Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alina sat very still, facing into the light of the setting sun.

The wishbone in her palm felt heavier than it should have, for such a tiny, fragile thing. Its tines had become dry and brittle with age – a little like me, Alina mused to herself with a wry smile – but otherwise it didn’t seem to have changed much since it had first been placed into her hand so many years ago.

Does magic fade? Alina wondered now. Have I left it too long?

She still wasn’t convinced that this old, ordinary wishbone had any magic at all. Magic of its kind should be impossible. And Alina had seen so many impossible things – miracles, perhaps – in her life, but even Grisha power, even merzost, could not achieve what the woman who gifted her the wishbone had talked about. It was so ridiculous that she and Mal had even joked about it at the time. But when he had moved to snap the bone in two, Alina’s heart had jumped, and she had snatched it from between his fingers without thinking.

Of course it’s impossible, she had thought to herself, curling her hand protectively around the bone, holding it out of his reach. But... what if it’s not?

She couldn’t shake that fear. And she couldn’t bring herself to throw the wishbone away. So, the following morning, she had wrapped it in cloth and placed it in a small wooden box, which she hid away at the back of the wardrobe. And she had forgotten about it, and it had stayed there, and the years had passed by.

And now Alina held the wishbone in her hand again.

She looked down at where it nestled in the lines of her palm, running a thumb gently over the curves of bone, and thought back to the day it was given to her. Her wedding day. She and Mal had been married in the open air, in the grounds of Keramzin, in the dry golden warmth of a long summer afternoon. It had been a quiet but jovial affair, attended by their friends from the capital, a few from the nearby village, and, of course, the many orphaned children that lived with them in the old house.

“It’s a perfect day, Alina,” Genya had said, as the two women sipped honey wine and watched Mal teach a gaggle of children how to dance a jig. And it had been a perfect day – the first day in years that Alina was able to feel the joy of bright sunlight on her skin without any accompanying tinge of melancholy.

Day seeped into evening and the revels became even more animated. Alina, standing alone by the bonfire, felt a feather-light touch on her forearm. Glancing down, she had expected to see one of the children, but it was a stranger who stood beside her. A woman, a slight figure wrapped in a shawl, her eyes searching Alina’s intently. Alina’s breath caught. Something about the woman’s face, its smooth, ageless quality, reminded her of her old Grisha teacher – Baghra.

“I know you,” the woman said quietly, reaching over to uncurl Alina’s fingers. “I know the names you have cast off. I know how much you have lost, how much you have sacrificed. I know of the choices you made that led you to this moment.”

Alina, too shaken to speak, had simply watched as the woman smiled. Her face was kind, gentle, but there was something else there – a knowingness in her eyes that made Alina feel too exposed. She pressed something small into Alina’s palm.

“This is a gift,” the woman continued in her soft voice. “In case you should ever want to make any of those choices differently. All you need to do is snap the bone, and you can begin again.”

She withdrew her hand, and Alina looked in surprise at the wishbone. Just an ordinary wishbone. Begin again?

“What do you mean?” she asked, but when she looked up the woman was already gone, slipping away between the ever-lengthening shadows of the trees.

Alina felt something uncomfortable curling in the pit of her stomach. This was an impossible kind of magic, something made up for fairytales. This was not the Small Science with which she was familiar, nor did it feel like the work of the merzost which had cost her so much. Such magic was not real. This was all some terrible joke, or else the woman in the shawl was deranged.

But she stared down at the wishbone and could not help but remember the cool ivory of the stag’s antlers, the smooth sheen of the sea whip’s scales. She could not help but remember the story of Morozova crafting new life from his own fingerbones – a story she had once believed to be a fable, but that had come crashing into her own life as a horrible truth.

Bones, Alina Starkov knew, held power.

And so, as much as she wanted to dismiss the stranger, as much as she and Mal had laughed about the idea, Alina would not risk testing that power. She would not risk something so hard-won. She had fallen asleep in Mal’s arms that night, and when the sunrise woke her with its orange light splayed brightly across their bedsheets, their clothes in crumpled piles on the floor, she had taken that wishbone and shut it away. She put it out of her mind for good.

And it had been so easy, because there was no temptation in it. She and Mal had a good life. They raised so many children, although they never had any of their own. The orphanage was crowded in those first few years after the war, but Alina was glad to be busy, to keep herself occupied and to keep the grief in her heart at bay. Children came to them from all over the country and Alina could not find it in her heart to turn any of them away.

“We’ll find space,” she always said to Mal, as if he needed convincing, as if he wasn’t already laying out another bedroll in one of the crowded dormitories.

