Page 121 of Hellbound

Her gut squirmed as she took in the innocent victim she hadn’t been able to save in the hedge maze. The idea of desecrating his body made her feel sick. All of her victims had been wicked and vile people. In this case, Ulrik had tried to help Petra to safety before his attackers overpowered him.

She hesitated.

Mirko’s brow quirked.

No, she had to maintain the ruse. She couldn’t let her emotions show, as it might lead Bohdan or Mirko to question her resolve.

The quicker she did it, the sooner it would end.

She unsheathed Caromir with a pitchy whine. The torchlight glinted off its silvery, slender edge before she buried the blade deep into the base of Ulrik’s skull.

A sickening crunching sound, along with a wet noise, echoed through the room.

Mirko’s hum followed. “Good amount of force, clean entry, but not the right angle. You will still kill a man this way, but you’ll make a mess…”

Ksenia paced her shallow breath, forcing it evenly through her nostrils as their lessons continued.

She practiced poking, prodding, slicing, and stabbing to become familiar with various entry points for her weapons, along with their benefits and ideal situations for use.

31

Her training sessions with Brina, Tomek, and Mirko took up her every waking moment, and deep in the night, she stole away to the forge to help her sister. Learning the languages of Gras and Dren, along with their cultures, fried her brain, and she often woke up with the pages stuck to her cheek.

Her morning lessons with Mirko left her drained from their time in the morgue or coated with questionable liquids and powders from their poison lessons. She even followed him to the hospital wing as he advised on more complex medical cases. Despite being a “traitor,” the staff was amicable and even excited to see him.

After lunch, she found particular enjoyment in talking with Brina about Grastelian ore and blacksmithing, and her studies of Gras accelerated as her interests grew. She eagerly consumed everything available about weapon design and alternative uses of the ore.

In the late afternoon, she met with Tomek. Though he was shy at first, he proved to be a patient and excitable teacher, fondly recalling Drenvar and teaching her the customs. He even went so far as to patiently correct each mispronounced syllable that fell from her mouth as she recited old stories and legends from dusty books back to him.

By evening, she was exhausted, mentally and physically, but still pushed herself to the limit in the relentless sparring sessions with Bohdan. He never gave her an inch, a break, or a moment’s respite as he battered her from every angle.

And amid everything, she planned her next kill according to Varka’s designs. It perfectly aligned with Vornaya’s nagging, creeping back to the surface.

All that practice—for what?

She ignored her intrusive voice and focused on the table before her. Upon it was a white powder, a glass goblet of water, a low-burning candle, and a vial of green crystals with a texture as coarse as salt.

Mirko gestured a fingerless nub at the glass dish before him, heaped high with the finely milled white powder. Ksenia watched him with cautious interest, her scarf hiked over her mouth and nose as he delicately scooped a pinch onto the end of a metal stir stick and deposited it into the clear goblet of water.

The moment it touched the liquid, it fizzled and disappeared. Leaving not a single particle behind.

Her brow furrowed, studying the liquid as Mirko lifted it to the light. It remained clear, with no occlusions, color, or viscosity changes to the naked eye.

Dangerous.

“Drink it.” He set the glass in front of her.

“That’s a terrible idea.” She scowled and pushed it back before crossing her arms.

“Suit yourself.” He snatched the glass forth and, before anyone could stop him, drained the entire goblet in a single gulp.

Suicide was one way to escape his situation, and Ksenia wouldn’t blame him.

“You’re insane…” she breathed, settling back in her chair with nothing to do but observe him with wide-eyed mortification.

“You have to be, to be Sevrant.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “If you know your poisons well, you’ll be fine—now, what do you remember about sleeper’s bane?”

Ksenia racked her mind through the countless concoctions Mirko had forced her to memorize.