Chapter 28
Mikhail ran through the palace, grateful for once that he knew each wicked turn by heart.
The people flooded in behind him, and with each step, he heard the building being dismantled piece by piece. The sounds of fabric ripping and shattering glass echoed through the halls, and the metallic clanging of dented metal rang out. The finery of the people was finally being returned to them.
It brought him a sick sense of satisfaction as he thought of the tsar and tsarina’s precious luxury being torn down, ripped away, and the rest of it burned. He would have joined in, had he not been preoccupied with Anastasia, his anxiety growing into a sinking feeling as he ran towards her suite.
As he passed through the halls, the flames spread around him. Some of the blaze was contained to specific rooms, with smoke billowing out from beneath the doors; in other corridors, it raged openly.
Boyars and royals were fleeing from their bedrooms and hideouts, people in various stages of opulent undress flooding the halls. He heard their shouts of surprise and cries when they ran into the mob amassed behind him.
Mikhail paid none of them any attention as he picked up his speed, clearing over rubble and fallen drapes. He finally turned the corner and found Anastasia’s wing; the doors were shut. He said a quick prayer of gratitude when he saw this hallway untouched by the fire.
A man possessed, he stormed over and kicked the door open. The wood was weakened by the heat and the flood of Anastasia’s magic, collapsing and falling forward with a dull thud. Mikhail pushed inside, his eyes scanning the room. It was empty.
God damn it! He cursed, tearing through the rest of the apartments. He checked each door, ripping the bedrooms apart and tossing the furniture aside.
“Fuck, Anya,” he muttered under his breath, realizing she was nowhere to be found, “Where are you?”
Mikhail left the suite, jogging back into the hall and following the sounds of mayhem. The entire palace looked like it might come down around them at any minute.
People were everywhere, crammed against the walls. Mikhail had never seen the palace so full, even during masquerades and balls. The palace around him was transforming by the second.
It was chaos, a living thing around him, as the smoke gathered at the tops of the halls and the noise threatened to drown out his thoughts. No one paid him any attention, the full strength of the impoverished crowd descending upon the seat of a dynasty.
All its trappings, hangings, ornamentations, and anything that could be carried out were gone. Some men were standing in the middle of the madness, the butts of their rifles dragging on the ground, as they wept at the finery.
They had starved for so long, the idea that this had been just beyond their reach for decades pushed them to tears.
People were calling out to one another, emerging and disappearing into rooms, each of them crying out for the tsar. Apparently, he had not yet been found.
Above the cacophony, a massive shattering sound came from the ballroom, the sound of a thousand stained glass windows breaking at once.
The ground shook as a sweeping shockwave went through the palace. Anything that was remaining on the walls came tumbling down, and Mikhail dodged to avoid a crashing curtain rod.
Anya! Mikhail’s heart jumped. He knew the feeling of her magic as it ripped through the palace. He went running through the halls to follow it.
As he rounded the corner, the doors to the ballroom were thrown open. There was smoke pouring out, a few boyars in various stages of undress running out of the room. Mikhail ran against the tide of the crowd, sweeping into the ballroom.
His heart leaped at the sight of her. She was standing in the very center of the room, magic flooding out from her fingers. A barrage of guardsmen aimed their rifles at her from the perimeter of the room, none of them firing. They were all trying to get their guns to load correctly.
The glass windows all around the ceiling shattered, and the floor was a minefield of glass shards.
Mikhail barely noticed them as relief flooded his body. Anastasia was alive. Not only was she alive, but she was also fighting.
She freed herself. The chains he watched the tsar put on her were gone. She didn’t even seem winded now, the sparks and golden elixir of power circulating her like a personal ecosystem. And she was laughing.
Her hair was wild, tossed out behind her, and she was barefoot on the shards of glass below her.
She’s magnificent when she’s burning. One of the first things Mikhail had ever thought about her came rushing back to him. As he gripped the banister of the balcony overlooking the scene, a quick movement caught his eye.
He turned and saw one of her father’s most trusted dvoryanstvos sneak up quietly behind Anastasia, a blade glinting in his hands. He was only a few feet from her as she was dangerously distracted, keeping all the guardsmen’s rifles from being able to fire.
