Chapter 25
Anastasia and Mikhail slept through the entire day. When she finally stirred, the sun was beginning to set outside her windows.
Anastasia fidgeted on the bed, her hands absentmindedly tugging on the irons. Mikhail stopped her, running his thumb over the back of her hand to keep her focus elsewhere.
“What are we going to do?” she asked quietly, looking up at Mikhail. There was concern etched in her features, her gaze distant.
“What do you want to do?” Mikhail’s question hung between them. Anastasia looked confused.
There had been only a handful of times in Anastasia’s life when someone had handed the power back to her.
It wasn’t lost on her that Mikhail deferred to her.
She had started backsliding when her father delivered his ultimatum, her mind trapped in the same panic response.
All it had taken was a few choice words from the tsar, and she was sent hurtling back there, unable to break the cycle.
Without the feeling of her magic, the pieces of herself she had been starting to put together felt fractured. Anastasia sighed, putting her head back down on Mikhail’s chest.
“I don’t know.”
“You do know,” he squeezed her arms affectionately, “You do. Don’t let him get in your head.”
“I don’t have my magic. I can’t feel it, Mikhail.”
“So?” He gently put a finger under her chin and tilted it up until she met his gaze. “You’re still you.”
“Who am I without magic?”
“Don’t let them convince you that your only worth is your magic. You aren’t their weapon or a tool. You’re a person. You’re their daughter, for god’s sake, even though they don’t act like it. We have a situation with your father. What do you want to do about it?”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It isn’t,” Mikhail shook his head, “It’s not easy, but it is simple. What do you want to do?”
The silence fell thick between them. Anastasia waited for a heartbeat, then two. She took a deep breath and, regardless of her bound magic, started telling Mikhail exactly what they were going to do.
???
When the doors to Anastasia’s room were flung open, they were ready. Anastasia and Mikhail sat together on one of the couches, waiting, staring.
The doors were pushed open by two soldiers, the tsar strolling in casually behind them, his posture relaxed. His hands were held behind his back, walking in as though he was visiting for afternoon tea.
Only Anastasia could see the telltale signs of his frustration. Whatever had happened in the past twenty-four hours for the tsar, it had not been good.
His mustache was slightly askew, not the usual picture of precision it usually was.
There was a wrinkle between his eyes, and his glance jumped around the room.
The tsar always had a glaring stare. He would focus it on people and could make grown men weak in the knees, but his gaze was now unfocused.
The way his eyes pivoted around the room told Anastasia his mind was distracted, too. She was biting back a smile, feeling a little bit more confident in herself with every passing moment.
No one wanted to speak first. The tsar came in, opened his jacket, and sat down in a chair opposite Anastasia and Mikhail.
The couple decided that no matter what it took, they would force the tsar to speak first. They sat there, calm and collected, but careful to keep their faces devoid of any emotion. At one point, Anastasia slid her hand into Mikhail’s.
Everything was intentional; each moment had been planned. Mikhail encouraged her before the tsar’s arrival to do whatever she thought was the right choice. He would support her, not decide for her.
They knew if they were already sitting together when the tsar entered, it wouldn’t have as significant an impact as watching Anastasia willingly reach for him. She was right, and it broke the tsar’s silence.
“I’m waiting for your answer, Anastasia.” His voice was quieter than she expected, tired. She was no less afraid of him; a cornered predator is the worst kind.
“I will marry Ruzsky,” Anastasia cast her eyes to the ground, pretending to be embarrassed, a demure duchess brought to heel.
A smile spread over the tsar’s face as if it were the first good news he’d heard all day. Mikhail stiffened next to her, looking uncomfortable with her decision and playing up his discomfort to the tsar.
“A wise decision, daughter,” the tsar couldn’t keep the glee from his voice.
He stood quickly, but the atmosphere in the room didn’t change.
There were only a handful of guards with him this time.
There was still a panic in the tsar’s eyes that Anastasia couldn’t identify.
Her answer had not relaxed him like she thought it would. The tsar still didn’t know he’d won.
Something about it was setting Anastasia and Mikhail even more on edge than they already were. The tsar turned on his heel and was already moving to leave, re-buttoning his jacket.
