Blood Heir

42

The stars had reeled a full cycle above her head, and the faintest edges of blue had begun to crown the horizon in the east. In the distance, the Salskoff Palace was barely visible beyond the white-tipped forest that stretched in all directions beneath the hills. It glowed a faint, predawn gold, thick tendrils of morning mist clinging to its spires and crenellated walls.

Ana exhaled, her breath fogging in the air before her. From their vantage point atop the hill, she could barely make out the curved back of the Kateryanna Bridge, linking the castle to the sleeping town below. Salskoff spread out under the watchful gaze of its Palace, the Tiger’s Tail winding protectively around it.

“Quite beautiful from up here, isn’t it?” By her side, Ramson wore a placid expression as he gazed at the sight before them. “I suppose that’s what it must look like to the gods, or Deities, or whatever. Who cares about the petty battles that humans fight? There’s a whole world out there for them to look at.”

“That’s why it’s up to us to fight our battles. Not the Deities.”

“That’s what I’ve always said. Gods, I should become a priest.”

A snort burst out from Ana. “You? A priest? It’s not the end of the world yet, Ramson.”

He shot her a grin, and Ana realized that, despite everything, Ramson had managed to make her laugh. “Then we should get moving, to stop the end of the world. If you really don’t want to see me become a priest.”

Ana glanced back at her home. A weight seemed to settle on her shoulders again. For so long, she’d been trying to make a life in a place that had not been a home for a while. And for so long, it had remained distant yet visible, close yet just out of reach. Her heart was heavy as she steeled herself for the inevitable.

Ramson clasped a hand over hers. He tilted her chin with a finger so that she was gazing into his warm, clear eyes. “Have courage, Princess.”

She shut her eyes briefly, leaning into his light touch. “I’m afraid, Ramson. I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long, and yet… I’m back where I started.”

“That’s life,” he said quietly. “This isn’t one of the fairy-tale stories you read in your childhood, where the hero always wins in the end. You’ll have many battles to fight, and you won’t win them all. And at the end of every single day, you’ll always face the same choice: keep fighting, or give up.”

Our choices. A breeze stirred, and she seemed to hear her brother’s words in the whispers of the pines around them. Far above their heads, an eagle’s sharp cry pierced the silence.

Luka had named her heir. But that title meant nothing if she couldn’t prove herself worthy of it.

Ana lifted her head. “I’ve made my choice already. I’m going to journey south to find Yuri and the Redcloaks.”

Ramson drew back. “You’re joining the rebellion?”

A cold wind stirred around her, and she thought of Yuri’s parting words. The future lies here, with us. In the hands of the people.

“For now,” Ana said, drawing her cloak tighter around her. Morganya had eliminated any and all checks and balances against the monarchy and her reign. And the Redcloaks… they didn’t seem to want a monarchy at all. “The winds of this world are changing, Ramson, and I… I need to find out where I stand. But first, Morganya needs to be stopped, and I need an army. I’ll begin working to gain the support of the other kingdoms. And seeing as Bregon is our most neutral ally, I’ll start there.” She paused, and dared herself to meet his eyes. “I could use the help of a Bregonian soldier.”

He held her gaze. “I could think about it. But I have a question.” A sly look was working its way into his eyes. “What’s the Trade, Witch?”

She almost exhaled in relief; her heart fluttered with joy. “How about, in return, I won’t choke you on your own blood?”

“Incredible. What have I done to deserve such an opportunity? The gods have truly smiled upon me.”

“Don’t count your blessings yet.”

“Fair enough,” he said, and shifted, his gaze on something behind her.

Above the treetops, outlined in the dawn sky, a snowhawk was descending toward them. Ramson held out his arm, and the bird landed with a rustle of its snowy wings. Ramson fished out something from his pockets and held it toward the snowhawk; the bird clasped it with a quick clack of its beak.

“What are you doing?” Ana asked. The thing in the snowhawk’s beak resembled… hair. Midnight-black hair.