Of course, not every child stayed for long. There were always a few who were able to reunite with aunts or uncles or grandparents – family members, thought lost in the war, found again once the chaos and confusion that roiled through the country had calmed. And then there were the children who went off to the Little Palace, as Alina had once done herself. Every year, the Grisha testers came to Keramzin, accompanied by some of Alina’s friends who jumped at any opportunity to make the long trip south. And every year, when the testers identified a few Grisha in amongst the flock of orphans, Alina took each one of them aside and talked them through the flood of emotion that came with the discovery: unease, trepidation, reluctance, anticipation. She knew these feelings, knew them intimately well, although she could not tell the children why.

The Little Palace was not as it had once been. Genya and Zoya had told her about all their new plans for young Grisha, on one of their earliest visits to the orphanage. The three women were sitting around the battered wooden table in the middle of the kitchen – Alina’s tiny parlour having been given up to the Grisha testers – drinking hot tea and chatting while they waited.

“Of course, we want the children to be safe in the Little Palace,” Zoya had said. “But keeping Grisha so removed from otkazat’sya makes us too unknown. And being unknown makes us easier to fear.”

So now, they had explained, children were encouraged to write back home as often as they liked, encouraged to tell their families and friends how their studies were progressing. For one week at midsummer and again at midwinter, classes were stopped, and the children were allowed to travel home – provided the way was safe. The wars that had ravaged Ravka’s countryside had taken their toll on the roads, and it only took a bad winter storm to make them totally impassable. Even worse, despite the burgeoning alliance with Fjerda, packs of rogue drüskelle still snuck across the border to capture whatever Grisha they could lay hands on.

But Ravka’s deep, long-suffering wounds were finally healing. Roads were repaired, towns rebuilt, reports of drüskelle roaming the countryside became fewer and further between. It wasn’t long before the journey between Os Alta and Keramzin became no more dangerous than the trip from the orphanage to the village market. From then on, for one week in winter and one week in summer, the walls of Alina and Mal’s house seemed near bursting with children, as every Grisha child that had been plucked from the walls of Keramzin returned to them.

And for those two weeks every year, under her own roof, Alina saw the future she had fought for come to realisation. They had to crowd more beds into the dormitories, carry every spare chair in the building down to the dining room and squeeze them around the long tables. They had to make more frequent trips to the market to feed all the extra mouths. But Alina stood in the hallway and watched as Grisha and otkazat’sya children played together with no hint of fear or suspicion between them, and it was all she could do to stop herself burying her head in her hands and weeping with joy.

As time passed, the jaws of grief began to loosen their hold – on Alina, and all those around her. The children grew up and more children arrived; there would always be orphans, but they came in fewer numbers every year, their faces less harrowed, their sleep less troubled by horrors. For the first time in her life, Alina felt like she might know peace. She let herself sink into it, let her days become marked out by bandaging scraped knees, baking bread and making tea, hanging damp, clean bedsheets to dry in the hot southern wind.

Yes, it had been so easy to forget the wishbone. She had not thought of it for years. Had not pulled that box from the back of the wardrobe until this evening, where she sat by the window on the highest floor of the orphanage, letting the fading glow of dusk light upon her worn features.

Alina was old. She wouldn’t deny it, would not shy away from the word. Her hair was grey, her skin wrinkled, her bones ached, and she felt colder than ever before. The body that once might have been sustained by Grisha power was, at last, failing her. She only really noticed when the children started calling her Amma Alina. Mal had teased her mercilessly, but she knew that his heart swelled just as much as hers at the sound of it. They had been orphans in a war-torn and desperate Ravka, drafted into the First Army when they were still children – who could have envisioned a future as long and happy as this?

With Mal by her side, old age felt like a blessing, and she took to it graciously. Until it claimed him first.

Mal had died, quietly, contentedly, seventy-six years old. She had buried him two weeks ago, at midday, under a clear sky. The loss cut through her whole being, its edges still bloody and raw. Worse, it had torn open the scars of every loss she had ever suffered, every person she had seen buried, scars she had thought smoothed over and healed.

This is what had led her here, to this quiet corner of the orphanage, with that long-forgotten wedding gift in her grip. For as long as she had Mal, the wishbone had held no allure. But now he was gone and the knowledge of it scratched and pulled at the edges of her grief, eating into her every thought.

Alina looked down at her hand again.

If she could go back, if she could do it all again – could she save them?

Her cartography unit, killed by volcra on the skiff that first, terrible trip into the Fold. Mikhael and Dubrov, Mal’s friends, killed in the Fjerdan permafrost while looking for the stag – looking for the stag for her, although she hadn’t known it at the time. Marie. Fedyor. Botkin. Baghra. David.

The Darkling.

She hesitated with his name on her lips, his face in her mind’s eye, unbidden.

