Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  Yuri turned a corner and came upon the first body. It was frozen beneath a layer of snow and ice; the light of his fire illuminated the dead man’s face, still cast in midscream, the muscles now slack.

  He lifted his eyes and found an entire street of corpses.

  The fire in his palm sputtered, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He recognized the faces of the dead; he’d grown up with them, visited them during his rare trips home from the Salskoff Palace.

  The local baker, sprawled in the snow, his limbs bent at odd angles.

  The old potato seller, her throat gashed open.

  The ironsmith, dead in a puddle of his own blood.

  Panic beat a drumroll in his chest, and he began to walk faster, taking long, steadying breaths to calm himself. He had just turned down the street to his dacha when he sensed the shadows around him deepen. From the edges of his firelight, a figure peeled away from the walls. Ice cracked under his boots as he approached.

  Yuri could only stare at the figure standing before him. The light from his flames licked at the boy’s face: skin the brittle porcelain of a sickle moon, eyes the color of a familiar darkness.

  Yuri slowed to a stop. “Seyin? What are you doing here?” Seeing his former Second brought to mind the correspondences they’d had, the strict admonishments Yuri had written. He’d stripped Seyin of his title and stopped short of expelling him from the Redcloaks.

  “We need to talk” was all the former Second said.

  Yuri couldn’t fathom why Seyin had ridden all the way to Goldwater Port. Even more, he couldn’t fathom why Seyin hadn’t told him about coming. “We can talk inside,” he replied, making to move forward.

  But Seyin stayed where he was, hands stuffed in the pockets of his cloak, his face half-shrouded in his hood.

  A feeling of foreboding crept through Yuri. “Seyin, get out of my way.”

  The other boy’s dark eyes glimmered; shadows warred across his face. “No,” he said quietly.

  Yuri walked forward. Seyin made to block him, but Yuri shoved him out of the way. He heard Seyin’s grunt as he hit the ground, but he didn’t care. He began to run.

  He could barely breathe from the pounding of his own heart, from the fear that squeezed his throat so tight, he thought he would throw up. No communication from Ma for weeks, returning to a ghost town, Seyin showing up out of nowhere…His mind was blank, his steps beating a frenzied rhythm of no no no no no no no—

  The truth awaited him when he reached the entrance of his home.

  The glass of his family’s restaurant was broken, the shards buried under layers of snow and ash. The inside was dark, tables overturned and chairs smashed against the walls. Only the moonlight filtered through, illuminating silverware and blankets and personal belongings strewn across the floor, as though someone had gone through the contents of his entire home.

  But Yuri’s gaze was drawn to a silhouette lying in the middle of the restaurant. Drifts of snow had settled on the floor, but he could make out the shape of a body, the faded red kirtle crumpled where she had fallen. A lock of red hair spilled from her bun, dangling across her back.

  Everything inside him broke loose. “M-Ma?” His voice came out in a cracked whimper.

  She didn’t stir.

  Yuri scrambled forward, the world swaying around him. He was vaguely aware that he’d dropped to his knees, the glass and shattered porcelain on the floor slicing through his breeches and his palms as he crawled forward, leaving a trail of blood across the floor.

  “Ma?” he gasped, and when he reached out to sweep the snow from her arms, her skin was ice-cold. His hands shook, hovering over her. “Ma,” he begged, and then he was sobbing, calling her name over and over again into the silence all around.

  Hands closed around his shoulders, pulling him back, speaking his name. Yuri yelled and shook them off, crawling forward to where Ma lay—

  And then she disappeared. Where she had been, there was only empty floor, snow lying in drifts across wood.

  Yuri turned. Seyin knelt beside him. There was something like anguish on his face. “Yuri,” he began, but something cracked in Yuri. Suddenly, the hollow space in his chest was afire, his head splitting from the heat, his vision red.

  Yuri yelled and sprang, his hands closing around Seyin’s neck. “Give her back!” he screamed. “Drop your bullshit illusions!”

  Seyin gave the barest of nods, and Yuri let go. When he turned around, she was there again, small and hunched against the darkness.

  “I’m sorry,” Seyin rasped. “I didn’t want you to…” He trailed off.

  Yuri closed his eyes. It felt as though there were a fire burning inside him, the flames threatening to consume his soul. His breaths came hot; his palms glowed red. “Why did you come here?” he demanded without looking at Seyin.

  There was a pause. “Novo Mynsk has fallen,” Seyin whispered. “Shamaïra’s been taken. I believe the Red Tigress is responsible for her capture; while I waited here for your return, I received a note from her pleading for our help.” His lips curled.

  The flames inside Yuri flickered hotter, higher. A strange sense of detachment descended over him. He drew a deep breath. When he exhaled, fire sparked in the air before him. He could feel his hands catching on fire, his hair beginning to singe. “Seyin,” he said calmly. “Get out.”

