It had become the symbol for her party, for her revolution. The symbol for a new Cyrilia: an equal, balanced land free of oppression, where Affinites and non-Affinites walked side by side.
As to what that held for her, for the future she’d once dreamt of as the heir of an empire, she wasn’t certain.
A gust of wind knifed past her, whipping her cloak behind her in a scarlet trail. Not for the first time, Ana wondered what the ghosts of her family would think of her now. She could so clearly see the cold disappointment in her father’s eyes, the muted sorrow on her brother’s face. Yet Papa, Luka, and now, Morganya…one by one, the previous rulers of the Cyrilian Empire had proven the dangers of a monarchy unchecked as their failures led Cyriliafurther and further down a spiral of darkness, of corruption, of oppression.
She gripped the railing tighter, knuckles whitening. The dead were dead; she had to focus on the living, on what was best for her empire, her people.
“Speaking of,” Daya said, “I should rouse the crew. We’ll be arriving within the hour.”
A cry came from the crow’s nest. “Snowhawk!”
Ana looked up to see a pale shape descending upon them in the night, heading straight for her. She held her arm up and it alighted, its claws digging into the thick fabric of her crimson cloak. In its beak it held a clump of fabric embroidered with small gold flowers.
She recognized it immediately: the sleeve of a kechyan she had worn back at the Salskoff Palace.
Ana gently stroked the bird’s beak, prompting it to release the kechyan. Folded neatly inside was a single piece of parchment. Ana held it between trembling fingers.
Kolst Imperatorya, we await. Yours faithfully,
A. Markov
Daya leaned in. “Confirmation?”
Ana nodded, her throat stuck.
Here it was, her plan in motion, her people still loyal to her, waiting to rally to her name.
She’d sent a Bregonian seadove to her trusted confidant at thePalace: Kapitan Markov, the old guard who had watched over her throughout her childhood, and who had helped her escapedeath at Morganya’s hands two moons ago. She’d asked him to leave the Palace with all troops loyal to her to meet her by the seaside fishing village of Balgorod, two days’ travel south of Salskoff, where she would assemble her forces and begin her march upon the Imperial Court.
He’d replied, each time with a token that only they knew about, to verify his identity.
“Well, then,” Daya said, straightening and clicking her heels together. “I’ve never done this before, but I suppose I’ll be readying a thousand Bregonian troops for battle.”
Ana looked at her captain, herfriend,who just weeks before had been a stray sailor looking for business in the southern ports of Cyrilia. “Daya,” she said. “You don’t have to do this. The Bregonian fleets have their own commanders. I…I could drop you off in Balgorod, where you’d be safe, and find you once the war is over.”
The truth was, she couldn’t bear it if anyone else that she cared about got hurt fighting for her.
Daya tilted her head. “You know,” she said, and there was a rare sobriety to her tone. “Before all this, I was some cast-out sailor scraping by for a living. Wasn’t sure what I was doing with life, just focusing on getting by day after day. And now…” She drew a deep breath, gesturing around them. “Now I’m captain of a ship. I’m allies with the girl who leads an entire army—an entiremovement.All this has become much more to me than just coin, Ana.”
“Don’t let Ramson hear you say that.” The words were out of Ana’s mouth before she could stop herself. Her breath caught, and a sharp pain cracked in her heart—perhaps the worst kind ofall. In the darkness of the night he seemed to materialize, sandy hair sparkling and hazel eyes curved in a ghostly smile.Witch.
She’d allowed her thoughts to drift toward Ramson—RamsonFarrald—during the long nights, when spasms of coughs and bouts of sleeplessness kept her awake. He’d remained in Bregon to hunt down the remainders of Alaric Kerlan’s criminal empire and root out whatever information was still hidden beyond the waters of Bregon. She’d recalled that morning, the sky a halcyon blue, when she’d leaned against the railing of this ship and gazed back at Bregon and all that she was leaving behind.
Wondering if she would ever see him again.
Ana blinked and the phantoms of memories swirled away like smoke before she could dwell on them. This was the cost of war, of choosing to fight for an entire empire and an entire people. Yet she would choose the same sacrifices, over and over again, if that meant saving Cyrilia.
“Of course, I’ll still be waiting to dive into your imperial coffers at the end of it all,” Daya was saying. “But I’m a non-Affinite, Ana. What do you think happens to me and people like me under the current regime? I know I could leave—sail away to another kingdom, but…I’ve seen what happens if Morganya succeeds. Look at what nearly happened to Bregon.” Across the deck, her eyes found Ana’s, earth-brown and hard. “If the world falls, the last thing I want is to know I could have fought and made a difference and chose not to.”
Daya’s words lingered for a moment in the salt-tinged winds, heavy with meaning and sharp with consequences—the consequences of what the world might become if Ana failed.
A reminder of what she fought for.
Ana nodded. “Thank you, Daya.”
Daya tapped two fingers to her forehead in a mock salute before hopping onto the ratlines and scurrying up several rungs. “Stormbringercrew!” she shouted. “Attention!”
Ana turned to the prow, letting the ocean spray surge against her cheeks, drinking in the cold of her empire. She’d missed it. The southern Bregonian weather had been warm and mild, but she felt a part of herself becoming reinvigorated beneath the snow-tinged skies of the great northern Empire.
