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.
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 asEmpress,” the old guard said sternly.
Ana noticed that Ramson stood a bit straighter. “Yes, sir.”
