better than his father and the war did need to end. Was she willing to compromise? She was here to give Tranavia back to the gods, but she was here to stop the war as well. Was one more important than the other? She was only one girl; she didn’t want the fate of nations resting on her decisions.
They were nearing Nadya’s chambers. She wasn’t entirely certain how to reach the cathedral from here and she asked Serefin for directions.
He frowned.
“Be … careful, Józefina,” he said. “He is not one to trifle with.”
Nadya almost laughed. It was touching that he seemed so concerned with her welfare. “Could you do me another favor, Serefin?”
“You’re aiding me in patricide, I figure I owe you a lifetime of favors.”
“Oh, I’ll remember that.”
He grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back.
“Someone has surely noticed that I’m not languishing in a dungeon by now. I would like to be confident in my knowledge that no one is going to come looking for me because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”
Especially as I’ll be with the Vultures.
Serefin nodded. “I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
Nadya didn’t know how to answer that. Divine command was too much truth, anything else felt trite.
“The war took someone important to me,” she said, fingering Kostya’s necklace unconsciously. She couldn’t think about how it had been Serefin who had led that attack. “I won’t tolerate it any longer.”
He leaned against the wall beside the door to her chambers. “And who are you that you can do what countless others have failed at over a century?”
No one. Just a girl. Some small scrap of divinity.
She shrugged. “I’m the first person who refuses to fail.”
* * *
The Vultures kept residence in what once was the grand cathedral of Grazyk. Now that the gods were no longer worshipped, it was where the Carrion Throne resided. Malachiasz’s throne.
The cathedral was an imposing structure. Massive and bleak, with grand spires and huge stained glass windows.
Nadya stopped before the entrance, staring up. She couldn’t force her feet closer and after a few minutes she was dimly aware of Malachiasz’s presence beside her, looking up at the cathedral as well.
Silence filled the space between them before he spoke: “War has made us all used to living in desecrated spaces once considered holy.”
It had been painted black. Nadya knew there was no way it had looked like this when it was an actual church. There were ironwork vines and shattered statues worked into the bricks. All the statues had lost their heads but one.
“Cholyok dagol,” she swore under her breath.
Malachiasz followed her gaze. He paled. “You know, I’m honestly not sure how that one in particular has survived.”
“I can’t tell if you’re lying to me or not,” Nadya said wearily.
Svoyatova Madgalina. A saint who was supposedly the first of the clerics. Nadya didn’t like the irony.
It started to rain. A freezing rain that fell in heavy, painful droplets. Malachiasz squinted up at the sky. He reached down and took her hand, twining their fingers together.
“You’re not forgiven,” she whispered.
“I know.”
She bit her lip, blinking back tears. He tugged at her hand.
“Parijahan and Rashid are fine, come on, let’s get out of the rain.”
She followed him into the cathedral and tried to not feel as though it was swallowing her alive.
The foyer was tiled with cool, black marble. The door to the sanctuary black with gilded edges. Malachiasz pushed the door open. It was like he was leading her farther down into hell, a new level with every door he opened.
Yet still she followed him.
Her breath caught in her throat when she stepped into the sanctuary. Malachiasz glanced back at her, a half smile at his lips. He was wearing different clothes, a long tunic over breeches, all in black with a rich golden brocade belt tied around his waist. He looked more like nobility now, like he could reasonably be a young king.
The sanctuary was vast, with high, vaulted ceilings and pillars carved with figures that betrayed the room’s religious origins. The Carrion Throne rested atop gilded skulls. Bones lined the long, open hall, inlaid into the black marble floor. There was a brutal, primal beauty to it, this combination of the profane and the divine.
Light filtered down through the high windows, flooding the room, softening its harsh lines. She was aware of Malachiasz watching her as she took in the sanctuary. She walked around the bones inlaid in the floor, while Malachiasz stepped