now clear that everything Morganya had ever said or done had been an act all along. “I don’t know how you got past the Palace guards, but one thing is clear: you are dangerous.” Morganya snapped her fingers. “Guards. Seize her.”
“No!” Ana shouted, but the guards were moving toward her rapidly, swords raised, the blackstone of their blades glittering.
Ana turned and found those now-dull green eyes, still gazing at her. “Luka,” Ana cried. “Luka, please—it’s me!”
The guards closed in. Slowly, Ana backed away.
She could easily take them with her Affinity. But that would only paint her as the monster this crowd thought her to be. This was not a fight; this was a performance.
She needed to show them that she came in peace; she needed to use her words to fight.
“Stop,” Ana said, and the guards hesitated. She lifted her gaze to meet Morganya’s. “Will you deny that you are an Affinite, with an Affinity to flesh and thought?” Another collective gasp swept through the Throneroom. “That you have manipulated the former Palace alchemist into concocting the poisons that killed my parents? That you are, at this very moment, manipulating my brother, the Emperor?”
“This is madness,” Morganya cried, and Ana was glad to hear a note of distress in her voice. Her eyes, however, burned with promised retribution. “Guards! Seize her! We will continue with this coronation!”
“Kolst Contessya Morganya,” Ana said steadily. “With accusations against you, you cannot be crowned Empress until they’re cleared. This is Cyrilian law—this is our law.”
“She’s right.” Another voice spoke up. An Imperial Councilman stood, and the room fell silent. His gray-flecked hair was neatly combed, his face lined with age and wisdom that somehow made him appear more powerful. Ana recognized him as Councilman Dagyslav Taras. He’d been Papa’s closest friend and councilor, and it was said that he had been in the running for Imperial Advisor before Sadov was chosen. “It is the law, Kolst Contessya.”
“You forget, Taras!” Another Councilman stood, Northern Cyrilian–blond hair buzzed to an inch of his scalp. A long scar slashed across his nose. The fierceness of his expression was warriorlike, and Ana recognized him from that alone. Maksym Zolotov, Cyrilian-army-commander-turned-Councilman. He turned his heated gaze straight to Ana. “The Princess—or former Princess—still carries charges of murder and treason with her. Her accusations cannot stand.”
Ana stared back at him, and Zolotov had the grace to look away. Inside, though, she felt the sharp sting of betrayal. In her years of confinement, she’d skulked around the Palace, watching these Councilmembers from afar. She’d memorized their names, noted the ones she’d liked best, and Zolotov had been among those. He’d struck her with his courage, his loyalty, and his straightforwardness. To have him speak against her hurt.
Taras gave Zolotov a piercing look. “You are not incorrect, Maksym. The Princess’s status casts doubt unto her accusations. Yet by Cyrilian law, there is no rule dictating that those under indictment cannot accuse others.”
They would not speak for her, nor would they speak against her. They interpreted the law.
Taras turned to the thrones. “When there is no law in our system for this situation, we must defer to the Emperor.” He paused. “Kolst Imperator?”
Finally—finally—Ana let her gaze slide over to the figure to the right of Morganya. Her brother was watching this with no more reaction than a person might watch rats scuffling on the streets. “Luka,” she called out again. “Luka, please, look at me. It’s the truth. I have evidence—I swear on my life. She’s poisoned your body and poisoned your mind, Luka.” The last words came out in a dry sob. “Please. Listen to me.”
“You ran when you were charged with murder,” a Councilman shouted. “Is that not an act of guilt?”
“I ran because I was innocent, and I knew I had to seek proof to convict the true murderer.” Ana’s gaze never left her brother. “Luka. Please.” Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “You know me, bratika. You know I love this empire too much. Believe me.”
Luka’s gaze flickered, settling on her with a haunted look that Ana would never forget. These were the eyes of a man with a dead soul.
Her heart cracked.
Luka opened his mouth. His voice, when it came from him, was barely a whisper. “We will continue with the coronation.”
“No!” Ana lunged forward. “No, Luka—she has you under her control—”
“Guards, detain her!” Morganya sounded confident again; she stood before her throne, gripping the arms. Guards swarmed forward, but Ana pushed them back with her Affinity;