“Identify yourselves,” the burning man shouted. He had an accent like Mikhail’s, refined and resonating. Another deposed nobleman.

Mikhail pushed past me and stopped before the line of soldiers. He leveled his chin and confronted the burning man head-on. “My name is Mikhail Vladimirovich of House Morev, and under the authority of the Kosa throne, I am commanding you and your soldiers to lower your arms.”

The bogatyr strode toward us and stopped close enough that the heat radiating from his body made my face prickle tightly. The flames receded, but grew brighter, lighter, until they were almost as incandescently blue as his searing eyes.

Mikhail stood tall, his back held straight and rigid, shoulders squared even as his knees swayed beneath him. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips. “Colonel Fyodorov, it’s been a while. If you’re here, then this must be the 5th Artillery Division.”

Slowly, the bogatyr’s suspicious scowl loosened into a gape of amazement. The flames surrounding his arms died down, and wisps of smoke wafted from his fingertips and clothes.

“I can’t believe it,” the man murmured. “By the Three, it’s really you...”

Almost immediately, the bogatyr sank to one knee. The soldiers in his company looked at each other in befuddlement, before lowering their rifles and following their leader’s example.

“Forgive me for my transgression, Your Highness,” the bogatyr said, bowing his head. “My soldiers and I are yours to command.”

43

In the streets of Eyry, war was being waged, but in the city’s Tribunal courthouse, all was calm. By the time we arrived there, the doors and windows of the three-story building were already fortified, and sandbags were piled up along the entrance and walls. If there were any Fraktsiya casualties, their bodies had been disposed of inconspicuously.

Colonel Fyodorov hosted us in the judge’s office, a cavelike space with rugs adorning the walls and dark, carved furniture. He was accompanied by Staff Captain Lokteva, the blonde bogatyr who could harden her skin like steel armor. Rather than take a seat, she coolly observed us from where she leaned against the wall.

I sat in one of the chairs with Koschei’s shashka angled across my knees. Galina curled up on the rug by my feet, a cushion from one of the chairs wedged under her head. She’d been so tired, she had fallen asleep on the way here. Vanya had to carry her in.

Exhaustion weighed down on me, reducing my limbs to numb weights. It was a struggle to remain awake, and even the distant sounds of fighting failed to rouse me from my daze.

Mikhail appeared equally subdued. He gazed down at his palms as the colonel spoke, and though he didn’t say so aloud, I had a feeling he was thinking about his powers. About how they still hadn’t come back. About how killing Koschei hadn’t ended the war, just changed its tide.

Over glasses of rich red wine, Colonel Fyodorov detailed the Otzvuk’s next course of action. “Once we seize Eyry, we will reclaim the rest of the motherland and drive those revolutionary pigs out to the Edge. After that, it won’t be long until we rein the rest of your territories back in, Your Highness. With Koschei dead, I suspect that the Fraktsiya will cease to exist within the next year, if not the next six months.”