Blood Heir

39

Ana held her brother tightly, burying her head in the soft crook of his neck the way she used to when she was a child. Her tears wet the fabric of his white silk doublet. She thought she would stay like this forever; she thought she would never get up again.

“She killed the Emperor!” Morganya’s scream pierced the air.

Slowly, bit by bit, the world seeped back in. The bloody carpet beneath her feet. The shrieks of the panicked and the dying. The crimson soaking her dress.

Ana set Luka’s head onto the carpet, smoothing his hair and closing his eyes. A ghost of a smile was etched on his face.

A strange redness crept into the world; it swirled at the edges of her vision like a living, breathing fog. Everything began to smell like blood.

Ana straightened. Her chest was a hollow hole. There was no grief there. Not yet. Once she let her sorrow in, she would be pulled under its waters and never surface again.

No… that empty space inside her flickered with rage. Smoldering. Churning.

The redness roiled, tendrils snaking toward the pulsing blood in the room. A delicious darkness spread within her. Ana leaned toward it.

Her world erupted in crimson. She staggered back, squeezing her eyes shut and gulping in ragged breaths. Slowly, like silhouettes in a fog, the world came into focus in her mind, mapped by blood. It grew stronger and sharper, and when it settled, she felt as though she had been looking at the world through a darkened window… until now.

Everything was vivid, visceral. Her Affinity was sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste, all combined into one. She could see each and every drop of blood spattered on the floor, glistening as bright as stars in the night sky. She smelled the liquor swirling in the veins of all the guests; tasted the adrenaline and fear churning within; heard the desperate pounding of their hearts.

A twisted sense of peace settled over her. She reached out, and her attention caught on a figure slowly backing away behind her. His blood was as cold as darkness; it smelled of rot and tasted like death.

Without moving, without even opening her eyes, she dragged him toward her as a child might drag a rag doll. She felt his scream in the vibrations of his veins.

He cowered before her, his Affinity crushed beneath her power. Ana opened her eyes. “Sadov,” she murmured.

He stared up at her, the dagger in his hand still coated in Luka’s blood.

A mere flick in her mind and he was dangling before her, limbs splayed out like a butterfly on a board. Where should I start? Where will it hurt the most?

Fear rippled across Sadov’s features. “N-no, Kolst Pryntsessa,” he whispered. “P-please…”

She smiled at him. “ ‘You little monster,’ ” she crooned, tightening her grip on him so that he cried out in pain. “Isn’t that what you always said to me?”

He screamed, his face turning red from her hold on his blood. Foam bubbled from his mouth. With his face contorted in pain, he truly looked like a creature from hell, a deimhov from a nightmare.

“You wanted a monster,” Ana hissed. With a crack, blood began to drip from Sadov’s nose. “Here I am.”

She’d never thought she would savor the utter terror that warped his face at this moment, that she’d feel a burst of delight at each drop of blood that fell to the floor.

Through the red haze of her Affinity, she felt someone else watching her. The gaze was familiar and unfamiliar at once. Morganya’s pale eyes were trained on her, and it suddenly felt as though she were a child again. There was a kind of approval shining from that gaze.

Approval. Something churned in Ana’s stomach. She stared back, Sadov dangling before her like a marionette, struggling for air. All the while, Morganya merely watched.

Morganya was not going to stop Ana if she killed Sadov. No—Morganya wanted her to kill Sadov.

An image flashed before her: a square of silver and snow, a crowd, and a crimson pool seeping into the cobblestones. Eight crumpled figures, limbs twisting in unnatural angles. They formed a circle around her, radiating like enormous petals of a gnarled flower.

Ana dropped to her knees and screamed. It stretched, long and thin, threatening to shatter her mind like glass.

It’s all right, sistrika. I’m here. Bratika’s here.

In her mind, she was back in her room, and Luka had wrapped his arms around her shoulders, murmuring soothing words.

The memory shifted, and he lay dying in her arms, crimson spreading across his tunic.

Promise me, he’d said.

He hadn’t only been asking her to promise to become Empress. No—Luka had always thought bigger than that. For her entire life, her brother had watched over her, saving her… saving her from what? Not from death. Not from the wrath of the world. Not even from Sadov, or from Morganya.

Luka had been protecting her from the darkness of her Affinity; from the version of herself she could have—and could still—become.

To kill Sadov, to take her revenge… that was the choice that would make her a monster.

Promise me.

The world dulled. The red receded. She released Sadov and he crumpled to the floor. The fury, the bloodlust, and the blinding rage that had consumed her withdrew like a receding tide, leaving her raw.

Ana collapsed. As though from a distance, she heard Morganya calling orders. Kill her, her aunt cried. She is a dangerous Affinite. She could have murdered us all.

Sadov crawled away from her, trailing blood and whimpering. All around them, guests were fleeing through the doors, and the remaining Councilmembers lingered in the safety of the farthest corners of the Throneroom.

A shadow fell upon Ana. The face was familiar; large eyes against pale skin and a bald forehead. Those eyes gazed into hers, as inscrutable as ever.

She felt a cold glass vial being tilted to her lips; sweet, honeylike liquid poured down her throat. This was not Deys’voshk. It was a different kind of poison. Ana struggled. The gray eyes became stern. Tetsyev clamped a hand on her nose. She had no strength left to resist.

Her mind was becoming muggy.

A numbing sensation was spreading from her stomach to her abdomen and into her limbs.

