Page 97 of Jewel of the Assassin

Valentina laughs in delight, returning to her usual self, and waves a hand. “Good thing I know the Spirit King.” Ah. Levka.

Mamma blinks, then actually chuckles. “That mushroom-loving lunatic still alive?”

“Alive and thriving,” Valentina says proudly. “Roman swears by his cherry vodka. It burns like sin but tastes like salvation.”

Valentina’s eyes hunt mine even before I walk inside to say, my voice low and amused. “Because it is sin. That’s why it tastes so good.”

They both laugh, and the sound—God, it’s good. Two women with knives for tongues, who could both kill a man ten different ways and still make him thank them. Bonded not by blood, but in understanding.

Valentina is no longer the outsider. Not the bride with secrets she hasn’t earned. She’s one of us.

Mostly an observer, I watch them, heat curling in my chest, as they bond more over Levka’s brews, and my mother shares my history. This is how kingdoms are born—not from war, but from women like these.

After an hour or two, I drain my drink, my voice quiet, thoughtful. “I should interrupt before you tell her all my secrets.”

Mamma lifts her glass without looking at me. “Please. You don’t have any secrets left. She already knows where you keep the knives.”

Valentina and I share a smile. Because I’ll teach her how to use every single one.

They drag him in half-dead.

Frostbitten hands. Lips split and blue. His mass-market knockoff coat crunches like ice-drenched cardboard as he’s dropped to the floor of my war room. The stink of salt, engine oil, and old blood clings to him.

I don’t speak. I let the silence wrap tight around the man’s throat. He’s shivering violently, spasming as if his body is trying to shake itself out of existence. One of my men kicks a small heater closer to him. Kindness upon my order. Only so he may live long enough to tell his secrets.

The man looks up at me, wild-eyed. One pupil blown wide from fear. Maybe drugs. Maybe trauma. His lips move like he’s trying to form a name.

I step forward, crouch low to meet his eye. “Say it clearly.”

He doesn’t. He just shakes harder. His jacket bears no insignia. Civilian-made. Fisherman’s gear, if you squint hard enough. But the wrong kind. New fabric, high-end stitching. No wear marks from actual labor. Just theater. Like everything my father sends.

The “fishermen” were a clever ploy—until the storm crushed their boats and scattered the wreckage across the southern ice shelf. Only this one made it out alive.

And I plan to ensure he doesn’t leave that way.

I nod once. A silent order. One of my guards produces a slim metal injector from a padded case and moves beside me.

The man jerks. “Wait—wait, I?—”

“Too late.”

The needle sinks into his neck. Truth serum—our own variant. No hallucinations. Just chemical precision. It won’t be long now.

I rise and circle behind him, my voice low. “You came looking. Not to fish. Not to trespass. You came forher.”

He groans, shaking his head. “No, no, I didn’t know. I didn’t know she was here?—”

“But you knewsomeonewas.”

The silence folds again, sharp-edged.

Then he says it. Not a scream. Just a whisper. “Anton said the brother might make contact. We didn’t think…We didn’t think she’d still be alive.”

I freeze. A glacier inside my chest begins to crack. “Say that again,” I command.

The man’s voice is trembling now, erratic. “He—Anton—he said the brother might come. Said the girl would want answers. And he would lead us right to her.”

My breath hisses through clenched teeth. The words loop through my mind, slow and poisonous. They used Sasha. They gambled on the bond between siblings—on their love. And I let him in. My favoritism, my sympathy for my wife, has led to this.