As the hours passed, we found only traces of the two soldiers—footprints in the mud, the wreck of their dirigible, a spilled sack of grain. By the time Mikhail and I reached the mountain range that cradled the forest to the east, the sun had already met its zenith. My eyes ached from the glare, and each step I took sent glassy waves of pain darting up my calves. As I paused to take a sip of lukewarm water from my flask, my skull throbbed with the beginning of a nasty headache.

Fragile sheets of shale crumbled beneath our feet as we climbed the steep path, pebbles and dirt cascading down. During the monotony of the climb, my fingers strayed to my bead bracelet as though drawn by gravity. I held my wrist to the light so that the sunlight glossed across the bead’s worn facets. I wanted to see the bead how Galina saw it—as a sapphire, as a treasure. But it was just a dirty chunk of glass to me. I was the sister with eyes, but Galina was the one who could see.

“Tell me more about what’s out there, Mikhail,” I said, pausing at the brink to allow him to catch up. “Aren’t there still people who support you?”

He nodded, clearly relieved to break the silence. “The Otzvuk. They’re formed from the deposed aristocracy and the remnants of the imperial army and military police, along with whatever peasantry they can recruit from the villages they’ve liberated from the enemy’s command. Many of the nobles and military superiors are bogatyri, so it’s only a matter of time before the Otzvuk regains control.”

“What about the...” I had already forgotten the other side’s name. “The soldiers who took Galina?”

“The Fraktsiya.” Mikhail spoke the name with such venom, it might as well have been a curse. “Traitors who think they can lead a country on their own, who want to burn down everything my dynasty built, all in the name of so-called liberty. It’s a joke. They don’t give a damn about order or justice or the fate of our nation. They just want to take whatever they can get their hands on, even if it means destroying everything in their path. Some of the Fraktsiya served in the infantry, I suppose, but I highly doubt any of them are bogatyri. Most of us know where our place is and where our loyalties should lie.”

Although I knew that by “us,” he was referring to bogatyri collectively, his words made me vaguely uncomfortable. I had no powers; I was no bogatyri. Even though his world wasn’t mine and I had no allegiances or loyalties, that hadn’t stopped the war from coming to my doorstep.

“Are you going to try to find the Otzvuk?” I asked.

He mulled it over. “Not right away. Once the Otzvuk see that I can’t use my powers anymore, they won’t believe I am the Tsar.”

“But won’t they recognize your face?”

“I hate having my photograph taken, and I’ve never been one for official portraits. The last time I had artwork commissioned was for my coronation three years ago. They wanted to present the image of a noble tsar, a welcoming one.” His fingertips traced along his chiseled jawline, the hard ridge of his cheekbone. Even at rest, there was something cold and unforgiving about his features. “It barely even looked like me, and a lot has changed since then. In any case, I can’t risk it. I’ll go to Svet and find allies there. As long as I’m in the empire, I’ll be in danger.”