“Linn,” Ramson said simply, giving the bird an affectionate pat. “If Kapitan Markov doesn’t find her, then she must be out there somewhere. When Fisher finds her, he’ll lead her to us.”

Ana looked at the lock of hair, curled in the bird’s beak, and sent a prayer to the Deities that her friend was safe. That, one way or another, they would find each other again.

“Fisher,” she repeated. “That’s an interesting name for a Cyrilian snowhawk.”

A ghost of a smile lit Ramson’s lips. “It’s an old friend’s name,” he said softly. “He was a wayfinder, just like this bird.”

Ana studied the snowhawk. It stared right back with intelligent golden eyes. Legends said that snowhawks were blessed with the touch of the Deities; that Winter had blown a breath upon the frozen land and created these birds out of nothing but wind and snow.

Ramson thrust his arm into the air. With a mighty flap of its wings, the snowhawk shot into the sky. Be swift, Ana thought. May the gods that watch over Linn watch over you, too.

As though in response, a soft wind stirred and kissed her cheeks.

“They’re magical, you know,” Ramson said as they watched the bird grow smaller and smaller. “At least, that’s what Bregonian legends said.”

Ana looked at him in surprise. “Cyrilian ones, too.”

“They say Affinites and snowhawks and moonbears and a lot of legendary creatures are remnants of the Deities, reminders that the gods once walked this world.”

“I didn’t know you believed those kinds of tales.”

Ramson leveled his gaze to her. His eyes were bright in the early-morning light, his cheeks tinged red from the cold, his hair mussed from the winds. “I could be persuaded,” he murmured.

Something about his open, piercing stare and the honesty of his tone brought back the boy who’d stood before her on the night of the Fyrva’snezh. Ana found herself drawn inexorably toward him, taking in the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck; the strong, chiseled edges of his jawline; the crooked curve to his lips. They parted slightly as Ramson let out a soft breath and dipped his head toward her, his eyes tracing every angle of her face. Something about the way he looked at her, like nothing else around them existed, made her heart beat faster and her breaths come shorter.

That feeling—like she was falling and flying at the same time—made her afraid.

Another gust of wind pressed at her back, more insistently, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Palace again, looming in the distance. It was a reminder that she couldn’t afford to think of anything else right now. Not when she had an empire to save.

Ana turned away abruptly. The cold rushed in to fill the space between them. “Well,” she said, swallowing. “Here we are.”

She sensed Ramson’s gaze still on her, softer now and more distant. “Here we are,” he echoed.

Ana kept her gaze straight ahead, on the Palace. She was, once again, a girl in a threadbare cloak, with nothing to her name and nowhere to run to. Yet somehow, in a year, it felt as though everything had changed.

I unsee you, Little Tigress.

It was she who had changed, Ana realized with a burst of surprise that tasted sweet in the wintry air. She was no longer the frightened girl of twelve moons past, who had so desperately sought a way to fix herself, her monstrosity. If the line between good and evil was drawn by choices, then she would choose to wield her Affinity to fight for those who could not.

Ramson was right. This wasn’t a fairy-tale story where the good triumphed in the end. There were real people suffering in her empire right now, in the shadows of the laws that claimed to protect them. There was evil and darkness here—oppressors and those who perpetuated violence with hatred and greed in their hearts.

But there was also the good; there was the light of this world that came in shattered, piercing fragments, whether it was a small earth Affinite making flowers out of barren soil, or a fire Affinite’s secret chokolad treats, or a wind Affinite tilting her face to the skies, telling her that there was something worth saving—in her and in this world.

This world—this beautiful broken world that harbored so much of the gray—was the only one they had. And it was one she would continue to fight for.

But first, she had to prove to her people that she was worthy of being their leader. That, no matter her title, she would not stand by and watch innocents die under a regime of terror. That, in her flesh and bones and soul, she was Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov, blood heir of the Cyrilian Empire.