Two more advanced, but Tolya and Tamar were there to stop them. David ran to Genya’s side. Nadia and Zoya flipped another guard in the air. I saw Priestguards on the periphery raising their rifles to open fire.

Rage coursed through me, and I fought to rein it in. No more, I told myself. No more deaths today. I hurled the Cut in a fiery arc. It crashed through a long table and tore into the earth before the Priestguards, opening a dark, yawning trench in the kitchen floor. There was no way of knowing how deep it went.

Terror was written on the Apparat’s face—terror and what might well have been awe. The guards fell to their knees, and a moment later, the priest followed. Some wept, chanting prayers. Beyond the kitchen doors, I heard fists pounding, voices wailing, “Sankta! Sankta!”

I was glad they were crying out for me and not the Apparat. I dropped my hands, letting the light recede. I didn’t want to let it go. I looked at the bodies of the fallen guards. One of them had sawdust in his beard. I had almost been the person to end his life.

I drew a little light and kept it burning in a warm halo around me. I had to be cautious. The power was feeding me, but I’d been too long without it. My weakened body was having trouble keeping up, and I wasn’t sure of my limits. Still, I’d been under the Apparat’s control for months, and I wouldn’t have an opportunity like this again.

Men lay dead and bleeding, and a crowd was waiting outside the Kettle doors. I could hear Nikolai’s voice in my head: The people like spectacle. The show wasn’t over yet.

I walked forward, stepping carefully around the trench I’d opened, and stood before one of the kneeling guards.

He was younger than the others—his beard just coming in; his gaze fastened on the ground as he mumbled prayers. I caught not just my name, but the names of real Saints, strung together as if in a single word. I touched my hand to his shoulder, and his eyes slid shut, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“Look at me,” I said gently.

He forced himself to look up. I cupped his face in my hand, gentle, like a mother, though he was barely older than I was. “What’s your name?”

“Vladim … Vladim Ozwal.”

“It’s good to doubt Saints, Vladim. And men.”

He gave a shaky nod as another tear spilled over.

“My soldiers bear my mark,” I said, referring to the tattoos borne by the Soldat Sol. “Until this day you have put yourself apart from them, buried yourself in books and prayer instead of hearing the people. Will you wear my mark now?”

“Yes,” he said, fervently.

“Will you swear loyalty to me and only me?”

“Gladly!” he cried. “Sol Koroleva!” Sun Queen.

My stomach turned. Part of me hated what I was about to do. Can’t I just make him sign something? Give a blood oath? Make me a really firm promise? But I had to be stronger than that. This boy and his comrades had taken up arms against me. I couldn’t let that happen again, and this was the language of Saints and suffering, the language they understood.