But she had experienced life both privileged and oppressed; she had been a princess and an Affinite. Surely…“I’m not like the other monarchs,” she said, her voice raw. “I know how it feels to be an Affinite, to be told that you’re unwanted and to be reviled by society. I’ve seen what happens to the weak and the vulnerable in the darkest corners of this empire. I want to change the system.”
“Simply changing the system isn’t sufficient,” Seyin said. “We need to break the system.” He paused and lowered his hands, almost apologetically. “But, enough of grand political philosophies. You see now why the Redcloaks cannot and will not ally with you. You are the heir to the monarchy, Anastacya. You are the antithesis to our movement.”
She thought back to a moment that felt like a long time ago, standing back in the moonlight with only the Syvern Taiga and the silhouette of the fire-hearted boy she’d known.
The Redcloaks were her only possibility for an alliance, and Yuri one of the only people left whom she loved—yet the reality was, they were far from fighting on the same side of the war.
The Redcloaks sought a revolution.
She sought the throne.
But—no. They faced a greater threat right now than who ruled and how they ruled. Morganya’s grasp was tightening all along the Empire, and it was only a matter of time before she reached them, too, snuffing out any possibilities of resistance.
They were on the same side, for now. She had learned that the enemy of her enemy was her friend.
Yuri would see that. They’d bring down Morganya together first, and they’d work out their differences after. Because, Ana thought, if they didn’t unite now, there would be no after at all.
That night in the Syvern Taiga, Yuri had sought her out to ask her to return. He’d said, And remember that I love you, no matter what you choose.
She needed to speak with him. She was wasting time with his Second.
In the whirl of her thoughts, she suddenly noticed that a hungry look had seeped into Seyin’s features. His hands were at his hips, resting on the hilt of a sheathed dagger.
“The monarchy must die, Anastacya,” Seyin said quietly.
The shadows around them deepened. Cold crept up Ana’s back. Instinctively, she awakened her Affinity.
Seyin stepped forward.
And then, out of the stillness, a second flare of blood appeared. Fast approaching.
Seyin’s eyes flicked to the entrance of the dome, his expression shifting again. The light emanating from Ana’s globefire dimmed; the shadows held their breath.
Ana turned, her Affinity poised.
A figure burst through the double doors: a girl, hair disheveled, eyes wide. She wore a dark cloak, the insides of which flashed red.
Seyin frowned. “Yesenya.”
Another Redcloak, then, Ana thought, watching as the girl came to a stop a dozen steps from them. “Seyin,” she panted. “The Imperial Inquisition is here.”
A chill ran down Ana’s spine. She’d fled many ravaged villages since she’d been on the run; the Imperial Inquisition wasn’t supposed to have arrived so quickly.
“Deploy the units,” Seyin said. “We lie low, continue our reconnaissance.”
Seyin’s tone was sharp, commanding, and in that moment, Ana understood why Yuri had chosen him as the Second-in-Command of the Redcloaks. She disagreed with him on the path forward, but there was no doubt Seyin was an effective leader.
A leader who had begun to draw together a plan, starting with understanding exactly what Morganya was doing.
Ana watched him, a plan beginning to take shape in her head. Up to now, she’d been focused on surviving day-to-day, on eluding Morganya’s forces. But she couldn’t fight an enemy that she didn’t even know.
If she were to speak to Yuri, if she were to try to convince him that she was fit to lead in the fight against Morganya…then she needed a concrete plan.
And that always began, as Ramson would say, with knowing the lay of the land. Reconnaissance.
Seyin turned to her, his eyes black and impenetrable. “Perhaps our paths will cross again,” he said. “But for now, I have nothing more to say to a girl who thinks this war is but a game for kings and queens.”
Without another word, the Second of the Redcloaks strode past Ana as though she were no more than one of the broken statues of the Deities. Ana watched his and Yesenya’s outlines grow fainter and fainter until they disappeared into the shadows.
Alone in the darkness, Ana leaned against the wall. Seyin’s words had cut like knives in the deepest corners of her heart, her fears and insecurities bleeding bright.
You’re just a girl born to a silver spoon and a golden crown.
For so long, she had been focused on regaining her title and her right to rule, she hadn’t considered how she would rule. She’d thought justice and tenacity and equality would be enough—but Seyin had taken every one of the tenets she held fiercely and shattered them.
She had no army. No power. No allies. Her plan—her only plan—had utterly unraveled in the course of an hour. Of all the failures she had anticipated, she hadn’t expected this.
Ana forced herself to steady her breathing and her mind. If there was one thing she had gained from the meeting tonight, it was that Seyin had directed her to her next move.
She needed to understand her enemy, enough so that she had a plan when she faced Yuri again. Not only that—she needed to see, with her own two eyes, what made her different, and what made her the good choice, the right choice, for her empire.
That began right now, with the Imperial Inquisition.
There was just one problem.
Ramson, Ana thought, and for a moment, she imagined him leaning against a broken pillar, arms crossed, regarding her with that smirk. They’d agreed to meet at a pub named the Broken Arrow after their respective meetings, but that was in the opposite direction of the town square, where she needed to be.
