Seyin turned to her, his eyes black and impenetrable. “Perhaps our paths will cross again,” he said. “But for now, I have nothing more to say to a girl who thinks this war is but a game for kings and queens.”
Without another word, the Second of the Redcloaks strode past Ana as though she were no more than one of the broken statues of the Deities. Ana watched his and Yesenya’s outlines grow fainter and fainter until they disappeared into the shadows.
Alone in the darkness, Ana leaned against the wall. Seyin’s words had cut like knives in the deepest corners of her heart, her fears and insecurities bleeding bright.
You’re just a girl born to a silver spoon and a golden crown.
For so long, she had been focused on regaining her title and her right to rule, she hadn’t consideredhowshe would rule. She’d thought justice and tenacity and equality would be enough—but Seyin had taken every one of the tenets she held fiercely and shattered them.
She had no army. No power. No allies. Her plan—heronlyplan—had utterly unraveled in the course of an hour. Of all the failures she had anticipated, she hadn’t expected this.
Ana forced herself to steady her breathing and her mind. If there was one thing she had gained from the meeting tonight, it was that Seyin had directed her to her next move.
She needed to understand her enemy, enough so that she had a plan when she faced Yuri again. Not only that—she needed to see, with her own two eyes, what made her different, and what made her the good choice, the right choice, for herempire.
That began right now, with the Imperial Inquisition.
There was just one problem.
Ramson,Ana thought, and for a moment, she imagined him leaning against a broken pillar, arms crossed, regarding her with that smirk. They’d agreed to meet at a pub named the Broken Arrow after their respective meetings, but that was in the opposite direction of the town square, where she needed to be.
Ana hesitated, glancing down the hallway where Seyin had disappeared. Instantly, all other thoughts dissipated. Ramson Quicktongue was not—could not be—a priority. Her empire and her people were her responsibility.
They should be the only things that mattered.
Ramson could wait.
Ana turned and ran after Seyin, her steps reverberating in the empty chamber. The blackened walls, the empty torch sconces, the stairs and crushed glass beneath her feet—it all blended together as the exit of the Playpen came into view, a destination brighter and more certain than the darkness around her: the Imperial Inquisition.
Outside, the streets were still empty, silence lingering in the darkness between alleyways. Toward the center of Novo Mynsk, though, right above where the town square should be, plumes of smoke choked the night sky, gilding it a bloody orange.
Ana focused on that, settling into the rhythmic sound of her boots against the snow.
Several more turns and streets and her Affinity swept over a cluster of blood down the next street.
She slowed and came to a stop behind a dacha. Drawing a tight breath, Ana peered around the corner.
To her surprise, a group of Whitecloaks stood in the middle of the street ahead. Their signature capes fluttered white beneath the light that spilled from a streetlamp, and the pommels of their swords glinted gold at their hips.
There were four of them. Their armor glittered with the telltale gray hue of infused blackstone, the natural inhibitor to Affinities.
But there was something different about one. He stood in front, an air of authority to his stance, the tilt of his chin and the angle of his shoulders. Ana frowned, her Affinity hovering against the bright glow of his blood. And then it hit her.
She had never been able to fully grasp the blood of other Imperial Patrols before because of the blackstone in their armor. There wasn’t a hint of it in the livery the first Whitecloak wore. Upon a closer look, his armor was different—it lacked the telltale gray, glittering hue of blackstone, and embossed on the plate at his chest was also a different insignia, one she didn’t recognize: a Deities’ circle, carved into the quadrants to represent the Four Deities, in the center of which sat a crown.
Morganya’s new sigil.
As she watched, the Whitecloak angled his head toward the dacha and raised his hands.
There was acrack,and the wooden door before them tore visibly from its hinges. The Whitecloak gave another flick of his fingers, and before their eyes, the door crumbled into sawdust.
An Affinite. Ana’s stomach tightened in recognition. She’d read about Morganya recruiting Affinites into her army, specifically to carry out these Inquisitions. They were to lead missions across the Empire, eliminating anyone accused of crimes against Affinites and rooting out dissent against the new Empress. The “Inquisitors,” they were called.
Historically, Affinites had always been barred from the Imperial Army—all but for yaegers, who were able to subdue Affinites. The Imperial Patrols had been assigned to patrol the lands to quell any unrest between Affinites and non-Affinites.
Within weeks, Morganya had reversed a core law of the Cyrilian Empire with little resistance, it seemed, from the Imperial Council.
In front of the dacha, the pile of sawdust was rising, twining itself into threads, and twisting those into ropes. They moved through the air like snakes. With a sudden gesture from the Inquisitor, the ropes shot into the dacha.
