, without speaking a word, he reached for the wrappings. The murmuring around him grew louder, but no one moved to stop him. He pulled the cloth away, revealing Isidor Burakh’s face.A sharp breath caught in his throat.His father’s eyes were closed, his lips drained of color, his skin waxy and pale. He looked so still, so unlike the man Artemy had last seen—stern but warm, always with that knowing look in his gaze, teaching him, guiding him, pushing him to be better.Now, there was nothing left.Artemy forced himself to move. He checked his father’s hands, frowning at the dirt caked under the fingernails. Had he struggled? Had he clawed at the earth, trying to survive? Then, his eyes moved lower as he moved the hands away. A puncture wound, deep in the chest. Not a clean cut from a knife—something worse. A spike, maybe, or a sharp tool. A jagged wound, deliberate. His fingers hovered over it, not quite touching.It made no sense. Who would do this? Why?The Kin were silent, waiting. Watching.Artemy clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He reached forward again, his fingers hovering just above the wound, determined to understand—but a voice cut through the silence.“That’s enough.” It was deep, resonant, but strangely androgynous. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman.He looked up sharply. A figure stepped forward from the gathered Kin. She was unfamiliar to him, yet everything about her was unmistakably Kin. Draped in heavy brown robes, her feet hidden beneath the fabric, she moved like she was gliding rather than walking. She had dark short hair and reddish skin that resembled clay, but it was her eyes that unsettled him the most. One was normal, a sharp, vibrant green. The other—dilated, strange, like it saw something beyond the world Artemy lived in. She stopped just a few feet away, fixing him with an unreadable gaze.“You can’t do this,” she said, her voice steady but firm. “Not even for him.”Artemy straightened, his hands twitching at his sides.“He’s my father,” he said, voice low, challenging.“That does not matter.”A ripple of discomfort moved through the gathered Kin. Some lowered their eyes, others shifted their weight uneasily, as if they already knew what she would say next.Artemy frowned. “Then what does?”The woman exhaled, her strange gaze never leaving his.“Isidor must rest,” she said. “But we cannot bury him.”A cold weight settled in Artemy’s gut. His fingers curled into his palms. “…Why?”The woman stepped closer. She smelled of herbs and damp earth, of something old, something permanent.“Mother Bhoddo does not accept him,” she said, solemnly. “He died with his duty unfulfilled. Until someone takes it on, he will never find rest.”Her words sank into him, heavy, suffocating.The Kin were silent, waiting.Artemy swallowed. He understood, then, what they were asking of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, crushing. His father was gone. But his work? His duty? That was still waiting. For a moment, Artemy hesitated. It was too much, too fast. His father had just died, his body was still here, cold and lifeless before him, and already, they were asking him to step into his place. He needed time. He needed to think.But the woman before him tilted her head, and there was something knowing in her gaze.“Of course,” she mused, almost lightly, “he can always be cremated…”Artemy frowned. Before he could speak, a sharp cry cut through the air.“No!”He turned toward the voice. A girl stood at the edge of the gathered Kin, her hands clenched at her sides. She was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with pale blonde hair and gray eyes framed by lashes so fair they almost disappeared against her skin. There was something delicate about her, but her voice carried strength, and she stepped forward with purpose.Artemy narrowed his eyes. “And you are?”She lifted her chin. “Grace,” she said. “Caretaker of the cemetery.”Caretaker? So young? Before he could question it, she spoke again.“The dead cannot be burned,” she said, her voice firm, as if she were scolding him. “It hurts them. It severs them from the earth, from the soil that soothes them. They need to return to it, to be guided toward their destiny.”The woman in the shaman’s robes exhaled, seemingly unsurprised by Grace’s outburst.“The earth will not accept him,” she repeated, her strange green eyes locked onto Artemy’s. “Unless his legacy is carried on.”Artemy clenched his jaw. He stood. The weight of the Kin’s eyes, the heaviness of expectation, pressed down on him. His father was dead. The town was hostile. His childhood friends were distant or furious with him. But none of that mattered now. What mattered was the body before him. What mattered was what came next. Artemy took a breath, steadying himself.“Then let Mother Boddho be my witness,” he said, voice unwavering. “I will take on his legacy. I will continue his work, even if it costs me my life.”For a moment, the air seemed to still.Then, deep beneath his feet, there was a tremor.It was so faint that he might have imagined it. But when he glanced at the gathered Kin, he saw their expressions shift—recognition, relief, something solemn and final in their eyes. The woman before him smiled, her dilated pupil unsettling, but her expression almost… pleased.“It shall be so,” she murmured, then inclined her head. “Kathanger.”Artemy recognized the word. Kathanger. He had heard it as a child, whispered in reverence, used to name those who were bound to the Kin in blood and duty. It meant he had returned—not as a son, not as an outsider, but as someone who bore responsibility now, someone who had a path he could not turn away from.The weight of it settled on his shoulders, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to feel.Grace let out a quiet breath, as if she had been holding it, her gray eyes soft with relief.Then, the Kin moved.They buried Isidor in the shallow grave they had prepared, laying him to rest as the steppe demanded. No coffin, no stone, only the earth to cradle him. Artemy watched in silence as the dirt swallowed his father’s body, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the mound of fresh soil.The scent of it was rich, damp. Alive.The murmurs of the Kin rose, prayers in a language that felt half-forgotten on his own tongue, and Artemy lowered his head, unsure what to say.He had no prayers.He had no words.Only the certainty that whatever life he had known before stepping off that train was gone.A hand touched his arm. Artemy turned.The woman from before—the one with the strange green eyes—was watching him, her face unreadable. She tilted her head slightly, then gestured for him to follow.Artemy hesitated, glancing back at the grave once more before stepping away.As they walked, he asked, “Are you Kethey? A guide to the Kin?”The woman nodded. “They call me Aspity.”She led him through the cemetery’s edge, toward a path that wound deeper into the town. She continued walking, not looking at him as she spoke.“I held your father’s inheritance for you.”Artemy frowned. “How?” he asked. “Saburov confiscated everything. Even my house.”At that, Aspity’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “I stole it,” she admitted, “for you.”Artemy stopped walking.Aspity did not.She only glanced back over her shoulder, her mismatched eyes gleaming. “I knew you would return.”Artemy frowned as Aspity led him through the Crude Sprawl, past the makeshift homes and the quiet figures moving through the dim alleys. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, wood smoke, and something bitter—Twyre, he realized. It was everywhere.She guided him to an empty house.Inside, it was sparse. A few hay cots scattered across the wooden floor, bowls stacked near a water basin, the faint remnants of a fire in the corner hearth. No luxury, no comfort, but it was shelter. Aspity moved with purpose, crossing the room to a wooden box tucked beneath a low table. She lifted the lid and pulled out three things:A small pouch of herbs.A pouch of gold, not heavy, but substantial.And a folded piece of paper.Artemy reached for the herb pouch first, his instincts guiding his hands. Aspity nodded, as if she approved of his choice. He loosened the drawstring and peeked inside. Black Twyre. Blood Twyre. Brown Stem. They weren’t fresh, but they weren’t useless either. He could work with these. He could make tinctures.Tying the pouch closed, he set it aside and moved to the gold.It was a decent sum—not enough to live comfortably, but enough to survive. Enough to buy food, medicine, maybe even bribes if it came to that. He would have to be careful with how he spent it.Then, finally, his fingers hesitated over the last item.The paper.Probably a letter.His hands trembled as he unfolded it.His father’s handwriting greeted him, the ink slightly smudged, as if written in haste.It wasn’t a letter, though.Artemy frowned as he scanned the page, his eyes moving over the list of names. Some were familiar, others less so, but they all had something in common.Sticky. Capella. Murky. Notkin. Khan. Grace. Taya Tycheek.Children.At the bottom of the list, beneath the careful script of his father’s hand, was a rune.Artemy took a second to process it, his brow furrowing deeper. The shape was unfamiliar to him, even though he had never forgotten how to read Steppe runes. He traced it lightly with his finger, as if feeling it would grant him understanding.Nothing.He turned to Aspity, holding the letter out to her. “Do you know what this means?”Aspity leaned in, her strange, mismatched eyes scanning the symbol. When she spoke, her voice was calm, but there was something final about it.“Udurgh,” she said. “A body that contains the world.”Artemy waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. She spoke as if that explanation should be enough.“It means what it means, Burakh,” she added after a pause, watching him closely.Artemy let out a slow breath. “That doesn’t explain anything.”“It explains everything,” Aspity corrected. “You just don’t understand it yet.”He looked back down at the page, at the names, at the rune. A body that contains the world. What did that mean?Artemy frowned at Aspity’s cryptic words but chose to let them settle for now. There were too many questions piling up in his mind, and he had no time to untangle them just yet. He carefully tucked the pouch of herbs, the gold, and the letter into his coat, securing them as best he could. He would make sense of his father’s message later—when the weight of the day didn’t press so heavily on his shoulders.For now, there were more urgent matters.He turned to Aspity, arms crossed. “Do you know anything about what happened to my father?” His voice was quieter than before, laced with a tension he couldn’t shake.Aspity met his gaze steadily, her green eyes unreadable. “No. Not exactly. All I know is that Isidor and Simon Kain were seen together before the tragedy.”Artemy frowned. “Simon?” He hadn’t thought much about the Kains since his return—he’d been too preoccupied with trying to stay alive. But if his father had been with Simon Kain before he died, then surely the old man knew something.“Then I need to talk to him.”Aspity smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile—it was knowing, like she was waiting for him to piece something together.“Probably, yes,” she said. “But he won’t be able to tell you anything.”Artemy’s frown deepened. “Why not?”“Because Simon Kain is dead as well.”The words dropped like a stone in his chest.“What?”Aspity shrugged. “It happened the same night as your father’s murder. Some say it was before, some say after. No one is sure. But Simon Kain is gone.”Artemy felt the weight of it settle in his stomach. Simon Kain, the so-called immortal ruler of the town, dead. And no one had even told him. He had been too caught up in his own troubles to hear the murmurs of it.“Then why isn’t he being buried?” he asked, shaking his head. “Why isn’t the town mourning him properly?”Aspity’s smile widened slightly, like she was enjoying watching him try to fit the pieces together.“Because,” she said simply, “no one knows where the body is.”Artemy stiffened. His mind raced.His father was dead, murdered in a way that made no sense. Simon Kain was dead, but his body had disappeared. And the whole town was teetering on the edge of something far worse than grief.Nothing about this was normal. Nothing about this was right.What kind of mess had he stepped into?Aspity watched him with that same unreadable expression, her hands folded neatly in front of her as if she were a statue carved from the very earth beneath them. “A trial is coming,” she said, her voice calm, almost patient. “It will test you like nothing before.”Artemy frowned. He was getting tired of riddles. “And you won’t elaborate on that, right?”Aspity only shrugged, the corners of her lips curving in something that wasn’t quite amusement, but wasn’t entirely absent of it either. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t prepare you for what’s about to happen.”Artemy exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple. He could already feel a headache forming.He muttered to himself, more than to her, “What do I do now?”Aspity, ever the oracle, answered anyway. “The list your father left you… it’s as good a starting point as any.”Artemy glanced down at his coat pocket where the paper sat, the names scrawled in his father’s hand like ghosts waiting to be unearthed. He nodded once, decisive. “Bayarla, Kethey.”A rare flicker of something—approval, maybe—passed over Aspity’s face before vanishing into her usual unreadable calm.As Artemy turned to leave, he felt the weight of her gaze pressing into his back, watching him as he stepped out into the cold, uncertain Steppe once more.
☉ ☉ ☉ARTEMY TALKS TO GRACE.
