Blood Heir

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  She was pathetic. Luka had survived a year of Morganya’s torture, of being slowly drained of life, and even toward the very end he had been able to resist her in his own way.

  Get up, brat, he’d say to her right now. Our empire needs you.

  Her empire needed her. She had no right to grief, not now.

  Ana clenched her jaw and curled her fists. Her body still shuddered with silent sobs, but her mind cleared.

  Promise me.

  Somewhere far off, a door clanged. Footsteps reverberated through the deserted corridors. Ana suppressed a shudder and lay frozen in place. Those sounds evoked an unspeakable fear in her: the anticipation of thin white fingers curling around prison bars, a sadistic smile on a sallow face, and the promise of Deys’voshk against her lips.

  Holding her breath, she reached out with her Affinity. Someone had entered the dungeons and was heading her way. He walked briskly but calmly—the measured steps of a person familiar with these dungeons. He slowly drew closer, his blood glowing brighter like a candle.

  A soft murmur. Someone was saying her name. The voice was so familiar, she thought she was hallucinating.

  A figure stepped before her cell, the far-off torchlight illuminating the silvers and whites that peppered his hair. By the time the cell door clicked open, she had scrambled to her feet.

  Ana fell into her kapitan’s firm embrace. Through her tears, she breathed in the scent of his shaving cream and armor metal.

  “Kolst…” Markov’s deep voice cracked; he couldn’t finish the word as he sank to his knees and drew a circle over his chest. A salute; a show of respect.

  Ana held back tears as she drew him back up, touching her fingers to his weathered face, tracing tears from the lines that had deepened around his eyes. Kapitan Markov had been like a second father to her, after Papa had turned from her. “I’ve missed you so much, Kapitan.”

  More footsteps sounded sharply down the hall again, and Ana tensed, grasping for her Affinity.

  Two men rounded the corner, throwing bright torchlight into her cell. For a moment, Ana could only stare at them.

  Lieutenant Henryk saluted. Shame heated his cheeks—their thoughts both inevitably turned to when he had tried to arrest her earlier in the evening—but he kept his gaze firmly on hers.

  And next to him…next to him was—

  “Hello, Witch,” Ramson said softly. His face was bruising in various places, and his shirt was torn open at the collar. Someone had hastily bandaged his chest, but blood was already soaking through the gauze.

  She remembered the Throneroom, the way he had burst in, the devastation on his face. The shadow of that grief still clouded his eyes. He looked so fragile.

  Ana’s throat ached, but she forced herself to stay where she was. “Hello, con man,” she whispered.

  Ramson looked as though he were about to say something else, but Kapitan Markov cut across him. “You’ll address her as Empress,” the old guard said sternly.

  Ana noticed that Ramson stood a bit straighter. “Yes, sir.”

  Among them, there was one person still missing. “Linn,” Ana said, looking at Ramson. “Where is she?”

  “She was fighting the Whitecloaks when I left her,” Ramson said. “She gave me a pouch and told me to hand it to you—said it was evidence. Kapitan, did you happen to take any prisoners from last night?”

  Desperation twined around Ana when the kapitan slowly shook his head. “Please, Kapitan,” Ana whispered. “She’s my friend. Will you ask your guards to search for a Kemeiran girl?”

  “I will, Kolst Imperatorya,” Markov said gravely, “but I do not think you can stay here for the results of my search.”

  The implication of his words left her breathless with dread. “Morganya,” Ana said quietly. “What happened? What has the Imperial Council decided?”

  Markov hesitated. “There is no…Imperial Council anymore,” he said at last. “Morganya has seized complete control of the Court and dismissed the Council. The remaining Councilmembers have pledged their loyalties to her.”

  The inevitable truth loomed like a shadow. Ana was back where she had started, with no army, no power, and no title. “I’ve lost.” The words numbed her lips.

  “No, Kolst Imperatorya!” Henryk’s fists were clenched. “A few of the Councilmembers believe Morganya committed treason and usurped the throne. You need to go back. Announce that you are alive, sentence Morganya, and take back the Court.”

  “Do you really think that matters?” Ramson spoke suddenly, his anger a quiet undercurrent. “If Ana goes back now, she’ll be killed. Pardon me,” he added. “The Princess. The Heir. The Empress. Whatever you want to call her—it doesn’t matter. This is a coup, and Morganya has solidified her power already; the majority of the Cyrilian Court sides with her. We’ve been outmaneuvered. But there is one advantage we hold over her— everyone believes Ana is dead.”

  He was right, Ana realized. This was a war that Ana could not win with brazenness and the strength of her Affinity. This was a long game, and Ana needed to outscheme, outwit, and outmaneuver Morganya.

  Ana held a hand up, and the three men fell silent, their attention on her. “I must leave,” Ana said. “But I will not disappear. Morganya plans mass murder and a reign of terror. She must be stopped.” Yuri’s defiant face appeared in her mind’s eye, his hair as bright as fire. “I have a small group of allies in the south of the Empire. I will travel there and begin my campaign. I will gather support; I will gather an army. And once I am ready to prove to this empire—to this world—that I am worthy of being heir…I will return.”

