Chapter 8
Mihail's Uneasy Counsel
Mihail, Vladislaus's wary confidant, voices his concerns. He offers pragmatic advice, hinting at the city's hidden dangers and the precariousness of their bond.
The air in Vladislaus’s study was thick with the scent of aged paper and the lingering perfume of night-blooming jasmine, a futile attempt to mask the subtle, metallic tang that always clung to his existence. Mihail sat opposite him, his usual stoic composure frayed around the edges like a well-worn coat. The flickering gaslight cast long, dancing shadows across his face, exaggerating the lines etched by a lifetime spent navigating the city’s treacherous currents. He held a half-empty glass of amber liquid, his knuckles white as he gripped it.
“You’re playing with fire, Vladislaus,” Mihail began, his voice a low rumble, like stones shifting in the depths of the earth. He avoided my gaze, his eyes fixed on some unseen point beyond my shoulder. “Not just fire, but a conflagration that will consume everything.”
I inclined my head, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than agreement. “You speak of Katja.”
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