“Anya!” Mikhail’s voice rang out through the ballroom, echoing off the walls, sounding as clear as a bell. Anastasia whipped around to find his face, the spinning motion causing her magic to flick around her.
The offending rifles were all ripped from the soldier’s grips and tossed haphazardly onto the floor. Her eyes caught Mikhail’s, and she gasped, her face lighting up brighter than the golden magic exuding from all around her.
She was only distracted for a moment as she caught sight of the dvoryanstvo in front of her, the blade raised and ready to drive into her heart.
Anastasia laughed, and Mikhail rejoiced at the sound. It took a single flick of her fingers, and the knife went hurtling towards the edge of the room.
With a second twist of her wrist, its wielder followed. Anastasia turned and picked up her skirts, running haphazardly across the ballroom towards Mikhail.
He started running down the steps as she leaped up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They crashed into each other like two great forces, colliding in the center of the grand staircase.
They sank to the floor, unable to keep their grips off one another. Anastasia ran her hands over Mikhail’s bare chest, as gently as she could, tears springing to her eyes.
“You’re barefoot! The glass!” Mikhail scolded, his eyes pouring over her to check for any injury. She didn’t let him.
“You’re shirtless! Why are you shirtless?” Anastasia’s brow furrowed in confusion; she struggled with the emotions pouring out of her.
Mikhail couldn’t help but laugh, the strength of his mirth making his head drop back. “That’s the question you have right now?”
“I’m not complaining. It’s just curious.”
Mikhail leaned forward, wrapping his arms tighter around Anastasia and kissing her as though they had all the time in the world. Anastasia made a soft noise that nearly set him ablaze as she sank into him. After a moment, pausing to catch their breath, he smiled.
“I didn’t have time to stop and change.” The situation settled over Anastasia, and her eyes fluttered, tears suddenly threatening to spill down her cheeks.
“Oh god, oh God, Mikhail, I saw you,” the smile evaporated from her face as she began to cry. “You were dead!”
Mikhail let her hands roam their fill as he reached up to cup her face gently. He only winced slightly as she traced the fresh wounds, the scars that had been reopened. She needed to feel, to touch, to know that he was real. His thumbs moved gently across her cheeks as he wiped the tears away.
“Me?” He scoffed, “You know that it would take much more than that to kill me, Anya.”
He gave her a wicked smirk, and she laughed through the tears streaking her face. She leaned forward, tenderness forgotten, and wrapped her arms around him tightly.
Mikhail pulled her to him, adjusting her gently so she was straddling his lap in the middle of the ballroom.
They sat there for a few precious moments, the smoke and sounds of the revolution just outside the doors, touching and petting and reminding one another they were alive.
“What happened?” Mikhail finally leaned back from her and gently tilted Anastasia’s chin up to meet his gaze. “You unleashed your magic.”
His grin was infectious. The pride swelling in his chest threatened to break out of him and flood the room with as much light as her power. Anastasia had never needed saving.
Even when he had been mutilated and ripped away from her side, bound in chains, he came back to find her fighting.
“I did,” she grinned, looking up at him with a fire in her eyes that finally seemed to be at its fullest blaze, “I got a little reminder from someone. I decided my father’s chains wouldn’t hold me anymore.”
Somehow, they both knew what she was talking about.
“How curious,” Mikhail nodded, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her forehead, “I had a bit of a reminder from someone, too.”
Anastasia pulled her body closer to his, putting her head on his shoulder and catching a few precious moments to breathe. She wanted nothing more than to disappear with him, forever. As if he was reading her thoughts, he responded.
“We just have one more person to find.”
“I know. Did the gates fall?”
“They did. Did you shatter half the windows of the Winter Palace?” Mikhail asked with a slight grin, as if it could’ve been anyone else. Anastasia sat up straighter, putting her hand ever so gently across the fresh cut over his heart.
“I did, as soon as I saw my father give you over to the crowd. I set his world on fire.” She looked up at him, and it was Mikhail’s turn to be breathless. He knew it had been Anastasia, but he didn’t know what triggered her rage. She had done that for him.
“I have a feeling I’ll never deserve you, Anya,” he said softly, his hand going up to stroke her hair.