→ “This was always going to be a tragedy.”

“They raised children here?” Radka asked as they turned into yet another featureless grey hall. Even the doors they passed were all identical, from the shade of white they were painted to how deep they were set into the wall. And it was so cold—she wished she’d brought her coat, despite how nice it was outside. 

“They raised soldiers here,” Nadiya corrected. 

“They were kids before they were forced to become soldiers to survive,” she replied, something twisting in her stomach.

“We were all children, once upon a time. Life has a habit of forcing us to become what we used to hate; to do what we swore we’d never do. It’s unavoidable.”

Brela forced a breath through her nose. “Distract me. What’s up with those two?”

She didn’t need to point for [Elias] to know she was referring to Serill and Farrah. They sat on their bedrolls, engrossed in some game they’d made from scraps of paper and rocks.

“The Prince is a little overwhelmed with all of this. Trying to find a way to help us while also looking out for his kingdom. Farrah’s a rational mind, and a good friend.” He chuckled. “Plus, I think Farrah needs the civilized company.”

Brela grinned. “She does know she’s the most uncivilized of the three of us, right?”

As if the gods themselves provoked it, Farrah lost whatever game they were playing and she let out a string of curses that made even Brela blink in surprise.

Elias rolled his eyes and resumed playing with Brela’s hair. “Also, she’s determined to make him lose a bet. This entire trip, he’s gone undefeated and it’s driving her insane.”

Since the beginning of human existence it has been widely accepted that if one doesn’t want trouble, one should not seek trouble. Ajani Rotsepad, the second son of the House of Rotsepad, is a man who often says he does not want any trouble. Likewise, he often claims he does not go looking for trouble. In his own words, he’s like a magnet, a flame that troubles keep getting drawn to.

In the words of everyone else, but namely his best friend: Ajani is full of shit.

Of course, Sonia Yurievna has no room to speak, as their current situation is entirely her fault; a fact to which she’ll never admit, nor will she willingly acknowledge it.

Malchior paused. Looked at her, eyes soft at the edges. “Remember, Anne…”

   Her lips curved up, joyless and weary.

   She chuckled. “Never pray, is it? I never forgot that.”

   She’d expected him to laugh with her. However, what he did struck her like a feather plucked off of her heart. Though she tried to hide it, her figure wobbled.  

   “No. You can pray.” He turned away and his voice was softness, humble and entreating. “You could always pray to me. I’d answer.”

The wind raced down the jagged, snow-covered mountains and through the mass of trees surrounding the small town of Kostya, shaking them so that not a single flake of snow remained on their leaves. Winter was always harsh in this region, but Kostya was saved from the brunt of it thanks to the thick forest which surrounded them on almost all sides. Here, in this rural town, they were always fighting against the ravages of nature, always trying to prepare for winter, always trying to make supplies last until the next shipment arrived during the cold months.

Frozen in place with shock, Misha watched his daughter take a rigid step out from the edge of the woods and onto the fresh, powdery snow before her. She wore no shoes, only her pajama and the ribbon in her hair. “Papa,” she croaked, falling to her knees.

Somewhere in the forest, too close from comfort, a wolf howled.

“holy, holy, holy. these are the words he murmurs into your skin, language of prayer, language of divinity, language of worship. holy, holy, holy. he whispers it into your crook of your neck, rolls the words into the hollow of your throat, into your bones, into your sharp edges. holy, holy, holy. a mantra. a litany. a prayer. holy, holy, holy. the way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to take you apart and study each piece of you, and then maybe he’ll put you back together when he’s done. maybe. holy, holy, holy. he stares at you, so hard you can feel it burning your skin, and you think maybe he’ll kiss you, or maybe he’ll eat you alive. you haven’t decided yet. holy, holy, holy. in the end, it’s a kiss, real as a punch and twice as hard, and it hurts like a bullet pearling into flesh, hurts like his eyes on the back of your neck, on your collarbones, on your lips. holy. holy, holy, holy.”