Ana hesitated, glancing down the hallway where Seyin had disappeared. Instantly, all other thoughts dissipated. Ramson Quicktongue was not—could not be—a priority. Her empire and her people were her responsibility.
They should be the only things that mattered.
Ramson could wait.
Ana turned and ran after Seyin, her steps reverberating in the empty chamber. The blackened walls, the empty torch sconces, the stairs and crushed glass beneath her feet—it all blended together as the exit of the Playpen came into view, a destination brighter and more certain than the darkness around her: the Imperial Inquisition.
Outside, the streets were still empty, silence lingering in the darkness between alleyways. Toward the center of Novo Mynsk, though, right above where the town square should be, plumes of smoke choked the night sky, gilding it a bloody orange.
Ana focused on that, settling into the rhythmic sound of her boots against the snow.
Several more turns and streets and her Affinity swept over a cluster of blood down the next street.
She slowed and came to a stop behind a dacha. Drawing a tight breath, Ana peered around the corner.
To her surprise, a group of Whitecloaks stood in the middle of the street ahead. Their signature capes fluttered white beneath the light that spilled from a streetlamp, and the pommels of their swords glinted gold at their hips.
There were four of them. Their armor glittered with the telltale gray hue of infused blackstone, the natural inhibitor to Affinities.
But there was something different about one. He stood in front, an air of authority to his stance, the tilt of his chin and the angle of his shoulders. Ana frowned, her Affinity hovering against the bright glow of his blood. And then it hit her.
She had never been able to fully grasp the blood of other Imperial Patrols before because of the blackstone in their armor. There wasn’t a hint of it in the liv
ery the first Whitecloak wore. Upon a closer look, his armor was different—it lacked the telltale gray, glittering hue of blackstone, and embossed on the plate at his chest was also a different insignia, one she didn’t recognize: a Deities’ circle, carved into the quadrants to represent the Four Deities, in the center of which sat a crown.
Morganya’s new sigil.
As she watched, the Whitecloak angled his head toward the dacha and raised his hands.
There was a crack, and the wooden door before them tore visibly from its hinges. The Whitecloak gave another flick of his fingers, and before their eyes, the door crumbled into sawdust.
An Affinite. Ana’s stomach tightened in recognition. She’d read about Morganya recruiting Affinites into her army, specifically to carry out these Inquisitions. They were to lead missions across the Empire, eliminating anyone accused of crimes against Affinites and rooting out dissent against the new Empress. The “Inquisitors,” they were called.
Historically, Affinites had always been barred from the Imperial Army—all but for yaegers, who were able to subdue Affinites. The Imperial Patrols had been assigned to patrol the lands to quell any unrest between Affinites and non-Affinites.
Within weeks, Morganya had reversed a core law of the Cyrilian Empire with little resistance, it seemed, from the Imperial Council.
In front of the dacha, the pile of sawdust was rising, twining itself into threads, and twisting those into ropes. They moved through the air like snakes. With a sudden gesture from the Inquisitor, the ropes shot into the dacha.
There were screams from inside, and several thuds. And then a man was dragged out, his wrists bound by the sawdust ropes.
The Inquisitor twirled his hand, and the man was lifted to his knees. He was pleading with them. “Please, mesyrs, I’m just a cobbler—I haven’t done anything wrong—”
“Show me your identification papers,” the Inquisitor ordered.
Ana’s stomach turned. Suddenly, she was no longer in Novo Mynsk. She was in another town, in another market square, and a squad of Whitecloaks looked down at her, their cloaks glistening crimson in the setting sun. Your employment or identification papers.
“I—I can go fetch them, if you’ll allow me,” the cobbler begged. “They’re inside, just not on me right now—”
“By the Imperial Decree of Her Majesty, anyone caught without identification papers must be brought in for further investigation.” The Inquisitor paused, and even from here, Ana could see the white slice of a smile parting his lips. “Besides…we received a tip that you might be hiding dissenters of the regime.” He motioned at the other Whitecloaks behind him. “Search the dacha.”
This was the true purpose of their visit. Ana watched in horror as the remaining three Whitecloaks burst into the dacha. There were muffled shouts, and moments later, a group of people emerged, the Whitecloaks’ swords at their backs.
The Inquisitor’s smile widened. “Harboring fugitives, are we?”
In the group of people, though, Ana’s gaze caught on one: a little girl, barely taller than her captor’s waist. She shivered against the grasp of a Whitecloak.
“Please, mesyr,” the cobbler begged. “There’s been a misunderstanding. None of us ever trafficked Affinites—we were simply afraid—”
“Are you aware that resisting the Imperial Inquisition is against the law?” The Inquisitor’s voice bore the force of a man with power.
“Please, mesyr—”
“In the absence of papers and without an Affinity, we do not have sufficient proof that any of you did not participate in the trafficking and oppression of Affinites,” the Inquisitor continued, raising his voice. “Hence, we place you under arrest for violating Her Majesty’s Imperial Decree for Affinite Equality.”