The cemetery air was thick with the scent of damp earth and twyre. Artemy had always found it strange how the plants thrived here of all places—on the edges of grief, growing like veins through the soil. As he approached, he spotted Murky crouched in the dirt, her small hands carefully placing two black twyre stalks side by side. Her face was scrunched in concentration, lips moving soundlessly.Artemy knelt beside her, watching for a moment before asking, “What are you doing?”Murky didn’t look up. “Talking to the dead,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know how.”Artemy almost laughed but bit it back. “And how’s that going?”Murky’s fingers twitched around the twyre. “I’m doing it the right way. The way it doesn’t hurt.” Her tone turned sharp, almost accusing. “Grace isn’t. So she’s not my friend anymore.”That caught Artemy’s attention. He frowned. “Why would Grace hurt herself?”Murky only shrugged, her dark eyes never lifting to meet his. She curled into herself slightly, small and bristling like an angry kitten trying to puff itself up. She was one of the names on the list, one of his father’s loose ends, but right now, Artemy had more urgent matters to handle.“Do you know where Grace is?” he asked.Murky finally looked at him then, her expression unreadable, before pointing toward the hut near the cemetery entrance.Artemy exhaled through his nose, nodding. “Thanks.”He straightened and made his way toward the hut, leaving Murky to her quiet conversation with the dead.Grace’s hut was barely more than a few boards nailed together, with cracks where the wind could slip through like fingers. Artemy hesitated before knocking, half-expecting silence, but a soft voice answered from inside.“Come in.”He ducked under the low doorframe and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of melted wax and damp stone. A circle of candles flickered on a rough stone table, their flames dancing as if disturbed by an unseen breath. Grace stood over them, murmuring to herself, but when she saw him, she smiled.“Thank you for helping your father rest,” she said. “Isidor was a great man. He didn’t deserve to be burned.”Artemy shifted on his feet, uncomfortable under the weight of her gratitude. He shrugged. “He was my father. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”Grace nodded, as if she understood something unspoken, but her eyes lingered on him with quiet intensity.Artemy cleared his throat. “Is it true?” he asked. “That you’ve been hurting yourself?”Grace flinched, just slightly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the stone table. “I can speak to the dead,” she said carefully. “When they come to me, when they seek my guidance—it doesn’t hurt. But searching for them… calling for someone specific…” She touched her temple. “It’s like a knife in my skull.”Artemy crossed his arms, considering that. Then, after a beat, he said lightly, “I suppose you couldn’t find my father for me, then?”He chuckled, but it died in his throat when Grace’s expression hardened. Her grey eyes were sharp as glass.“You don’t believe me, do you?”His smile froze, and he scratched the back of his neck. “Not really,” he admitted.Grace’s glare didn’t waver, her grey eyes turned cold, sharp as the stones marking the graves outside. She extended her hand to Artemy, palm up, fingers still as death.“Take it,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, then see for yourself.”Artemy raised an eyebrow, more amused than anything. He had never believed in ghosts. The dead didn’t talk; they rotted. But Grace’s expression was unwavering, daring him to call her bluff.Fine. He humored her, grasping her small hand without hesitation.The moment their fingers touched, the candle flames trembled—then snuffed out completely.Darkness swallowed the room whole.Artemy’s breath hitched. The silence was suffocating, thick as oil. Then, without warning, the candles flared back to life, their dim glow revealing another hand gripping his own.A hand that did not belong to Grace.Artemy flinched violently, his pulse hammering. Across from him, standing where Grace had been, was his father.Isidor Burakh.Pale. Still. Resolute.Artemy tried to yank his hand away, but his father’s grip was firm, unyielding.“It had to be done,” Isidor murmured.Artemy’s breath caught in his throat. “Father—”“Like a bone that must be broken to heal properly,” Isidor continued, voice steady, final. “It had to be done.”Artemy’s eyes locked onto his father’s face, searching desperately for warmth, for something familiar. But Isidor’s gaze was dull, empty, lifeless.Artemy gasped, feeling something pulling at him, wrenching him back—his fingers slipping free.And then he was falling.His back hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. His vision swam, the world tilting. His skin was clammy, slick with sweat. With effort, he forced himself upright, his heart pounding like a war drum. Grace lay crumpled beside him, unconscious.Artemy rushed to Grace’s side, his heart still hammering from what he had just seen—what he had just felt. He barely registered the sting of his own trembling hands as he cradled her frail body against his chest. Her nose was bleeding. She coughed weakly, her eyes unfocused, her breath coming in shallow gasps.“Grace,” he murmured, shaking her gently. No response. His stomach twisted. He cursed under his breath and tore a strip of cloth from the inside of his coat, pressing it under her nose, wiping away the thin trickle of blood before it reached her lips. “Grace, hey, wake up.”Finally, her pale lashes fluttered, and her grey eyes focused on him. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her lips. “Do you believe me now?” she whispered.Artemy’s grip on the cloth tightened, his jaw clenching. “Never do that again,” he spat.Grace blinked, caught off guard. “But I had to prove it to you—”“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” His voice was sharp, edged with something dangerously close to anger. “Especially if it means hurting yourself.”She sat up straighter, staring at him with wide eyes. Artemy ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. His hands were still shaking. He clenched them into fists. “Promise me,” he said, quieter now, but no less firm. “Promise me you won’t do this to yourself again.”Grace hesitated. Then, after a moment, she nodded.“I promise.”Artemy held her gaze for a long beat, searching for any sign of dishonesty. He found none. With a tired sigh, he pressed the cloth into her hands.“Keep this,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “I have to go.”Grace clutched the fabric, watching him.“And I better not hear about you doing this again,” he added, turning toward the door. “Or else I’ll be pissed.”He left without looking back, but he could still feel her staring after him.
☉ ☉ ☉MURKY AND ARTEMY HARVEST TWYRE.
As soon as Artemy stepped outside, he was met with a pair of angry, narrowed eyes. Murky stood in the grass, arms crossed, gripping the two stalks of black twyre so tightly in her small fists that the stems bent. Her glare was sharp, unflinching, until he actually stopped to look at her—then she huffed and turned her head away, still frowning.“…You hurt her,” she muttered, voice thick with accusation. “I told you and you still did it.”A pang of guilt twisted in Artemy’s chest. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely. “I didn’t mean to.”Murky snapped her head back to him, scowling even deeper.“How did you not mean to?” she demanded. “I told you, I told you, I told you—and you still did it anyway!”Artemy crouched down, trying to meet her at eye level, shaking his head.“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer this time. “I really am. I just… I thought it wasn’t true.”Murky’s glare didn’t lessen, but she considered that, shifting her weight from foot to foot.“…Why not?”Artemy sighed, tilting his head. “Well, I can’t talk to the dead. So I thought it was impossible.”Murky studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face for any sign of a lie. Then, abruptly, she tugged on the sleeve of his coat—carefully, avoiding his hands.“Come with me,” she ordered. “I’ll show you the right way. The way it doesn’t hurt.”Before Artemy could respond, she turned on her heel and took off running, her little legs barely able to keep up with the tall grass swaying around her.Predictably, she tripped.Artemy caught her before she could hit the ground, lifting her easily into his arms.“Let me carry you, you can point the way”.Murky pouted, clearly unhappy at being saved from falling on her face. She shifted in his grasp, contemplating something, before mumbling, “…Okay. But only because I’m tired and it’s far away. Not because I like you or anything.”Artemy sighed. “Whatever you say, grumpy,” he muttered.Murky huffed, pressing her little fists against his coat, her twyre still clutched tightly in one hand. She lifted her chin, pointing into the steppe.“This way,” she instructed.Artemy adjusted his grip and started walking, carrying her out into the vast, open land beyond the town’s edge.The steppe stretched endlessly around them, an ocean of swaying grass and whispering wind. The town was just a distant shadow on the horizon now, the weight of its suspicion and grief left behind. Out here, it was just Artemy, Murky, and the land itself. Murky knelt on the dry earth, carefully arranging the black twyre in a neat, deliberate pattern. Her small fingers moved with purpose, pressing the stalks into the dirt with a reverence that made Artemy hesitate to speak, as though interrupting would break some unseen thread.She sat back on her heels, examining her work with a critical eye before mumbling, “I need blood twyre and brown stem. Oh, and Swevery. Swevery’s the most important one.”Artemy nodded and crouched beside her, opening the pouch Aspity had given him. He pulled out a bundle of blood twyre, then brown stem, and handed them both over. Murky took them without a word, carefully adding them to the arrangement. He frowned as he rummaged further.“I don’t have Swevery,” he admitted, glancing around. The steppe was full of wild-growing herbs; it wouldn’t be hard to find some. “But there’s bound to be some nearby. Stay here—I’ll get it.”Murky nodded, not looking at him, too focused on positioning the plants just right.Artemy watched her for a moment longer before exhaling and rising to his feet. He turned toward the fields, scanning for the bright blossoms of Swevery amid the taller stalks of grass. Then, without another word, he set off to find it. The steppe air was thick with the scent of earth and dry grass as Artemy pushed through the fields, scanning for the bright orange blossoms of Swevery. It didn’t take him long to find them—clustered low to the ground, petals turned up toward the sky like tiny flames. He crouched, plucking a few stems, rolling them between his fingers before heading back.When he returned, Murky was still kneeling over her careful arrangement, her dark head bowed. She didn’t look up until he stepped close, and when she did, he caught it—her first real smile. Small, fleeting, but there. It disappeared just as quickly as she took the Swevery from him and gently placed it with the rest.She closed her eyes.Artemy waited. And waited some more.Nothing happened.He shifted, frowning. “Well?”Murky’s eyes snapped open, irritation flashing in them. “Can’t you hear it already?”Artemy blinked. He looked around—just the wind, the rustling grass, the endless hum of insects. “No,” he admitted. “You’ll have to teach me.”Murky scowled, drawing her knees up to her chest. “There’s nothing to teach. You either hear it or you don’t.”Artemy ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I don’t have time for this.”Murky flinched at that. Not obviously, just a small twitch of her shoulders. But then she glared again, crossing her arms tightly. “Then go. I don’t need you.” Her voice was sharp, cutting. “I don’t love you. I never will.”Artemy exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I’m not imposing myself on you.” He turned away, sparing her one last glance before walking back toward town.She stayed where she was, surrounded by herbs, small and stubborn in the vastness of the steppe.
☉ ☉ ☉ARTEMY AND RUBIN FIGHT. LARA BREAKS IT APART.
Artemy was walking through the streets of the town when he heard hurried footsteps approaching. He turned, half-expecting Sticky, but instead, a small boy stood near him, panting as if he had run all the way there.“Burakh,” the boy gasped. “Lara sent me. She says she has a message.”Artemy wiped his hands on his coat. “I’ll stop by the Shelter later.”But the boy shook his head vigorously. “No. She said to meet her at Stakh Rubin’s place.”Artemy’s brows furrowed. “At Rubin’s?” That was unexpected. He still hadn’t spoken with Rubin, but if what the Bachelor said was true, he doubted an invitation had been extended on his behalf.The boy simply nodded, waiting for confirmation. Artemy sighed and gestured with his chin. “All right. Go tell her I’m on my way.”The boy took off running, and Artemy headed in the direction of Rubin’s apartment.Even before he reached the door, he could hear hurried whispers from inside. He couldn’t make out the words, but the urgency was clear.When he stepped inside, both Lara and Rubin fell silent immediately. Lara’s face was pale, nervous, but Rubin’s expression was nothing short of hostile.Artemy raised an eyebrow at that, tilting his head.“The prodigal son returns home, then,” Rubin said coldly, arms crossed over his chest.Artemy’s lips twitched at the choice of words. “Prodigal? If you think my lifestyle at the capital was lavish, you’re completely wrong.”Rubin scoffed, eyes flashing. “Oh? And what exactly were you doing in the capital besides wiping your ass with your father’s letters?”Artemy’s face darkened at that, the accusation hitting deeper than he wanted to admit. “I only received one letter,” he said, voice clipped. “And I came as soon as I could.”Rubin let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “One letter? Bullshit. He sent you dozens. You ignored them all. You wanted him to die. You resented him for sending you away, and now—”Lara touched Rubin’s arm, her voice a low whisper. “Stahk, wait-”But Rubin wasn’t done. He took a step forward, eyes burning with grief and anger. “He begged for you, Burahk. He needed you, and you let him die alone.”Artemy inhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists. He wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true, that he would have come sooner if he had known—but the guilt settled like a stone in his stomach, heavy and immovable.Lara stood between them, wringing her hands. “Please,” she whispered. “Not like this.”Artemy clenched his jaw. “He sent me away, Stahk.” His voice was firm, steady. “I never wanted to leave in the first place. And when I finally got his letter, I came back as soon as I could.”Rubin scoffed, shaking his head. “Sure, Burahk. But what about the years before that? The ones where you stopped writing? The ones where you sat in your pristine, ivory-tower university, thinking you were better than us because you knew ‘real medicine’ now?”Lara’s breath hitched as Rubin shoved her aside, stepping closer to Artemy.Artemy’s patience, already frayed, snapped. “Don’t touch her like that!”The warning came loud and sharp, but Rubin barely had time to react before Artemy grabbed him by the collar.The next few seconds were a blur—a shove, a struggle, and then Artemy’s arm locked around Rubin’s throat in a tight chokehold. Rubin clawed at his forearm, gasping as he tried to break free.Lara was screaming. “STOP IT! Both of you—STOP!”Artemy exhaled harshly through his nose but finally released him, shoving Rubin away. He stumbled, coughing, his breath coming in ragged gasps.Rubin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring up at Artemy with fire in his eyes. “Even if he sent you away,” he spat, “you’re the one who walked away from us. You’re responsible for his death, and the sooner you face it, the better.”With that, Rubin turned and stormed out of his own apartment, slamming the door behind him.Lara sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “No, Cub. That’s not how this was supposed to go…”Artemy exhaled, shaking his head. “I tried, Lara. But he won’t even look at me without seeing someone to blame.”She looked at him sadly, then gave a small, tired smile. “You two were always rivals… always so stubborn.” She sighed again. “Some things never change.”Artemy sighed and ran a hand across his hair, glaring at the door Rubin had just stormed out from, but then looked down, his eyes sad. Lara was wrong. Everything had changed around him, and he didn’t know how to take it.
☉ ☉ ☉DANIIL MEETS ARTEMY AT HIS HOUSE.
