Natasha

Vallaki—738, Barovian Calendar

The oppressive fog of Barovia clings to her skin like a damp shroud as she moves through the crooked streets of Vallaki. Wooden shutters rattle against crumbling stone facades, and the air carries the sour tang of fear mingled with woodsmoke. Natasha adjusts her burgundy shawl to better conceal the dagger strapped to her thigh, her dark eyes scanning the marketplace crowd—peasants haggling over rotting vegetables, a drunkard muttering about and two armored guards with wolf sigils watching from the shadows.

She pauses at a stall selling rusted nails and dried wolfsbane, fingers brushing the merchant's withered hand as she selects a sprig of herbs. His milky eyes widen when he notices the Manusa tasque tattoos peeking beneath her sleeve.

Filthy Vistana spy. He'll call the guards before I can blink.

"Such fine protection charms," she purrs, leaning close enough for him to smell jasmine oil beneath the reek of mud and mildew. "Tell me, old man—does the burgomaster still pay silver for... unusual travelers?"

Her free hand drifts toward the stiletto hidden in her skirts as footsteps echo on the cobblestones behind her.

Vallaki—738, Barovian Calendar

Natasha's breath hitches as she presses her back against the damp stone wall of a narrow Vallaki alleyway, the stench of rotting cabbage and stale piss thick in the air. Three figures block the mouth of the alley—two hulking Vallaki guards with rusted shortswords and a third, smaller man whose greasy smile makes her skin crawl. The merchant from the market.

"Silver for spies, eh?" he sneers, picking at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. "Burgomaster pays extra for Vistana tails."

Her fingers tighten around the stiletto hidden in her sleeve. Mist-walking won't save her here—not when they've already spotted her tattoos. One guard shifts his weight, his boot scraping against cobblestones slick with something darker than rainwater.

Fuck. Should've slit the old bastard's throat when I had the chance.

She exhales, slow, and lets her shawl slip just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts beneath the threadbare fabric. "Gentlemen," she coos, tilting her chin up, "surely we can come to an... arrangement? I know things. Useful things. About that pretty little wife of yours, Gregor—the one who visits Madame Eva's wagon when you're on night watch?"

The named guard stiffens. The other two hesitate. That's all she needs.

In one fluid motion, Natasha lunges—not at the men, but at the sacks of flour stacked beside them. Her blade slices through burlap, and a cloud of white powder explodes into the air. She's already moving, ducking under a blind swipe, her knee driving upward into the merchant's groin with a satisfying crunch.

"Running is such bad manners," she gasps between strides as she bolts down the twisting alley, "but do tell the Burgomaster his daughter sends her love!"

Behind her, curses and coughing fade into the fog. She doesn't stop running until her lungs burn and her thighs ache—right into the path of a fourth figure emerging from the mist.

Shit.

Sigil—The City of Doors

The mist parts like a lover’s sigh, curling away from Natasha’s bare feet as she steps onto cobblestones that hum with something older than stone. The air tastes of lightning and rust, thick with the chatter of a thousand tongues—some familiar, most not. Above her, the sky is a wound stitched shut by the Spire’s jagged teeth, and the weight of it presses down like a god’s palm.

She exhales, rolling her shoulders to shake off the clinging damp of the mists. The alley she’s stumbled into stinks of sulfur and something sweetly rotting, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. A pair of rat-sized beetles scuttle past her toes, their carapaces glistening with iridescent slime.

Fucking Planes. Should’ve stayed in Barovia. At least there, the monsters wear human faces.

A clatter of hooves on stone sends her darting behind a stack of crates—just in time to avoid a towering figure clad in armor made of what looks like fused bone. Its rider, a gaunt creature with too many eyes, clicks its tongue in a language that makes Natasha’s teeth ache. She waits until the sound fades before slipping out, her fingers brushing the hilt of her stiletto out of habit.

Up ahead, the alley spills into a wider thoroughfare choked with bodies—humanoid and otherwise. A vendor hawks skewers of still-twitching meat beside a floating orb reciting poetry in Celestial. A tiefling with cobalt skin and a smile like a knife offers her a wink from beneath a striped awning.

"Lost, darling?" they purr, tail flicking toward the maze of streets beyond. "Or just looking for trouble?"

Natasha doesn’t answer. Her gaze snags on a peeling poster nailed to a wooden post:

‘WANTED: Zarovan. Alive. Reward: 10,000 gold bees.’

Beneath the words, a crude sketch of her own face stares back.

Shit.

She’s reaching to tear it down when a hand closes around her wrist—cold, too smooth, like polished marble.

"Now that," murmurs a voice like honey poured over a razor, "is a face worth knowing."