Morganya’s breath warmed Ana’s neck. She was laughing softly. From a distance, anyone would think she was kneeling over Ana’s body, grieving.
“I might have taken you in,” Morganya murmured. “After all, we are purging the world of the monsters that oppressed us—that treated us like vermin.” She paused, and her voice became mockingly sad. “You look at me with such hatred. You think me the villain. But what you don’t understand is that sometimes we must commit terrible deeds for the greater good. My acts are sacrifices that I am willing to make to pave a better world, Little Tigress.”
Ana could only stare at her aunt, her mind trying to make sense of Morganya’s words. Only now did she realize that her aunt hadn’t done these things out of spite, or pure evil. In Morganya’s mind, she was making the right choice.
“You chose the wrong side,” Morganya continued. “And now you will pay for it by dying alone, dishonored and disgraced. The whole room watched you torture Vladimir; I am the heroine who saved them from a deimhov. And the dark legends of the Blood Witch of Salskoff will carry on.” She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Ana’s forehead. Her lovely face crumpled again as she lifted her head, tears glistening on her cheeks for the world to see. “Pyetr,” she said hoarsely, backing away to the dais. “Is she…? Could you…? I cannot bear to look at her.”
There was so much more Ana needed to do; so much more she should have done for her empire. But her strength was giving out. A strange sense of peace settled over her, as though her body were falling into slumber. Her head lolled to the side and she waited for the darkness to close in. If this was dying, it wasn’t so terrible.
A light breeze brushed Ana’s face as Tetsyev knelt by her side, his white robes fluttering. He put a finger to her neck to check her pulse. To her surprise, he, too, dipped his head in respect and mourning. The softest whisper came from his lips: “It’s a paralysis poison.” And then, straightening, Tetsyev turned to Morganya. “The Blood Witch is dead.”
Her mind was heavy, but surprise cut through it like a blade. A paralysis poison.
She wasn’t dying.
Could it be? That Tetsyev had saved her life? That everything Tetsyev had told her held true?
A shout sounded somewhere outside. Sharp, quick footsteps rang in the silence of the vast hall, growing closer and more frantic.
“No!” someone yelled. Ana knew that voice. It was familiar, in a way that made her want to reach out to its owner and touch him, even with just a hand on his shoulder, or be near enough to feel his presence.
Ramson crashed to his knees by her side. “No.” His voice cracked, and the raw emotion in it stirred something within Ana. Never had she seen Ramson so unguarded, the stricken look on his face shifting to anguish as he gently pulled her into his arms. She felt the touch of his skin, the warmth of his breath as he lowered his head to hers, clutching her and bent over her as though a part of him had broken.
“Kapitan!” Morganya cried. “Arrest this criminal.”
“No!” Ramson roared. He stood, folding Ana into his arms and lifting her. “Imperial Councilmembers, I have irrefutable evidence that the Countess is a murderer and traitor to the Crown of Cyrilia.”
His voice was drowned out by footsteps as the guards, emboldened by Ana’s still body, closed in on him.
No, Ana begged. Put me down and run, Ramson.
A deep voice spoke, cutting through the scuffle. “I will take the Princess.”
The guards closing in fell back.
A familiar figure approached. His gray-peppered hair fell into his lined face, and his eyes—the same steady gray of storm clouds—were immeasurable wells of sadness. Gently, ever so gently, Kapitan Markov took Ana in his arms.
On the dais, a squad of guards lifted Luka’s body. Tetsyev stood by Morganya’s side, whispering. Morganya’s eyes followed Ana. “Take the Princess’s body to the dungeons. My alchemist has some work to do on her.”
For a moment, Markov’s face contorted with rage as Ana had never seen before. But he reined in his anger and turned to Morganya with a stoic expression. “Yes, Kolst Contessya.”
“Kolst Imperatorya,” Morganya corrected. “Your Glorious Empress.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Ana saw two remaining Councilmembers glance at each other. She recognized one of them as Councilman Taras.
