Around midday, the forest began to thin, showing signs of logging. Squinting through the fog, I spotted the broken remnants of an ancient defensive wall, and beyond it, the rooftops of houses.

“Are we getting close to Detskaya?” I asked. “Is that it?”

Vanya rode up beside me. “No, that’s a town called—well, you imperials call it Kraylesa. There used to be a little railway station here, but it was shelled during the war with Groznaya and never rebuilt. It’s been a year or two since I’ve gone this way. Last time I was here, there was a cook at the bathhouse who made some delicious cheese blinis. I hope she’s still working there. I’m starving, and I hate to break it to you two, but we all smell like horseshit.”

As we passed through the crumbling archway of the town gates, the horses shifted restlessly. Doors slammed shut as we neared, and the townsfolk who remained turned to watch us pass.

“Are people always this unfriendly here?” I gave a nervous laugh, hoping to coax out Vanya’s reassuring humor.

Instead, a trace of worry darkened his eyes to malachite, and he remained silent as he rode past. His only response was to shift his reins to one hand so that he could unbuckle his rifle’s leather scabbard.

Talismans carved from protective birch and aspen hung on many of the doors, and bundles of berry-laden rowan branches and wild garlic bunches were tied to eaves and shutters with red string.

Something had happened here. Something terrible. There were no signs of outward destruction, but I could feel it in the air, a cloying presence that weighed down on me from all sides. What did the people here feel such a need to protect themselves from?

As we passed a tavern, my gaze strayed to a pair of men sitting outside, drawn to the garishness of their double-breasted greatcoats, with two sets of brass buttons running down the front and fabric dyed so heavily with madder that its color resembled raw liver. An uncontrollable shiver passed through me as I caught sight of the badges on their caps—a breaking wheel in gilt and red enamel.

“Lovely, the Tribunal is here,” Vanya muttered, turning his face away. “I suppose even the Fraktsiya needs their protection.”

One of the men turned to watch us pass. Underneath his cap’s leather brim, his eyes were a frosty and unforgiving blue, at contrast with his baby-smooth complexion and mild, chinless features. Even after we had left the two far behind us, it was as though I could feel that gaze tracing over the back of my neck, searching.

The Tribunal had been deeply feared and revered in my town, but compared to the warring factions, their power was strictly provincial. To the Fraktsiya, I imagined they were viewed as a necessary service for the empire to function, no different than fire brigades or the city watch.

“The bathhouse is just this way,” Vanya said as we passed through the courtyard of a crumbling keep.