Chapter 55
ChApter
Fifty-Five
The air smells of frost and iron, so cold, it burns the inside of my nose when I breathe.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the chipped porcelain cup cradled in my hands, steam curling from the dark liquid within.
The translation tea is bitter on my tongue, but it warms me, warding off the chill that forever saturates this cursed keep.
My mind keeps circling the night that Torbin bit me.
When I had told Nadya what the tsar and seer had planned, she insisted we try something—anything—before they came for me.
Her hands trembled as she traced symbols into the air above my chest, her voice low and steady despite the uncertainty in her eyes.
“It’s a protection spell,” she said. “I don’t know if it will work.
I’ve never done one before. But maybe…maybe it will make a barrier.
Keep the seer from stealing your magic.”
I agreed, because what else was there to do? We had no way of knowing if it worked, no visible sign, no spark or shimmer of light. Just the quiet of her magic settling over me like a second skin. Exhaustion claimed us soon after, and we drifted into uneasy sleep side by side.
In the morning, rough hands tore me from Nadya’s room. My heart lurched, certain they were dragging me to the tsar himself, to the ritual we both feared. But instead, they shoved me into my own chambers and locked the door.
Days have passed since then. I’ve not been allowed to leave.
Staja would bring trays of food and tea, but otherwise, I had no contact with the outside.
No summons, no explanations. Only silence.
I tried time and again to call out to Dante telepathically, but the sensation of him hearing me never came.
I feel utterly alone. The walls are starting to feel like a tomb, and my thoughts rattle endlessly inside it.
Only Staja’s whispered visit offered me a clue. “The tsar is planning something,” she murmured, eyes darting nervously toward the guards. “But no one knows what. It’s being kept very secret.”
That was enough. Enough for me to imagine the worst. Enough for me to picture dark circles of salt and blood, words of binding, power torn from my veins whether Nadya’s spell held or not.
And now I wait. I set aside the tea and walk to the window, pressing my palms against the cold glass and wracking my brain for some way to break free before it’s too late.
“Dante, please, hear me. Find me.”
Beyond the barred window, dusk settles heavy and low, casting the snow-blanketed landscape in bruised hues of violet and grey. Nothing here feels alive, just frostbitten stone and the skeletal remains of trees, their branches clawing at the sky like brittle fingers begging for mercy.
The muffled clatter of wheels grinding over ice and gravel breaks the silence. Hooves crunching frost. Voices carried thin on the wind, low and somber. I stand on my tiptoes and strain to see where the noise is coming from. When I peer between the bars, I spot them.
A procession of shadowed figures, cloaked in thick, black wool, moving in tight formation as they disembark from a line of carriages so dark, they seem carved from onyx.
There’s no music, no laughter—only the methodical cadence of boots meeting frozen earth.
They move like mourners on their way to a grave, not guests arriving for a celebration.
A prickle runs down the back of my neck.
I’m still straining to make sense of it when the door creaks open behind me. I whirl, heart stammering in my chest.
Staja enters, carrying a bundle of folded fabric draped over her arms, her expression drawn tight with unease.
“What is it?” I demand, stepping away from the window. “What’s going on?”
She hesitates, gaze flitting nervously to the door, as if she expects someone to be listening. “I’ve been sent to help you prepare, Your Highness.”
“Prepare for what?”
A flicker of pity crosses her face, but she doesn’t answer.
She simply steps forward and lays the garments on the bed with reverent care.
The dress is finer than anything I’ve been given since arriving here—black velvet trimmed in deep crimson, the bodice stitched with gleaming thread that shimmers like garnet in the low light.
A matching mask sits atop the fabric, glossy and shaped like the delicate bones of a raven’s face, with crimson ribbon meant to tie it at the back.
“Why?” I press. “What is all this for?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I’m just doing as I was told.”
My hands curl into fists, frustration tightening my jaw. “Right. Of course.” I pick up the dress, the heavy velvet cold to the touch. “And Nadya? Have you seen her? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Staja says, her voice soft but certain. “She’ll be joining you this evening.”
I blink. “Joining me for what? Is that why all those people are arriving? Some kind of event?”
The servant nods faintly. “I think so. The kitchens have been working all day, and we’ve been told to ready the ballroom.”