“Kolst Imperatorya.” Markov’s tone cut like steel. “And the criminal?”
“Take him to the dungeons,” Morganya commanded. “Schedule an execution. I want the world to know what happens to traitors of the Crown.”
No, Ana wanted to scream. But her body was a prison.
The last she saw of the Grand Throneroom was Morganya standing at the dais, a smile curling her lips as she watched Ramson struggle against the guards. Tetsyev stood by her side, in her shadow. Sadov leaned against the throne, wiping blood from his face.
Markov shut the great doors and carried Ana away into the silence, his steps as somber as a funeral drumbeat.
The stars were visible from the highest tower of the Salskoff Palace. Linn’s steps were light yet growing heavy, her breathing becoming frantic as she sped through the marble-white halls. She hurtled up a set of stairs, three at a time, her winds guiding her at her back.
Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in.
Linn leapt over the landing—and her stomach clenched as she stumbled into the watchtower. Two guards spun around; their surprise barely registered on their faces before she’d dealt two kicks to their temples and they crumpled to the ground.
Linn spun around, forcing herself to take controlled, rhythmic breaths. It was difficult not to give in to her intrinsic need to gulp down frantic lungfuls of air, but she knew she only had seconds before her pursuer appeared. She needed to be in a state to fight, and her heartbeat was too fast right now.
She took in her surroundings: white marble walls with narrow windows. Good for observing and shooting, and to limit the range for incoming arrows. Moonlight spilled through a single door, leading to a balcony outside that stood over the Palace walls.
A shadow fell across the floor. Linn spun.
Her pursuer’s eyes were molten silver; his white cloak flapped behind him in the slight breeze that stirred between them. Linn clutched her last remaining dagger tightly.
The yaeger stood, as though he had been carved from rock and marble—and Linn recognized the precision in his stance, the years of training etched into the corded muscles of his back. Only his eyes flickered like a ripple across a moonlit pond. “I am not your enemy.”
“You are not my friend,” Linn replied.
“I do not wish to hurt you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
His eyes shifted to her empty weapons belt and the gash across her midriff. It was shallow, but Linn had left the blood to make it look worse than it was. The best advantage in a fight was to be underestimated. “You are wounded, and you are out of weapons. You will not win this fight.” He took a step closer. “My men are storming into the Grand Throneroom as we speak. The Blood Witch is a murderer and a monster. She will not triumph. Please, come quietly and save yourself.”
Their gazes held for two, three seconds. Linn remained quiet.
The yaeger’s arm shifted slightly. Linn forced herself to flinch. To appear afraid.
Within the blink of an eye, she lashed out. Her throwing knife was a silver blur. It struck the marble wall, a hand’s throw from the yaeger’s face, and clattered to the ground.
The yaeger’s eyes flickered with an emotion Linn could not read—it might have been surprise, or anger, or even admiration.
Slowly, with infinitely precise movements, the yaeger unbuckled his shoulder straps and shrugged off his white cloak. His eyes fastened on her as he drew two swords from their sheaths. “You have chosen,” he said. “Shame. I would have preferre
d not to kill as talented a fighter as yourself.”
“You won’t,” Linn said quietly. Every muscle in her body was tense with anticipation.
A hard, impregnable wall clamped down upon her Affinity. Linn’s insides churned; for a moment she thought she would throw up. It was as though one of her senses had suddenly been shut off—as though she had lost her ability to smell, or taste, or hear, or see. The winds that had been whispering at her back suddenly died. The silence was unbearable.
Linn reined in her nausea. Action, and counteraction.
Linn slashed her arm out, feinting. The yaeger flinched and shifted to his left. In that fraction of a second, Linn sprang backward, spinning and plucking two daggers—one in each hand—from the unconscious guards. In an extension of the same motion, she flung them at the yaeger, one after the other in rapid succession.