  Markov gave a slow nod. “How you have grown, Little Tigress,” he murmured.

  “Kapitan, Lieutenant,” Ana continued. “If you support me, then I need you to stay here. If I am to win, and if I am to return, then I need allies close to my enemy. I need you to be my eyes and ears within the Palace, within the Imperial Court. Can you do that?”

  Henryk gave her a sharp salute. There were tears in his eyes. “We will not fail you, Kolst Imperatorya.”

  “You must go,” Markov said, and Ana could tell how much of an effort it took for him to say those words to her.

  Ana met his eyes. “I will return, Kapitan,” she whispered. “And I will see you again.”

  Guided by Henryk’s torchlight, they made their way to the secret passageway in the back of the dungeons. The narrow cell door stood ajar from their earlier entry.

  Markov took Ana’s hand and squeezed. “Deys blesya ty, Kolst Imperatorya.”

  “Deys blesya ty,” she replied.

  A grating sound reverberated throughout the dungeons. With a grunt, Henryk straightened. The door to the passageway gaped from the wall, darkness beyond.

  Ramson tapped two fingers to his forehead in a sharp salute and slipped in. Ana followed, placing a hand on the entrance to steady herself.

  She glanced back. Markov and Henryk stood behind her, the torch flickering like a beacon in the darkness. Only one year ago, she had run through this door, afraid and alone and completely lost. Ahead of her lay darkness, uncertainty, and a long, long path she’d have to fight her way through. Behind was a crumbling empire, a people in peril, and a world divided.

  Promise me.

  Ana turned and slipped into the darkness that welcomed her like an old friend.

  The stars had reeled a full cycle above her head, and the faintest edges of blue had begun to crown the horizon in the east. In the distance, the Salskoff Palace was barely visible beyond the white-tipped forest that stretched in all directions beneath the hills. It glowed a faint, predawn gold, thick tendrils of morning mist clinging to its spires and crenellated walls.

  Ana exhaled, her breath fogging in the air before her. From their vantage point atop the hill, she could barely make out the curved back of the Kateryanna Bridge, linking the cas
tle to the sleeping town below. Salskoff spread out under the watchful gaze of its Palace, the Tiger’s Tail winding protectively around it.

  “Quite beautiful from up here, isn’t it?” By her side, Ramson wore a placid expression as he gazed at the sight before them. “I suppose that’s what it must look like to the gods, or Deities, or whatever. Who cares about the petty battles that humans fight? There’s a whole world out there for them to look at.”

  “That’s why it’s up to us to fight our battles. Not the Deities.”

  “That’s what I’ve always said. Gods, I should become a priest.”

  A snort burst out from Ana. “You? A priest? It’s not the end of the world yet, Ramson.”

  He shot her a grin, and Ana realized that, despite everything, Ramson had managed to make her laugh. “Then we should get moving, to stop the end of the world. If you really don’t want to see me become a priest.”

  Ana glanced back at her home. A weight seemed to settle on her shoulders again. For so long, she’d been trying to make a life in a place that had not been a home for a while. And for so long, it had remained distant yet visible, close yet just out of reach. Her heart was heavy as she steeled herself for the inevitable.

  Ramson clasped a hand over hers. He tilted her chin with a finger so that she was gazing into his warm, clear eyes. “Have courage, Princess.”

  She shut her eyes briefly, leaning into his light touch. “I’m afraid, Ramson. I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long, and yet…I’m back where I started.”

  “That’s life,” he said quietly. “This isn’t one of the fairy-tale stories you read in your childhood, where the hero always wins in the end. You’ll have many battles to fight, and you won’t win them all. And at the end of every single day, you’ll always face the same choice: keep fighting, or give up.”

  Our choices. A breeze stirred, and she seemed to hear her brother’s words in the whispers of the pines around them. Far above their heads, an eagle’s sharp cry pierced the silence.

  Luka had named her heir. But that title meant nothing if she couldn’t prove herself worthy of it.

  Ana lifted her head. “I’ve made my choice already. I’m going to journey south to find Yuri and the Redcloaks.”

  Ramson drew back. “You’re joining the rebellion?”

  A cold wind stirred around her, and she thought of Yuri’s parting words. The future lies here, with us. In the hands of the people.

  “For now,” Ana said, drawing her cloak tighter around her. Morganya had eliminated any and all checks and balances against the monarchy and her reign. And the Redcloaks…they didn’t seem to want a monarchy at all. “The winds of this world are changing, Ramson, and I…I need to find out where I stand. But first, Morganya needs to be stopped, and I need an army. I’ll begin working to gain the support of the other kingdoms. And seeing as Bregon is our most neutral ally, I’ll start there.” She paused, and dared herself to meet his eyes. “I could use the help of a Bregonian soldier.”

  He held her gaze. “I could think about it. But I have a question.” A sly look was working its way into his eyes. “What’s the Trade, Witch?”