Daniil moved across town with purpose, his coat billowing behind him as his polished boots struck the cobblestones with a clipped, even rhythm. The town felt different now. The air was thicker, the streets more stifling despite the wind that kicked dust into the air. People still walked about, but there was a heaviness to them, a quiet tension that hadn’t been there before. Daniil had spent the last couple of days running himself ragged, chasing leads, interrogating anyone who might know something, anything, about what was coming. And now, after a definitive talk with Rubin, he knew.The Sand Plague was upon them.Daniil had never encountered this strain of plague before. He had studied diseases extensively, obsessed over them, dedicated his career to the defeat of death itself—but this? This was something new. And if Rubin’s reaction had been anything to go by, he should be panicking. The other doctor had been pale as chalk, eyes dark with exhaustion and something that looked an awful lot like fear. Daniil had pressed him for details, but even Stakh could only say so much—whispers of infection, of something unnatural in the way it spread, in the way it lingered.But Daniil wasn’t panicking. He couldn’t afford to. He was a man with a plan, and no matter how grim the circumstances, he would solve this.His strides carried him through the town, past the infected districts where soldiers now stood watch, and toward the Lump. The Termitary had been on his mind since yesterday, and after his discussion with Elder Vlad, his concerns had only grown. He feared that the plague could already be inside—festering, spreading in the shadows of that locked fortress. But Vlad had insisted the quarantine was for another reason entirely. A rebellion, he had said. Workers demanding rights, refusing to be treated like cattle.Daniil might have found himself sympathetic, on another day. But if the plague was truly here, then keeping the Termitary locked might be the only way to protect those inside.At least if it was sealed, they would be safe.Wouldn’t they?He hoped so.He moved to the next point he needed to go.The house in the Hindquarters wasn’t hard to find. People stood gathered around it, whispering among themselves, pointing, their faces twisted in a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. Daniil had seen this before—how people hovered around disaster, drawn to it even when they should be fleeing. But this was unlike anything he had encountered before.At first glance, the house was like any other, an old wooden structure that had seen better days, its windows clouded with dust, its walls weathered from years of steppe winds. But then he saw it—the thing that had drawn the crowd.Lumps of something red and grotesque bulged from the wooden planks, oozing a greasy, viscous sheen in the dim afternoon light. It pulsed, almost imperceptibly, like raw fat left too long in the sun. It wasn’t mold, nor any kind of fungal growth he recognized. It looked alive.Daniil had studied plagues before. He had seen cities crumble under the weight of disease, had read accounts of horrors beyond comprehension. But never—never—had he seen a plague stick to a building.His stomach twisted, but he forced his feet forward. He needed to see inside. He needed to know if this was truly what he feared.A small motion caught his eye. A little girl, no older than seven or eight, reached out a small hand toward the swollen, glistening mass on the wall. She was curious, like all children were. She didn’t understand.Before he could think, Daniil’s hand shot out and smacked hers away.“Don’t!” His voice was sharp, too sharp, and the girl flinched, eyes wide in shock. “Don’t you know that might be contagious?! Don’t touch it!”Her lip trembled, her fingers curling into her palm. She looked up at him, startled and a little afraid, before mumbling softly, “Sorry, Uncle Bachelor…”Daniil exhaled through his nose, guilt creeping in before he could stop it. She had meant no harm. She hadn’t known. And now she was looking at him with those wide, uncertain eyes like he was some cruel schoolmaster scolding her for dropping ink on her papers.A faint heat rose to his cheeks, but he didn’t apologize. He only stepped away, composed himself, and without another word, turned toward the door.He needed to get inside.Before Daniil could push open the door, it creaked open on its own. He tensed, expecting some sickly, fever-ridden fool to stumble out—only to come face to face with him.Artemy Burahk stepped onto the threshold, his broad frame nearly filling the doorway. His expression shifted from momentary surprise to his usual scowl, brows knitting together in suspicion.Daniil raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”Artemy crossed his arms, shifting his weight slightly. “It’s my house.”Daniil blinked. “Your house?”Artemy grunted, as if annoyed he had to explain something so obvious. “My father’s. Which makes it mine.”Daniil clicked his tongue, processing this new information. That complicated things. “Well,” he said, shifting his stance, “that’s unfortunate, because this place is about to be quarantined.” He gestured toward the oozing, pulsing growths along the walls. “In case you somehow missed the very obvious signs, it’s not safe.”Artemy’s eyes flickered to the grotesque masses, but he didn’t look surprised. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I already know about the Sand Plague.”Daniil narrowed his eyes, scanning Artemy’s face. He looked composed—dirty, but not disheveled, no wild-eyed panic, no frantic urgency. Daniil had been worried that the Haruspex would be the type to lose his head, to run around in blind desperation, stirring chaos in an already unstable town. But no. Artemy looked like a man who had already prepared himself for war.Daniil sighed, a little relieved despite himself. “Good. That makes this easier.”Daniil stepped forward, ready to enter, but his sharp eyes caught the glint of metal in Artemy’s hand. A key.He frowned. “Did you take that from inside?”Artemy clenched his fist around it. “It’s mine,” he said firmly. “I’ll take what I want.”Daniil sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Everything inside needs to be quarantined. That includes whatever you just pocketed.”Artemy’s scowl deepened. “It’s my father’s house, my father’s things. If you think I’m leaving them to rot under your orders, you’ve gone soft in the head.”Daniil exhaled sharply, biting back his irritation. He could demand it back, could escalate this into another argument, but what good would that do? He wasn’t about to pull a gun on Burahk over a key. The last thing this town needed was more pointless fighting.“Fine,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Take whatever trinkets you want. It’s your funeral.”He moved past Artemy, stepping toward the open door—only for a strong hand to catch his arm, fingers tightening around his sleeve.“Oynon,” Artemy said.The word made Daniil pause. It was unfamiliar, but he recognized it as steppe speech, the crude language many of the locals spoke.He looked back at Artemy, about to demand an explanation, but the Haruspex’s expression had shifted. His usual scowl was still there, but beneath it, something else lurked—something quiet.“Be careful,” Artemy murmured. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “The air inside… it’s not right.”Daniil scoffed, freeing his arm. “I’m nothing if not careful, Burakh. Don’t you worry.”Artemy’s gaze lingered, but he said nothing as Daniil turned and stepped through the door.And with that, he disappeared into the house.
☉ ☉ ☉ARTEMY MEETS STICKY AT THE LAIR.
Artemy arrived at the Machine, the old warehouse looming over him like a hollowed-out beast. He had made the right choice, going to the younger Vlad—thank the heavens for that, since the note attached to the key had only been signed V.O.. If he’d gone to the wrong Vlad, he doubted he’d have gotten anything useful out of it.The large doors groaned in protest as he pushed them open, stepping into the dim, cavernous space. The Haruspex’s Lair now, he thought grimly. The title felt heavy on his shoulders.It wasn’t much. Cold, dark. Scattered metal, abandoned machinery, and rusted pipes lined the space, giving the air a thick, metallic scent. The floor was uneven downstairs, but there was a cot in one corner, a stone table nearby. It was better than nothing. At least here, he wouldn’t have to depend on anyone’s kindness.He exhaled, stepping further inside and dropping his bag onto the table with a dull thud. His new home. His father’s legacy.And his burden alone to carry.Artemy was inspecting one of the rusted machines, running his fingers along the cold, dusty surface, when he turned around—And nearly jumped out of his skin.“What the hell—” he barked, stepping back instinctively.Sticky was standing right behind him, grinning ear to ear, bouncing on his heels like an overexcited puppy. “Everyone’s talking about you at the cemetery!” he said, practically vibrating. “You said you’ll take on Old Burahk’s role! So you can keep teaching me!”Artemy exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair to settle his nerves. “By the earth, kid, do you always sneak up on people like that?”Sticky ignored him, his brown eyes shining with something bright and eager—something that made Artemy realize, Oh. He thought he had no one left. The boy must have feared that without Isidor, there’d be no one to teach him. No one left to guide him down the path of medicine.Artemy crossed his arms, regarding him carefully. “Maybe I will teach you,” he mused, half-teasing. “If you prove yourself capable enough.”Sticky straightened, his grin replaced by something fierce, something serious. “I will prove it to you,” he said, determination hardening his voice. “I am serious.”Artemy raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered, though he already had a feeling the boy would make damn sure to prove him wrong.Sticky hopped onto a crate, kicking his legs as he beamed at Artemy. “So? What’s our first step? To stop the plague?”Artemy blinked, caught off guard. His eyes narrowed slightly. “How do you know about that?” Even Giorgy and Victor Kain had been pretending the inevitable wasn’t coming, brushing off the whispers, denying the truth.Sticky shrugged, entirely unfazed. “All the kids know,” he said simply. “We hear things.”Artemy let out a quiet exhale, nodding to himself. Of course they did. The town was rotting from the inside out, and if anyone noticed the sickness festering beneath the surface, it was the children. They had their own ways of knowing.He turned away, stepping toward a rusted cabinet in the corner. When he pulled it open, he found a collection of old tools—pliers, wrenches, a few half-used spools of wire and cogs. Not much, but enough. He ran his fingers over them, nodding. “We start by fixing the machines,” he said. “If we want to make tinctures, we need the tools to do it.”Sticky was already at his side before he finished speaking, peering over his arm, practically bouncing on his heels.Artemy sighed and grabbed what he needed before lowering himself onto the cold ground, shifting beneath one of the machines. It had been neglected for years—gears misaligned, tubing loose, some parts nearly rusted through. He muttered something under his breath and reached a hand out.Sticky placed a wrench in his palm before he could even ask.“Hm,” Artemy murmured, adjusting a bolt.Sticky grinned. “See? I’m already helping.”Artemy didn’t say anything, but as he worked, he couldn’t deny that it felt… natural. Familiar. A small pair of hands passing him tools, a steady presence at his side.Like working with his father again.The wrench snapped in Artemy’s hands with a sharp crack, the rusted metal giving out under the force of his grip. He cursed in the Steppe tongue, the word slipping out before he could stop it.“Shudker.”Sticky, who had been sitting cross-legged nearby, perked up at the sound. “That a fancy doctor word?” he asked, grinning.Artemy sighed, pushing himself out from under the machine. “No, it means something broke when I needed it most.” He lied as he didn’t want to teach a kid bad words. He tossed the useless wrench aside and wiped his hands on his coat, inspecting the machine. It looked… stable, at least. He reached for one of the dials, turning it carefully. The gears groaned, but they moved. That was enough.“So?” Sticky asked, tilting his head. “Did you fix it?”Artemy exhaled. “Fortunately, yes. But we’ll need a new tool kit for the other one.” He turned to Sticky just in time to catch the glint of mischief in the boy’s eyes.“I can get one,” Sticky said, grinning ear to ear. “Easily. Free of charge.”Artemy narrowed his eyes. “Somehow I doubt that.” The prices in town were already rising by the hour. A proper tool kit? No one would part with one cheaply, if at all.Sticky just shrugged, still grinning. “You doubt me, but you’ll see. I’m very resourceful.”Artemy sighed. “Fine. But for now, we can start working.” He turned back to the machine, adjusting one of the tubes. “We can make tinctures now. That’s what matters.”Artemy opened his herb pouch and carefully pulled out a handful of dried twyre. The scent of it filled the air immediately, sharp and earthy, tinged with something spicy. He rolled the brittle leaves between his fingers before pressing them against the worn wooden table and grinding them down with his knuckles. The crushed herbs would be softer this way, more pliant, easier to yield their essence to the machine.A sudden burst of energy beside him made him glance up. Sticky was bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement.“I wanna help!”Artemy smirked, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. You don’t just smash them—you have to break them down evenly, like this.” He started demonstrating, pressing down with steady, circular motions. But before he could finish, Sticky had already grabbed his own handful and begun grinding it down with practiced ease, mirroring his movements perfectly.Artemy blinked. “Huh.”Sticky glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”Artemy just chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”Sticky grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “You pick up a thing or two when you hang around real doctors.” His chest puffed up slightly. “Oh! And I already filled the sink with water, so we’ve got what we need to mix everything.”Artemy paused. That… was actually incredibly helpful. He hadn’t even thought to check the water supply yet, but Sticky had already taken care of it.He looked down at the boy, his usual guarded expression softening just a little. “Thank you, Sticky,” he said sincerely. “You did good.”Sticky’s grin widened, and he turned back to his work with renewed enthusiasm. Artemy followed suit, the two of them settling into an easy rhythm, grinding herbs and preparing the tinctures that would soon be needed. The steady rhythm of Artemy’s hands grinding herbs filled the Lair, the scent of crushed twyre thick in the air. Sticky worked beside him, surprisingly skilled for his age, his small fingers expertly sorting through stems and leaves. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been at it, but when he glanced up at the dim glow filtering through the cracks in the Lair’s walls, he realized it was already late. He sighed, wiping his hands on a cloth.“That’s enough for now,” he said. “We’ll pick this up later. You should go home before it gets too dark.”Sticky’s hands stilled. He didn’t look up.Artemy frowned. “Sticky?”The boy swallowed, shoulders tensing. “…I don’t have a home,” he admitted quietly. “My parents are long gone.”The words hit Artemy harder than he expected. He stared at Sticky, taking in the way the boy hunched his shoulders like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he was bracing himself for pity or dismissal.Artemy’s throat felt tight. “Where do you sleep, then?”Sticky shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. “Sometimes here. Sometimes with friends. It depends.”A long silence stretched between them. Artemy exhaled, rubbing at his brow.“…You can stay here,” he said finally. “For as long as you like.”Sticky’s head snapped up, his eyes going wide. “For real?”Artemy nodded.A grin spread across Sticky’s face, so bright and full of relief that it made something ache in Artemy’s chest.“Thanks, boss!” Sticky beamed, and for the first time in a long while, he looked like what he was.Just a kid.Artemy sighed, shaking his head, but he couldn’t help the small, tired smile tugging at his lips.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY ASKS RUBIN TO MEET WITH THE GANG AT THE APPLE BASKET.
