Mikhail’s stomach sank as memories of the monastery came flooding back to him — he had been in this position before.
“Anastasia,” the Tsar was still smiling, his eyes wide with mania. He traced one of the scars on Mikhail’s back with the blade. “This is for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
With that, he pressed deeper, cutting open Mikhail’s scar and branding him with a fresh wound. Mikhail let out an involuntary shout before cutting himself off.
He shook his head, lifting it to find Anastasia’s gaze. She looked murderous, tears running down her cheeks as she squirmed in the guard’s hold. He shook his head once.
Not now.
“Anastasia,” the Tsar snapped, “Bow to me.” He traced the knife down Mikhail’s back before he stopped at the next scar.
Anastasia looked at Mikhail as he nodded. She let out a shuddering breath.
“No.”
The Tsar grunted and pressed in, ripping open another one of Mikhail’s scars. Mikhail stayed silent this time, only allowing his face to contort for a brief moment. Anastasia felt like she was going to vomit.
“Bowto me!”
“No.”
The process continued, Anastasia began to feel as though she existed outside of time and space. She couldn’t move her eyes from Mikhail, who kept shaking his head, refusing to let her cave against her father. The process happened again. And again.
The Tsar moved in front of Mikhail and found a scar going across his shoulder. With a quick movement, he traced it fresh.
There was sweat beading on Mikhail’s forehead now, his back bloodied and soaking the waistline of his trousers. His eyes were starting to glaze over as the deep cuts ran in a wicked crosshatch across his back, each one reopening their own painful memory.
It was as if the Tsar was trying to coax the old hate from underneath Mikhail’s skin. He’d never find it.
The Tsar turned around and stared at Anastasia, pointing the knife’s edge at her. He was grinning like a wild man, his expression entirely unhinged.
She could no longer feel the pain in the irons, her attention solely gripped by the horrendous tableau unfolding in front of her. It was like she was watching as a passerby, unable to fully comprehend the sight of watching her greatest love cut open, piece by piece.
She felt as though she was walking past the stained glass window of a bloody crucifixion — violent and full of guilt, but felt nothing to carry on.
“I take no pleasure in being your ruin, daughter,” the Tsar tutted, “Thepeopleyou love so greatly have been setting the streets aflame since dawn.” Anastasia’s eyes widened.
That’s where all the guards are… and that’s why he’s so angry.
“Well,” the Tsar scoffed, turning and spitting at Mikhail’s feet, “Maybe I take a little bit of pleasure in this.” He got down on his knees in front of Mikhail, looking him in the eye as he wagged the knife back and forth in front of his face.
“Let’s see if we can’t find the heart that my daughter has so aptly stolen, hm?”
Anastasia heard him and screamed — throwing her body to the floor in an attempt to rid herself of the soldier’s grasp, but was unable to shake him free.
“No!”
The Tsar turned his head and looked at Anastasia, only giving her a wicked grin. He turned back to Mikhail and found the scar over his heart, placing the blade there; he pressed it against Mikhail’s chest until he let out a low grunt.
The blood ran down his chest until, with a sudden cry of frustration, the Tsar dug deeper and ripped the knife across his heart.
Mikhail lurched backward and let out a shout that threatened to shake the chandeliers, a horrendous sound full of pain and anger.
His head fell back as he sank to the ground, unmoving. Anastasia stared in horror as his limbs went lax and his eyes shut.
“Mikhail!” Anastasia wailed, the tears now coming so hot and fast that she could barely see through them.
She was fighting against the guards like mad, clawing at the heavy chain around her wrists, and didn’t even hear the sounds that she was making. She hadn’t realized that it another two guards now were forced to hold her back.
