Page 142 of Hellbound

“Come.” He stood several paces away, hands clasped before him. Flanked by guards and his ever-present shadow, Bohdan.

Her jaw tightened, but she forced her feet toward him like the obedient bloodhound she was.

He surveyed her for a long moment.

She dropped to one knee at his feet. “Lord King, how may I be of service?”

Her heart palpitated.

“Rise, follow me.”

An exhale began to loosen from her lungs, but her chest remained tight as she fell into step and followed Karsan down the hall.

Karsan spoke without looking. “What are your theories on the killer, Captain?”

“They’re a risk taker, Lord King. They murdered Serafin after a sermon, with potential witnesses nearby.” Bohdan’s voice was cool and even. “This level of confidence suggests someone who knows our security measures enough to exploit them.”

“And you, Sevrant?”

“I agree with the captain. This is someone with access,” Ksenia began. “But they’re not always controlled. The beheadings were rage-driven, not as precise as your typical assassin.”

“Access.” Karsan repeated the word softly. “Yes, that’s what troubles me most. The killing is secondary—I can replace Serafin, there are plenty of clergy members clamoring for my attention already.”

He stopped and whipped around to face them. The full force of his pale, washed-out eyes held hers with unsettling focus. “I’m not a fool,” he said quietly. “Someone is testing me. Probing for weaknesses, waiting to see how I respond.” His eyes cut between the two. “Find the killer. Before they strike again.”

“Yes, Lord King,” came their reply in unison.

The next morning, Ksenia’s legs swung idly as she sat on a sturdy iron table in the morgue, with Bohdan pacing in front of Archbishop Serafin’s body like a caged wolf.

The body had finally washed downstream and onto the riverbank like an offering from its depths. The frigid water had unfortunately preserved his body well; his skin had become nearly translucent, with a grayish-blue undertone. A series of gouges, scrapes, and contusions littered his bloated body—no doubt from being bashed against the rocks.

The killing blow stood out cleanly: a gaping but small puncture wound between his fifth and sixth ribs.

“Still no sign of the murder weapon, Captain?” Ksenia’s tone was light.

“No,” he replied curtly. Dark circles bordered his handsome eyes, and Ksenia almost felt pity. Almost.

“Remind me again, what did the weapon look like?”

“A slim-profiled dagger.” Bohdan rubbed his stiff jaw. “About the length of your forearm.”

His gaze snapped to Caromir at her hip. Ksenia quirked a casual brow, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

The night prior.

After her forging session with Danika, Ksenia worked with practiced efficiency in her quarters.

Pliers, awls, and chisels were spread across her table like a surgeon’s tools.

Caromir lay disassembled before her—each component separated with the precision Ksenia preferred in her own designs.

She unscrewed the simple, rounded pommel first. Next, the mahogany hilt slid off, revealing the tang beneath. And with a subtle click, the straight crossguard’s interlocking fastenings released, and she pulled it off with a hearty tug.

She had outdone herself with the replacement pieces she’d crafted in the forge: a handsome spiraled ebony hilt that gleamed warm in the candlelight, longer quillons that curved downward in elegant sweeps, and a wicked spiked pommel that would further transform Caromir’s silhouette.

With a gentle hum, Ksenia reassembled Caromir piece by piece, each component sliding into place with satisfying precision.

In moments, Caromir had transformed from a slim dagger into a parrying dagger.