Page 36 of Hellbound

She ran her lambskin-gloved hand down the polished railing of the grand staircase in quick descent, eager to get on with her day. With just a few more days before she could enter the trials, she felt the confidence in her bones—like the chances were increasing in her favor.

The foyer was unusually empty. A wax-sealed missive bearing the Beranek crest lay on a round wooden table in the center of the hall, addressed to her.

She grasped the parchment warily, bracing herself for whatever asinine task Varka had cooked up today. Perhaps it was an eviction notice to go live in the forest with a shelter of her own making, catch and cook her own game, and then return to the manor in time for her sparring lesson. It was better not to get comfortable around Varka.

She broke open the envelope:

Senka—

The game is simple: by next sunrise, break into the royal armory in Hearth and bring me the sword with an emerald in the hilt. If I’m left empty-handed when the sun touches the manor’s spires, consider yourself spared from entering the Sevrant trials.

You’ll find that the armory’s west wall is less guarded when it’s raining. Patrols double back every third pass. Guards carry keys on their belts. Take one if you can; if not, the hinges on the northern door have been rusting for years and its locks are primed for picking. Get out by morning and there’ll be a carriage waiting at the edge of the forest.

Think about the resources at your disposal.

—V,

All of her bravado evaporated. Break into Hearth.

Exactly what she had attempted to do several days prior, when she’d gotten her ass handed to her. And worse yet, Varka wanted her to steal something from within it.

Ksenia paced the marbled floor with a groan before stopping still.

Think about the resources at your disposal.

It had been a calculated risk that paid off to sit on her hands and prepare until sunset.

Ksenia found herself in the thick of the woods as she hacked away at greenery in a lesser-used location near Hearth—an aqueduct located at the bottom of the shallow cliffside beneath the castle.

A few years ago, Karsan had raided the entrance of the Vein with his Envorsen, fearing criminals were poisoning his wells. He had boxed in the Vein-dwellers and torched their structures, collapsing what tunnels they could without compromising the foundation of Hearth. It had since become a deserted place, with nature overtaking the entrance. Bramble and vine crisscrossed in a locked thicket that obfuscated it from view.

After that, no one would have been crazy enough to venture there again.

Except Ksenia, of course.

Caromir melted through the greenery like a scythe. Overhead, Hearth loomed with its black stone brick. Green and black mineral deposits stained the castle walls as thick sheets of rain pelted them sideways.

Within the tunnel, Ksenia took several tries to strike her waterlogged matches before igniting her torch. The air was heavy with mold and the scent of standing water.

She wrapped a wax-wool scarf around her head and mouth to protect against the pungent mildew. She was thankful she had freshly waterproofed her leather boots—courtesy of Varka’s proffered wardrobe—as she stepped into a puddle swirling with refuse. She crinkled her nose.

In her gloved hand, she protected Varka’s missive from the water dripping from the ceiling. She turned it over in the torchlight to refer to the crude schematic of Hearth she’d drawn after poring over countless historical architecture books from the Beranek library.

The accuracy was questionable, based mostly on a hunch and supported by references from authors and architects. Some of whom had designed structures or furnished the castle within, and theirs were personal accounts of the surroundings. However, she chose to believe it was better than coming in blind from a sewer grate and hoping it would let out remotely close to her target.

Five hundred paces in, the tunnel had squeezed her into a hunched position that would’ve driven Danika crazy from claustrophobia. Her torch flickered weakly as condensation encroached, threatening to snuff it out.

A vault-like stone chamber widened before her, and she recognized it as the old cistern that fed rainwater and mountain runoff into one of Hearth’s abandoned service wells. It was no wonder why. Ksenia heaved; the smell of damp limestone, rot, and mold was overwhelming after decades of stagnation.

She wiped her mouth and focused on the cistern channel in the corner. The steps were slimy, and Ksenia tucked the missive carefully into her shirt, clutching the slick walls as she sidestepped around the basin.

The service well wasn’t used, but the stonework still existed. Ksenia tugged on heavy leather gloves as she prepared for an upward climb. The Beranek forge was a lifesaver yet again. Ksenia kissed the rough iron pitons she had fashioned into a sort of snow shoe with a spike on the toe, then fastened it to her boot. She gave an experimental stab of the piton spike into the crumbling brick mortar of the well, testing half her body weight on it before gaining confidence to lean her full weight into it. With ice picks in either hand, she hauled herself up the service well.

It was a narrow fit, the back of her rucksack scraping the silty sides of the well, which was comforting; she used it to lean back and occasionally take a rest on her climb. Several stories up, she spotted a small beam of light at the well’s opening.

The ice pick chipped a stone brick, flakes raining down onto her and tumbling into the darkness below. She counted the seconds in her head.

Plink!