One week after the end of the Game, Vika sat on the steppe bench and immersed herself in the dream. Soon, she would have to return to Saint Petersburg to take her post as Imperial Enchanter, but for now, she watched Nikolai’s golden eagle fly over the barren plains. It was so unfair that his benches were still here when he wasn’t. And yet, it was something. So she listened to the rustle of the dry grasses and felt the cool breeze on her face and remembered him.
Pasha had ordered an elaborate memorial service for Nikolai, but Vika hadn’t attended. Despite Pasha’s grief and his attempts to apologize for demanding the duel, Vika didn’t want anything to do with him. At least not for now. Until he was officially installed as tsar and she had no choice but to serve him, Vika needed space. The wounds Pasha had inflicted were too deep and too raw.
There was another reason, however, that Vika hadn’t wanted to attend Nikolai’s memorial. It horrified her, but she was unable to cry for him. Perhaps she had used up all her tears before the duel. Perhaps the grief was so vast, mere tears could never be adequate. Or perhaps it was that something nagged at her, and she felt he wasn’t entirely gone.
Nikolai had crumpled in her lap at the end of the Game. But instead of the wands bursting into flame and consuming him, as she’d expected, he’d disintegrated into nothing. As if, with all his energy drained, he’d simply ceased to exist. And because he did not exist, there was no scar to alight and burn. Then Vika’s own scar had vanished from her skin. The Game had officially been won.
But even with Nikolai gone, there had remained a heaviness in the air, a lack of finality, as if his magic still lingered. It had been impossible to attend his memorial when it felt as if something of Nikolai was still there. Here.
The wind on the steppe whipped up, and the eagle soared on its gust. Behind Vika, someone pushed through the long grass. The footsteps on the hard-packed dirt were neither quiet nor particularly loud, as if the person could tread lighter but wanted to be sure Vika was not startled. She turned.
It was Pasha.
“I thought you might be here,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me joining your dream.”
Vika bit her lip, but she tilted her chin in greeting. “It isn’t mine to keep.”
He lifted his gaze up to the sky. For a second, it seemed as if the eagle turned its head at Pasha and glared. But then it was back to focusing on the ground. Vika probably imagined it.
“I miss him, too, you know,” Pasha said.
The emptiness in Vika’s chest echoed with Nikolai’s absence. “It’s no fault but your own,” she said.
Pasha sighed heavily. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
Vika looked at him then, really looked at him. His face was gaunt, his blue eyes almost gray and ringed with dark circles. His hair was irretrievable chaos. He was Pasha, if Pasha were a ghost.
“If I could take it back, I would,” he said. “I was . . . angry that Nikolai hadn’t told me he was an enchanter. And I was irrational with grief over my parents. Then Yuliana said I had to declare the duel, and she’s so sure of everything while I am sure of nothing, so I listened. It’s no excuse. I still made the decision. But I am acutely sorry for it. I didn’t think it through.”
“You didn’t realize that if you demanded a duel to the death, one of us would die?”
Pasha shook his head. “I did, but I didn’t. I was all emotion and reaction. I wasn’t thinking.”
Vika frowned. “I hope you clear your head before you become tsar.”
“That’s why I need you, Vika. I can’t do this alone, or with only Yuliana by my side.”
The look Vika cast him was so stony, it was worthy of the grand princess. “I’ll be your Imperial Enchanter. I committed to it in my oath to your father.”
“But you won’t be there of your own accord.”
In the distance, the eagle circled in the sky, then plummeted down toward the ground. A moment later, it flapped its mighty wings and emerged from the grass with a small animal drooping from its talons. The eagle rose into the air with its prey.
“Forgiveness doesn’t come so easily,” Vika said, as much to herself as to Pasha.
He smiled sadly. But he nodded. “I understand. But perhaps with time—”
“Perhaps.”
He swallowed. “Right . . . Well . . . I’ll leave you alone then. I shall see you after I return from my coronation.”
Vika glanced at him. “I will be there in Moscow.”
“You will?” The blue in Pasha’s eyes flickered through the gray.
“Yes. To ensure no harm comes to you. I promised Father I would do my best to serve the empire, and that begins with the tsar.”
“Oh . . . all right. I . . . I appreciate it.”
Vika gave him a curt nod. “Good-bye, Your Imperial Highness.”