rolled across the floor, and her head hit somebody's leg. Agnus Dei rolled too, cursing behind her gag, and came to a stop beside her. At once, hands covered the two, feeling and grabbing. One hand held a rusty shiv near her head. Gloriae began to struggle, but these hands did not hurt her, and the knife did not cut her.
"Hush, girls, we'll remove your gags."
The shiv worked at the rope around her face, and her gag came free. Gloriae coughed, sucked in breath, and coughed again. Prisoners crowded over her, wearing rags. They shivered in the cold, gaunt and sickly. Their skin draped over their bones, and their faces were skeletal. Their eyes were sallow, their hair wispy.
"Thank you," Gloriae whispered hoarsely, finding that she could speak no louder.
The prisoner with the shiv began cutting the ropes around her ankles and wrists. Gloriae moved her limbs only an inch, and pain blazed. She gritted her teeth. Every movement shot bolts through her. She massaged her wrists; they were chaffed and bleeding.
"Drink," said a prisoner, a young woman with large grey eyes. She held melted snow in her palms, and Gloriae drank. Another prisoner was busy freeing Agnus Dei.
"Gloriae!" her twin said once her gag was removed.
Gloriae crawled toward her—she felt too weak to walk—and the two embraced. Agnus Dei had tears in her eyes, and Gloriae felt her own eyes sting.
"Oh, sister," she whispered. "It's horrible, isn't it?"
Agnus Dei trembled. "Do you think Mother and the pup are here? I... I tried to look for them as they carried us through the camp, but I couldn't see them. I'm worried."
Gloriae looked around her, and for the first time, she got a close look at the hut. Its walls were frosty, splashed with blood, and lined with bunks like shelves. A single slop bucket stood in one corner, a pile of frozen bread in another. It was a small hut, smaller than her old bedroom at Flammis Palace. And yet hundreds of prisoners filled it. They covered the floor, shoulder to shoulder, or lay in the bunks. Many were missing limbs. Their eyes were glassy, their skin sweaty, and bloody bandages covered their stumps. Some lay mumbling, feverish, their wounds green with infection. A few were dead already. Their limbs are now attached to mimics, Gloriae knew.
The prisoner with the grey eyes, who had given Gloriae water, gestured around her. She smiled a sad, crooked smile.
"Welcome," she said, "to Dies Irae's imagination."
KYRIE ELEISON
It began to snow, and Kyrie cursed.
The trail had been easy to follow until now. A hundred mimics had marched from the mine, cutting a path through the snow. Kyrie and Lacrimosa had been following their trail for several hours now. It led them through lands of dead trees, frozen streams, and rocky hills. Kyrie remembered walking here last summer, fleeing griffins and seeking King Benedictus. Trees had rustled here then, and hope still filled the world. Dies Irae had burned these trees, and little hope filled Kyrie now.
"Damn it," he muttered. The snow swirled around him. He could barely see through it. Worse, the snow was covering the mimics' footprints.
Lacrimosa shivered and tightened her cloak around her. "Let's move faster. We can still see the trail. Hurry, Kyrie."
They ran through the snow, their torches crackling. Around them among the burned trees, creatures howled. Mimics, Kyrie thought. This time, if they attacked, he didn't know if he'd survive. They had no statues left; they lay smashed and buried in the mines. They had no Gloriae and Agnus Dei with their swords and arrows.
Gloriae. Agnus Dei. Kyrie's heart twisted, and ice seemed to fill his belly. He had never felt such anguish. It churned inside him, spun his head, and tightened his throat. They had been alive in the mines. He had seen them thrashing in their bonds as the mimics carried them off. But were they alive now? Kyrie shivered, cursed, and ran as fast as he could. Lacrimosa ran at his side, eyes narrowed.
Please, stars, Kyrie prayed silently. Please protect Agnus Dei. Please.
He loved her so much, that he felt his insides could crumble, his heart stop beating, and his lungs collapse. He wanted to hold her, protect her, kill anyone who harmed her. If she died, he thought he would die too.
"Be strong, kitten," he whispered into the snow. "I'll be there soon."
If the stars heard his prayers, they ignored them. The snow only fell harder, a blizzard that stung his face and buried the mimics'