Amélie Zhao - Blood Heir

A light breeze brushed Ana’s face as Tetsyev knelt by her side, his white robes fluttering. He put a finger to her neck to check her pulse. To her surprise, he, too, dipped his head in respect and mourning. The softest whisper came from his lips: “It’s a paralysis poison.” And then, straightening, Tetsyev turned to Morganya. “The Blood Witch is dead.”

Her mind was heavy, but surprise cut through it like a blade. A paralysis poison.

She wasn’t dying.

Could it be? That Tetsyev had saved her life? That everything Tetsyev had told her held true?

A shout sounded somewhere outside. Sharp, quick footsteps rang in the silence of the vast hall, growing closer and more frantic.

“No!” someone yelled. Ana knew that voice. It was familiar, in a way that made her want to reach out to its owner and touch him, even with just a hand on his shoulder, or be near enough to feel his presence.

Ramson crashed to his knees by her side. “No.” His voice cracked, and the raw emotion in it stirred something within Ana. Never had she seen Ramson so unguarded, the stricken look on his face shifting to anguish as he gently pulled her into his arms. She felt the touch of his skin, the warmth of his breath as he lowered his head to hers, clutching her and bent over her as though a part of him had broken.

“Kapitan!” Morganya cried. “Arrest this criminal.”

“No!” Ramson roared. He stood, folding Ana into his arms and lifting her. “Imperial Councilmembers, I have irrefutable evidence that the Countess is a murderer and traitor to the Crown of Cyrilia.”

His voice was drowned out by footsteps as the guards, emboldened by Ana’s still body, closed in on him.

No, Ana begged. Put me down and run, Ramson.

A deep voice spoke, cutting through the scuffle. “I will take the Princess.”

The guards closing in fell back.

A familiar figure approached. His gray-peppered hair fell into his lined face, and his eyes—the same steady gray of storm clouds—were immeasurable wells of sadness. Gently, ever so gently, Kapitan Markov took Ana in his arms.

On the dais, a squad of guards lifted Luka’s body. Tetsyev stood by Morganya’s side, whispering. Morganya’s eyes followed Ana. “Take the Princess’s body to the dungeons. My alchemist has some work to do on her.”

For a moment, Markov’s face contorted with rage as Ana had never seen before. But he reined in his anger and turned to Morganya with a stoic expression. “Yes, Kolst Contessya.”

“Kolst Imperatorya,” Morganya corrected. “Your Glorious Empress.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ana saw two remaining Councilmembers glance at each other. She recognized one of them as Councilman Taras.

“Kolst Imperatorya.” Markov’s tone cut like steel. “And the criminal?”

“Take him to the dungeons,” Morganya commanded. “Schedule an execution. I want the world to know what happens to traitors of the Crown.”

No, Ana wanted to scream. But her body was a prison.

The last she saw of the Grand Throneroom was Morganya standing at the dais, a smile curling her lips as she watched Ramson struggle against the guards. Tetsyev stood by her side, in her shadow. Sadov leaned against the throne, wiping blood from his face.

Markov shut the great doors and carried Ana away into the silence, his steps as somber as a funeral drumbeat.

The stars were visible from the highest tower of the Salskoff Palace. Linn’s steps were light yet growing heavy, her breathing becoming frantic as she sped through the marble-white halls. She hurtled up a set of stairs, three at a time, her winds guiding her at her back.

Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in.

Linn leapt over the landing—and her stomach clenched as she stumbled into the watchtower. Two guards spun around; their surprise barely registered on their faces before she’d dealt two kicks to their temples and they crumpled to the ground.

Linn spun around, forcing herself to take controlled, rhythmic breaths. It was difficult not to give in to her intrinsic need to gulp down frantic lungfuls of air, but she knew she only had seconds before her pursuer appeared. She needed to be in a state to fight, and her heartbeat was too fast right now.

She took in her surroundings: white marble walls with narrow windows. Good for observing and shooting, and to limit the range for incoming arrows. Moonlight spilled through a single door, leading to a balcony outside that stood over the Palace walls.

A shadow fell across the floor. Linn spun.

Her pursuer’s eyes were molten silver; his white cloak flapped behind him in the slight breeze that stirred between them. Linn clutched her last remaining dagger tightly.

The yaeger stood, as though he had been carved from rock and marble—and Linn recognized the precision in his stance, the years of training etched into the corded muscles of his back. Only his eyes flickered like a ripple across a moonlit pond. “I am not your enemy.”

“You are not my friend,” Linn replied.

“I do not wish to hurt you.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

His eyes shifted to her empty weapons belt and the gash across her midriff. It was shallow, but Linn had left the blood to make it look worse than it was. The best advantage in a fight was to be underestimated. “You are wounded, and you are out of weapons. You will not win this fight.” He took a step closer. “My men are storming into the Grand Throneroom as we speak. The Blood Witch is a murderer and a monster. She will not triumph. Please, come quietly and save yourself.”

Their gazes held for two, three seconds. Linn remained quiet.

The yaeger’s arm shifted slightly. Linn forced herself to flinch. To appear afraid.

Within the blink of an eye, she lashed out. Her throwing knife was a silver blur. It struck the marble wall, a hand’s throw from the yaeger’s face, and clattered to the ground.

The yaeger’s eyes flickered with an emotion Linn could not read—it might have been surprise, or anger, or even admiration.

Slowly, with infinitely precise movements, the yaeger unbuckled his shoulder straps and shrugged off his white cloak. His eyes fastened on her as he drew two swords from their sheaths. “You have chosen,” he said. “Shame. I would have preferred not to kill as talented a fighter as yourself.”

“You won’t,” Linn said quietly. Every muscle in her body was tense with anticipation.

A hard, impregnable wall clamped down upon her Affinity. Linn’s insides churned; for a moment she thought she would throw up. It was as though one of her senses had suddenly been shut off—as though she had lost her ability to smell, or taste, or hear, or see. The winds that had been whispering at her back suddenly died. The silence was unbearable.

Linn reined in her nausea. Action, and counteraction.

Linn slashed her arm out, feinting. The yaeger flinched and shifted to his left. In that fraction of a second, Linn sprang backward, spinning and plucking two daggers—one in each hand—from the unconscious guards. In an extension of the same motion, she flung them at the yaeger, one after the other in rapid succession.

By the time she heard the plink of a dagger against his blackstone sword, Linn had already turned and was sprinting toward the open door. She heard the soft sound of metal slicing through flesh, followed by a grunt. At least one of her blades had found its mark. It was far from a killing blow, but anything that slowed him down would help her right now.