Artemy knocked at the door of the Kains’ manor, frowning when it creaked open under the weight of his knuckles. It was unlocked. That was… strange. Maria Kaina didn’t seem like the type to leave her door open to the town’s filth. He hesitated before stepping inside. He didn’t like entering places uninvited, least of all the house of the most enigmatic woman in town, but he had heard from the children that Rubin was here. He had to be sure.The air inside was thick with incense, the heady scent of dried herbs and candle wax clinging to the dark wooden walls. The silence was heavy, the kind that pressed down on the shoulders and made every footstep feel like a trespass. Artemy exhaled through his nose, pushing forward, moving up the winding staircase with careful steps.He found Rubin standing by the window, his silhouette bright against the light coming from outside. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge him right away. Only when Artemy stepped closer did he speak, voice low and flat.“You’re persistent.”Artemy crossed his arms. “You left before we could finish talking.”Rubin finally turned, his expression carefully guarded. His eyes flickered over Artemy, searching, as if trying to gauge his intentions.Artemy tilted his head. “What are you doing in Maria Kaina’s house?”Rubin scoffed. “They think I stole Simon’s body,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “I came to explain myself.”Artemy frowned, scanning his friend’s face. “And?”Rubin looked away. “And nothing. They’re still watching me like a rat in a trap.”Artemy didn’t miss the way Rubin’s hands flexed at his sides, the tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t telling him everything. But Artemy chose to ignore it. For now.“We’re meeting,” Artemy said, crossing the room. “By the Apple Basket, near the train tracks. Me, Lara, Grief. We want you to come.”Rubin snorted, shaking his head. “Whose idea was this? Lara’s?”Artemy sighed. “It was my idea, Stahk.”That got a reaction. Rubin blinked, his usual scowl faltering for just a second before returning.“Yours?” He said, voice sharper, more skeptical.Artemy nodded. “Yes. I want us to talk. Settle things.”Rubin scoffed, arms tightening across his chest. “There’s nothing to settle, Burakh.”Artemy exhaled. “Maybe. But I’m still asking you to come.”For a moment, Rubin said nothing. The only sound in the room was the faint creaking of the house settling, the distant murmur of the town outside. Then, finally, he spoke.“And what do you get out of this, huh?” he asked, voice edged with something unreadable. “Some clean conscience? Or do you just want to play peacekeeper?”Artemy shook his head. “I don’t want anything from you, Stahk. Except to not fight like dogs in the street while the town needs us.Rubin stared at him for a long moment. His jaw clenched, then loosened. He huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head.“Hah. And here I thought you’d come back full of yourself, like the people in the Capital, looking down on us.” He finally met Artemy’s gaze fully. “But you’re still the same stubborn bastard, aren’t you?”Artemy gave a small, dry smile. “Takes one to know one.”Rubin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before muttering, “Fine. I’ll go. But don’t expect miracles, Burahk.”Artemy nodded. It was a start.As Artemy descended the staircase, the front doors swung open with a slow, deliberate creak. Maria Kaina stepped inside like she owned not just the house, but the very air around her. Her deep crimson dress pooled at her feet like blood, and her sharp eyes found him instantly, narrowing with distaste.She lifted her chin, her lips curling ever so slightly downward, as though she had just stepped in something vile. “I didn’t summon you.” Her voice was smooth, poised—yet it held the unmistakable edge of a blade. “What are you doing in my house?”Artemy paused on the stairs, gripping the railing. “I was looking for Rubin,” he said evenly.Maria scoffed. “Never come unannounced into my house,” she said, enunciating each word like she was speaking to a misbehaving child. “You are either summoned, or you stay put. Understood?”Artemy exhaled through his nose, biting back the instinctive response rising in his throat. He had no patience for the Kains and their endless self-importance, but now wasn’t the time to argue. Instead, he tilted his head, gave her the flattest, driest look he could muster, and muttered,“…Sure.”Then, just for good measure, he rolled his eyes and walked past her, pushing the door open and stepping back into the cold morning air.
☉ ☉ ☉
ARTEMY CARES FOR PATCHES.
Artemy had barely stepped outside Maria Kaina’s house when movement caught his eye. A girl—one of the same scrappy, sharp-eyed children from the Soul-and-a-Halves who had come looking for him that first day—was running straight toward him. She skidded to a stop just in front of him, breathless, her wide eyes darting up to meet his. “Patches is sick,” she blurted out. “Notkin is asking for your help.”Artemy tilted his head, already feeling the weight of what she wasn’t saying. “Is Patches a child or—”The girl threw up her hands in exasperation. “Obviously! Are you going to help or not? He’s really, really sick.”Artemy’s chest tightened. If the rumors of the plague were true, they had little time. And children, especially ones as scrawny as Notkin’s gang, wouldn’t stand a chance.He straightened. “Tell everyone to stay away from him,” he instructed firmly. “No one touches him, no one gets too close. I need to stop by the lair to grab tinctures, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”The girl nodded quickly, but she hesitated for a second, biting her lip. “Hurry, though…” Her voice was quieter this time, almost afraid. “Things aren’t looking good.”Artemy inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of it settle into his ribs. Then, without another word, he turned and started moving.Artemy ran through the streets, his feet pounding against the uneven dirt roads as he made his way back to the Lair. He barely noticed the burning in his legs or the way his breath came in sharp bursts—there was no time for exhaustion.He threw open the doors, stepping inside the dimly lit space and heading straight for the cabinets. His hands worked fast, gathering the tinctures he had, cursing under his breath at how few they were. He’d have to make more soon—if Patches had the plague, this was only the beginning.Without wasting another second, Artemy tucked the bottles securely into his coat and rushed out the door, making his way toward the Soul-and-a-Halves headquarters.To his surprise, Aspity was already there, standing just outside the warehouse like she’d been waiting for him.Artemy slowed his pace, frowning as he approached her. “What are you doing here, Sahba?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.Aspity exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “Leave the boy, Burahk. He’s lost. There’s nothing you can do.”Artemy stiffened. “What do you mean, nothing?” His hands curled into fists. “How do you know? I have to try!”Aspity gave him a knowing, solemn look. “He is already dead,” she murmured. “His body just doesn’t know it yet. If you get involved, it will only weigh on your conscience.”Artemy clenched his jaw, his blood heating with frustration. He was so tired of people speaking in riddles, telling him what was and wasn’t possible. His father wouldn’t have walked away. He wouldn’t either.“We’ll see who’s a goner, Kethey,” he snapped. “Let me do my job.”Aspity’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t stop him as he shouldered past her and into the warehouse.The air inside was thick with the smell of dust, old wood, and sickness. Artemy’s stomach twisted.“Burahk!”Sticky darted toward him, his face pale and tight with anguish. “I knew you’d come,” he said breathlessly, tugging at Artemy’s sleeve. “Patches is through here.”Artemy followed him through the stacks of crates, his pulse hammering in his ears. Then he saw the boy—Patches—lying on a thin mattress, his small body barely rising with each breath. His skin was sand-like, his lips cracked, sweat pooling at his brow.This wasn’t just sickness. This was something else.Artemy swallowed hard, kneeling beside the boy. Whatever this was, it had taken hold of Patches fast. But Aspity was wrong—he wasn’t dead yet.And Artemy wasn’t going to let him go without a fight.Notkin approached, his usually sharp and confident demeanor replaced with something hesitant, almost desperate. His wide eyes flickered between Artemy and the boy lying limp on the mattress.“The Bachelor was here,” he said, his voice taut. “But he said we were wasting our breath trying to save him.” He swallowed hard. “He was wrong, right? You can save him, right?”Artemy didn’t nod. He didn’t make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. Instead, he looked up, his brow furrowed. “What did the Bachelor say, exactly?”Notkin shifted his weight, glancing at Patches as if he could will him to get better through sheer force alone. “He had pills, but he didn’t know which one to give him. He said if he gave the wrong one, it’d only make things worse. And… That he didn’t have any morphine.”Artemy frowned. “Did he leave the pills?”Notkin nodded. “He didn’t want to, but we insisted. In the end, he left them.”That was something, at least. Artemy exhaled, rubbing his hands together before pulling out his tinctures. The first step was to see how Patches reacted. He started with the white one, carefully tilting the boy’s head and dripping it past his dry lips.For a long, tense moment, nothing happened. Then, Patches’ breathing eased—just slightly, but enough for Artemy to take note.“The white one,” Artemy murmured to himself, then held out his hand. “Give me the pills. The small, round white one.”Notkin rummaged in his pocket and placed it into Artemy’s palm. Artemy studied it briefly before pressing it against Patches’ lips, coaxing him to swallow.The change wasn’t immediate, but after a few minutes, some color returned to the boy’s cheeks. His breath evened out, his fevered trembling subsiding just a fraction.Awe rippled through the gathered children. They crept closer, watching in hushed silence, as if witnessing a miracle.“Did it work?” Notkin asked, his voice hushed.Artemy pressed his lips together, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the unknown. “For now,” he admitted. “But I don’t know how to cure it yet.” His gaze swept over the small group. “You all need to stay away from him. Got it? Minimal contact. Just make sure he drinks water.”The children nodded, but Artemy could see the fear in their eyes. He felt it too.As Artemy stood up, he barely had time to dust himself off before Sticky launched at him, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. The boy’s grip was surprisingly strong for someone his size, his face buried against Artemy’s coat.“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Sticky mumbled, his voice muffled.Artemy patted the boy’s back, awkward but firm. “You did good,” he told him. “Watching over Patches until I got here? That was important.”Sticky pulled away, beaming. “I knew you’d come! So—what’s next? What are we gonna do now?”Artemy sighed. “I need to go to the Town Hall. There’s some kind of meeting.”Sticky groaned dramatically, clearly unimpressed by the prospect of bureaucratic matters. “Ugh, sounds boring. Are you sure we can’t go punch some plague in the face instead?”Artemy huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “No punching plagues today, unfortunately.”But as he turned to leave, a figure blocked his path.Clara.Something about her was different now. Gone was the sharp-witted, smug girl who had broken into Lara’s Shelter. This Clara looked smaller—demure, almost fragile. She clutched the sleeves of her tattered shawl, pouting up at him with wide, dark eyes.“You didn’t heal him,” she murmured.
Artemy frowned. “I did what I could.”Clara huffed, rocking slightly on her feet. “Well, I could have done more. But Notkin didn’t let me near the boy.”Artemy crossed his arms. “I wonder why,” he said dryly.Clara’s gaze snapped up, her expression twisting into a glare. “If people believed in me more,” she hissed, “I could perform miracles. The whole town could be saved.”Before Artemy could reply, she turned on her heel and ran, disappearing between the crates and barrels of the warehouse.He exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.Sticky tugged at his sleeve. “Is it true?” he asked, his voice laced with an almost desperate hope. “She can heal people? Just like that?”Artemy shook his head. “There’s no such thing as a miracle, Sticky.”Sticky frowned, disappointed, but didn’t argue. Together, they stepped outside, into the thickening air of an infected town.
☉ ☉ ☉
DANIIL AND EVA BEFORE TOWN HALL MEETING.
Daniil sat on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, methodically buttoning his white shirt. The room was dimly lit, the morning light barely filtering through the heavy curtains of the Stillwater. Behind him, Eva stirred, her bare shoulder slipping from beneath the silk sheets as she reached for him with a soft, sleepy whine.He felt the warmth of her body press against his back, the delicate weight of her breasts, the tickle of her golden hair against his skin. Then, the slow press of her lips at the nape of his neck.“Do you really need to go?” she murmured, voice drowsy and sweet, arms wrapping around his waist.Daniil sighed, tilting his head slightly as she nuzzled against him. “Unfortunately, yes. Duty calls.”Eva hummed in dissatisfaction but smiled when he turned to kiss her, her lips soft and eager against his own. She was warm, always so warm, and so willing to give him anything he needed—food, a roof over his head, companionship.She had been like this since the moment he arrived, devoted and doting, offering him every comfort. He wasn’t sure if he had encouraged it or if she had simply decided for herself. Either way, it was easy to let her take care of him, easy to sink into her warmth at night after long days of fruitless effort.She hugged him tighter and pressed another kiss to the hollow of his throat. “I set your cologne in your study if you want to use it before the Town Hall meeting.”Daniil chuckled, reaching for her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles in thanks before finally standing. “You think of everything, don’t you?”She grinned, watching him as he walked toward the other room, where he kept most of his belongings—though in truth, he spent more nights in her bed than in the study.He found the bottle of cologne resting neatly by his notes and medical texts, a small but thoughtful gesture. He uncorked it, dabbing a small amount onto his neck and wrists, the familiar scent grounding him before he faced the day ahead.
Town Hall. Meetings… To finally address the plague.Daniil exhaled sharply, straightened his collar, and left the room.
☉ ☉ ☉
TOWN HALL MEETING.
