In the lowlight of the globefire, he glanced back at her, koffee-brown hair framing his wearied face. His eyes softened for a moment; he nodded. “Ana,” he murmured, and with that, he was gone, the blackstone door clicking shut behind him, the darkness swallowing her once again.
Lieutenant Henryk’s visit had been a lifeline. Even as she leaned over her cot, shivering and feverish, to throw up whatever cold kashya porridge she’d managed to eat, even as she sweated and screamed in the liminal moments between consciousness and nightmares, she thought of her old friend and his reassuring whisper that he’d be back.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she saw him again. There was the clank of keys against her door, and when the guards entered, she caught sight of his face. Through the squadron of Whitecloaks, Henryk’s blue eyes found her. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Ana let the guards unchain her from the wall and escort her from her room. It was the first time since she’d arrived that she was stepping outside. The hallways were empty and devoid of windows, torchlight dripping from the sconces on the walls.
They came to a stop before a pair of nondescript doors—blackstone, and carved with the sign of the roaring Cyrilian tiger. The sight called to mind the dungeon doors of her childhood, the darkness that clung to her body like oil, the mounting fear as Sadov turned to her with spindly pale fingers and a wan smile. Ana fought to keep her breathing steady as Lieutenant Henryk’s hands held her shoulders: a comforting touch, a reminder that he was here, with her.
The door before them burst open and a pair of Imperial Patrols exited, holding a prisoner between them.
It took Ana several moments before she realized that she wasn’t hallucinating.
Shamaïra’s face had thinned to the point of skeletal, her once-full cheeks now sagging like parchment over brittle bones. Her hair, which Ana remembered to be lustrously black, was streaked with gray and caked with blood and grime. She had always looked so fierce, crackling with energy and spirit, but now—and this terrified Ana the most—she looked empty. Fragile.
Broken.
Somewhere in Ana’s throat, there was a scream: trapped in horror and in pain at what Morganya had done to her friendover the past moon. Anger at herself, for not being able to save Shamaïra.
Yet in that emaciated face, there was something Ana recognized. Shamaïra’s eyes: those electric orbs of the lightest blue, the color resembling the heart of flames and glaciers.
They sharpened.
Before anyone could react, Shamaïra burst forward with speed and strength unimaginable for someone her size. The Imperial Patrols, caught by surprise, lost their sense of balance, and Shamaïra slipped from their grasp.
Drooling and snarling like a feral animal, she threw herself at Ana with enough force to knock her off her feet. They crashed to the floor together, skidding several feet across the stone-tiled floors.
There were shouts in the air as Henryk stepped neatly in front of the onslaught of Imperial Patrols, tripping them and using the momentary confusion to buy Ana time. Ana almost didn’t realize Shamaïra was speaking to her until she saw the woman’s lips move.
“You must stop her,” Shamaïra whispered. If Ana had thought her mad just moments ago, there was no question of her sanity now, from her rapid-fire words to the fierce lucidity of her gaze that cracked like blue lightning. “Once she has the siphon, Morganya will seek the Deities’ Heart.Stop her—”
The Deities’ Heart.Ana drew a sharp breath, two questions crystallizing in the maelstrom of her thoughts. “The Deities’ Heart?” she repeated, and then: “Have you seen the future, Shamaïra? Does she get the siphon?”
“The half sister,” Shamaïra continued, her fingers clawing at Ana’s collar. Her bloodshot eyes narrowed a fraction. “She willarrive in Salskoff in precisely seventeen days. You must stop her—”
Ana’s chest tightened. She knew exactly whom Shamaïra referred to.
Sorsha Farrald.
Before she could say anything more, the Imperial Patrols were on them, pulling them apart. Shamaïra’s screams echoed in Ana’s mind long after they took her away.
The Imperial Patrols shoved Ana into the interrogation chamber, and even as they strapped her down to a blackstone chair—just like the one in her own cell—her heart was pounding, her thoughts swirling with what had just happened.
She will arrive in Salskoff in precisely seventeen days. You must stop her—
Ramson had told her Morganya had captured Shamaïra; Kaïs had almost been coerced into betraying them because of it.
The reason for the capture had eluded her until just now.
Shamaïra’s rare Affinity to time gave her the ability to glimpse fragments of the future. Should Morganya siphon Shamaïra’s Affinity, the Empress would have a pulse on the flow of events. On what was to come.
“A little scuffle out there?”
She jerked her head up. She’d been so deep in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed Sadov’s presence. Today, instead of the rod-straight posture he always adopted for these sessions, he slouched slightly. There were faint bags under his eyes.
The familiar fog of fear threatened to descend upon her—but now, a sharp ray of hope pierced through like sunlight. Shewasn’t helpless anymore. Henryk was here; Shamaïra was here.
Movement—a flicker of light—drew her attention to the mullioned window in the back. The glass was fogged from condensation inside, and haloed against it was the flickering glow of torchlight somewhere distant.
