I’m not given a chance to answer. The guards drag me through the tunnel, back to where I came from. The last thing I hear—over the pounding of my heart—is the slow, deliberate scrape of something massive shifting in the shadows behind me.
ChApter
Fifty-Two
Apale-grey light filters through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The fire has long since died out, and the air in the room is thick with cold. I sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the same gauzy blanket they gave me days ago. Soft but thin. Decorative. Like everything here, comfort is an illusion.
I haven’t slept. Not really. My thoughts have spun too fast to catch. My father is the tsar. The man I once imagined was brave and noble and dead. It turns out he’s none of those things. And he’s keeping something monstrous in the caves beneath the fortress.
A secret weapon?
He’s created carnoraxis, so I wouldn’t put it past him to have another beast to terrorize Terre Ferique.
My thoughts keep drifting back to the night before. To the way the cold stone seeped through the thin soles of my feet in that tunnel, the heat blooming at the end of it, the silver eyes blinking in the dark. And the fact that I wasn’t even meant to be there.
I’ve only ever sleepwalked when I’ve gone without Ezra’s powder. I’ve been without it for days now. Here, there’s no familiar jar tucked into mysatchel, no chalky bitterness on my tongue before bed to keep me anchored. No one to shake me awake before I wander somewhere dangerous.
And in Dulcamar,everywhereis dangerous.
The thought makes my skin prickle. If it happened once, it could happen again. And next time… I might not make it back to this room. Or worse, they might find me before I wake.
I try to imagine finding my way out of this place in a half-dream state, but I’ve never seen the fortress from the outside—only the blinding white drifts through the arrow-slit windows. Even if I did somehow stumble past Torbin’s locks and guards, I wouldn’t get far in the freezing night. Not barefoot. Not in a nightgown thin enough for the wind to cut through.
A soft knock at the door jerks me upright.
For a moment, I’m afraid it’s Torbin. But it’s Staja who slips inside, a bundle of fabric in her arms.
She closes the door quickly behind her, her eyes flicking to the corners, like she’s being watched—even though we’re alone.
“Good morning,” she says gently. “Can you still understand me?”
“Yes.”
She smiles and nods, then crosses the room and sets the clothes down on the chair beside the hearth. My gaze catches on the deep-green wool of the tunic; the sturdy, brown trousers; the thick, grey shawl lined with fur. Not silk. Not sheer. Not a dress meant to humiliate or seduce. Real clothes, thank the gods.
“You’re letting me dress like a person today,” I murmur.
She doesn’t look at me. “He gave no orders on what you should wear this morning. I took the liberty.”
My brows lift. “And that’s allowed?”
She pauses just slightly, her back still turned. “Not usually.”
I rise from the bed and step closer to the clothes, letting my fingers ghost over the fabric. It’s soft, warm. Meant for travel. Meant for someone who might need to run.
I glance at her again.
She stands with her hands folded in front of her, shoulders stiff, face carefully neutral. But something flickers there—beneath the surface. Something that makes me choose my next words more carefully.
“I appreciate it,” I say, quiet but sincere.
Her gaze flicks to me briefly, and in it, I see something unexpected. Kindness.
I sit slowly in the chair and begin to pull on the new clothes. She waits, respectfully turning her back.
“Staja,” I say after a long silence. “Why are you here?”
She stiffens.
