Some of the rioters carried guns, axes, and truncheons, while others held indigo flags and signs aloft, each banner emblazoned with a crossed sword and wheat sheaf. Uniformed men with sabers hanging from their belts flanked the mob; upon their shoulders, they wore the purple epaulets of the bogatyri.

“Leave us alone,” the cheesemonger cried as the crowd filled the square. “We had nothing to do with what happened to the Tsar! We’re not—”

A rock struck his face with the ghastly crack of broken bone, and he collapsed into a heap on the ground. A line of blood edged across the cobblestones.

“We’re done letting you beat us with impunity!” Vanya rose to his feet, rifle in hand. “We have the right to defend ourselves!”

I ducked as a brick sailed over my head and slammed into the shopfront behind me. Glass tinkled to the ground, crunching beneath my shoes as I stumbled away.

Gunshots rang out—then one of the uniformed men stepped forward and lifted his hands. A surge of fire roared through the square, incinerating a produce-laden cart in an instant. A torrent of water followed quickly after, snaking over the cobblestones, washing fleeing vendors to their knees. The shouts of protest became screams of pain and terror.

I skidded on the water that spread from the wave, grasping onto a wall to keep myself from falling. A stray fireball split the air above my head, close enough that a wave of heat rolled over me. The flames should have singed my hair and caught my rushnyk aflame, but instead, the heat became a subtle warmth through the embroidered fabric. Sparks fell on the rushnyk and sizzled out in an instant, leaving not a trace of soot.

As I reached the cover of an alley, I looked over my shoulder.

Brawling rioters swamped the square. A wagon levitated in the air, spinning lazily, before slamming into a nearby shopfront. Splinters nipped into my back, and a falling piece of wood slammed into my shoulder. Broiled bits of vegetables and broken rinds squelched underfoot as I raced down the alley, fleeing from the screams and gunfire erupting behind me.

At the end of the alley, I turned the corner—and slammed into someone. Hands reached out and steadied me. I raised my arms to push away my attacker, then froze as I confronted a pair of iron-gray eyes.

“What’s going on?” Mikhail demanded, looking back the way I had come. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you, and then I saw smoke.”

“I was talking to one of the vendors, and suddenly, a mob came, and everyone started fighting,” I said breathlessly. “They’re using magic.”

Suddenly, Mikhail pushed me behind him and shielded me with his body. A man ran down the alley. No. Not a man.

Panting, Vanya skidded to a stop in front of us. A line of blood trickled down his cheek from a shallow cut.

“If you don’t want to get killed, follow me. It’s worse than we thought it would be. They’re not alone.” He rushed past.