Page 39 of Hellbound

Ksenia shook her head with a smile before rummaging in her rucksack.

A pen? No. A worn map? No. Stale bread? No—

Carefully, she unearthed a muffin, sugar crusted thick on top and sticking to the wax paper. “All right, my friend, here you are.”

The girl eagerly took her winnings, placing the parcel into her apron pocket. “My name is Petra.”

Ksenia held her hand against her chest. “I’m Senka. Thank you for helping me. Let’s keep this our little secret, okay?”

Petra nodded eagerly. “Can we play again?”

Ksenia opened her mouth to say no. “We’ll see.”

Petra beamed like she had said yes, giving a twirl before she disappeared back down the stairs.

Ksenia eased onto the landing, looking in both directions before she headed for the armory. Unlike the door she had encountered before, the armory entrance was open and darkened.

Ksenia could practically hear Varka shouting that it was a trap and hesitated at the threshold, waiting for something to jump at her.

It was already deep into the night, and rain pelted the floor-to-ceiling lancet windows within the armory. Streaks of pure silver occasionally illuminated the room, followed by the boom of thunder.

Not a soul appeared in sight, only weapons decorating every inch of the walls, inset into the black stone with pitons and other holds that secured whole suits of armor, gleaming blades, polearms adorned with tassels, polished bows, and a myriad of weapons Ksenia had no name for.

Her feet drew her closer of their own accord, fascinated by the array.

In the event of a siege, this room was useless. It wasn’t an armory. Instead, it was a glorified museum of pristine weapons that would never feel the heat of battle.

The lightning cracked again, flashing on the polished blades, and not a single mote of dust drifted in the air.

The grandest prize of all stood at the center of the room, on a raised dais. A bluish silver-tinged sword, inlaid with gold runes down its shaft, was suspended beneath a domed glass cloche.

Her heels clicked softly across the floor to get a closer look and she stifled a sigh of awe.

The sword boasted an emerald set in the pommel and was set aglow by the moonlight.

Her awe soured into frustration. Getting into Hearth and the armory was a feat enough for Ksenia, but to walk away with a relic that everyone would notice had gone missing was beyond what she had prepared for.

A shiver ran down her spine, the delicate strands of hair prickling at her neck as if attuned to an unseen current.

The air thrummed with a faint, insistent noise. Growing louder, sharper, transforming into a keening cry that snapped into perfect focus: the presence of a soulbound blade.

She had heard this one before, and a mix of fear and anger tremored through her body in response.

She turned her head, a cold sweat coating her palms.

Another burst from the storm turned the room from night to day, and there, leaning against the interior doors, was an imposing figure.

Ksenia saw his longsword first. It was slim but tapered, polished silver with roses etched along the fuller. A straight and narrow crossguard bisected it in a clean, unbroken line.

To the untrained eye, this sword looked simple. But Ksenia knew far better. This was an instrument that required precision, patience, and control, reserved for a swordmaster.

Ksenia saw his eyes second—a familiar pair that locked onto hers with a clarity that left nowhere to hide, no pretense. A heady cocktail of fear mixed with disgust gripped her heart in the bastard prince’s presence.

“You again.” Bohdan’s voice cut her like silk-covered steel. “Varka’s charge.”

He stepped toward her, a cold satisfaction in his green eyes. Like he’d hoped she would do exactly this.

“Breaking into the royal armory.” He tsked. “After I explicitly told you what would happen if you stepped out of line again.” His hand rested on his sword hilt.