Seven Witches

twenty-nine

Zoya;

Zoya stared at the chest that arrived to her room, and then at the two servants who brought it to her, raising her brows at what she found inside it when she asked them to open it. A chest so huge, containing a chain holding a giant green jewel. "What's this shit?"

The servant to the right's face turned slightly pinkish as he tried to contain his smile. The other one who was still holding the lid open replied, "A royal emerald my lady, from our master Vladislav."

My lady. "And what will he have me do with it?"

The man cleared his throat, "Wear it."

Zoya laughed, tipping her head back. If he intended to make her forgive him, then this only made her laugh. The bastard indeed did not know her anymore than he knew those two boys carrying the chest. "Put it aside," she ordered and they obeyed. She would not wear jewellery, and definitely not around her precious throat.

She was still somewhat laughing when they left. A necklace so heavy around her neck, what good will that bring? Slow her down. A spectacular way for her enemies to choke her. An even more spectacular way to attract attention.

Vladislav was a fool.

And she was an even more of a fool for falling in love with him.

"Why do you follow him?" Aaron had asked when she stormed into her room after her last encounter with Vladislav. She had looked and felt miserable, her bones shaking with fury. "He's using you,"

"I know!" Zoya gripped the door handle until her knuckles went white. "I know," she said again, but this time much softer. Her breathing had calmed down, heart still racing.

"Then why stay?" his face twisted in pity, how she hated his face at that moment.

Zoya lifted her chin, feeling so small and powerless. "Because I have no shelter but him,"

Now she stared at the chest, unfeeling and humiliated. There was another matter to deal with, and it was the one that really deserved to take her mind.

Zoya thought of what Aaron's brother said, a power circling the Tsar, an unknown thing. But no matter how powerful someone was, they were still human, and Zoya was a witch. Above that, she was a trained assassin, and if she ever got stabbed of gutted, she could heal herself.

But again, she did not allow herself to underestimate the threat, never allow herself to. So in the light of it, she would be more prepared, add stronger metal to her armour, make sure it is light and suitable for movement.

Zoya eyed the pistols on the shelves, packed against the walls for display. The very first on to the left was a Russian model, made in the early 1720s. And then another Russian pistol made in 1760, quite heavy and impractical. Her newest pistol was a Prussian pistol, a recreation of the original made with year 1780 machinery.

But she wanted better, a newer flintlock, a faster pistol.

Zoya put on her cloak, choosing a silver mask that covered the entire lower half of her face. She knew one man who can get her whatever weapon she asked for.

She headed towards Rock's League, slipping between the crowds of people and moving like a thief. Her hands sometimes went into people's pockets when they were unaware, in the hopes that she might snatch herself something interesting.

Once she reached the bar, she had only a few rusty coins and a stamp ring from the people, useless garbage. She exchanged the coins for a bottle of warm rum, keeping the ring between the fold of her clothes.