words cut-and-dried. “More importantly, I simply won’t.”
Morganya’s eyes bore into hers. “Bring the mother,” she said.
Movement from the Whitecloaks stationed at the door and all around the restaurant; the sound of something being dragged, and a thump.
Shamaïra looked down and felt her face drain of color.
A body lay in front of her, but it wasn’t the corpse that she saw. It was the past: a woman, folding a young girl into her arms, her face crinkled with laughter, her fire-red hair tucked in a bun. The same woman, cooking in the kitchen, splotches of soups and sauces dotting her faded linen kirtle.
The scene shifted, and the woman was carrying Yuri in her arms and tucking him gently in the back of a small wagon, beneath bags of beets and potatoes. She was crying as she kissed her daughter over and over again, and then the wagon was pulling away and she was running after them, following for as long as she could until her old legs gave out.
Another scene, and she stood amid rubble, broom clutched in hand, frozen as her door creaked open and two men entered her house. One wore a pale white outfit and bore a tear mark on his cheek; the other was made of shadows and long, white hands.
Shamaïra cut off the visions. She didn’t need to continue to know how this story ended. “You sicken me,” she growled.
Morganya had been watching her closely, her eyes narrowed in cunning. She let out a laugh. “Oh, we’re just getting started.” She spun, spreading her arms. “Now that Goldwater Port belongs to me, I’m going to root out the rest of these rebels and stamp out the rebellion once and for all. The streets will flow crimson with their blood.” She smiled at Shamaïra. “Are you not proud to have a chance to serve your empire? To establish the foundation of a new regime?”
Shamaïra looked the Empress in the eyes. “I would rather die,” she said calmly.
Morganya’s smile stretched. Shamaïra suddenly felt her body seize, as though an invisible force had gripped her and frozen her in place. She couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, as Morganya stepped before her and gripped her chin with a hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.
“Such lovely eyes,” she murmured. “A very rare color. Blue, like the coldest of glaciers. Like the hottest of flames.” She leaned in. “Do you have any family members, meya dama?”
Shamaïra stopped breathing.
“A…son, perhaps? Taken to Cyrilia at a very young age?” Twisted pleasure sparked in Morganya’s eyes. “We keep extremely thorough records of all our recruits in the Imperial Patrol, meya dama, and I happened to come across some very interesting information recently on a young man who defected. Our records indicate that he is a Nandjian migrant, and he had a mother at the time of his conscription. He has the most beautiful blue eyes…quite like yours.”
Shamaïra was a woman of flames, her words rapid-fire, her spirit like gunpowder. But this time, when she opened her mouth, no words would come. All that existed was a sickening feeling of cold, of ice, slipping down her throat and spreading through her veins.
“In fact, we’ve received reports that he was spotted here, several days ago. I’ve asked my forces to keep an eye out for him.” She leaned forward, bending her face close to Shamaïra’s. “Surely,” Morganya whispered, “we wouldn’t want something to happen to him.”
“You lie.” Despite everything, Shamaïra found that she was trembling.
Morganya looked at her a moment longer before straightening. “The Deities have looked upon you today, dama Shamaïra,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “I have grand plans for a rare Affinity like yours, which means I shall need you alive for a while longer. But I have other methods of persuasion. Vladimir?”
The black-haired man stepped forward, his smile stretching, and Shamaïra suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. She’d seen that face on a dozen different posters, disseminated throughout Cyrilia.
Konsultant Imperator, she thought, and her head spun.
“One more chance, meya dama.” The Imperial Consultant held up a finger, his expression mocking. “Tell us where the rebels are, and where the Red Tigress hides.”
Shamaïra had always considered herself brave. She’d traversed the Aramabi Desert by herself with Kaïs almost full-grown in her belly. She’d crossed the Dzhyvekha Mountains with nothing but a globefire and a dagger in search of her son. She’d survived, a lone woman without her husband in a world where that was almost sure to mean