“I know the locations of Brum’s secret bases, all the hidden places where he’s keeping Grisha prisoners. Men, women, children, maybe even friends you once thought dead. Not even Fjerda’s king and queen know where to find them, only Jarl Brum and my spies. The witchhunter is far less stealthy than he thinks, and my followers have done their work well. I see I have your full attention.”

Grisha in cells. Grisha being tortured and experimented on. Grisha she could save. “You mean to make me choose between my king and my people.”

“Haven’t the Grisha suffered enough? Think of all the prison doors that would fly open if you joined my cause. Imagine all the suffering your people will endure until then.”

“Do you know what I think?” Zoya said, edging closer. If she could manage a lightning strike before the monks released the gas, she and Nina could make quick work of the rest of the Apparat’s men. “This has never been about the Saints or restoring Ravka to the faith—only your own desire to rule. Do you resent men born of royal blood? Women with power in their veins? Or do you truly think you know what’s best for Ravka?”

The priest’s eyes were dark as pits. “I have been waiting for the Saints to speak to me since I was a child. Maybe you recited the same prayers, had the same hopes? Most children do. But somewhere along the way, I realized no one would answer my prayers. I would have to build my own cathedral and fill it with my own Saints.” He held up the packet of parem. “And now they speak when I want them to. Speak, Sankta Zoya.”

The Heartrender, eyes focused on the drug he so desired, twisted his fingers in the air. Nina screamed, blood leaking from her eyes, her nose.

“Stop!” shouted Zoya.

The Apparat signaled the Heartrender, who whimpered softly but went still. The priest dabbed a bit of orange powder onto the Grisha’s tongue as reward.

Zoya watched the Heartrender’s eyes roll back into his head, watched the blood trickle from Nina’s nose.

“She’s like a sister to you, no? Maybe like a daughter?” The Apparat smiled gently, serenely. “Will you be the mother she deserves? The mother they all deserve?”

Zoya remembered her own mother marching her down the aisle of the cathedral to hand her to the rich old man who would be her groom. She remembered the priest standing behind him, ready to consecrate a sham marriage for the sake of a little coin. She remembered the Suli circling her on the cliff top. Daughter, they’d whispered. Daughter.