Ana whipped her Affinity toward Morganya, pushing with all the strength she had left. With a shriek, Morganya tumbled back, releasing her control over Shamaïra.
Ana slung Shamaïra’s arms over her shoulders, wrapped her own hands over the Unseer’s too-thin waist, then turned and staggered away from the Salskoff Palace. Step by agonizing step across the bridge, to where she knew her forces waited. Overhead, the shadows of the angels and Deities on the Kateryanna Bridge loomed, silent and cold as stone.
The last that Ana remembered was the fog clearing and shapes moving ahead, voices calling her name. Her vision slicked and slipped as she lurched forward.
To the other end of the bridge.
Ramson remembered little until he woke up slumped on the back of a valkryf, dizzy and dehydrated and—gods be damned,what in the hells was that pain in his midriff? It was dark, too; he blinked, and shapes swam into view, fuzzy and flickering with the light of torches and snowglobes.
“Captain Farrald?” A voice in his ear.
He groaned. He’d been leaning against Narron this whole time, the soldier holding him before his breast like some gods-damned princess.
Not, Ramson amended to his own trail of thought, that it was an apt comparison at all. The only (former) princess he knew was tougher than his entire unit of Navy soldiers combined.
He made an attempt to straighten himself, but a searing pain tore through his abdomen again.
“Stay put, Captain. Looks like the wounds cut deeper than we thought. The healer will patch you up again once we make camp—we’re almost there.”
He tried to steady his breathing. They were somewhere in the thick of the Syvern Taiga, trees clustering tight around them, firelight lancing off their frozen trunks. They appeared to beclimbing uphill, his valkryf straining against the steep slope, its clawed hooves digging into the rock beneath the snow, lending them a sharp grip.
Between the conifers, he glimpsed other silhouettes, traveling in the same direction. Ramson made out the gleaming gray armor of his unit, and then the regular Bregonian livery of Ana and Daya’s forces.
“Where is ‘there’?” he slurred.
“Camp,” Narron replied, “with the Red Tigress’s forces. I’m told it’s located at an abandoned village north of Salskoff, deep in the Syvern Taiga. We should be arriving shortly.” A pause. “Unless you’d prefer we leave—”
“No,” Ramson said. “No.”
Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of another valkryf. A man slumped over the saddle, secured by ropes. Ramson would have recognized that bright red hair anywhere.
A girl followed dutifully in the wake of Yuri’s horse, the insides of her cloak flashing red. She moved her hand in long, sweeping motions. Behind her, snow gusted, sweeping the ground clean of their footprints.
“How long have I…” He winced as he looked down at his wound. His doublet had been slashed open, the bandages across his stomach turned dark red. The stain had crept to other parts of his clothes.
“You’ve been out the entire day, sir,” Narron reported. “Iversha made a quick fix of your injury, but she has to look at it more extensively once we arrive. And worry not, Captain, I sent word this morning to the rest of our squad standing watch over Ardonn and Dama Olyusha that we are safe. They should be on their way already.”
Ramson exhaled. “Narron, you’re a blessing. Did your mam ever tell you that?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, don’t let it get to your head.”
Their procession slowed, the ground flattening beneath their valkryfs’ hooves. They passed through a set of gates and stopped in front of what appeared to be a small village plaza. Dachas were scattered around the space, roofs jutting into the night. It was utterly dark, the windows shuttered, the buildings abandoned.
At the front of the line, he caught a glimpse of Daya, armor glinting and captain’s cloak sweeping as she dismounted. And there, cradled in her arms—
“Stop,” Ramson choked.“Stop.”
At his tone of voice, Narron yanked on the reins; the valkryf had barely drawn still before Ramson slid off. He hit the ground with a jolt, his knees buckling beneath him, stomach nearly splitting with pain.
Ramson pushed himself to his feet and shoved past the ranks of soldiers, until—
“What in the hells do you think you’re doing?” Daya turned her glare on him, but behind the sharpness to her voice, there was palpable relief. “You’re stillbleeding—”
“Is she all right?” His voice was barely a croak. “She—let me see—”
Daya’s eyes softened, and she shifted slightly. Behind her, two soldiers had brought out a makeshift stretcher; Ramson caught a glimpse of chestnut hair, a curved neck, head lolling like a doll’s.