By the time she heard the plink of a dagger against his blackstone sword, Linn had already turned and was sprinting toward the open door. She heard the soft sound of metal slicing through flesh, followed by a grunt. At least one of her blades had found its mark. It was far from a killing blow, but anything that slowed him down would help her right now.
Linn burst into a night of wind and stars. Up here, high above the shelter and protection of any walls or buildings, the Cyrilian winter winds whipped at her face and snatched at her hair. She reached out to them, but felt nothing. Her Affinity was gone.
Beyond the balustrade, the city of Salskoff glimmered with torchlight and festivities. The Tiger’s Tail snaked all around the Palace, its frothy white water visible from even up here. A wave of dizziness and fear twined around her as she looked down at the tiny, faraway lights, at the vast emptiness of space and air and nothingness in between. Even the thick Palace walls below the watchtower were too far down—Linn might have aimed to jump had she had her winds.
She sensed him before she heard or saw him. He came from the darkness, a white blur in the moonlight, swords glinting as they slashed. Linn ducked and spun at the last moment. She’d intended for his momentum to carry him into the balustrade, but instead of careening off balance, he stopped suddenly and twisted in her direction, jabbing a blade at her.
Linn reeled back, throwing her weight into her upper body and then her head. Even as she flipped backward, she felt the sharp bite of his blade on her side. Her landing was slightly off; she took a step to adjust her balance, and then the yaeger was upon her again, his two swords cutting this way and that, his eyes calculating her every step and move.
She was going to lose. She had neither blade nor Affinity on her side, and even if she’d managed to cut him earlier, he had cut her right back.
Her moves were slowing, and every duck and dodge was more difficult than the last. She’d barely avoided the slice of one blade before another was bearing down upon her. She was becoming sloppier, her nerves fraying fast as she anticipated blow after blow after blow.
The second sting of his sword was deeper than the first, and Linn nearly gasped aloud. She stumbled, the pain blotting out all rational thought and training for a fraction of a second. That was all the yaeger needed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his foot kick out; she leapt back, too little and too slow.
The yaeger’s foot slammed into her abdomen, sending her reeling. The cold marble balustrade slammed into her back: a firm reminder that she was out of space.
The yaeger stepped toward her. Linn leaned back, trying not to think about the fact that half of her body was hanging over empty air. A wingless bird, her Wind Masters had called her after she had stopped flying. How can a bird be afraid of heights?
She shrank against the banister. Sweat drenched her clothes, her wounds were bleeding, and her breath was ragged and shallow. A lump of panic rose in her throat as she assessed her options: a precarious fall behind her, and a fight she could not win in front of her.
The yaeger frowned. His jaw hardened. “I told you, I wished not to kill as fine a warrior as yourself. Such talent is already difficult enough to come across in this world.”
Linn shivered. “We Kemeirans believe that everything in life was meant to be; that there is a fate behind every event and every meeting.” She had no idea why she was telling him this, but the words of her homeland and her Wind Masters brought her comfort in her last moments. “Perhaps…perhaps you will be the death of me.”
His eyes narrowed. She could glean no emotion from them whatsoever. “Why do you not seek to kill me?” he asked.
“Action, and counteraction,” she whispered. “That is our belief—that every action has a counteraction. You attacked, and I defended. You had no intention to take my life, therefore I had no right to take yours. And now, I am paying for that choice with my life.” She would die without a blade in her hands and without the wind in her face, cornered like a coward.
Linn squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to shake. She had thought of death many times, but not like this. No—she had always pictured a glorious death, a warrior’s death, plunging from the skies by the side of her fellow windsailers as a Kemeiran should.
A breeze stirred behind her, rippling the folds of her clothes and cooling her sweat-soaked back. Courage, it seemed to whisper. Courage.
The empty space behind her seemed to expand. And suddenly, she realized that she could still fight with the winds at her back and the stars above her head.
