hesitation.
“Lieutenant Henryk,” Ana said steadily.
His eyes widened. “It is you, Kolst Pryntsessa.” He stood his ground, whereas a year ago, he would have knelt at her feet.
Ana tilted her head. “Where is Kapitan Markov?” When he didn’t answer, she took another step forward. “Where is Markov, Henryk?”
Henryk’s mouth tightened. “I have my orders to arrest you, Kolst Pryntsessa.”
“Whose orders?”
“The Kolst Contessya.” His tone was firm, his face belying no emotion. “Please, come quietly. I do not wish to hurt you.”
“I believe you,” she said, and lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I have to get through.”
The six guards fell to their knees as her Affinity tightened around them, their swords clattering to the floor. Lieutenant Henryk was the last to fall. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. His mouth opened and closed, as though he were struggling to say something to her.
Ana stepped past the kneeling guards, her steps ringing loud and clear as she approached the doors of the Grand Throneroom. Another dozen steps and the grand mahogany doors with the white tiger handles loomed before her.
Fatigue descended over her like a heavy cloud. She steeled herself, reining in her shaking muscles. Chin high, shoulders back. Just as Luka had always taught her.
Ana grasped the sigil of her empire and pushed the doors open.
Before her Affinity had manifested, she’d been in the Grand Throneroom on multiple special occasions. Papa and Mama would sit on the two white-gold thrones atop the dais at the end of the long hall, while she and Luka perched on the seats reserved for them at either side. After her incident, Papa had never brought her back in—yet the grandeur of the room had never left her memory.
Blazing chandelier light illuminated a wide hall with a stretch of pale blue carpeting that extended all the way to the dais at the other end. The domed ceilings bore frescoes of the Deities in all shapes and forms, accompanied by reverent angels and mythical animals.
Below, in the room, fifty pairs of real, live eyes stared at Ana. On the gilded seats on either side of the hall reclined the Empire’s most powerful noblemen and noblewomen. The expressions on their faces ranged from confusion to shock.
But Ana’s gaze was set on the thrones straight ahead and the figures seated in them. It was difficult not to notice Morganya first, draped across the throne in a fine gown of shimmering blue and silver, her black hair cascading 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.”