Memories poured through an hourglass, sifting into an inevitable conclusion.
She had less than two moons to live.
Somehow, her mind was calm, her heart beating ever so strong against her chest, as though insistent that, in this moment, she was alive, alive, alive. And perhaps it was the knowledge of the fact that she had an entire empire to fight for, that she had awar to win and a monarch to overthrow before it was all over, that kept her world from falling apart.
Her head cleared, and Ana’s resolve sharpened. “Well, then,” she said, her voice smooth as steel. “I need to raise an army strong enough to defeat Morganya before she finds this artifact, and before my time is up.”
Tetsyev’s expression was heavy. “There is not yet enough research and evidence to establish certainty,” he said, but she held a hand up.
“I will consider it a fact until proven otherwise,” Ana said. “I cannot stake the future of this empire on possibilities.”
Slowly, the alchemist nodded. “You may.”
Before either of them could say anything else, the door to the dacha swung open, and in a gust of bone-chilling wind, Daya swept in. Snowflakes coated her hair and clung to her captain’s coat. She slammed the door shut behind her. “Amara’s armpits, it’s cold up here,” she gasped, and held up a bundle in her arms. “Dinner and clothes.”
Ana sat herself up, gingerly shifting her healing arm. “Daya,” she said, relief seeping through her at the sight of her friend.
Daya dropped off the bundle and gestured to the back of the dacha. “There’s a tub behind those curtains; I’ve heated water so you can take a bath, because by Amara’s hair, you smell.”
Ana looked to the back of the dacha, where a set of coarse brocade curtains hung from the second-floor landing. Steam rose from behind them. “Daya,” she said. “Thank you.”
She started on her dinner as Daya perched on her bed, recounting the rest of the day, how they’d fled into the Syvern Taiga, covering their tracks. Her friend’s presence and chatterseemed to chase away her previous conversation with Tetsyev like a bad dream, grounding Ana in the present: the crackle of flames, the musty scent of wood, the wind raging beyond their doors. That, until Ana bit into the cornbread Daya had brought her and found it tasteless.
She kept eating mechanically, nodding and asking questions where Daya paused, but her mind was far away. She’d felt the deterioration in her body all along, from the nausea to the loss of appetite and the loss of ability to taste, back in the Northern Crimson camp with Yuri’s ptychy’moloko.
At the thought, Ana set down her spoon. “And Yuri,” she said, “is he all right?”
Daya nodded. “The rest of the Redcloaks—those who survived—split from us when Morganya’s forces took over, but we saved Yuri. He’s healing in another dacha. I’ll take you to him in the morning. It’s getting late, and I plan to sleep like there’s no tomorrow.” She frowned and raised an eyebrow. “Not too unrealistic of a metaphor in these times, eh?”
Ana smiled. Daya was here, Yuri was safe, Shamaïra was being tended to…it felt as though an immense weight had lifted from her shoulders.
And suddenly, in the haze of her memories, she recalled something she’d thought had been a dream. A familiar figure stepping out from behind the statues of Deities like the answer to a prayer. Quick hazel eyes, defiant curve of his lips even as he bled.
Hello, Witch,he’d said, a greeting that had become something intimate between the two of them.
“Ramson,” she whispered.
The stairs creaked; a figure descended, stepping out from the shadows, moving toward her like a ghost.
“Hello, Witch.”
Time seemed to slow as Ramson stopped at the foot of the stairs. In the fading firelight, his eyes flickered. They did not leave her.
Daya shot Ramson a look that Ana couldn’t catch. “Well,” she said, standing and stretching in a suspiciously exaggerated manner. “It’s late, and I should return to the headquarters, ensure shifts are set for the night before I sleep. C’mon, Baldie.”
It seemed to sink into Tetsyev several seconds later that she was addressing him. With a startled look, he rose to his feet, inclined his head to Ana. “We’ll speak more tomorrow. I recommend keeping the collar on, until you are strong enough to control the siphon.”
Daya turned to Ana on her way out. “Don’t wake me unless the world’s ending,” she called.
The door closed behind them. Silence fell in the dacha, thick and heavy, as Ana finally, finally turned to Ramson.
The firelight painted him in shadows and light, a perfect contrast of sharp edges and soft gaze that she might have captured in a portrait once in a lifetime ago. There was something different in the way he looked at her, something that sparked a flame in her and sent it roaring through her veins.
They looked at each other and she could swear her heartbeat pounded out the moments passing by, the seconds that had suddenly become irrelevant.
Her lips parted. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”
His laugh came in a sharp release of breath, filling her with itsfamiliarity. “Well, I told you I made no promises.” Ramson lifted his arms halfway in a semblance of a shrug, a crooked smile on his face. “I hope you’re not tired of me yet.”