  She almost exhaled in relief; her heart fluttered with joy. “How about, in return, I won’t choke you on your own blood?”

  “Incredible. What have I done to deserve such an opportunity? The gods have truly smiled upon me.”

  “Don’t count your blessings yet.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, and shifted, his gaze on something behind her.

  Above the treetops, outlined in the dawn sky, a snowhawk was descending toward them. Ramson held out his arm, and the bird landed with a rustle of its snowy wings. Ramson fished out something from his pockets and held it toward the snowhawk; the bird clasped it with a quick clack of its beak.

  “What are you doing?” Ana asked. The thing in the snowhawk’s beak resembled…hair. Midnight-black hair.

  “Linn,” Ramson said simply, giving the bird an affectionate pat. “If Kapitan Markov doesn’t find her, then she must be out there somewhere. When Fisher finds her, he’ll lead her to us.”

  Ana looked at the lock of hair, curled in the bird’s beak, and sent a prayer to the Deities that her friend was safe. That, one way or another, they would find each other again.

  “Fisher,” she repeated. “That’s an interesting name for a Cyrilian snowhawk.”

  A ghost of a smile lit Ramson’s lips. “It’s an old friend’s name,” he said softly. “He was a wayfinder, just like this bird.”

  Ana studied the snowhawk. It stared right back with intelligent golden eyes. Legends said that snowhawks were blessed with the touch of the Deities; that Winter had blown a breath upon the frozen land and created these birds out of nothing but wind and snow.

  Ramson thrust his arm into the air. With a mighty flap of its wings, the snowhawk shot into the sky. Be swift, Ana thought. May the gods that watch over Linn watch over you, too.

  As though in response, a soft wind stirred and kissed her cheeks.

  “They’re magical, you know,” Ramson said as they watched the bird grow smaller and smaller. “At least, that’s what Bregonian legends said.”

  Ana looked at him in surprise. “Cyrilian ones, too.”

  “They say Affinites and snowhawks and moonbears and a lot of legendary creatures are remnants of the Deities, reminders that the gods once walked this world.”

  “I didn’t know you believed those kinds of tales.”

  Ramson leveled his gaze to her. His eyes were bright in the early-morning light, his cheeks tinged red from the cold, his hair mussed from the winds. “I could be persuaded,” he murmured.

  Something about his open, piercing stare and the honesty of his tone brought back the boy who’d stood before her on the night of the Fyrva’snezh. Ana found herself drawn inexorably toward him, taking in the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck; the strong, chiseled edges of his jawline; the crooked curve to his lips. They parted slightly as Ramson let out a soft breath and dipped his head toward her, his eyes tracing every angle of her face. Something about the way he looked at her, like nothing else around them existed, made her heart beat faster and her breaths come shorter.

  That feeling—like she was falling and flying at the same time—made her afraid.

  Another gust of wind pressed at her back, more insistently, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Palace again, looming in the distance. It was a reminder that she couldn’t afford to think of anything else right now. Not when she had an empire to save.

  Ana turned away abruptly. The cold rushed in to fill the space between them. “Well,” she said, swallowing. “Here we are.”

  She sensed Ramson’s gaze still on her, softer now and more distant. “Here we are,” he echoed.

  Ana kept her gaze straight ahead, on the Palace. She was, once again, a girl in a threadbare cloak, with nothing to her name and nowhere to run to. Yet somehow, in a year, it felt as though everything had changed.

  I unsee you, Little Tigress.

  It was she who had changed, Ana realized with a burst of surprise that tasted sweet in the wintry air. She was no longer the frightened girl of twelve moons past, who had so desperately sought a way to fix herself, her monstrosity. If the line between good and evil was drawn by choices, then she would choose to wield her Affinity to fight for those who could not.

  Ramson was right. This wasn’t a fairy-tale story where the good triumphed in the end. There were real people suffering in her empire right now, in the shadows of the laws that claimed to protect them. There was evil and darkness here—oppressors and those who perpetuated violence with hatred and greed in their hearts.

  But there was also the good; there was the light of this world that came in shattered, piercing fragments, whether it was a small earth Affinite making flowers out of barren soil, or a fire Affinit
e’s secret chokolad treats, or a wind Affinite tilting her face to the skies, telling her that there was something worth saving—in her and in this world.

  This world—this beautiful broken world that harbored so much of the gray—was the only one they had. And it was one she would continue to fight for.

  But first, she had to prove to her people that she was worthy of being their leader. That, no matter her title, she would not stand by and watch innocents die under a regime of terror. That, in her flesh and bones and soul, she was Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov, blood heir of the Cyrilian Empire.

  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

  bratika: brother

  chokolad: cocoa-based sweet

  contessya: countess

  copperstone: lowest-value coin

  dacha: house

  dama: lady

  deimhov: demon

  Deys: Deity

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

  Fyrva’snezh: First Snows

  goldleaf: highest-value coin

  guzhkyn gerbil: pet rodent from the Guzhkyn region in southern Cyrilia

  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”