Something like regret flashed in the soldier’s eyes. “I am truly sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” Linn said. She arched her back and kicked off. Using her arms to grip the balustrade, she swung herself over.
And then she was falling.
It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time: the wind roaring in her ears, the world tumbling all around her, and the knowledge that there was nothing and no one to catch her below and save her. Her scream was trapped in her throat, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a slip of her old self stir. She flung out her arms. Her instincts kicked in, and she pivoted so that she was falling feetfirst.
She was in free fall. The feeling of weightlessness, of uncertainty and freedom in every breath she gasped, was utterly frightening and familiar at once.
She felt as though she were…flying.
The white crenellated Palace walls rushed up to meet her. Linn slammed onto the ground, flexing her knees and staggering her fall to catch her balance. The momentum was still too strong.
Her hand flew out, and she felt a jolt as her palm hit the ground, followed by a sharp streak of pain in her wrist. Linn cried out, but through the daze of pain and blur of tears, she was somehow running, somehow pushing herself forward with each step toward the edge of the wall.
A shout rang in the night. Linn kept running.
Ten, fifteen steps. The moon slid behind the clouds, cloaking the night in utter darkness.
I am shadows and wind. I am the invisible girl.
The pressure on her Affinity lifted, clearing like fog above a lake. A feeling of serenity passed through her, followed by elation as her winds roared to life by her side.
For a moment, Linn wanted to slow her steps, to turn and look at the watchtower above.
Instead, she put on a burst of speed and ran for the edge of the walls.
Twenty, thirty steps. The wind was a pack of invisible wolves, darting by her side and howling in triumph.
Thirty-nine, forty steps—
Linn leapt. And then she was airborne, her winds roaring all around her, reacting to the slightest of her pulls and pushes and carrying her light body. A delighted laugh burst from her mouth as she flung out her arms, letting childhood instincts take over. For a glorious moment, she was in Kemeira again, soaring beneath the eternal blue skies and between mist-cloaked mountains.
The moon slid out from behind the clouds, bathing her in its cool fluorescence. The white waters of the Tiger’s Tail chu
rned below her, its waves reaching up as though to greet her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark figure outlined against the balustrade of the watchtower. Watching her.
Action, and counteraction.
Linn kept her gaze on him for a moment longer, pulling on her winds to slow her descent. Even as she hurtled toward the Tiger’s Tail, a part of her realized that the soldier had spared her life today. And she couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d become entwined in a new strand of destiny with this cold enemy, this fierce warrior—for better or for worse.
Linn curled into herself as tightly as she could. And plunged into the icy river.
The first thing she felt was the cold. And then came scent: the unmistakably musty smell of damp stone and stale air.
Ana shifted a hand and felt a cool, hard surface beneath her. Her head spun, and her body felt sluggish, as though she had just woken from a deep sleep. Her muscles were stiff, but she could feel the effects of the paralysis potion fading already.
She opened her eyes. The darkness was absolute, but she recognized this place. There was nowhere else in this world that carried such a strong stench of hopelessness and taste of absolute fear. Papa had always told her that this was a place full of demons.
But Ana had learned that demons were not the creatures to be feared the most. Humans were.
She drew a deep breath and shifted her focus to her Affinity. It leapt to her command and the room lit up: the walls and floors riddled with specks and splatters of blood, old and new layers superimposed like coats of paint.
She wriggled her fingers and toes. Nobody had bothered to shackle her, or inject her with Deys’voshk…because she was supposed to be dead.
And Luka. Luka was gone.
Despite what she told herself—that she needed a plan, that she needed to get out of here, that she needed to save Ramson and find Linn—the tears came. It was as though her sorrow were a flood, crashing through her strongest will and iron strength, pouring out. She lay on a table in the cold, dark dungeon, clamping both hands on her mouth to stay silent as she cried. With each long, drawn-out sob, she curled into herself like she would never breathe again.
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