  The fire poured from him like lava. It snaked across the floor, jumping onto chairs and tablecloths and crawling up the walls. Yuri breathed in deeply as his Affinity climaxed, and for a moment, he looked in a broken shard of glass and saw himself afire: a twisting, writhing mass of reds and oranges.

  He bent down and kissed his mother’s cold cheeks. Yuri smoothed out her hair, the beautiful, bright red curls he’d inherited. He removed his cloak and tucked it carefully around her, the way she had tucked him into bed before he’d gone to the Salskoff Palace as an apprentice.

  He touched a finger to the cloak and set it on fire.

  Seyin was waiting for him outside. The entire street had transformed. Crimson and shadows danced on the gray-bricked walls and frozen streets like the flames of the hells themselves.

  A movement in the skies caught his eyes, and Yuri looked up. From the moonlit night, a shadow descended swiftly upon them. The light of the burning dacha tinted its black feathers red.

  Yuri held up an arm, and the seadove alighted. Its talons dug into the thick padded sleeves of his coat. A note was tied to its legs. Yuri removed it and unfurled the scroll.

  The letter consisted of a single sentence, as vague as the way things had been left between him and the sender.

  Prepare for war. The Red Tigress returns.

  Seyin read the note and looked up. “War with us, or war against us?” he asked.

  Yuri did not answer. He gripped the note so hard that his hands shook. He’d come back to find an entire town massacred at the whim of a monarch. He’d seen what happened when empresses clashed for the throne. For in the great games of kings and queens, it was the innocents, the pawns, who suffered.

  Enough. No more sympathy, no more friendships. Those were weaknesses that had cost him his mother’s life.

  Yuri would wipe the board and create a world in which the pawns ruled.

  The tips of his fingers were glowing, and within moments, the note was on fire. Yuri watched the flames consume the scroll, eating away at it until there was nothing left but ashes.

  He held out a hand and let them fall to the ground.

  “Send out snowhawks to all of our forces,” he said. “We begin the revolution. The monarchy must fall, and its followers with it.”

  Seyin watched him behind cold, clouded eyes. “Dak,” he said slowly. “And the Red Tigress?”

  Yuri met his gaze. “You’ll finish the job you started,” he replied, “as my Second-in-Command.”

&n
bsp; Behind him, his home for nineteen years burned. Before him, the trail of bodies pooled the streets with blood. The colors blended, searing through his vision, and the world was awash in red.

  Yuri spread his arms, and the fires at his palms roared to life, curving up his sleeves and flaring behind his shoulders like wings.

  “I will remake this world to be right, no matter the cost,” he said. He would burn it all down, to rebuild it the way it was meant to be. Fire and blood, death and destruction. “Let it be known that this is the end of their crimson reign.”

  GLOSSARY

  CYRILIA

  Affinite: person with a special ability or a connection to physical or metaphysical elements; ranges from a heightened sense of the element to ability to manipulate or generate the element

  blackstone: stone mined from the Krazyast Triangle; the single element immune to Affinite manipulation and known to diminish or block Affinities

  bliny: a type of pancake made of buckwheat flour and best served with caviar

  bratika: brother

  chokolad: cocoa-based sweet

  contessya: countess

  copperstone: lowest-value coin

  dacha: house

  dama: lady

  deimhov: demon

  Deys: Deity

  Deys’voshk: green poison that affects Affinites and is used to subdue them; also known as Deities’ Water

  Fyrva’snezh: First Snows

  goldleaf: highest-value coin

  Imperator: Emperor

  Imperatorya: Empress

  Imperya: Empire

  kapitan: captain

  kechyan: traditional Cyrilian robe typically made of patterned silk

  kologne: scented perfume

  kolst: glorious

  kommertsya: commerce

  konsultant: consultant

  mamika: “little mother”; term of endearment for “aunt”

  mesyr: mister

  pelmeny: dumplings with fillings of minced meat, onions, and herbs

  pirozhky: fried pie with sweet or savory fillings

  pryntsessa: princess

  ptychy’moloko: bird’s milk cake

  Redcloak: rebels; a play on the colloquialism “Whitecloak”

  silverleaf: medium-value coin

  sistrika: sister

  sunwine: mulled wine made in the summer with honey and spice

  valkryf: breed of horse; a valuable steed with split toes and an incomparable ability to climb mountains and weather cold temperatures

  varyshki: expensive bull leather

  Vyntr’makt: winter market; outdoor markets usually established in town squares prior to the arrival of winter

  Whitecloak: colloquialism for the Imperial Patrols prior to the arrival of winter

  yaeger: rare Affinite whose connection is to another person’s Affinity; they can sense Affinites and control one’s Affinity

  BREGON

  gossenwal: ghostwhales

  ironore: a type of rock with defensive properties mined in the Kingdom of Bregon

  magek: magic, or an Affinity

  magen: a wielder of magic; an Affinite

  searock: a rare type of rock with absorption properties, found only in the Corshan Gulf of the Kingdom of Bregon

  Sommesreven: the Night of Souls, when Bregonians commemorate the dead

  wassengost: water spirits

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “They” say the sophomore book is by far the most difficult to write, and I can now unabashedly add my name to the “They” list. Writing Red Tigress was by no means an easy feat, especially while working full-time, but the following people have made it possible.