She knew that he shouldn’t belong on that list, not when he had been the architect of so much of Alina’s loss. But her thoughts returned to him anyway, inevitably.

Did she dare to think she could save the Darkling? Save him from… what? From merzost, from the world that hated him, from himself. Maybe by the time they met it was already too late – maybe there was nothing she could have done. Or maybe he just didn’t deserve to be saved.

The younger Alina had thought so. She hadn’t been able to see any way forward, any peaceful future, without killing the Darkling. It had broken her heart to do so, to give up on the lonely boy he had buried under layers of hatred and violence, but she had done it, nonetheless. And the world had turned out better for it.

But Alina was no longer seventeen, and the weight of years on her shoulders had changed her – slowly, imperceptibly. She had lost her husband, watched as the children she raised turned into adults whom she could no longer shelter from the cruellest parts of the world. She was far from the Darkling’s countless centuries, and she was not burdened as he was by immortality; the inescapable knowledge that, no matter how many friends, children, lovers you saw die, there would always be more to put in the ground after them. Even so, Alina was beginning to understand why the Darkling had turned out the way he did. She was beginning to understand the damage that time wrought on a person.

The light of the setting sun had almost faded. Alina’s breaths were steady as she turned the wishbone over in her fingers.

If she were to go back – what would she change?

She would not take all three of Morozova’s amplifiers, that much was very clear to her. She wouldn't risk Mal’s life again, wouldn’t have her powers snatched away from her again, leaving her empty. If she had remained the Sun Summoner after tearing down the Fold, perhaps she could have played a part in the subsequent war with Fjerda. Perhaps she could have prevented the destruction of Os Alta, all the lives lost to the bombs, the fires, the rubble.

No, she would do it with one amplifier – the stag, she thought – or none at all. She had needed all three before because she hadn’t had enough time to build her strength, and she had to tear down the Fold before the Darkling used it to kill any more innocents. But if she kept herself hidden from him, trained her powers herself, claimed the stag before he could turn it into a weapon against her... she would be strong enough. She would make herself strong enough.

Alina stood up and turned away from the window. It wouldn’t be easy. But if she had the chance to save someone, anyone, then surely she had to try. Her life had been so full of happiness, and now Ravka was at last beginning to mend – yet Alina could not stop thinking about all the people who hadn’t survived to see it happen. Names she knew and even more that she didn’t. People who had cried out to her before their deaths, their sankta, begging for a salvation she had not delivered.

What if she could save them all? She knew how the past played out – she could stop these events from unfolding, she could undo her previous mistakes. And once the Fold was destroyed before it swallowed Novokribirsk, once the war with Fjerda was halted before it could begin, then Alina could rest. Two lifetimes were more than enough: she had no desire to live forever, no desire for Mal to die slowly at her side while she stared into the abyss of eternity. If she stopped summoning, gave up her power voluntarily, her body would weaken and age as normal. They could spend the rest of their lives travelling the world, visiting all the places they had spoken of but never managed to see for themselves.

Alina’s restless hands stilled; her fingers wrapped loosely around twin prongs of the wishbone. How many people were given the opportunity to right their wrongs? How many people were given the opportunity to live the best parts of their lives over again?

“This is a gift,” the strange woman had told her. And it was. Alina just hadn’t realised how precious it was until now.

She steeled her mind, straightened her back. Behind her, beyond the windowpane, beyond the trees, the sun finally melted under the horizon. The sky dimmed. The shadows stretched out towards her.

Alina closed her eyes. She took a breath in, long and slow. She snapped the wishbone.

Chapter Text

“Alina!”

Alina jolted awake, eyes blinking, hands flailing. She was on her back, on the ground, a face leaning over her, slowly coming into focus. Alina stared. The owner of the face was someone young, blonde, familiar. A moment passed, and a name arrived in Alina’s muddled head. Ruby.

You’re dead, Alina thought to herself as she scrambled upright, bringing her hands up to clumsily push her tangled hair from her face. You’ve been dead for years.

She stopped in the middle of her train of thought, staring at her hands. Her skin was smooth, unlined save for the crescent scar on her palm. Her fingers were straight and narrow. And her hair, Alina noticed slowly, was dark, almost black.

“What in the...” Alina trailed off, looking around. She realised that she recognised her surroundings – the tent she shared with the other girls in her cartography unit. Alina’s gaze went back to herself as she grabbed at her arms. She was sitting on a lumpy bedroll, a woollen sleeping bag twisted around her legs, dressed in her First Army uniform.

Ruby sat back with a scoff of exasperation. “Oh good, you’re finally awake. I would have left you, but if you make us late, we all get punished. Did you forget that we’re moving out today? We need to be at the Kribirsk camp by sundown.”

