“Tetsyev,” Ramson croaked. “What do you want? What are you doing to me?”
“I am healing you,” Tetsyev said calmly. “Though if you insult me again, I might change my mind.”
Ramson then noticed the strange smell of herbs and chemicals, and the feeling of cold gel all over his body. He looked down at his chest and winced.
His skin resembled a bloody slab of meat, sliced in a dozen different directions. And on his chest, almost where his heart would be, was a shiny patch of flesh, seared over his old brand. The insignia of the Order of the Lily.
He remembered the iron, white-hot before his eyes. The insurmountable fear as it was pressed to his chest. The unspeakable pain, and the welcomed darkness that followed.
His resolve wavered, and the feeling of helplessness that washed over him was nearly enough to drown him. “Why are you healing me?” he asked, and despite all of his efforts, his voice trembled. “Preparing me for another torture session?”
Tetsyev stepped back and squinted at Ramson’s chest. A bowl of translucent salve glistened in his hand. “No,” was all he said.
Ramson was shivering, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. Memories of cold black water poured down his throat and filling his lungs were enough to break his resolve. He could still taste bile on his tongue, feel the searing pain of iron burning his flesh. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Just kill me.”
Tetsyev raised an eyebrow. “No,” he repeated, and shuffled away to the nearest shelf. When he returned, he was holding a roll of bandages. Slowly, the bald man began to wrap the gauze around Ramson, pausing only to tuck corners or adjust a strip slightly. He remained silent.
At last, Tetsyev leaned away, casting another critical eye upon Ramson. He nodded, and began fishing around in his robes. Ramson caught a flash of metal.
No, he wanted to beg. Please.
But Tetsyev reached toward his shackles. There were a few clicks, and then Ramson fell forward, no longer held up by the chains on the wall. His limbs flailed behind him uselessly. When he hit the ground, it felt as though his bones would shatter. He gave a choked sob.
“Get up,” Tetsyev said. “The Kolst Pryntsessa is waiting.”
His brain felt like mush, and it was difficult to grasp what the alchemist was saying. Ramson waited for the involuntary tremors in his muscles to stop, for the blood to recirculate, for the feeling of cold to drain away. Slowly, in fits and starts, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The wounds on his chest protested with a dull, throbbing pain. He had an inkling that he was meant to feel much weaker than he actually did.
“The salve facilitates the healing of the flesh,” Tetsyev said, as though he had heard Ramson’s thoughts. “I injected another serum in you that speeds recovery of the muscles.”
Ramson leaned against the wall, drawing deep, shaky breaths. He flexed his hands, turned over his arms. Before—minutes, hours, or days ago, he’d lost count—he had felt as though every inch of his flesh were on fire and peeling from his bones. The pain was still there, but dull and fading. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m repenting. Perhaps it is too late to save my soul, but I must try. I must make my choice.”
“Wonderful,” Ramson wheezed. “The Deities will reward you handsomely for saving my life.”
“It isn’t your life I’m saving. It’s the Princess’s.”
“Even better,” Ramson wheezed. “A noble life bears more weight in the eyes of the Deities, I’m sure.”
Tetsyev sighed. “I lived an entire life of regrets,” he whispered, and his words struck an odd chord of resonance in Ramson. “And I am making the choice to amend my mistakes.” He cast a sorrowful eye upon Ramson. “Kolst Pryntsessa Anastacya needs us. She needs you. So, what choice will you make, Ramson Farrald?”
Choice. Ramson’s mind was still foggy with pain, but the word brought back memories of a girl. Our choices define us. “The Princess,” he repeated slowly, and just like that, his muggy world clicked into sharp focus.
Ana. Princess Anastacya.
Memories ignited like sparks before his eyes. The sense of familiarity he’d felt looking into her face back at the abandoned dacha near Ghost Falls. That same face had been painted in dozens of his childhood textbooks, by the side of the Emperor and Empress and Crown Prince of Cyrilia. And it had vanished from the public eye when she’d allegedly fallen