“Father,” Anastasia purposefully called him by the moniker, marking the first time she did so in years. He stopped, looking increasingly agitated as he was trying to leave. She stood up slowly. “If you would be so kind,” she paused, feigning more embarrassment, “The irons, please.”
Her voice was pitiful as she extended her arms towards him. The tsar had a calculating look in his eye, his expression turning stony. He shook his head.
“I think we should wait,” he said gruffly. He was frightened of her without the irons clamped around her wrist; this much was certain.
“Please,” she said again, letting a crack slide into her voice, “I can’t feel it anymore. I don’t know if it will work, and I need to make sure it does.”
She pleaded with her father, her voice tinged with desperation, like a child crying for their parent’s approval. There was very little paternal instinct left in the tsar for Anastasia to cater to, but she went for it. The tsar’s lip twitched, and he adjusted his hands in front of him.
Finally, he turned to one of the soldiers and nodded in Anastasia’s direction. The soldier moved quickly, pulling a pair of keys out of his jacket and going over to Anastasia. She could almost feel the relief cascading over her at the idea of the dreadful pieces of metal coming off.
As he went to turn the key in the lock, the tsar’s voice interrupted them sharply. His tone was much more aggressive this time.
“Wait,” he snapped, some of his fury returning to him. He stopped and turned around, lifting his hand and beckoning a few extra soldiers into the room.
Anastasia couldn’t help but notice they were much younger.
In fact, all the guards in the room seemed to be fresh out of military training.
Compared to their last meeting, when he brought some of the finest members of the imperial guard, he now brought boys instead of men. There was something horribly wrong.
“The man comes with us,” the tsar commanded, pointing at Mikhail. Mikhail stood up immediately, bracing himself for a fight. He fought the urge to move closer to Anastasia, but he knew it could further antagonize the tsar. Mikhail waited for her lead, judging her reaction.
Anastasia fought back a gasp before staring at her father with confusion. A few of the guardsmen went to stand near Mikhail, but they looked like they could hardly grow a mustache, let alone restrain someone of Mikhail’s size.
“What is this?” Anastasia looked at her father, the guard still holding the iron manacles, key in hand. “You said that—”
“I don’t trust him,” the tsar shook his head once. He looked towards the door, itching to get to something beyond it.
Anastasia bit back a response, trying to play the role of a dutiful, ashamed daughter. She looked at Mikhail, who was obediently following the soldiers towards the door.
A sharp pang of panic hit Anastasia at the sight of him retreating from her, but she wasn’t overcome with fear. As Mikhail stepped away from her, the soldier finally turned the key, and the heavy iron manacles clanged to the ground.
Anastasia jumped back from the cursed metal, cursing under her breath as she did so.
Magic started rushing through her blood, returning to her fingertips.
It was like releasing water from behind a dam, rushing free.
The tsar turned his back on Anastasia as he left, and that was when the screaming began.
Anastasia immediately let her magic loose. It exploded all around them like a bomb. It spilled out, not only from her hands, but it erupted out of the fireplace and poured from the walls. The chamber shook and was flooded with golden magic, gleaming as bright as the sun.
The few soldiers in the room collapsed to their knees, hands flying to their throats as they clawed for air. Mikhail was spared, the glittering tendrils snaking up his legs and around his torso. It caressed him gently, like her magic recognized its lover.
The tsar spun around, his feigned control gone. The magic was spinning around Anastasia like a vicious current, and she kept screaming.
Everything happened too fast. The tsar responded in kind, turning around like he expected this. Anastasia’s magic was only a second too slow. The tsar pulled a pistol from his jacket, placing it to the back of Mikhail’s head and pushing him down to his knees.
“Call it off, or I will shoot him in front of you.” The tsar’s voice was now disturbingly steady. He was waiting for this moment and found his calm in the chaos, a trait that made him as dangerous as it did murderous.
As quickly as it erupted, all of Anastasia’s magic disappeared, swirling up and through the ceiling like evaporating water. She stood there in the center of the room, breathing heavily as her nose began to bleed. She stared at Mikhail, her eyes wide with worry. She didn’t move fast enough.
The tsar smiled, looking around the room and seeing all the unconscious soldiers around them.
“I was curious about what you could really do,” he grinned, looking over his shoulder and whistling. Soldiers filed into the room, surrounding them.