like a waterfall. She seemed to have grown even more beautiful since Ana last saw her. The glowing chandelier light brought out her high cheekbones, full lips, and soft, doelike eyes. For a moment, Ana could imagine running into her arms and burying her face in her mamika’s silky dark hair. This woman, her aunt, the murderer of her parents.
And then Ana turned her gaze to the figure next to Morganya. He also leaned against his throne—but unlike Morganya, whose position exuded power and dominance, he looked as though he were barely holding on to life itself. His face was emaciated, his skin the color of ash, his cheeks sunken.
Most painful to look at were his eyes, and only when they met her own did a crippling realization course through her.
Her brother’s once-beautiful, spring-grass eyes were empty. Ana was gazing at a ghost. And it broke her heart.
“Stop where you are!”
Ana spun to face the command. Four Palace guards approached, hands at their scabbards. Their expressions were cautious but stern. In her gown, she probably looked the same as any other frantic guest to them.
“You can’t be here, meya dama. We’ve closed off the Grand Throneroom to guests to protect our Empress from infiltration—”
The guard’s message was cut short as Ana seized his blood and flung him to the side of the grand hall. Screams went up as he crashed into Imperial Councilmembers and guests alike, knocking them from their seats.
Ana reined in her Affinity and turned her gaze back to the dais. Morganya sat straighter now, focusing on Ana as though noticing her for the first time. Eight more guards stepped from posts behind the dais, surrounding the thrones in defensive stances. Their swords sang as they slid them from their scabbards.
Ana took a step forward. It was now or never.
“My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov,” she said, and her voice carried across the hall as she walked, ringing beneath the frescoed deities and carved angels. “Daughter of Aleksander Mikhailov and Kateryanna Mikhailov. Crown Princess of Cyrilia.” She threw a hand up, pointing. “I am here to stop the coronation of the Grand Countess, on account of her crimes of murder and treason against the Crown of Cyrilia.”
Gasps and murmurs filled the room. Suddenly, the guests were leaning forward in their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at Ana. Even the guards at the dais, trained to remain stoic, gaped openly at her.
On his throne, Luka stared at Ana without the slightest hint of recognition.
“Stand down.”
Morganya’s smooth, melodic voice had soothed Ana on the worst of her nights, easing her to sleep like the mother she’d lost so long ago. The thought made her sick now.
The line of guards protecting the Countess acted immediately, lowering their swords and parting uniformly like a set of stage curtains. On the dais, Morganya stood graciously, the lead actress of this preposterous play. Her eyes scanned Ana up and down. Narrowed.
And then her face softened. Crumpled. “Anastacya?” Morganya whispered, gripping the arms of her throne. “Ana?”
Murmurs erupted on either side of the aisle as Ana continued to make her way toward the thrones. It’s her. It’s the lost Princess. The mad Princess. The dead Princess.
Ana trained her eyes on her aunt. “Do you deny the crimes of which I accuse you?” she called, raising her voice over the din that had filled the Throneroom.
“Ana?” Morganya shook her head, disbelief and bewilderment seeping into her expression. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Was I not clear enough?” Ana took another step forward, steadily closing the gap between her and the dais. “In that case, allow me to make myself clear. I accuse you of assassinating my mother, the former Empress Kateryanna Mikhailov”—the crowd’s murmurs grew to a low buzz—“assassinating my father, the former Emperor Aleksander Mikhailov”—a collective gasp from the crowd—“and plotting the murder of my brother, the Emperor Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov.” The Imperial Councilmembers were now clamoring to get a better view of her, while the guests looked on in horror, their eyes darting between her and Morganya. “Do you deny it?”
Morganya was shaking her head, her expression slowly morphing into horror. “You…what are you talking about?” Her voice rose to a terrified squeak as she pointed a finger at Ana. “You murdered your father!”
“You framed me,” Ana snarled.
Morganya’s terror vanished as suddenly as it had come, in the blink of an eye. Her expression became serpentine smooth, calculatingly cold. “Enough,” she growled. The transformation was stark—and it was