  First, Krista Marino, my utterly amazing and whip-smart editor, whose dagger-sharp insights continue to drive my work to the next level. Thank you for making this book the best that it can be. I remain so incredibly grateful to work with you.

  Peter Knapp, my fearless agent, who opened the doors to make all this possible, and who continues to champion me. Thank you for your excitement, your optimism, and your guidance. As well, thank you to the entire team at Park & Fine Literary for the continued support and belief in my work.

  The fantastic team at Delacorte Press—this book would not exist without each of you. Beverly Horowitz, our tireless champion; Monica Jean and Lydia Gregovic, whose fingerprints are all over these pages; Mary McCue, publicist extraordinaire; and the entire team at Random House Children’s Books, who make the publishing world feel a lot smaller and a lot more like home. I am so thankful to be working with you.

  My readers, book bloggers, and people of the book community who have supported this series or sent me messages about my books—no words can describe my gratitude for you. You make all this possible.

  My former colleagues, the AM crew at Citi, and in particular, my manager (and future film producer-director), Joan Dsilva—thank you for making work something to look forward to every morning, for supporting my creative endeavors, for the cheerleading and the team lunches. I hope CRM revolutionizes before I return.

  My writer friends—thank you for helping me survive Sophomore Book Hell. Cassy Klisch, my first and forever reader, whose sharp critique and unending love for the hot mess of a first draft helped me love this book myself and gave me the strength to work on it in the months thereafter. Francesca Flores, my rock in Revisions Waters, whose critiques were a lifeline throughout that particular level of hell. Molly Chang, whose company (plus many glasses of wine) was a necessity in completion of my first draft (literally on a boat). Katie Zhao and Becca Mix, who came to my rescue with some very early disaster Trash versions—I promise this is now probably Recyclable. Ayana Gray, a rare combination of a fellow writer and F1 fan, whose kind wisdom and reverse-word-count progress truly helped in the toughest writing days. Grace Li, for the cheerleading that made me believe in my stories, and whose words continue to nourish my heart. Andrea Tang, for all the Sophomore Book Crisis panic discussions and note sharing. Lyla Lee, for teaching me about US time zones and for writing the beautiful books my younger self needed.

  My evil twin, Amy Zhao, whose gym sessions and cat therapy were much-needed sources of replenishment and rest and who never ceases to show love for all my strange story ideas. Here’s to a lifetime of F1 trips together. My bestie, Crystal Wong, for reading the earliest drafts and for all the years of encouragement…and for helping me get turnip prices when I was neck-deep in revisions. You make my life better and brighter. Betty Lam, whose cheerleading and excitement over my fantasy ideas make me believe in them myself; Kathlene Nguyen, whose support for me started on the first day I set foot on this continent. I hope by the time this is published, my island will be as pretty as both of yours, and that I will have finished FMA:B. My high school and forever friends, Sara, Jessica, Kevin, Jack, Darren, and Alex, who have tolerated my shenanigans since we were actual teens, and who continue to read about my fictional ones.

  All my friends who have shown up for me and this bloody little series over the years, who came to my launch and made it standing room only: I love you all, and I am so grateful for every one of you.

  Mom and Dad Sin, whose fighter’s spirit inspire the revolution in these books; Ryan, whose higher-class peasant home provided refuge from the pandemic as I worked to revise this book; and Sherry, whose cheesecakes are the crème de la crème.

  Weetzy, for those summer days in Beijing spent reading and writing our stories of girls with magical powers. I guess between us, I’m the one who still hasn’t grown out of that phase. Thank you for being so generous and understanding at my best and worst times and for cheering me on. Know that I will always be here for you, too.

  妈妈，爸爸：感谢你们一生对我的支持，
传述的精神。从小到大，你们的努力与奋斗打造出了我们家的一片小天地，创造了我幸福完美的童年。我今天的成就、未来的成功、以及写的每一本书也都是亏你们的。

  And, last but not least, my Idiot Fiancé, Clement: No words can describe how perfectly you fit me and how blessed I am to have you in my life. There are some things even the storybooks can’t capture. However, Growlithe loves me more, and I make the Best Oxtail Stew. So shush.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Amélie Wen Zhao was born in Paris and grew up in Beijing in an international community. Her multicultural upbringing instilled in her a deep love of global affairs and cross-cultural perspectives. She seeks to bring this passion to her stories, crafting characters from kingdoms in different corners of the world. She attended college in New York City, where she now lives. Amélie is the author of Blood Heir and Red Tigress.

  ameliezhao.com

  @ameliewenzhao

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