Artemy arrived at the Town Hall breathless, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He had run all the way here, sensing the urgency in the message that summoned him, but before he could even straighten up, a booming voice greeted him.“Finally, you’re here!”Big Vlad stood before him, his face flushed, beady eyes darting around like a cornered animal, seeming nervous. He looked around and saw his son, Younger Vlad, along with Victor Kain, the Saburovs, Rubin and the Bachelor.Artemy pushed himself upright. “What’s happening?”“The situation is dire,” Vlad the Elder snapped, pacing back and forth. “We need to act now. We’ll go from house to house, gather every bit of food and medicine we can scrounge up. No exceptions. We need to prepare before this thing spreads.” He turned his gaze on Artemy, his voice sharp with expectation. “And you, Burahk, are to remain at the Lump. Ready to be called whenever the Olgimskys need.”Artemy frowned. He opened his mouth to argue, to say that he wasn’t some personal doctor on a leash, but before he could, another voice cut through the room.“That’s absurd,” Vlad the Younger said, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was firm, but there was an edge of unease in it. “No one in their right mind would just hand over their supplies. Do you think the townsfolk are blind? They know what’s coming, same as we do. And if we go around demanding their food and medicine, how do you think that’s going to make us look?”Vlad the Elder scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t care how it makes us look, so long as we survive.” His eyes gleamed with conviction, his voice nearly a growl. “That’s what matters.”Artemy’s frown deepened as he watched the two Olgimskys bicker. He could already see where this was headed—panic, resentment, maybe even riots. And worst of all, they were expecting him to play along.He exhaled sharply, already exhausted. “So what’s your plan?” he asked, voice edged with skepticism. “Kick down doors and steal from the people who need it just as much as we do?”Vlad the Elder gave him a sharp look, but before he could answer, Vlad the Younger spoke again, his voice quieter but no less forceful.“The last train that should have come with supplies is already a month late”. The man said, shaking his head. “If we do this wrong, we’ll tear the town apart before the plague even has the chance.”Artemy sighed, nodding. At least one of the Vlad’s seemed to have a good head on their shoulders.Victor Kain cleared his throat, cutting through the tense argument between the Olgimskys. His voice was smooth, deliberate. “What we need,” he said, “is to establish a hospital.”The room fell quiet.Victor clasped his hands in front of him, his calculating gaze sweeping over the gathered men. “The Theater is the only logical solution,” he continued. “It’s spacious. It’s centrally located. And it certainly won’t be used for its intended purpose in the foreseeable future.” His eyes flickered to Artemy. “All available doctors should assist, of course.”Artemy stiffened at the pointed way Victor said that, the unspoken challenge in his tone. He crossed his arms, meeting the Kain’s gaze with suspicion. “What’s it to you?”Victor didn’t blink. “It simply sounds as though you’ll only be tending to the Olgimskys.”Artemy felt something hot flare in his chest. He scoffed, stepping forward. “Bullshit,” he snapped. “I’ll treat anyone who’s sick and needs me.”Fat Vlad exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “I need you to take care of us, Burahk,” he said, his voice edged with frustration. “If the Olgimskys fall, the town falls, and that’s that.”Artemy felt his jaw tighten. “I’m not your lapdog,” he growled, taking a step forward.“Enough.”The single word cut through the room, spoken in a firm, authoritative voice. Artemy turned his head to see Alexander Saburov staring at them all, his hands resting on the table in front of him. His expression was stone.“No one can claim the doctors of this town,” Saburov continued. “They will come and go from district to district as needed. In fact, they will be the only ones permitted to do so.” He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the other families. “The rest of the citizens must stay within their designated areas. If necessary, they will not be allowed to leave their homes at all.”For once, Artemy agreed with Saburov. Beside him, Katerina Saburova nodded in agreement, but her eyes—dark and rimmed with exhaustion—were locked onto Artemy. There was something in them that unsettled him. She looked… Afraid. Of him. Artemy frowned but before he could make sense of that Daniil spoke, gathering the attention of the group. He stood with his arms crossed, his eyes sharp and unwavering. “We need a vaccine,” he said firmly, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs in the room. “Something to protect the healthy before they get sick.”Artemy frowned, shaking his head. “Vaccines are before or after an outbreak, not during one. It’s useless now.” His tone was clipped, his patience already worn thin from the weight of everything on his shoulders. “Why would we waste time treating those who aren’t sick instead of the ones who are?”Daniil’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because I’m not just thinking about this town. A plague of this scale could wipe out the entire country if we don’t contain it. We need to be proactive. We need a way to stop it from spreading before it reaches beyond these walls.”Artemy scoffed. “So you just want to protect the people from the Capital? That’s what this is really about.”Daniil’s brows furrowed. “I’ll take full responsibility,” he said, brushing past Artemy’s words. “All I need is your expertise. You don’t even have to agree with me—just be close at hand. We only have three doctors in this town.”Artemy exhaled sharply. “No deal.” He met Daniil’s eyes, his voice resolute. “I take responsibility for my own actions, not yours.”Daniil sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “You’re wasting time chasing a fantasy,” he muttered. “A cure is an unfeasible dream, Burahk. A vaccine is the only thing within our reach.”Artemy shook his head. “Then I’ll be the fool who reaches further. I need to find a cure’.The tension in the room thickened like curdled milk. Artemy could feel the weight of every gaze, the silent expectation that he would yield, that he would fall in line with the Bachelor’s plan. But before he could say anything, a sharp exhale cut through the air. Rubin, who had been quiet until now, looked up.“You know what we actually need?” Stakh muttered, his voice carrying an edge of exhaustion. “We need you to stop playing detective and focus on the damn task at hand.”Artemy turned to him, his jaw tightening. “Excuse me?”Rubin met his gaze, his expression unflinching. “Your father is dead. We don’t have time for you to go sniffing around for his killer like some grieving son in a tragedy. You want to do right by him? Then stop chasing ghosts and start doing what actually matters. Focus on saving people, before there’s no one left to save. It’s what he would have wanted."The words hit harder than a punch to the ribs. Artemy took a slow breath through his nose, clenching his fists at his sides. “And what exactly do you know about what my father would have wanted?” His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous.Rubin’s lip curled, and the bitterness in his eyes was cutting. “More than you, apparently. I was his true apprentice while you were gone.”Silence.The room felt colder, heavier. Artemy could feel everyone’s eyes shifting between them, waiting, watching.Artemy took a step forward. Rubin didn’t flinch. “I didn’t abandon my father,” Artemy said, his voice low but steady.Rubin laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Didn’t you?”“Gentleman, let’s stop this-” The Bachelor raised his hands, trying to get in between them, but the argument between Rubin and Artemy escalated quickly.“You’re so desperate to replace him,” Artemy spat, his voice low and sharp. “Is that it? You want to be Isidor Burahk so badly you’d rather erase his own son?”Rubin’s hands curled into fists. “I don’t need to erase you, Artemy! You did that yourself when you left! You want to waltz back in after six years and play the hero? Fine. But don’t act like you understand what your father wanted. You weren’t here. I was.”“I never wanted to leave!” Artemy yelled, his patience finally snapping. His voice echoed through the Town Hall, drowning out the murmurs around them. “He sent me away! He didn’t give me a choice! And you—” he took a step closer, staring Rubin down, “—you think you can stand in front of me and claim his legacy? You think you have the right to decide what he would have wanted?”The room was quickly descending into chaos. Voices rose, overlapping into a sea of tension. Daniil tried to calm them down. Saburov was muttering to his wife, and Fat Vlad was yelling at them to stop. Even Victor Kain, usually composed, was frowning deeply.And then—"ENOUGH!"The voice was commanding, and it cut through the clamor like a knife. Everyone froze.A figure stood in the doorway, dressed in elegant clothing. His presence was overwhelming, his posture so assured that it demanded silence. Giorgy Kain.Artemy felt the air shift, the weight of an old power settling over the room. Giorgy was a relic of another era—wise, calculating, and, despite his frailty, still commanding.“Enough of this bickering,” Giorgy continued, his voice firm but composed. His sharp, tired eyes swept over them all. “We are wasting time. There is work to be done.”A pause. Then, softer but no less severe:“If we do not act now, this town will not survive.”The silence that followed was suffocating. Artemy took a deep breath, unclenching his fists. Rubin was still staring at him, jaw tight, but he had the decency to stay quiet.Giorgy moved forward, slow and deliberate. “The Kains, Saburovs, and Olgimskys will all contribute to funding the hospital. The theater will be repurposed. It will become the center of our efforts.”Victor Kain nodded solemnly. Saburov, though reluctant, didn’t object. Even Fat Vlad, looking put out, waved a hand as if to say, fine, fine, whatever you want.Giorgy turned his gaze to Daniil. “The Bachelor will focus on developing a vaccine. Our only chance to contain this disaster is prevention.”Daniil nodded, looking satisfied.Giorgy's eyes flickered to Artemy and Rubin next. “The other doctors will do what they can to tend to the sick. You will distribute tinctures, medicine, aid the people.”Artemy caught the subtle omission.He hadn’t mentioned a cure.His gut twisted, but he said nothing. They could talk about vaccines and prevention all they wanted—Artemy knew what he had to do.He would find a cure. No matter what it took.As the meeting dispersed, the weight of responsibility hung heavy over everyone’s shoulders. People filed out of the Town Hall, murmuring amongst themselves, their hushed voices mixing with the sound of boots against the wooden floor. Artemy took a deep breath, turning to leave—only to find Rubin blocking his path.His old friend hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His expression was unreadable, but there was something restrained in his eyes, something struggling beneath the surface. Finally, he spoke."I don’t mean to offend you when I say this, I truly don’t, but…" Rubin’s voice was careful, deliberate. "You’re more of a pharmacist than a surgeon after the Capital. Leave the cutting of bodies to me."Artemy frowned, his exhaustion making his patience thin. "You’re not a Menkhu," he said evenly. "If you start opening people up, the Kin will be onto you."Rubin’s jaw tightened. "And you are?" He scoffed. "You’re no Menkhu either. Not yet, at least."Artemy felt his pulse tick in his temple. He hated that Rubin had a point. The title Kathanger weighed on him like a stone, the expectations of the Kin pressing into his shoulders. He had inherited his father’s role, but was he ready for it? Did the Kin even see him as one of their own anymore?But that wasn’t the point right now.He exhaled through his nose, studying Rubin carefully. "Why are you taking this risk?" He asked, voice quieter now. "Are you still trying to replace me?"Rubin’s fingers twitched at his sides, his lips pressing into a thin line."Stop trying to fit into shoes that are too big for you," Artemy continued, voice firm. "You’re not my father’s successor, Rubin. You never were."Rubin scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "Right. And you are?" His eyes were sharp with something bitter. "Keep telling yourself that, Cub." The nickname sounded cold in his voice.He turned on his heel, striding toward the door.Artemy called after him, "Are you still coming to the Apple Basket?"Rubin didn’t reply. Didn’t even look back.And then he was gone.Before Artemy could make a move to go after Rubin, a voice called his attention."Burahk."Artemy turned to see Giorgy Kain standing beside him, his expression grave, hands neatly folded behind his back. There was something in the judge’s eyes—something calculating, assessing."I have another task for you," Giorgy said. "The Stamatin brothers. Check on them."Artemy frowned. "The architects? Why them specifically?""They are valuable," Giorgy replied simply. "If they fall ill, we lose more than just two men. The very foundation of the Polyhedron is theirs. If they are infected, they are a top priority among the sick."Artemy crossed his arms, the exhaustion pressing heavy on his limbs. He knew how this town worked. The Kains, the Olgimskys, the Saburovs—they all had their own priorities, their own sense of who deserved to be saved first."I am a doctor," he said, keeping his voice even. "I will treat anyone in need, not just the people you deem worthy."Giorgy’s expression didn’t waver. He simply studied Artemy, as if weighing his very soul in his mind. And then, with a slight tilt of his head, he said, "Then consider them in need."Artemy exhaled sharply, already feeling the headache creeping in behind his temples. "Fine. I’ll stop by. You have nothing to worry about, Judge."Giorgy inclined his head in thanks. "Good."Without another word, he turned and left, his robes flowing behind him like a specter in the dimly lit hall.Artemy barely had a moment to think before he felt another gaze on him. He turned his head, catching the sharp, pointed stare of Daniil Dankovsky.The Bachelor said nothing—just gave him a look, as if he was trying to decipher something hidden beneath Artemy’s skin. And then, without a word, he turned on his heel and followed behind the Judge, his coat billowing slightly as he disappeared into the evening.Now, Artemy was alone.He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The Stamatins, then. Another stop. Another step closer to whatever hell this town was dragging him into.
☉ ☉ ☉
DANIIL TELLS EVA ABOUT THE SAND PLAGUE.
