The fortress was quiet when Tanya returned. Not with peace—never peace—but with purpose. The kind of silence that comes from too many sharp minds working in tandem. The kind of quiet that crackled beneath the skin like a lightning storm ready to tear open the sky.
She dismounted without fanfare, her boots crunching into the packed earth outside the main keep. There were no trumpets, no guards rushing to her side. That was by design. Power was best wielded when it was not flaunted.
Inside the keep, a sickly sweet scent drifted down the stone corridors—rotten honey, embalming resin, and scorched iron. Tanya followed it unerringly. Her path wound past darkened laboratories and storage rooms packed with strange bones, fractured clockwork, and jars of brine-soaked organs. It led her to the lowest chamber.
Mayuri Kurotsuchi was there, as expected.
The man—if one could still call him that—was hunched over a table cluttered with flesh and metal. His hands were buried in the torso of what had once been a wolf. The creature now bristled with metal rods, some fused directly into its spine, others protruding from its flanks like insect legs.
"You're late," he said without looking up. His voice crackled like old parchment. "I was hoping to test the new vocal modulators on a live subject. Pig's nerves are far too forgiving."
Tanya crossed her arms. "You're losing control of the parameters. The last 'gift' you slipped into Arnar's camp was too obvious."
Mayuri straightened, stretching like a scarecrow left out in the rain. His face was smeared with drying blood, and the sharp glint in his golden eyes made him seem amused.
"Obvious is a relative term," he said cheerfully. "You asked for escalation. Chaos. We've sown the seeds, haven't we?"
"They're reacting too fast," Tanya said coolly. "Sigmund is already drafting militia reports. Arnar is moving his huscarls by night. This is no longer drift—it's avalanche."
"And avalanche," Mayuri said, "is exactly what you predicted."
She didn't answer. Instead, she walked past him, eyes roving over the collection of monstrosities arranged on shelves like forgotten saints. A twisted boar with metal lungs. A raven whose eyes had been replaced by magnifying lenses. A child-sized mannequin with a living tongue.
"You call this your 'Menagerie'?" Tanya asked.
Mayuri tilted his head. "I call it proof of concept."
"You're walking a thin line," Tanya said, voice hardening. "This isn't your playground. These people are variables, not toys."
"And yet you play your own game with them," Mayuri said, still smiling. "You orchestrate their politics like a musician with sheet music, yet recoil at a little anatomical improvisation."
"I don't torture for pleasure."
Mayuri leaned forward, tapping a long finger against his chin. "No. You torture with math."
Silence stretched. The wolf on the table twitched.
Tanya finally turned. "This isn't the Empire. We don't have endless bodies to throw at experiments."
"Then it's fortunate I make every one count."
She let the insult hang unanswered. Instead, her mind turned back to the valley—to Sigmund's hall, where war drums now whispered between cups of mead. To Arnar's fortress, where shadows twisted and old grudges turned to steel. The board was set.
"I need one more message delivered," she said. "Something subtle. A whisper in the right place."
Mayuri grinned. "I can have one of my sparrows drop it. Or would you prefer a talking dog?"
Tanya arched a brow. "A human. Preferably one that doesn't leak blood in transit."
Mayuri made a show of sighing. "You ruin all my fun."
She moved toward the stairway.
"Tell me something, Lieutenant," Mayuri called behind her. "Do you ever wonder what they'll say about you?"
Tanya stopped.
"In the sagas," he continued, "when the skalds begin to sing of these days—of blood feuds and burning mead halls—do you think you'll be the hero? Or just another devil hiding behind reason?"
She didn't look back. "Let them sing what they want. Just make sure I survive the song."
She climbed the steps in silence. Behind her, Mayuri's laughter echoed through the stone like a lunatic's hymn.
By dawn, the Menagerie was on the move.
Dozens of agents, some still human, some decidedly not, filtered into the surrounding forests and hills. They carried lies sewn into letters, half-truths whispered into the ears of mercenaries, and provocations veiled in gifts.
Tanya stood atop the tower wall, watching them disappear like ghosts into the mist. Her cloak billowed in the wind. The valley below would not stay quiet for long.
Everything was in motion now—two jarls locked in mistrust, shadows taking shape behind their thrones, and whispers bleeding into the fabric of every conversation.
War was coming.
And Tanya von Degurechaff would be there to carve her place into the ruins.