Before the reply

Kazimir Czarny lay awake on the feathered bed, staring at the mosaic tiles above him—geometric patterns meant to calm. He wondered, briefly, if Władysław, his older brother, was awake too. Morning shadows had nearly reached the bedpost.

Nikolaos would arrive when they touched. He always did. Kazimir knew what the day held for him—the same as all the others: teachings of the Sultan’s generosity, etiquette, philosophy, and war. Nikolaos’ ringed hand would be there, ready to correct any failure.

Kazimir rubbed his cheek where Nikolaos had corrected him yesterday. The door opened without warning, spilling sunlight across the marble floor. Kazimir did not move. Morning was not supposed to begin like this.

Then came a knock.

Nikolaos never knocked.

“Are you awake, Master Czarny?” The voice was young. Careful. Wrong.

“I… I am,” Kazimir answered, his voice cracking before he could stop it. He swallowed. “Where is Nikolaos?”

A girl stepped into the room, dark hair pulled back in the Sultan’s style. She did not meet his eyes. “He has been reassigned. I am to prepare you.” She set the linens down neatly. “The Pasha does not like to be kept waiting.”

Kazimir exhaled. “Very well.” He stood, still in his undergarments.

The girl began her work, practiced and silent, fastening his clothing the way it was done in Korvazja. Her hands moved with careful precision, never lingering, as though she understood the danger of being noticed too closely.

He studied her—a maiden near his own age. Her face bore old scars, fine and deliberate, healed badly, as if whatever had shaped her had taken care not to kill her. There was something wrong in their symmetry, a pattern that did not belong to punishment alone. One scar was too straight, marked by dots where flesh had been fused together.

When she noticed his gaze, she gave a small, careful smile—practiced, brief. He looked away.

“There,” she said, fitting the silver-and-black pin of Saint Odrzykoń the Black to his collar. “You’re ready.” She stepped back.

“Wait.” Kazimir caught her wrist. “What is your name?”

“What?” Her back straightened. She went still.

“Your name,” he said quickly. “May I have it?”

“Sofia.”

He released her hand.

They walked together through the vaulted halls of the Pasha’s palace. Outside, the Janissaries drilled in the outer court—rows upon rows of men moving as one, boots striking stone in perfect time. Kazimir stared as he passed, just as he had when they came to his home and carted him and his brother away.

“Please keep up, Master Czarny,” Sofia called softly, without turning back.

Kazimir tore his eyes away and quickened his steps. The air cooled as they moved deeper inside, the stone drinking in the morning heat until the halls felt hollow and listening. Each archway rose higher than the last, built to remind lesser men how small they were meant to walk.

“Where is Władysław? My brother?” He glanced down the adjacent corridor. His brother had always been there, waiting for him to fall in behind as they began their studies.

“The Pasha has him in the courtyard,” Sofia said, keeping her stride. “Are you ready?”

“As I am every day,” Kazimir replied. His voice faltered.

“You must hold yourself upright.” Sofia brushed his clothes, fixed his collar, and tugged his tunic straight. “There. Remember—do as he says, and never approach without invitation.”

Kazimir squared his shoulders as the guards opened the massive doors.

Sofia called out, her voice steady and low:

“Kazimir Czarny, second son to Lord Czarny of Korvazja, bids audience to the Pasha—Governor of the Twin-Sea City, Commander of the Sultan’s Western Armies, Right Hand of the Sultan.”

Kazimir stood through it all, hands at his sides, saying nothing.

There was nothing for him to add. He was to be silent until told to speak.

“Approach and kneel,” the Pasha’s voice carried over the morning songbirds.

Kazimir took twelve steps and knelt. A bruise still faded on his cheek where Nikolaos had corrected him for the wrong number of steps.

“Lord Pasha,” he said, as trained. “How may I serve you today?”

“Young Kazimir.” The Pasha clapped his hands, gold trinkets chiming. “You are doing much better.”

“Come.” The Pasha descended from his throne. “I have news from your father.”

Kazimir rose, eyes wide. “Has he called for me?” He tried to hide his excitement. His youth betrayed him as he followed three steps behind. Always three.

With each step, his thoughts raced—green plains, mountains, home. Sofia fell back six steps, as befitted her station.

“Your father,” the Pasha said, smiling as gold glinted from a tooth, “has sent a message. I am to send a reply. I wish to know your thoughts on the gift I am sending.”

The Pasha stopped at the balcony overlooking the courtyard. “Join me, boy.” Kazimir hurried forward, imagining horses, gold, spices.

He froze.

Below, a wooden block stood before Władysław. A large, hooded man waited beside him, holding a great curved sword.

“You… you are sending my brother back?” Kazimir hoped for the lie. It was easier than the truth.

“I am.” The Pasha’s hand closed on Kazimir’s shoulder, nails biting.

The hooded man kicked out Władysław’s knee and pressed his head to the block.

Kazimir turned away. A hand cupped his chin and wrenched his gaze forward.

“Your father goes against the Sultan’s wishes.”

Kazimir struggled, but the Pasha held him fast. With a casual wave of jeweled fingers, the sword fell.

Thunk.

Steel on wood. Kazimir’s mouth moved, but no words escaped. He studied the body, searching for anything out of place—anything that suggested someone other than his brother.

“I think your father will appreciate the gift.” The Pasha laughed, low and dark, then patted Kazimir’s head. “That is all for today. I suggest you write to your father and urge him to reconsider.”

Kazimir stared as the Pasha’s heavy boots faded, replaced by the soft whisper of slippers.

“It’s best if you don’t let them see you cry,” Sofia whispered.

Kazimir bit his lip and said nothing. He would write to his father.

He did not yet know which words might keep him alive.