The Stillwater was quiet when Daniil stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of lavender and something warm, something rich and comforting. He barely registered it. His mind was elsewhere—clouded, distant, tangled in thoughts he couldn’t yet voice.Eva was there in an instant, her soft footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floor. “Daniil,” she murmured, touching his arm gently, her brows furrowing as she looked up at him. “You look exhausted.”He only hummed in response, shrugging off his coat with slow, mechanical movements.“Come,” she said, her voice warm, coaxing. “I made dinner. Just for you.”Daniil allowed himself to be led to the dining table, letting out a tired sigh as he sank into the chair she pulled out for him. A plate was set before him—roast meat, fresh bread, something fragrant and spiced. Normally, he would have made some remark about her dedication, about how she always seemed to know exactly what he needed. But tonight, he simply stared at the food, his appetite dulled by the weight pressing against his ribs.Eva sat across from him, resting her chin in her hands as she watched him. “You’re so quiet,” she said softly. “You’re not usually this quiet.”Daniil exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. He hadn’t told her yet. He had kept it from her, unsure how she would react. Everyone’s reaction to the Sand Plague had been so extreme, so visceral. Panic, fear, anger—he had seen it all, and he hadn’t wanted to see it in her.But maybe she deserved to know.He sighed, fingers curling around his fork before he set it back down. “Are you familiar with the outbreak from five years ago?” he asked, his voice quiet but heavy. “The Sand Plague—”The sound of breaking glass cut through the still air.Eva had dropped her goblet. The fine crystal shattered upon impact, shards scattering across the floor, red wine blooming like blood on the wooden planks.Daniil’s breath hitched.Eva was trembling.Her wide, tear-filled eyes stared past Daniil, past the broken goblet, past the dark stain of wine spreading across the floor. It was like she wasn’t even there anymore, lost in some distant, unseen horror.“It’s here, isn’t it?” she whispered, and then, like something inside her had snapped, she sobbed—loud, broken, gasping sobs that wracked her entire body.Daniil didn’t hesitate. He stepped over the shattered glass, the crunch of it beneath his boots lost beneath the sound of her cries, and scooped her into his arms. She was light—far too light, he thought absently—and she clung to him without a second thought, her face buried against his shoulder, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt as though holding on for dear life.She never wore shoes inside. He didn’t want her stepping on the glass.The dinner, the table, the world itself—forgotten.Daniil carried her to the living room and gently set her down on the couch. But she was still trembling, her sobs coming in uneven gasps, her breaths too shallow, too fast. She was panicking.He sank to his knees in front of her, resting a firm hand on her knee. “Eva,” he said, voice steady but low. “Breathe with me.”She shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.“You’re fine,” he insisted, his grip firm but grounding. “You are fine. Look at me.”She did. Slowly, tearfully, but she did.Daniil inhaled deeply, slowly. Held it for a moment. Then exhaled, just as slow. He did it again, steady and measured. And, shakily, Eva tried to match him.“That’s it,” he murmured, his fingers pressing against her knee, a gentle anchor. “Again.”Her breaths hitched, uneven, but she followed.Again. And again.Until, finally, her sobs quieted, her breaths deepening. The trembling in her limbs lessened, her grip on his shirt loosening.Eva sniffled, still trembling slightly, but her breathing had evened out. Her eyes, red-rimmed and shining with fresh tears, flickered up to Daniil’s face as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a second, a gentle reassurance, before pulling away.He studied her carefully, his sharp gaze full of concern. “Did you—” He hesitated, then asked, “Were you infected last time? Is that why you reacted so strongly?”Eva’s breath hitched, and she shook her head quickly. “Gods, no,” she whispered. “If I had been, I wouldn’t be here right now.” She sniffed again, rubbing at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “It wasn’t anywhere near the Bridge Square. It was on the Crude Sprawl, on the other side of town. They quarantined it. The plague didn’t get out.”Daniil frowned. She had been safe, then. Perfectly safe. Yet her panic had been so overwhelming, so visceral it was as if she had lived through it firsthand.Before he could press her further, Eva lifted her head, her expression shifting from grief to something more desperate. “Which districts are infected?” she asked, voice tight.Daniil pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m not sure yet,” he admitted. “But I know there was an infected house in the Hindquarters today.”Eva paled. “The Hindquarters…” she echoed, voice barely above a whisper.Daniil watched as she clenched her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress. There was something about the way she reacted, the way her eyes darted toward the window, the way her whole body tensed, as if waiting for something—something inevitable.Eva’s breath hitched again, her shoulders trembling as fresh panic crept in. Daniil moved instinctively, cupping her face in his hands, his touch firm but careful. His thumbs brushed lightly against her damp cheeks.“Eva,” he said, his voice steady, grounding. “Look at me. Breathe. You are fine. Breathe.”For a moment, she didn’t listen. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, her eyes darting toward the door like she was seconds away from bolting. But then, finally, she met his gaze, clinging to it like a lifeline. She sucked in a shaky breath, then another, until her ragged sobs softened into uneven hiccups.Then she broke completely. “Daniil—” Her voice cracked. “We need to run away.”Daniil stiffened.“Before they quarantine the town, before we can’t get out,” she continued, her words tumbling out between sobs. “We need to run, even if by foot—” She gasped, her hands gripping his coat. “We’d die in the Steppe, but at least it would be… it would be less excruciating.”Daniil’s frown deepened. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her properly. “Eva,” he started carefully, “I can’t leave.”She shook her head, her tear-streaked face contorting in frustration.“I have work to do,” he pressed on. “People need me. There’s my research—” His voice grew more determined. “I can’t just go, not when I’m so close to figuring everything out.”Eva let out a strangled noise, half a sob, half a plea. She shook her head again, harder this time. “You don’t understand,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his sleeves. “You weren’t here. You don’t understand how bad it was.”Daniil stared at her, frowning, thoughts racing. He had no practical experience with the Sand Plague, but he had dealt with deadly diseases before. Was it really that bad? He had read the reports, studied the medical notes, understood its terrifying mortality rate—but Eva’s reaction made it seem like something far worse than numbers on a page.Her whole body trembled, her breath still uneven, her eyes wide with something deeper than fear. It was horror. Pure, unfiltered horror.He exhaled slowly, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “Eva,” he murmured, his voice softer now, gentler. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”She sniffled, searching his face.“As long as I’m here,” he continued, his hands steady against her cheeks, “you’re protected. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I promise.”A fresh sob escaped her, but this time she didn’t break down again. Instead, she clung to him, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. Daniil stiffened slightly at first, unaccustomed to such unrestrained affection, but after a beat, he let his hands settle against her back.Then, to his utter surprise, she pulled back just enough to look at him—her eyes searching, her expression raw—and kissed him.Daniil froze.Her lips were warm, trembling against his, tasting faintly of salt from her tears. It was a desperate kiss, not careful or measured like he might have expected from someone like Eva—no, this was something else entirely. It was clinging, pleading, as if she was trying to drown out her fear with the feel of him.For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.Then, slowly, almost cautiously, he kissed her back.Eva’s fingers trembled as they worked at the buttons of his vest, her breath uneven, her eyes glossy with lingering tears. Daniil caught her hands gently, stilling her desperate movements.“Eva,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “Not like this.”She shook her head, her grip tightening as if afraid he would slip away. “I just want to stay with you,” she whispered, voice raw and fragile.Daniil exhaled, steadying her with his touch. He would never—could never—take advantage of a woman in such a state. He had always prided himself on control, on logic. And this—this wasn’t desire. This was fear, loneliness, the need to hold onto something solid as the world around her crumbled.He brushed his thumbs over her knuckles. “Then we’ll stay together,” he said softly. “I’ll sleep here with you. Just sleep. You need rest, Eva.”She hesitated, searching his face, then nodded, her shoulders sagging in relief.Wordlessly, Daniil lifted her into his arms. She let out a soft sound, and let him carry her through the dimly lit house. He placed her gently on the bed, smoothing a hand over her hair as she curled onto her side.With a sigh, he kicked off his boots and stripped off his vest and shirt before slipping under the covers beside her. Eva pressed in close, her head against his bare chest, fingers curling against his ribs.“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.She didn’t reply, but the way she held onto him said enough.Eva’s breath was still uneven, the occasional sob escaping as she clung to him. Daniil held her close, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, then another to her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment.“You’re safe,” he whispered against her skin. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”Her fingers curled into his side, as if anchoring herself, and he tightened his arms around her in response, letting her know he was there. Slowly, her trembling subsided. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady against his chest. Daniil waited until he was sure she had drifted off before finally allowing himself to exhale, his gaze shifting to the ceiling.Her reaction had been… raw. Unchecked. A level of fear he hadn’t expected. He had heard stories of the outbreak from five years ago, read the reports, studied what little information there was. But Eva—she had lived through it. And the terror in her voice, the way she had begged him to run away, to flee before it was too late—A pang of something sharp and cold settled in his chest. He shoved it down, suffocating it before it could take root. No. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by fear. Fear was for those who surrendered, those who gave up. Daniil Dankovsky did not give up.His jaw tightened as he sighed, glancing down at Eva’s sleeping form. She looked so small like this, so fragile, her face still damp with tears.He ran a hand through her hair, gentle, careful.He had made a promise.And he always kept his promises.
☉ ☉ ☉
APPLE BASKET MEETING.
Artemy arrived at the Apple Basket ten minutes late, his lungs burning from running across town. The bonfire was already lit, its glow casting long, flickering shadows against the three familiar figures waiting around it.Lara, Rubin, and Bad Grief.They all looked up as he approached. No one said anything at first, but no one made a move to leave either. Artemy sighed in relief, stepping closer to the warmth of the fire.“I’m sorry I’m late, Notkin and Khan- Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m here now”. Artemy explained.For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of crackling flames and the distant howling of the wind through the train tracks. Then Grief cleared his throat."Been seeing the crows all over town lately," he muttered, kicking a stray pebble near his boot. "Damn things won’t shut up. It’s like they know something we don’t."Lara sighed, rubbing her arms despite the fire’s heat. "It’s an omen," she said softly, as if she didn’t want to say it at all.Grief let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, well. Everything in this town’s a damn omen now."Silence stretched again, and then Grief inhaled sharply, looking at the fire like it had personally betrayed him. "I fucked up." His voice was low, rough, something bitter clinging to the edges. "My boys… They’re not my boys anymore. They’re killing people in the streets, causing chaos. I can’t reel them back in."Artemy watched him, frowning. "Then pick a side."Grief huffed out another humorless laugh. "Pick a side? Cub, I don’t have a side anymore. I don’t get to pick. That choice was made for me a long time ago."He looked up then, and there was something hollow in his expression, something tired. Artemy had never seen him like this before."I’ve got one path ahead of me, and that’s that," Grief muttered. "No turning back."Rubin, who had been quiet until then, scoffed, arms crossed. "You always were good at making excuses, Grigory."Grief looked up sharply at the mention of his old name, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Maybe recognition. Maybe resentment.Rubin’s voice was as sharp as a scalpel. "You had to know this would happen sooner or later. In your line of work, everyone turns on themselves eventually. That’s how it ends, isn’t it? So you’re to blame for every death your men caused."Grief flinched. It was barely noticeable, but Artemy saw it."Shut up, Stahk." Artemy’s voice was low but firm, a warning. "If Grief is to blame for this, then we’re to blame for every death that’s about to happen." His gaze flicked between Rubin and himself. "We’re doctors. People are going to die under our hands. Are we murderers, too?"The fire crackled. Rubin’s jaw tightened.Then, suddenly, he turned his glare onto Artemy, something burning in his eyes. "You think I’m jealous of you, don’t you?"Artemy blinked, taken aback. "I don’t think anything!"Rubin let out a breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. "Because I am."Silence.Artemy stared at him, stunned. Rubin ran a hand down his face, sighing. "I’m just… angry." His voice was hoarse now, his usual sharpness dulled. "And I want to take it out on someone."He turned his gaze to Grief, and for a moment, they just looked at each other."I’m sorry." Rubin’s voice was quiet, but there was weight behind it.Grief hesitated for just a second, then exhaled, shaking his head. "It’s okay." His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "We’re all losing our minds here, anyway."Lara laughed softly, shaking her head. "No matter how much you bicker, you love each other, and that’s that."Artemy smiled. Bad Grief grinned, amused. Rubin, to no one’s surprise, scowled—but Artemy didn’t miss the slight blush creeping up his neck.Lara sighed, a warm smile tugging at her lips. "At times like these, smaller conflicts pale in comparison."Artemy leaned back, gazing at the flickering firelight. "Maybe one good thing came out of this plague, then."Lara hummed in thought, but then she shook her head. "It wasn’t the plague that brought us together." She met Artemy’s eyes, and her voice was gentle but firm. "It was you, Cub. Despite everything, you pulled us back. I’m proud of you."Heat rose to Artemy’s face, and he cleared his throat, looking away. "Come on." He chuckled. "You were always the rope that held us together."Lara’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for her satchel, opening it up and pulling out small rations—a piece of bread and jerky for each of them, along with small bottles of milk."It’s not much," she said apologetically as she handed them out."It’s more than enough," Artemy replied.They ate together in silence, the fire crackling between them, the warmth of their shared presence holding back the cold.No one said it, but they were all thinking the same thing.Tomorrow, everything could change. Tonight, at least, they had this.A flicker of movement caught their attention—a shadow shifting behind the stones, barely visible in the firelight.Artemy turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the small figure hunched behind the rocks. Dark hair, thin frame, stubborn little glare. Murky.He sighed and beckoned her closer. "Come here. The night’s too cold to be hiding in the dark."Murky didn’t move at first, her small fingers curling into fists. She was still glaring, but it was less hostile, more uncertain.Lara was already digging through her bag. "I would’ve brought more if I knew we’d have company," she murmured apologetically, pulling out the last piece of bread she had. She hesitated for a moment before handing it to Artemy.Artemy knelt down, holding the bread out to Murky. "Here. Take it."Murky hesitated. Then, without a word, she snatched it from his hand, turned on her heel, and ran.They watched as she disappeared into a rusted train wagon not far from them.Grief chuckled, shaking his head. "Feisty little thing, huh?"Lara, however, frowned. "Do you know her?"Artemy shrugged, still looking toward the wagon. "Barely. She’s called Murky." He paused. "Does she live there?"Grief leaned back on his hands, unconcerned. "Must be one of the Urchins. She probably saw us eating and wanted some."Lara sighed, her gaze lingering on the wagon, something heavy settling in her expression. "She must be one of the orphans left by the tragedy five years ago. The first outbreak."Artemy stared into the fire, watching the embers pulse like a dying heartbeat.The first outbreak. He had only heard about it in passing from the townsfolk. But now, with Lara’s words hanging heavy in the air, the weight of it settled in his bones.It had happened just a year after he left. Maybe if he hadn’t stopped writing, he would know more about it.The Crude Sprawl, quarantined by his father’s hand. No one allowed in. No one allowed out. Everyone inside left to die. Not a single survivor.His mind conjured the image of Murky, small and scared, standing at the edge of that invisible wall, watching helplessly as her home was swallowed whole. Had she cried? Had she screamed? Or had she simply stood there, silent, watching smoke rise from the pyres?Artemy clenched his fists.His father had done what needed to be done—he had no doubt about that. The old man was many things, but careless wasn’t one of them. But still, it had left a child to fend for herself.And now she was sleeping in a train car, glaring at the world through hollowed-out eyes.Artemy exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts aside. Dwelling wouldn’t change the past.He lifted his gaze, looking at the faces around the fire—Lara, Grief and Rubin. All anchors in his life, all here, despite everything.They were all caught in this storm together."We’ll figure this out," he said, his voice quiet but steady. He met each of their gazes. "I promise."None of them spoke for a moment, the weight of his words settling between them. Then, they nodded.The fire burned on.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

☉ ☉ ☉SCENE DANIIL ARGUING WITH CLARA.
