Dinner continued uneventfully. Emre asked us a few questions about where we were going—down south to the Fraktsiya-controlled border towns at the edge of the Steppe—and why a Strannik happened to be traveling with two Kosa mainlanders—purely by chance and great misfortune, Mikhail explained—but aside from that, Emre allowed the conversation to fizzle out between bites. Once the plates were cleared and the last drop of spiced black tea plopped from the kettle, Emre glanced at his pocket watch.

“It’s time,” he said, rising to his feet. He went to the other side of the kitchen, where he fiddled with a large wooden box atop the counter. I thought that it must be some sort of cooking device, but as he twisted the brass knobs mounted on its face, a trickle of garbled voices rose from the machine.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s called a radio,” he said. “I brought it with us from Yezmirny, but there are also imitations built in Kosa.”

“I think I remember my family having something similar to that.” I gave it more thought. “You’d put a copper disc inside, and when you wound it, it would play the most beautiful music.”

“This doesn’t just play music,” Pelin interjected, meeting my gaze over her teacup. “These are actual voices. They’re not recorded.”

“Every night at seven, the Fraktsiya broadcasts messages to the public,” Emre explained, adjusting the knobs. “Mostly propaganda, but sometimes there’s useful information like the shelling of the railway tracks.”

After fiddling a little more with the radio, the voices resolved into a man’s smooth baritone: “—and above all, loyalty.”

Beside me, Mikhail tensed, his fingers clenching tight.

“Koschei,” he whispered, and I felt a tremor pass through my own body.

“For centuries, the nobility has led us to believe that their very existence is ordained by the divine, and that it is by such will that we serve them. I too once believed in their grandiose claims. I devoted my life to serving the nobility, and I was good at my job. A trained dog. I would fight for them, kill for them, burn and defile for them. And during the Groznaya War, I was repaid for that devotion in blood and pain. The truth, the absolute truth is that there is very little difference between the ruling bogatyri and ordinary human beings. Their power is not given by the goddesses, and in fact can be taken with ease—as I have done to your tsar, and will continue to do until the bogatyri submit.”

“So, it’s true then,” Vanya murmured.

“I’ll confess, I don’t have much fondness for nobility, but this is something else entirely,” Emre said, a furrow forming between his brows. “This isn’t how you gain justice.”

Across the table, Pelin glowered at her tea until small ripples danced across the drink’s surface and her hair wisped around her face as though teased by an unseen breeze. When she caught me staring, her lips pinched into a flat line and the stirred burgundy-black strands fell flat in an instant.