Ana’s hands clenched. This was not promoting equality. This was mistreatment of the law, and abuse of power. Morganya was using her forces to quell any disobedience under new, arbitrary laws. She was cementing her power, stamping out any possible form of resistance before it even began.
Ana couldn’t just stand there and watch.
“Papa,” the little girl cried as the Whitecloaks began to haul the cobbler away. She stumbled after him. “Papa—”
One of the Whitecloaks turned and backhanded her across her face.
The slap echoed across the streets. The child fell to the ground, blood welling in her mouth. Red bled into Ana’s vision. She was once again in the dusty square at Kyrov, watching as a Whitecloak aimed his arrow toward May. Back then, she’d been helpless to stop it.
Before she knew it, she had stepped out and was walking steadily toward the group, toward the little girl kneeling in the snow at the Whitecloaks’ feet.
The Whitecloak looked up, his gaze locking on her. She sensed it then, a hint of a cold and unyielding touch brushing against her Affinity.
Yaeger.
She’d encountered one before: an Affinite with the power to control other Affinities. Back then, he’d snuffed out her Affinity as easily as a candle.
She’d learned her lesson from that.
Ana plunged her Affinity through his power before he could get a proper grip. Without blackstone in his armor to protect him, she seized his blood easily, lifting him bodily into the air, and hurled him forward with all her strength.
His body cracked against the brick wall of a dacha.
The rest of the Imperial Patrols slowed to a halt. For a moment, they stared at the wall, where the yaeger slumped, the pool of blood beneath him reflecting the streetlamps above.
And then their attention turned to Ana.
The Inquisitor extracted his sawdust ropes, leaving the cobbler standing in the snow, and lashed out, ropes whistling—
They fell limply to the snow.
The Inquisitor doubled over, falling to his knees. Blood poured down his chin, dribbling out from his nose and mouth. Ana gritted her teeth, and with another sharp twist of her power, the man collapsed.
She turned her Affinity on the two remaining Whitecloaks and focused on where their bodies were unprotected by their blackstone armor. With a flick of her will they dropped to the ground, blood pooling warm and sticky beneath them.
The world grew still.
Exhaustion washed over her. The world wove in and out of focus as she sank into a crouch and squeezed her eyes shut.
Something tugged at her cloak.
Willing herself not to throw up, Ana opened her eyes.
For a moment, in the blur of her vision, she saw someone impossible. A slip of a girl, eyes the warm blue of the sea.
The face swam into view: watery green eyes and scattered gold locks. It was the young girl, the cobbler’s daughter. Their eyes met; Ana saw the shock in the girl’s face, and recalled, a moment too late, the unnatural crimson of her own eyes that came with using her Affinity.
Ana recoiled, instinctively snapping her head down and grasping for her hood to cover her face. She was all too aware of the bulge of her veins against the skin of her gloved hands—a mark of when she used her Affinity.
But from the darkness came a whisper. “Thank you.”
Ana slowly looked up. For a moment, a heartbeat, they looked at each other, the child’s gaze uncertain yet unwavering.
“Dorotya!” The cobbler had pulled himself to his feet. The group of civilians watched, faces pinched with fear as they took in the scene around them.
The little girl let go and ran to them. As the cobbler gathered her into his arms, he cast Ana another frightened glance. They regarded each other for several moments from opposite sides of the street.
And then, to Ana’s astonishment, the father raised a tentative hand and dipped his head. He turned quickly and, with an arm around his child, began to walk away. The others in the group followed suit, several inclining their heads toward Ana as, one by one, they stole a
way into the night.
Ana stayed where she was, kneeling in the snow. She could feel it now, the ache in her hands and fingers with her veins swollen against her flesh. Her Affinity was still warm with the blood of the four lives she had taken, bodies cooling all around her.
One moon ago, she might have shrunk back at what she had done. Now, she heard, again, the whispered thank-you from the little girl; saw the father nod his head in tentative gratitude.
They were her people. And, instead of balking in disgust and fear at the sight of her, they had thanked her for saving them.
A spark of hope blazed into resolve in her heart. Her people had signaled to her, through those small acts of gratitude, that they needed her. That she was utterly different from Morganya, and that she was not the monster Seyin had made her out to be.
Somehow, she hoisted herself to her feet. Somehow, she slid her hand from the wall and lifted her chin. Raised her gaze to the blood-soaked streets before her, and the flickering orange glow reflecting on the clouds ahead like flames from the depths of hell.
Red seeped back into her vision. The veins on her hands rose again.
She was Anastacya Mikhailov, blood Affinite and rightful Empress of Cyrilia.
And she would fight for her people.
Ramson lay stretched out on the cot in his room in the Broken Arrow. Moonlight filtered through the cracked window on one side of the wall, but he preferred to remain swathed in the shadows.
It was nearing midnight now, an entire hour past the time when he and Ana had agreed to rendezvous back here. Even as he flicked a silverleaf to the ceiling, watching its belly flash pale, he couldn’t help the pricklings of panic.
Where was she?
He’d grown so used to her presence in the past moon that her absence had begun to make him uneasy. Traveling together, he’d whiled his days away bickering with her, delighting in the moments when his comments elicited a fierce glare or an irritated snarl.
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