A procession of shadowed figures, cloaked in thick, black wool, moving in tight formation as they disembark from a line of carriages so dark, they seem carved from onyx. There’s no music, no laughter—only the methodical cadence of boots meeting frozen earth. They move like mourners on their way to a grave, not guests arriving for a celebration.
A prickle runs down the back of my neck.
I’m still straining to make sense of it when the door creaks open behind me. I whirl, heart stammering in my chest.
Staja enters, carrying a bundle of folded fabric draped over her arms, her expression drawn tight with unease.
“What is it?” I demand, stepping away from the window. “What’s going on?”
She hesitates, gaze flitting nervously to the door, as if she expects someone to be listening. “I’ve been sent to help you prepare, Your Highness.”
“Prepare for what?”
A flicker of pity crosses her face, but she doesn’t answer. She simply steps forward and lays the garments on the bed with reverent care. The dress is finer than anything I’ve been given since arriving here—black velvet trimmed in deep crimson, the bodice stitched with gleaming thread that shimmers like garnet in the low light. A matching mask sits atop the fabric, glossy and shaped like the delicate bones of a raven’s face, with crimson ribbon meant to tie it at the back.
“Why?” I press. “What is all this for?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I’m just doing as I was told.”
My hands curl into fists, frustration tightening my jaw. “Right. Of course.” I pick up the dress, the heavy velvet cold to the touch. “And Nadya? Have you seen her? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Staja says, her voice soft but certain. “She’ll be joining you this evening.”
I blink. “Joining me for what? Is that why all those people are arriving? Some kind of event?”
The servant nods faintly. “I think so. The kitchens have been working all day, and we’ve been told to ready the ballroom.”
I swallow hard. Maybe this is part of it. The tsar wants to put on a show when the seer steals my power and gives it to him. He wants Dulcamar to witness his transformation.
I dress without Staja’s help, though she moves to assist me with the back lacing. The velvet embraces my body, molding to my curves, the crimson threading gleaming like spilled wine. I set the mask aside, unwilling to wearit just yet—it feels too much like a trap disguised as finery.
As Staja smooths the folds of the skirt, I glance toward the barred window again, listening to the procession still filing into the keep. They seemed like they were attending a celebration, but no part of this feels like a celebration. It feels like a noose tightening, one loop at a time.
As Staja draws the last tie on my bodice and begins pinning up my hair, I close my eyes and reach for that familiar thread of connection—the one that hums faintly beneath my skin, somewhere deeper than blood, deeper than bone.
“Dante.”
I whisper his name in my mind, like I have been for the past week. Whatever magic stirs in me, I try to summon it now.
“Dante, please. Find me.”
But there is nothing. No pull, no whisper, no answering warmth in my chest. Just the aching cold and the sensation of emptiness where he should be.
A sharp rap at the door jolts me from the attempt. Staja startles, and before I can ask her to wait, she’s already crossing the room and pulling it open.
Two guards stand in the hall, their figures tall and grim, eyes obscured by the shadows of their helms. And between them, as if conjured from a half-forgotten memory, stands Nadya.
Relief unfurls in my chest. She’s still alive. Stiff with dark circles beneath her eyes, but alive.
She wears a high-collared gown of ash grey, the fabric smooth and heavy, the sleeves snug from shoulder to wrist, where they disappear into silver-threaded gloves. Her dark curls have been twisted and pinned in a simple coil at the nape of her neck, and in her gloved hands, she holds a delicate mask of silver lace, as intricate as frost on a windowpane.
“Nadya,” I breathe, stepping forward.
The guards say nothing. They only motion for us to follow.
Staja hands me my mask and then gives us a parting nod before heading down the opposite way. Without hesitation, we’re urged forward, hemmed in on either side, the corridor narrowing around us like the throat of a beast.
We walk in silence for a few paces before I risk a glance at Nadya.She keeps her gaze forward, her expression unreadable.