Artemy and Daniil stood in the town square, their voices sharp against the heavy, sickened air. Clara stood between them, her small frame rigid, her dark eyes flashing with frustration.“You’re blinding them,” Clara snapped, her voice trembling, though whether with anger or exhaustion, Daniil couldn’t tell. “They don’t believe because you don’t believe. And without faith, what do they have left? How do you expect them to survive?”Daniil scoffed, crossing his arms. “Faith? That’s what you’re clinging to now? Faith doesn’t cure the sick, Clara. Medicine does. Hard work does. If your so-called ‘miracles’ are failing, then maybe—just maybe—it’s because they were never real in the first place.”Clara clenched her fists. “You—”“No, tell me, Clara,” Daniil cut in, stepping closer, his voice like a knife. “Where did you come from? You just appeared, didn’t you? Right as the plague started, no less. And yet you expect people to see you as a savior?” His dark eyes burned into her, sharp with accusation. “Maybe your so-called ‘powers’ are real. But if that’s the case, then you must be the disease itself—because nothing that comes from this town is ever good.”For the first time, Clara faltered. The color drained from her face, her lips parting slightly as if he had physically struck her. Daniil smiled smugly, already prepared for whatever sharp-tongued retort she would throw back at him.But no words came.Instead, Clara’s eyes filled with tears.She blinked rapidly, her breath hitching, and then, before either of them could react, she turned on her heel and ran.Artemy, who had been standing silently at the sidelines, sighed heavily. “Clara—” He took half a step forward, but she was already gone, disappearing into the alleyways like a ghost.Artemy groaned, rubbing a hand down his face before turning his sharp glare on Daniil.“What?” Daniil said, throwing up his hands. “You hate her too!”Artemy exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t hate her.”Daniil scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please. You at least dislike her.”Artemy shook his head, his jaw tight. “Maybe. But I’m not going to make her cry because of it.”Daniil let out a short, exasperated laugh. “She’s a fraud, Burahk! Have you seen her heal anyone? Anyone at all? She walks around like she’s some holy prophet, but all she does is get in our way!”Artemy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking at him again. “Maybe. But she’s just a child.”Daniil frowned. “She’s old enough to know right from wrong. And she is a liar.”“Maybe,” Artemy admitted. “But what if she actually believes what she’s saying?” His voice was calmer now, more thoughtful. “She just wants to help, even if she’s going about it the wrong way. She only gets in the way because you love bickering so much.”Daniil bristled. “I don’t love bickering.”Artemy raised an eyebrow, giving him a knowing look.Daniil huffed, crossing his arms and looking away. “We should go to the hospital.”Artemy sighed but said nothing, following as Daniil turned on his heel. But as they walked, Daniil found that he couldn’t shake the image of Clara’s tear-filled eyes from his mind.
☉ ☉ ☉NOTKIN INFECTED.
Artemy stepped into the warehouse, his grip tightening around the small, crude package in his pocket. A shmowder, the so-called miracle. A cure, if the children’s whispers were to be believed. He didn’t trust it—not yet—but if there was even a chance… he had to try.The Soul-and-a-Halves headquarters was unusually quiet when Artemy arrived. He felt the tension before he even stepped inside, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.One of the older boys—thirteen, maybe fourteen—strode toward him, his face set in a serious expression that didn’t quite fit his youthful features. Without a word, the boy extended a folded piece of paper.Artemy took it and unfolded it, his eyes scanning over the crude lines and markings. It was a map of the town. Certain districts were marked in red.He frowned and looked up, silently asking for an explanation.“We ran the town,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “Figured you’d need to know which places are sick.”Artemy’s grip on the paper tightened. Fools. His stomach twisted at the thought of these children—so small, so fragile—wandering into infected districts, breathing in death without realizing how easily it could claim them.He crouched to the boy’s level, his expression hard. “You’re telling me you’ve been out there? In the infected districts?”The boy shrugged, avoiding his gaze.“That’s reckless,” Artemy said firmly. “You can’t— go near those places, do you understand? The plague doesn’t care how brave you are. It will kill you.”Still, the boy didn’t meet his eyes, but Artemy noticed the way his fingers clenched at his sides. He was scared—just too proud to admit it.Artemy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I thank you for this, though,” he said, holding up the map. “It’s really helpful.”That got a reaction. The boy’s shoulders eased slightly, and a small, pleased smile crossed his face. Artemy exhaled and glanced back down at the map. The districts marked in red were spreading. Fast.He needed to see Patches. Then, he needed to get to work.“How’s Patches?” He asked, frowning when the boy visibly trembled.He wouldn’t meet Artemy’s eyes and shifted on his feet for a few seconds, staring down at his scuffed shoes.“He’s dead.”Artemy inhaled sharply.“When?”The boy swallowed hard before answering.“At dawn.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “The disease took him at dawn.”Artemy let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. He had known it was a possibility—the tinctures weren’t a cure, only a delaying tactic. But still, hearing it confirmed sat heavy in his chest.“I’m sorry,” he murmured.The boy shook his head. “Don’t worry, doc. At least you tried. That’s more than what that big city bachelor did.”Artemy nodded, clenching his jaw as he pictured Daniil’s face. “Is everyone else okay?” he asked carefully.The boy paled at that, hesitating for a moment before shaking his head.“Notkin didn’t leave Patches’ side,” he admitted. “Told us all to stay away. But he took care of him himself, and now he is…”His jaw clenched, words failing him, but Artemy didn’t need him to finish. His stomach dropped.He already knew.The weight of the shmowder in Artemy’s pocket felt heavier than it had any right to be. A miracle cure, the children claimed. He wasn’t sure if he believed in miracles, but he was running out of options.“Take me to Notkin,” he said, voice firm.The boy nodded without hesitation, turning on his heel and leading him deeper into the warehouse. The usual scuffling of feet and whispered conversations had died down. The Soul-and-a-Halves were silent, watching from the shadows as Artemy moved past them.When he reached the far end of the room, he saw Notkin lying on a thin mattress atop some crates. The boy who had led him there lingered nearby, his hands clenched into tight fists.Artemy crouched down beside Notkin, already assessing. It was bad. Feverish skin, labored breaths, sweat soaking through his shirt. The plague was ruthless.No time to hesitate.Artemy reached into his pocket and pulled out the little box. He pried it open, revealing the fine white powder inside. It didn’t look like much. Certainly didn’t smell like medicine. But it had to work. It had to.Supporting Notkin’s head with one hand, Artemy carefully tilted it back, using the other to sprinkle the powder into his mouth. He pressed his fingers against Notkin’s lips, making sure they stayed closed.“Swallow,” he murmured, more to himself than to the unconscious boy. He waited, watching as the powder dissolved into saliva, slowly making its way down Notkin’s throat.Now, all he could do was wait.Artemy sat on the crate beside Notkin’s makeshift bed, arms crossed, watching. The room was suffocatingly still, the children holding their breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen. The only sound was the occasional dripping of water from the ceiling and the ragged rise and fall of Notkin’s breath.Minutes dragged. Then half an hour passed.And then—Notkin stopped trembling.Artemy leaned forward, his heart pounding. The boy was still pale, still sick, but there was something different now. The awful, sand-like texture of his skin was fading. His breathing, though shallow, was steady.Then, with a small cough, Notkin’s eyelids fluttered open.“Water…” he croaked.A child darted forward, pressing a bottle into Artemy’s hands. He uncapped it and helped Notkin sit up just enough to drink. Notkin swallowed greedily, water dribbling from the sides of his lips, and when he pulled away, his gaze locked onto Artemy’s, wide and desperate.“Kill me,” he whispered.Artemy froze.Notkin’s hands clenched around the fabric of Artemy’s coat. His voice was weak, but his words were clear. “Please… do it. I don’t want to infect them.”Artemy quickly pressed his palm to Notkin’s forehead, checked his pulse again, his breathing. Notkin was still sick, but…His stomach clenched.“You’re not infected,” Artemy said firmly. “Not anymore.”Notkin blinked, his breath hitching. “What?”“You’re sick, yes, but not with the plague. It’s gone.”The other children began murmuring behind him. Notkin just stared, eyes flickering with disbelief.“Are you sure?” His voice was hoarse.Artemy met his gaze. “Yes. You’re safe.”Notkin frowned, shifting to sit up further, but his limbs were still weak. Artemy caught his shoulder, steadying him before he could fall back. The boy huffed, frustrated at his own fragility, and clenched his fists.Around them, the other children crept closer, their eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.Notkin turned to Artemy, his voice hoarse but sharp. “How the hell did you do that?”Artemy exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “I found a shmowder,” he admitted. “One of your so-called miracle cures.”Notkin’s breath hitched. His brown eyes widened as he stared at Artemy. “And you used it on me?”Artemy blinked, confused by the reaction. “Yes.”“Why?”“What do you mean, why?”Notkin swallowed hard and looked away, his fingers curling around the thin blanket draped over him. “There are tons of people dying,” he muttered. “People who need it more. Who deserve it more.”Artemy sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t let you die.”Notkin sucked in a sharp breath, his face twisting as if Artemy had struck him. His throat bobbed as he choked out something that almost sounded like a sob—but he quickly turned his head away, biting it down, swallowing it back.Artemy realized then—Notkin didn’t want to cry in front of the others. He was their leader, their protector. Even now, after surviving the plague, he wanted to seem strong for them.So Artemy didn’t say anything.Instead, he gave Notkin’s shoulder one last steadying squeeze before pulling back. “Rest,” he said simply. “We’ll need you back on your feet soon.”Notkin exhaled slowly, grounding himself, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. The other children remained close, watching their leader, their doctor, their miracle.For now, they were safe.
☉ ☉ ☉SCENE WITH MURKY ASKING FOR FOOD.
The lair was damp and dimly lit, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows against the stone walls. A map of the town lay sprawled across the table, weighed down by whatever they could find—an empty tin cup, a scalpel, a rusted bullet casing. The markings they’d made in ink traced the plague’s spread like veins of rot, creeping and inescapable.Daniil pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “We need to be more efficient,” he said, his voice clipped. “People are dying because we’re wasting time on outdated rituals and superstitions.”Artemy, who had been carefully mixing a tincture by candlelight, didn’t even look up. “They’re dying because a disease is eating them from the inside out,” he replied coolly. “Not because they believe in things you don’t understand.”Daniil scoffed. “No, but their blind faith in nonsense is making it harder for us to treat them. The Kin refuse medicine, the town folk refuse to listen, and we’re running in circles because people would rather hold on to their ‘customs’ than survive.”Artemy finally looked at him, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “You think they’re stupid.”Daniil folded his arms. “I think they’re desperate.”Artemy let out a humorless laugh. “No, you think you know better than them. That’s the real problem. You waltzed in here with your city knowledge and expected everyone to bow to it. And when they didn’t, you blamed them.” He shook his head, setting down his tincture with a little too much force. “If you didn’t walk around like you were too good for this place, maybe they’d listen to you.”Daniil opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, the heavy iron doors groaned open. Light barefoot steps were heard on the stairs and then Murky slipped inside, her small frame barely making a sound as she entered the room.Both men fell silent as she approached, her dark, solemn eyes flicking between them before she stopped in front of Artemy. She lifted her arms, wordlessly asking to be picked up.Artemy shot a glare at Daniil before crouching down. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now.Murky didn’t look at him. She frowned, her tiny hands curling into fists and dropping down. “I’m hungry.”Daniil sighed, rubbing his temple. Of course she is. Food was scarce. They were all barely eating, stretching rations thinner and thinner just to keep going. They couldn’t afford to spare anything, not now. The child would have to fend for herself, just like the other orphans. That was how it worked. That was how it had to work.But before he could say anything, Artemy was already moving. He stood, walked over to the cabinet, and without hesitation, took out bread and jerky, Daniil’s eyes widening as he realized there was nothing left.Daniil watched in disbelief as Artemy knelt back down and pressed the food into Murky’s waiting hands. She grabbed it without a word and immediately turned to leave, her small figure disappearing as quickly as she’d arrived.Daniil stared after her, then turned sharply to Artemy. “Why the hell would you do that?”Artemy didn’t even look at him. He simply closed the cabinet door as if nothing had happened. “She needed it more than I do.”Daniil let out an incredulous laugh, his hands thrown up in frustration. “Oh, that’s rich. What about you? You can’t just go without eating. You’re already stretched too thin.”Artemy shrugged, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll manage.”“You can’t just ‘manage’!” Daniil snapped. “We need every doctor alive and functioning, and if you starve yourself to death, you’ll be no use to anyone.”Artemy finally turned to face him, his expression calm but firm. “I can go without food for a day,” he said simply. “Murky can’t.”Daniil clenched his jaw, anger bubbling up inside him. He wasn’t even sure who he was angrier at—Artemy, for his self-sacrificing nonsense, or himself, for not understanding it.“She didn’t even thank you,” Daniil muttered bitterly.“She doesn’t have to,” Artemy replied, glaring.The tension in the lair was already thick, but at Daniil’s scoff, it became suffocating. He shook his head, placing his hands on his waist with a sharp exhale.“Honestly, Burakh, you could do better than letting these wild, beast-like little rats follow you around. You can’t afford to help them. We need—”Before he could finish, he was off his feet.Artemy’s hand had caught the front of his shirt, yanking him forward before slamming him back against the cold stone wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, his boots barely touching the ground as Artemy lifted him, his grip iron-tight around the fabric of Daniil’s vest.For the first time since arriving in this wretched town, Daniil was afraid.Not just wary, not just cautious—afraid.Artemy’s blue eyes were nothing like their usual self—no warmth, no wry amusement, no reluctant patience. They were sharp and wild, burning with a fury so raw that Daniil felt his stomach twist.His back ached from the force of being shoved against the wall, but he kept his face carefully composed, even as his pulse thundered in his ears.“Don’t talk about her like that,” Artemy growled, his voice a low snarl. His grip tightened, the fabric of Daniil’s vest straining. “Don’t EVER talk about her like that.”Daniil’s fingers twitched, instinct screaming at him to do something—to push back, to reach for the scalpel at his belt, to try anything—but he didn’t. Because for all his arrogance, for all his certainty in his own wit and intellect, he knew one thing for sure: If Artemy really wanted to hurt him, there was nothing he could do to stop it.Burakh was twice his size. Stronger. Even if he had left the town for years to study, he still had that survival instinct as if he came from a place that devoured the weak. And right now, he looked like a beast poised to tear him apart.Daniil swallowed, forcing himself to breathe evenly. His voice, when he spoke, was sharp but steady. “What?” he asked coolly, “Are you going to hurt one of the only doctors left in town?”Artemy didn’t answer right away. His grip on Daniil’s shirt remained tight, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.Then, finally, he let go.Daniil hit the ground, stumbling slightly as he caught himself, immediately straightening his vest and brushing down his shirt as if nothing had happened. He ignored the way his hands shook slightly.Artemy took a step back, exhaling heavily before running a rough hand through his hair. His voice was quieter now, but still simmering with barely-contained anger.“You’re lucky we need you,” he muttered.Daniil let out a short, humorless laugh, though his heart was still hammering. Lucky indeed, or else he’d be on the ground with his teeth knocked out.The silence between them was thick, both men still tense. Daniil sighed sharply and adjusted his sleeves. “Can we get back to discussing important matters now?”Artemy clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. “Fine,” he said, his voice still low. “But I’m telling you—one more word about the children—”“Sure, sure,” Daniil interrupted, rolling his eyes as if he weren’t still reeling from nearly being throttled. “I won’t say anything more about the urchins. Can we please focus on the task at hand?”Artemy let out a slow, frustrated breath, but after a long moment, he nodded.The conversation resumed, but the air between them remained charged, the memory of hands at his collar and fury in blue eyes lingering in the back of Daniil’s mind.The tension between them hadn’t eased by the time they stepped out of the Lair. The argument still simmered under their skin, and neither had spoken much since deciding to leave. Artemy’s shoulders were tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Daniil, for his part, held himself stiffly, his chin tilted just slightly higher than usual in that way that meant he was biting back some sharp remark.The cool, plague-tainted air wrapped around them as they emerged, and just as Daniil took a step forward, his sharp eyes caught a small figure hiding behind an old barrel.Murky.He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.She wasn’t trying very hard to actually hide—her dark eyes were wide and unblinking as she stared at him, and it made the back of his neck prickle.Artemy, however, sighed and crouched down, his voice softer than it had been all evening. “Did you eat?”Murky nodded once, quick and sure, but she still stared at Daniil, her gaze intense.Artemy tilted his head slightly. “Are you thirsty?”Murky finally tore her gaze away from Daniil, shaking her head. Then, wordlessly, she lifted her small, clenched fist.Daniil frowned.Artemy extended his palm without hesitation, and Murky dropped something into it. A small, curved object clinked against his skin—a fingernail, golden and worn.An Odongh’s coin.Daniil’s eyebrows lifted slightly, surprised, but Artemy just smiled at the girl, shaking his head in quiet amusement.Murky glared at him in return, as if scolding him for being pleased, before she turned and scurried off, disappearing into the Steppe behind the Lair.Artemy straightened, rolling the coin between his fingers before slipping it into his pocket. Then, he turned to glare at Daniil, his expression smug, like he’d just proven a point.Daniil exhaled sharply, crossing his arms.“Be more thankful,” Artemy said dryly. “We won’t have to walk to the Shelter thanks to her.”Daniil sniffed, tilting his chin slightly. “I suppose,” he allowed. “She could be a little more tactful with how she acts, though, don’t you think? She looks wi—” He caught himself, lips pressing into a thin line as he searched for a more neutral word. “… Weird.”Artemy scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Weird?”Daniil lifted a hand dismissively. “She’s different. That’s all I meant.”Artemy studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. “Murky is different,” he agreed. “That doesn’t make her wrong.” His voice lowered slightly, less confrontational now, but still sharp. “I’d think someone like you—someone ostracized by the town—would have a little more empathy.”Daniil’s jaw tightened at that, but he said nothing, looking away.Artemy clicked his tongue and turned toward the direction the Odongh boat was. “Come on,” he muttered. “Before it leaves without us.”Daniil followed, silent for now, but he couldn’t shake the lingering weight of Artemy’s words.
