Gods be damned, wherewasshe?
Ramson leaned against the cold stone wall of a darkened alleyway in Novo Mynsk, clutching at the cramp in his side. He could still hear the panicked crowds, taste the smoke and ash on his tongue.
He’d tried the Playpen, and when that had yielded nothing, he’d followed the steady thrust of people that had been trickling toward the town square, fearing the worst. Yet when he’d arrived to a scene of dachas burning and people screaming and blood—so much blood—spilling from the bodies of Imperial Patrols, he’d known all too well whose handiwork he was staring at.
“A littlesubtlety,Ana?” he gritted out at the cold night air. But, of course, subtlety was likely not a concept she had absorbed into that stubborn head of hers.
He’d taken advantage of the chaos in the square to look for her among the living and the dead, and then he’d followed the stream of people, slipping out and melting into the shadows of the city that he knew better than the back of his own hand.
Ramson ran a hand through his hair. He was going to kill her. Hells, he was going tofind herso he could kill her.
Gods be damned.
There was only one other place in this town where she might go.
His steps were quick, sure, as he made his way down the cobblestone streets, his breaths unfurling before him in sharp, measured beats. The glow of fire from the town square reflected on the clouds overhead, casting an unnatural, hellish light around him. The streets were even emptier now, the civilians having either barricaded themselves indoors or fled town or been arrested by the Imperial Inquisition.
The night was cold; the Cyrilian Empire had settled into a true northern winter, the temperatures plummeting to below freezing. Gradually, the streets turned to dust roads covered by snow that was relatively undisturbed. The dachas thinned out, and the shadow of the Syvern Taiga loomed against the night. Shamaïra’s dacha sat at the edge of the boreal forest.
Only, someone else had gotten there first.
A black wagon was out front, its shadows thrown long by the torches that flared bright around the outside of the dacha.
A sense of foreboding crept over Ramson. He stole through the conifers of the Syvern Taiga toward Shamaïra’s dacha. When he was close enough, he knelt in the shadow of a tree and peered out.
The wagon came into clearer view, and Ramson’s heart sank. It was another blackstone wagon, the sight of which had become synonymous with the Imperial Patrols.
Two Whitecloaks stood guard, the shimmer of their cloaks reflecting a cruel red in the night. Two more waited at the front door.
Ramson immediately noticed a slight difference between their outfits. One of the Whitecloaks—the one holding the torch—had on a uniform of a slightly paler shade of gray than the others.
It was then that Ramson realized the Whitecloak wasn’t holding a torch.
He wasconjuringthe fire with his bare hands.
It took a moment for the image to click. This was one of Morganya’s new Affinite Inquisitors—ones who, until now, Ramson had only read about in ominous newspaper articles. Watching the man juggle fire in his palms, Ramson felt his own misericord would hold up about as well as a twig if it came to a fight.
There was movement at the back of the house. Three more Whitecloaks came into view, striding from Shamaïra’s garden. Ramson’s hand tightened on the hilt of his weapon, the plans he’d been spinning now shifting as he took in this new information. There was no way that he could get to Shamaïra without being detected, but then, a new thought grasped him with urgency.
Was Ana inside?
In an instant, he was up and moving, his senses pricked and his misericord gripped tight in his fist as he jogged closer to the dacha. He could now make out some words from snatches of the Whitecloaks’ conversation. A few more steps, and—
The front door banged open. Light spilled sharply over snow.
Even from about twenty yards out, Ramson recognized the stout, strong figure standing in the doorway, haloed by the light.
“Spirit curse you, do you have any idea what time it is?” Shamaïra snapped.
Ramson’s grin faded when one of the Whitecloaks began to speak. “You are hereby accused of treason and sin against the Kolst—”
Shamaïra’s sharp cackle cut across his words. “Oh, it’s sin now, is it? Your Empress fancies herself a god now, too?”
“—the Kolst Imperatorya,” the Whitecloak pressed on, “by harboring rebels and traitors of the Crown. We therefore place you under arrest and command the right to search your property for evidence of these accusations.”
Shamaïra’s laugh rang out again. “You’ll arrest mebeforeyou search for evidence?” she snorted.
“Shut up, Shamaïra,” Ramson gritted under his breath.
