been one of the most sought-after young ladies of the Izmorozian court, after all, recognized for her intelligence, poise, pragmatism, and of course her beauty. Other suitors had showered her with gold, jewels, and priceless fabrics from faraway lands. If she hadn’t been so charmed by Giovanni’s demeanor, she would have dismissed his suit right then.
But the more she’d examined the chain, the more she’d realized that while it was not ostentatious, it was exquisitely crafted. Each link was perfectly shaped. There wasn’t a single flaw in it. And that was entirely appropriate for Giovanni. He hadn’t been perfect, of course. No man was. But each choice he’d made was careful and deliberate, filled with his own awe-inspiring mixture of firmness and compassion. Except the last one.
For of course, while the necklace was perfect, there had been one weak link in Giovanni. His absurd refusal to allow his son to enlist in the military. There had been no conceivable way for him to stand against it, and yet he had done so. It was tempting to put the blame for his death solely on Commander Vittorio, but the truth was, Giovanni, that infuriatingly obstinate man, had deliberately put himself in harm’s way. He had knowingly been complicit in his own death. Even as she watched him bleed out on the floor of the bedroom where they’d shared so many happy moments, he had not apologized to her. In fact, the bastard had smiled.
“God damn you, Giovanni, for forcing me to continue on alone,” she whispered as she gripped the necklace so hard the chain links bit into her palm.
Irina was no stranger to loss. She had lost her parents and her sisters during the war. She had more or less lost her daughter to that peasant-pandering, quasi-mystical death cult. And now she had lost her husband to his own stubborn, foolish pride…
Her eyes were wide, glistening with unshed tears. She wrapped her arms around her torso and held in the sobs that threatened to break free. She would not let them. She would not be weak. She would guide and protect Sebastian, no matter the cost. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not her own pathetic grief for an idealistic Aureumian cretin of a husband.
But despite her resolve, the convulsions pounded against the inside of her chest like impatient and unruly children. She knew that she could not hold them back forever.
“Fine, Irina Turgenev, you weak, simpering dolt.” Her voice was little more than a growl in her throat. “You get one night to grieve. But when the sun rises, you will leave it all behind. For your son’s sake, you will steel your heart and look only to the future.”
With that vow, she collapsed onto the bed, covered her face with pillows so as to muffle the sound, and let out one anguished howl after another until her throat burned and her abdomen was sore from heaving. Only then did she finally sleep.
8
The sun had set by the time Sonya, Peppercorn, and Jorge reached the ancient city of Gogoleth, making the skyline appear as a dark looming mass in the purple, star-speckled sky. The outer wall was constructed of the same black rock as the nearby mountains. It was sixty feet high, ten feet thick, and stretched over two miles to encircle the city. On the whole, Sonya preferred the open wilderness to cities, but even she had to concede that Gogoleth was something special. It was older than the empire, certainly, and possibly older even than Izmoroz. It had always been there, the history of its founding and initial construction lost to time.
When they neared the front gates, Sonya reined in Peppercorn. “Need to change my coat. Last I heard, imperial soldiers still have orders to shoot Rangers on sight.”
“Oh, I see…” Jorge was clearly nervous about such danger, but he attempted to cover it with a smile, which Sonya thought was sweet.
She took off her fur-lined leather coat and folded it carefully before placing it into one of her saddlebags. She shivered for a moment, enjoying the bite of the winter night air through her thin tunic, then pulled out her patchwork wool hooded cloak. She had constructed it from old clothing scraps discarded by her parents, brother, and Mikhail and it was no less beloved than her Ranger coat, partly because she had worn it all through her training and initiation, including the day she slew a polar bear with nothing but her knife and her wits.
Once Sonya