☉ ☉ ☉ARTEMY’S NIGHTMARE.
Artemy stepped into the Lair, exhaustion weighing on his limbs, but the moment he crossed the threshold, his breath caught in his throat.They were there. All of them.The children from his father’s list—Capella, Notkin, Khan, Murky, Grace, Sticky, Taya—dangling from the ceiling, ropes tight around their necks, their bodies limp and lifeless.Artemy gasped, staggering back, his vision blurring with tears. His stomach twisted violently, bile rising in his throat. No. No, this couldn’t be real. This wasn’t—A laugh.Low and cruel, echoing from the shadows.A figure stepped forward, shrouded in the dim light. It wore the costume of an orderly, surrounded by the darkness of the theater’s uniform, but Artemy knew—knew—this was no mere man.It was the plague.He could feel it radiating from the figure like a sickness in the air, thick and suffocating.Artemy’s hands curled into fists, his body trembling with fury and horror. “What did you do?” he choked out, voice raw.The plague only laughed, tilting its head like it was mocking him, reveling in his agony.“This is your future,” it purred. “Better get used to the sight.”And then—A snap.All at once, the ropes broke. The children fell.Artemy reached out, screaming—And woke up.His body jerked upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. Cold sweat clung to his skin, and his breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.The Lair was silent.No bodies. No ropes. No laughter.Just the dark, empty space around him.Just a nightmare.Artemy ran a shaking hand down his face, exhaling shakily. But even as he tried to shake it off, the image of their lifeless bodies remained burned into his mind.A warning.A threat.And, maybe, a promise.Artemy bolted upright, his breath still ragged, his body still trembling from the remnants of the nightmare. His heart pounded against his ribs as his eyes darted around the dimly lit room, searching—Sticky.The boy lay curled on his thin mattress across the room, his chest rising and falling in steady, even breaths. Peaceful. Alive. Safe.Artemy let out a shaky exhale, pressing a hand against his forehead. Just a dream. It was just a dream.The sound of a door creaking open upstairs snapped him back to reality.His muscles tensed. His nightmare was still too fresh in his mind, the image of the ropes, the laughter, the way the bodies fell—His feet moved before his thoughts caught up. He climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time, dread curling in his gut. The Lair’s upper room—the very place where they had hanged—He reached the top, his breath held.Murky.She was standing in the doorway, staring at the floor, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her little face set in a deep scowl.Artemy exhaled, tension bleeding from his body.“…It’s late,” he muttered, his voice still rough with sleep.Murky didn’t look at him, only shuffled inside and grumbled, “Didn’t ask to be told the time.”Artemy ran a hand through his hair, sighing. She was fine. Sticky was fine. The others—he’d check on them soon.For now, he just needed a moment to breathe.Murky finally looked up at him, her dark eyes peeking out from beneath her unkempt hair.“Is Sticky here?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm.Artemy leaned against the railing, rubbing the sleep from his face. “He’s sleeping.”Murky frowned, looking down at her feet. For a moment, she said nothing, just shifted from one foot to the other like she was gathering her thoughts. Then, finally, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a small handful of something, and held out her closed fist.“Can you give him this?” she muttered. “And tell him I’m sorry?”Artemy opened his palm, and she dropped a few hazelnuts into his hand. Sticky’s favorite.Artemy looked at the nuts, then at Murky. “Did you two fight?”Murky gave a short, jerky nod. “About you.”His brows lifted. “Me?”She shifted again, her arms crossed over her chest. “Sticky said that Old Burakh was good, that you’re good.” She scowled deeper. “I said there was nothing to love about either of you.”Artemy huffed a soft laugh, despite the pang in his chest. “And that started a fight?”Murky didn’t answer, only glared down at the floor like she was willing it to crack open beneath her.Artemy looked down at the hazelnuts in his hand, then back at her. “I’ll give them to him,” he said, slipping them into his pocket.Murky nodded, but she still didn’t look at him. Instead, she turned toward the door again, as if she was ready to leave.“Wait, Murky.”She stopped in her tracks, turning her head just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her frown was ever-present, brows drawn together like she was already annoyed at whatever he was about to say.Artemy hesitated, then crossed his arms. “Are you living in the train wagon near the Apple Basket?”Murky scuffed her foot against the floor but eventually nodded.He exhaled, shaking his head. “The other kids… they don’t have a place for you to stay?”She shrugged. “They say I’m weird.”Something in Artemy’s chest tightened at that. He had already suspected as much, but hearing her say it so plainly, so matter-of-fact, made his stomach twist.He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen… you could stay here.”Murky finally turned to face him fully, blinking in surprise.“It’s not much,” he admitted. “But it’s better than sleeping out in the cold. Sticky’s here too, so you wouldn’t be alone.”Her eyes stayed wide for just a second longer before she scowled again, crossing her arms. “No,” she said firmly. “I’ll never live with you.”Artemy lifted a brow. “Never?”Murky huffed, looking away. “No. Because I don’t love you.”He sighed again, but before he could say anything, she added, “…I can maybe stay a little while. But only when you have food.”Artemy let out a soft chuckle at her words, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. I’ll find something for you to eat.”Murky gave a small nod of approval but didn’t move to leave just yet. Instead, she glanced down, scuffing her bare feet against the floor.After a moment, she mumbled, “I have to go. I have to meet my friend.”Artemy tilted his head. “Friend?”She nodded again. “A new friend. I just met them.”That made him frown slightly. “Do you want me to walk you there? It’s still dark out.”Murky immediately shook her head, looking up at him with something like irritation. “No.”Artemy lifted a brow. “No?”She hesitated before clarifying, “My friend doesn’t like you.”That only made him laugh again. “Oh? And why’s that?”Murky frowned, like she wasn’t sure how to put it into words. “They just don’t.”Artemy smirked. “Do I know them?”She shook her head again, then finally clarified. “They don’t like you because you’re a doctor.”At that, Artemy huffed a laugh, rubbing his chin. “Huh. Usually, that’s the only thing people like about me.”Murky just scowled, clearly unimpressed, before turning to leave. Artemy let her go, though he watched her until she disappeared into the night, his amusement lingering but his concern creeping in as well.☉ ☉ ☉STICKY AND THE TOOL KIT.Artemy met Sticky at Bridge Square as the sky was painted in fading shades of red and gold, the sun sinking behind the rooftops. The boy was practically bouncing on his feet, brimming with excitement. “I found you a tool kit,” he announced proudly.Artemy raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “For free?”Sticky smirked. “Of course, for free! Don’t you trust me?”Artemy sighed, already regretting asking. “Alright. Where is it?”Sticky gestured toward a small general store just down the street. “In there,” he said.“Do you know the owner?” Artemy asked.Sticky nodded, then snorted. “He thinks he’s so smart, but he’s got a hole in the wall at the back of the store. I can sneak in and out without him realizing in a snap.”Artemy stopped mid-step, his eyes widening in realization. “Wait. Are you saying you’re going to steal it?!”Sticky hesitated for a fraction of a second before squaring his shoulders, crossing his arms in defiance. “Do you want the tool kit or not?! We are saving lives here, time is of essence!”Artemy exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Sticky—”The boy groaned, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like the shopkeeper even needs it! He hoards everything and sells it at outrageous prices! I bet he wouldn’t even sell it to you if you had the money!”Artemy sighed again, heavier this time. Sticky wasn’t exactly wrong. The town had become merciless overnight—every merchant, every shopkeeper, was wringing the desperate for all they were worth. But still…He looked at Sticky, who was staring up at him expectantly, his expression a mix of defiance and something pleading underneath. Artemy could tell that, despite all his bravado, Sticky just wanted to help. He thought this was the best way.Artemy rubbed his jaw. “…Show me the shop first. Let’s see if I can convince the owner without breaking the law.”Sticky groaned. “Ugh, fine. But if you fail, I’m handling it my way.”Artemy shook his head, muttering under his breath as he followed the boy toward the store.As Artemy stepped into the dimly lit shop, the smell of dust and old wood filled his lungs. The air was thick with the scent of metal and oil, tools and supplies stacked haphazardly on shelves. He heard Sticky shuffle behind him, but his focus quickly shifted to the man standing behind the counter.The shopkeeper, a man in his late forties with a face as weathered as old leather, was glaring at him. His scowl was even worse than Artemy’s own, his thick brows knitted together in open suspicion.Artemy swallowed hard but stood his ground. “Do you have a tool kit?”The man grunted. “Sure do.”“How much?”The shopkeeper leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, and drawled, “8,000 gold.”Artemy nearly choked. “That’s beyond outrageous!”“Take it or leave it,” the man said flatly.Artemy clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose to steady himself. He forced his voice to remain calm. “I’m one of the only doctors left in this town. I need that kit to repair a machine—one that can help produce more medicine. People are dying.”The shopkeeper looked up from where he’d been idly picking at his nails and raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. His expression didn’t waver. “Like I said. Take it or leave it, doc.”Artemy stared at him, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn’t have that kind of money—not even close.Artemy turned to leave, his mood sour, but as he stepped outside, he noticed something odd—Sticky was nowhere to be seen.He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck in confusion. “Sticky?” He called out, glancing up and down the street. Nothing.Then, from behind the building, a voice called out, strained but triumphant, “A little help here?!”Artemy whipped around and his eyes widened. Sticky was dragging a massive burlap sack, struggling to haul it across the dirt ground.“What the—?” Artemy rushed over, crouching to grab the heavy bag. With one swift motion, he hoisted it over his shoulder, feeling the weight of solid metal tools shifting inside. He gawked at the boy. “You stole it?! When?! That was so fast—”Sticky grinned, breathless but smug. “While you were distracting him! We make a good team, huh, doc?”Before Artemy could reply, an enraged yell erupted from inside the store.“DAMN YOU FUCKING URCHINS!”The shopkeeper had noticed.Sticky’s eyes widened, and Artemy didn’t think—he just moved.He bent down, grabbed Sticky under one arm like a sack of grain, adjusted the stolen tools on his back, and bolted.They tore down the street, Artemy’s long strides carrying them faster than Sticky’s little legs ever could. Sticky yelped, flailing. “Hey—wait—I can run, you know!”“Not fast enough!” Artemy shot back, adjusting his grip.Behind them, the shopkeeper stormed out of the store, cursing at the top of his lungs. Artemy didn’t look back. He just ran, the weight of the stolen goods pressing into his back, the boy squirming in his grip, and his heart pounding with something dangerously close to exhilaration.