he harnessed those flames and honed them into a weapon. Just as Kerlan had taught him. “I might kill you for the fun of it. Watch you squirm as I gut you like a squealing pig.”
The blood drained from Igor’s face. Without warning, he let out a yell. “He’s escaping!”
Ramson turned, reaching for the lock on the door to bolt them inside—a moment too late.
The door to the Reservation Room burst open. Two mercenaries hurled in, charging at Ramson, swords drawn.
Ramson flung his brass cup at the first man with all his strength. With a satisfying crack, it smashed his temple. The mercenary cried out and staggered back, buying Ramson the precious seconds he needed.
He leapt through the air and lashed out. His dagger plunged through the mercenary’s chest in a sickening crunch of sinew and flesh. In the same motion, he seized the sword from the man’s loose grip and turned to parry the second bounty hunter’s attack.
Metal sang as their blades clashed. Ramson grunted and flung himself out of the way as a third mercenary appeared at the door. Ramson turned to face the man squarely, sword in hand, assessing the newcomer’s build, his clothing, and his weapon.
Yet no amount of fighting prowess would have prepared him for what came next. Pain exploded on the nape of his neck, shooting through his nerves and limbs and down to his fingers. Stars burst in his eyes as he crumpled to the floor.
“All yours, boys.” Igor’s breathing was ragged as he set aside his brass tumbler. “That’ll be an extra charge for the help I gave you there at the end. Put in a good word to Lord Kerlan for me.”
Ramson fought for consciousness, but the darkness at the edges of his vision was closing in. He was dimly aware of a gag being shoved into his mouth and felt the sting of ropes tightening against his wrists. As the darkness rose to claim him, he realized that Igor had outschemed him, and that when a deal seemed too good to be true, it most likely was.
As a small child, Ana had stood by Papa’s side on the snow-covered streets of Salskoff, looking up at the Cyrilian Imperial Patrols with awe. She’d admired the way their blackstone-infused armor glittered in the sunlight and their pure white cloaks flapped against the brilliant blue sky. Even their horses had been a sight to behold: the tall valkryfs of the north, eyes the blue of ice, bred for speed and endurance and prized for their rare ability to scale snowy mountains using their split-toed hooves. She’d learned horsemanship on the backs of these creatures, and she’d dreamt of the day she would have an army of valkryfs and their masters under her command.
Imperial Patrols—heroic, majestic, and honorable.
She stared up at them now, standing in the wreckage of the pastry stall, their dark figures looming over her. Gone were their noble gazes and benevolent words. The kapitan, his white tiger’s badge gleaming on his chest, snarled down, his weathered skin wrinkling like leather. Two others in his squad flanked a large blackstone-enforced prison wagon, a dozen or so paces behind.
A third man followed the kapitan like a shadow. Unlike the cloaks of the Patrols, his tunic and cloak were black, lined with gold; his hair was bleached like wheat left too long in the sun, his eyes the ice of glaciers in the Silent Sea of the North. There was something hard about his expression that made Ana clutch May’s hand tighter.
“What is the disturbance?” demanded the kapitan. His cold eyes raked past Ana and May, lingered on the pastry vendor, and settled at last on the nobleman. “Mesyr?”
Ana took one slow step backward, and then another, May’s hand tight in hers. If she inched back far enough, she would blend into the crowd of onlookers. There was a stall of kechyans several steps to her right that she could duck behind. The Whitecloaks would never find her. Not unless they had a yaeger—which was exceedingly rare.
“A-Affinite,” wheezed the nobleman, who had pushed himself to his feet and was shakily brushing wooden splinters off his fine furs. “Filthy witches!”
Three, four steps. The kechyan stall was within reach—
“Where are you going?”
Ana’s blood turned to ice. The kapitan’s eyes, as emotionless as his voice, gazed straight at her.
“Stay where you are,” he continued. “This is a routine check.”
By her side, May was shaking, sucking in fast, shallow breaths.