I swallow hard. Maybe this is part of it. The tsar wants to put on a show when the seer steals my power and gives it to him. He wants Dulcamar to witness his transformation.
I dress without Staja’s help, though she moves to assist me with the back lacing. The velvet embraces my body, molding to my curves, the crimson threading gleaming like spilled wine. I set the mask aside, unwilling to wear it just yet—it feels too much like a trap disguised as finery.
As Staja smooths the folds of the skirt, I glance toward the barred window again, listening to the procession still filing into the keep. They seemed like they were attending a celebration, but no part of this feels like a celebration. It feels like a noose tightening, one loop at a time.
As Staja draws the last tie on my bodice and begins pinning up my hair, I close my eyes and reach for that familiar thread of connection—the one that hums faintly beneath my skin, somewhere deeper than blood, deeper than bone.
“Dante.”
I whisper his name in my mind, like I have been for the past week. Whatever magic stirs in me, I try to summon it now.
“Dante, please. Find me.”
But there is nothing. No pull, no whisper, no answering warmth in my chest. Just the aching cold and the sensation of emptiness where he should be.
A sharp rap at the door jolts me from the attempt. Staja startles, and before I can ask her to wait, she’s already crossing the room and pulling it open.
Two guards stand in the hall, their figures tall and grim, eyes obscured by the shadows of their helms. And between them, as if conjured from a half-forgotten memory, stands Nadya.
Relief unfurls in my chest. She’s still alive. Stiff with dark circles beneath her eyes, but alive.
She wears a high-collared gown of ash grey, the fabric smooth and heavy, the sleeves snug from shoulder to wrist, where they disappear into silver-threaded gloves.
Her dark curls have been twisted and pinned in a simple coil at the nape of her neck, and in her gloved hands, she holds a delicate mask of silver lace, as intricate as frost on a windowpane.
“Nadya,” I breathe, stepping forward.
The guards say nothing. They only motion for us to follow.
Staja hands me my mask and then gives us a parting nod before heading down the opposite way. Without hesitation, we’re urged forward, hemmed in on either side, the corridor narrowing around us like the throat of a beast.
We walk in silence for a few paces before I risk a glance at Nadya. She keeps her gaze forward, her expression unreadable.
“Do you know what this is?” I murmur, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head. “Only that I was warned. If I didn’t dress and cooperate, they’d hurt us both.”
A hot spike of anger prickles beneath my skin, but there’s no time to answer before we reach a spiral staircase, its stone steps slick with frost. My gloved hand trails the frozen iron rail as we descend, each step colder than the last. Narrow windows slit the walls here and there, each one clouded with frost so thick, the outside world is little more than a blur of grey and white.
As we descend, the faint strains of music drift up to meet us. Not lively or bright, but slow and somber, like a dirge dressed up in velvet and lace.
When we reach the bottom of the staircase, the guards lead us down another corridor, darker than the last, until they halt before a towering set of iron doors, filigreed with twisting patterns of thorns and skulls. Without a word, one of the guards heaves the doors open.
The sound of the ballroom swells around us—the hollow echo of strings, the low, heavy pulse of a drum like a heartbeat slowed to near death.
The ballroom itself is a cathedral of stone and shadow.
The walls are lined with columns of grey marble, each etched with grotesque reliefs of vultures and serpents twining together.
Frost coats the windows high above, muting the scant moonlight that filters through.
A vast chandelier of black iron hangs from the ceiling, dripping with glass pendants that catch what little light there is and scatter it in muted, ghostly reflections across the floor.
The guests stand or waltz in slow, gliding circles, all cloaked in dark fabrics—deep reds, bruised purples, storm-cloud greys—every neck high, every sleeve long, every gloved hand pristine.
Their masks gleam in shades of tarnished gold, bone-white porcelain, silver, or black lacquer, each one resembling an animal’s face.
No one smiles. Even in dance, their movements are stiff, mechanical, as though they were marionettes strung from the rafters.
I try to see their eyes through the masks, but I can only sense it. That palpable weight of their stares, each one heavy with judgment. As if I’m some curiosity on display. An exhibit in a gallery of cruelty.