feels to die at the hand of an Affinite,” he growled, lifting his hand.
“Yuri!” She ripped her mask off. “It’s me!”
He froze, hand hovering above her, expression suspended between confusion and rage. And then, slowly, recognition seeped into his eyes, along with disbelief. He drew back, lifting his hands from her as though he’d been burned. “Kolst—”
“Ana!” The sweetest voice rang out, one Ana would recognize anywhere.
May knelt on the stage, barely ten paces from Ana, the astonishment on her face quickly giving way to joy.
Relief hit Ana so hard that a half laugh, half sob bubbled from her lips. “May,” she cried, reaching forward.
An arrow whizzed past her and struck the marble stage.
“May!” Ana’s cry turned to one of panic as another arrow lanced off the stage, a hand’s breadth from her.
“Dyanna!” Behind her, Yuri gave an agonized yell.
At the edge of the stage, the Ice Queen—Dyanna—looked up, her face almost as ashen as her hair. Blood, startlingly red against her pallor, dripped from her nose.
A blur whizzed toward her. Dyanna’s body jolted with the shock of the impact. She slumped onto the ground, the shaft of an arrow protruding from her back. The thick scent of blood filled the air.
“Dyanna! Dyan—” Yuri’s shout broke into a choked sob. “No. No.”
“Yuri!” Ana seized his arm, pinning him beneath the ice barrier. “We have to get out—”
An arrow struck the ground next to May. The child’s eyes widened as she looked up; she turned and began to run toward the velvet curtains.
In the shadows of the viewing alcoves above, the marksmen nocked and drew. Ana was already scrambling to her feet, even as arrows shot toward them, even as she realized that she would not reach May before an arrow found its mark.
But someone else was running toward the child. Ramson flung himself at May, skidding across the ruined marble on his nobleman’s trousers and peacoat. Shattered glass and ice crunched beneath him. He rolled, bundled May into his arms, and dove for the curtains.
Whoosh. The arrow grazed his abdomen. He arched his back in pain, gave a muffled grunt, and staggered.
Ana was already running. She reached Ramson’s side at the same time as Yuri; together, they hauled Ramson and May off the stage and into the darkness behind the velvet curtains.
Backstage, the air was musty and the scent of sweat lingered. They stumbled through the sets of drapes and down the stage into a chamber, dimly lit by several torches in sconces. Dark corridors stretched out toward their left and right. The screams of the crowd seemed to come from a distant world, as though the thick drapes had partitioned them from the chaos and granted them this temporary sanctuary.
In the semidarkness, a small voice found her. “Ana?”
A sob welled up in Ana’s throat. “May,” she croaked. They both moved for each other at the same time, colliding with cries of relief. Ana held on tightly. “Your hair.” Tears burned her eyes. “It’s all sooty.”
May laughed and clasped Ana’s cheeks in her hands, tracing tears away with her small fingers. “It’s you. It’s really you.”
More tears spilled down Ana’s face. She chuckled, a wet, gargling sound, and pressed her forehead to May’s. “Of course it’s me. I would never leave you.”
Ahead, Yuri cleared his throat. A small flame danced in his palm, illuminating the corridor ahead. “This way.”
Ana clasped May’s hand, and they hurried after him. “Where are we going?”
“It’s the Revolution, Ana,” said May. Her eyes were bright. “Yuri’s a Redcloak—a rebel, for the Affinites. I met the other Redcloaks when I was brought here. We’re going to rescue them right now.”
Behind them, Ramson coughed loudly and stumbled to a sharp stop by the stone walls. Ana’s stomach clenched as he braced himself, one hand at his side where the arrow had grazed him. She could sense the blood seeping into the cloth of his tunic. “Ramson!”
“I’ll be fine,” he rasped. “Just our luck. Damn…Revolution.”
“The Whitecloaks have stood by for too long and done nothing, watching us as we suffer.” Yuri’s fists were clenched, and he spat the words. “It’s time we take matters into our own hands. We’re a reminder that their cloaks are not white, but red—stained with the blood of Affinites. We represent the flame of hope—”
“Man, now is not the time for poetics,” Ramson gritted out. “If we don’t get out of here, the only thing red will be your blood on a Whitecloak’s sword.”