Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(116)

Ana could only stare at her aunt, her mind trying to make sense of Morganya’s words. Only now did she realize that her aunt hadn’t done these things out of spite, or pure evil. In Morganya’s mind, she was making the right choice.

“You chose the wrong side,” Morganya continued. “And now you will pay for it by dying alone, dishonored and disgraced. The whole room watched you torture Vladimir; I am the heroine who saved them from a deimhov. And the dark legends of the Blood Witch of Salskoff will carry on.” She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Ana’s forehead. Her lovely face crumpled again as she lifted her head, tears glistening on her cheeks for the world to see. “Pyetr,” she said hoarsely, backing away to the dais. “Is she…? Could you…? I cannot bear to look at her.”

There was so much more Ana needed to do; so much more she should have done for her empire. But her strength was giving out. A strange sense of peace settled over her, as though her body were falling into slumber. Her head lolled to the side and she waited for the darkness to close in. If this was dying, it wasn’t so terrible.

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.