“It is done, Kolst Imperatorya.” Tetsyev’s voice was distant as he drew back. “The Blood Witch will die.”

The poison worked fast. It spread through her veins like ice, freezing her muscles.

Several steps from her, Luka lay on the dais, peaceful even in his death.

I love you, Luka, she thought. I’m sorry.

A figure approached. Morganya’s eyes brimmed with tears, and they spilled down her face as she knelt next to Ana. She put a hand to Ana’s cheek; her fingers were ice-cold to the touch. Slowly, Morganya lowered her lips to Ana’s face, pausing a breath away.

“You pitiful creature,” Morganya whispered, caressing her hair. “Tetsyev did the humane thing. He’s always been more softhearted than I, my talented alchemist. I would have saved you for Sadov’s dungeons.”

Ana wanted to reach up and claw Morganya’s eyes out. Her arms would not move.

Morganya’s breath warmed Ana’s neck. She was laughing softly. From a distance, anyone would think she was kneeling over Ana’s body, grieving.

“I might have taken you in,” Morganya murmured. “After all, we are purging the world of the monsters that oppressed us—that treated us like vermin.” She paused, and her voice became mockingly sad. “You look at me with such hatred. You think me the villain. But what you don’t understand is that sometimes we must commit terrible deeds for the greater good. My acts are sacrifices that I am willing to make to pave a better world, Little Tigress.”

Ana could only stare at her aunt, her mind trying to make sense of Morganya’s words. Only now did she realize that her aunt hadn’t done these things out of spite, or pure evil. In Morganya’s mind, she was making the right choice.

“You chose the wrong side,” Morganya continued. “And now you will pay for it by dying alone, dishonored and disgraced. The whole room watched you torture Vladimir; I am the heroine who saved them from a deimhov. And the dark legends of the Blood Witch of Salskoff will carry on.” She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Ana’s forehead. Her lovely face crumpled again as she lifted her head, tears glistening on her cheeks for the world to see. “Pyetr,” she said hoarsely, backing away to the dais. “Is she…? Could you…? I cannot bear to look at her.”

There was so much more Ana needed to do; so much more she should have done for her empire. But her strength was giving out. A strange sense of peace settled over her, as though her body were falling into slumber. Her head lolled to the side and she waited for the darkness to close in. If this was dying, it wasn’t so terrible.

A light breeze brushed Ana’s face as Tetsyev knelt by her side, his white robes fluttering. He put a finger to her neck to check her pulse. To her surprise, he, too, dipped his head in respect and mourning. The softest whisper came from his lips: “It’s a paralysis poison.” And then, straightening, Tetsyev turned to Morganya. “The Blood Witch is dead.”

Her mind was heavy, but surprise cut through it like a blade. A paralysis poison.

She wasn’t dying.

Could it be? That Tetsyev had saved her life? That everything Tetsyev had told her held true?

A shout sounded somewhere outside. Sharp, quick footsteps rang in the silence of the vast hall, growing closer and more frantic.

“No!” someone yelled. Ana knew that voice. It was familiar, in a way that made her want to reach out to its owner and touch him, even with just a hand on his shoulder, or be near enough to feel his presence.

Ramson crashed to his knees by her side. “No.” His voice cracked, and the raw emotion in it stirred something within Ana. Never had she seen Ramson so unguarded, the stricken look on his face shifting to anguish as he gently pulled her into his arms. She felt the touch of his skin, the warmth of his breath as he lowered his head to hers, clutching her and bent over her as though a part of him had broken.

“Kapitan!” Morganya cried. “Arrest this criminal.”

“No!” Ramson roared. He stood, folding Ana into his arms and lifting her. “Imperial Councilmembers, I have irrefutable evidence that the Countess is a murderer and traitor to the Crown of Cyrilia.”

His voice was drowned out by footsteps as the guards, emboldened by Ana’s still body, closed in on him.

No, Ana begged. Put me down and run, Ramson.

A deep voice spoke, cutting through the scuffle. “I will take the Princess.”

The guards closing in fell back.

A familiar figure approached. His gray-peppered hair fell into his lined face, and his eyes—the same steady gray of storm clouds—were immeasurable wells of sadness. Gently, ever so gently, Kapitan Markov took Ana in his arms.

On the dais, a squad of guards lifted Luka’s body. Tetsyev stood by Morganya’s side, whispering. Morganya’s eyes followed Ana. “Take the Princess’s body to the dungeons. My alchemist has some work to do on her.”

For a moment, Markov’s face contorted with rage as Ana had never seen before. But he reined in his anger and turned to Morganya with a stoic expression. “Yes, Kolst Contessya.”

“Kolst Imperatorya,” Morganya corrected. “Your Glorious Empress.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ana saw two remaining Councilmembers glance at each other. She recognized one of them as Councilman Taras.

“Kolst Imperatorya.” Markov’s tone cut like steel. “And the criminal?”

“Take him to the dungeons,” Morganya commanded. “Schedule an execution. I want the world to know what happens to traitors of the Crown.”

No, Ana wanted to scream. But her body was a prison.

The last she saw of the Grand Throneroom was Morganya standing at the dais, a smile curling her lips as she watched Ramson struggle against the guards. Tetsyev stood by her side, in her shadow. Sadov leaned against the throne, wiping blood from his face.

Markov shut the great doors and carried Ana away into the silence, his steps as somber as a funeral drumbeat.