Ruby stood up and left Alina there on her bedroll, her mind spinning so violently she thought she might be sick.

The Kribirsk camp. The Fold. That meant tonight was the night Mal’s name got drawn for the crossing. Alina’s eyes darted from Ruby to the other two girls in their tent, all in the process of packing down their belongings. They chatted and laughed with one another as they shoved their bedrolls into their packs. They had no idea – because how could they? – that they would die tomorrow.

Everything came back to Alina in an instant and she jumped to her feet. Ruby shot her a glare.

“Get packing, Starkov!” she hissed before she hoisted her backpack over one shoulder and marched from the tent. Alina did as she was told, barely focusing on her task while her thoughts tumbled over one another, vying for her attention.

The stranger at her wedding had spoken true. The wishbone’s impossible magic had not been so impossible, after all. She was seventeen, a mapmaker in the First Army, just one day away from her first, disastrous Fold crossing. One day away from the beginning of it all.

Alina’s breath stuck in her throat. Her hands trembled. She glanced over her shoulder – the other girls were gone, the tent flap was closed – she was alone.

She was seventeen. She hadn’t even seen the Fold yet, never mind torn it down. Which meant... which meant...

Alina pressed her hands together and pulled them apart again. The movement was fluid, practiced, emerging from the depths of her muscle memory as if it had been mere days, not decades, since she had last performed this choreography.

The light came from her reluctantly, sluggishly, squashed and repressed as it had been for so many years. But it came. A tiny orb of luminescence, no bigger than the diameter of a coin, flickered weakly in between Alina’s palms. She clapped her hands over her face, extinguishing the light as she did so, to cover the sound of the sob that ripped its way from her chest.

Ruby pushed her head into the tent and sighed loudly.

“Are you done? We need to pack the tent.”

Alina nodded silently and lifted her pack, struggling a little under its weight. Even compared to her old body and its creaky bones, this body was weak, drained. Alina took a steadying breath. She wouldn’t be weak for long.

They marched for a few hours, joining up along the route with two other divisions all heading in the same direction. It was just past noon by the time they reached the wagons that would take them the rest of the way. Alina tried to get as comfortable as she could, but she knew it would be a bumpy ride. She spread out a sheaf of paper on her lap and sketched as they travelled, partly to pass the time, partly to block out the jibes the assistant cartographers liked to make at her expense. She had become used to her comfortable life in Keramzin, where all the villagers were friendly with her, and all the children adored her – it had been some time since her Shu heritage had been the source of derision like this. She didn’t want to show them how much it bothered her.

With her head bent over her work, Alina didn’t notice at first when they rolled over the brow of a hill and the whole wagon went silent. She glanced up to see the cartographers craning their necks, peering eagerly and fearfully through the wooden slats, jostling for a better view. She followed their gaze and her stomach dropped.

The Fold reared up before them, a mass of seething black shadow that stretched as far as the eye could see. Alina stared, feeling its awful grip on her soul, unable to pull her eyes away. In the nearly sixty years since she had banished it, the Fold still crept regularly into her nightmares. It was the source of them – the source of all Ravka’s nightmares.

Alina felt that old dread wash over her, and she let it – harnessing it to strengthen her focus, her reason for being here – without allowing it to paralyse her. She forced herself to remember that she had torn it down once before, that she would do so again.

She had kept herself occupied during the long hours of marching and the jolting, bouncing wagon ride by thinking over her options, trying to form a plan for the following days and months. Everything that was happening now had happened to Alina... well, a long time ago, so she took care in mapping out the order of events – especially those she planned to change.

Her immediate concern was, of course, the Fold crossing. Since it was her actions that had put cartography on the skiff in the first place, that would be fairly easy to avoid, but if she wasn’t there then Mal was still doomed.

The light, Alina remembered. The blue light went out, and one of the soldiers lit a flame. It was only then that the volcra attacked.

So, the light – she would find a replacement, or convince a Fabrikator to check it more thoroughly, whichever was easiest. It wasn’t a guarantee; crossing the Fold always carried substantial risks, but hopefully this would increase their chances of passing through undetected and unscathed.

Tonight, the names of the unfortunate souls assigned to the skiff would be read out, Mal’s among them. Tomorrow, Alina would burn the maps and secure the cartography unit’s place on the skiff alongside him. Once they were in West Ravka, she and Mal could sneak onto a ship and escape – to Novyi Zem, she thought, where Grisha were not feared or hunted or drafted into endless wars. She would be safe there, to practice her summoning, to make herself strong again; safe until she was ready for the world to see the Sun Summoner, until she was ready to take on the Fold.

By the time the wagons slowed to a creaking halt in the First Army camp, Alina had the details of her plan secure in her mind. Now, all she had to do was find Mal.

This was easier said than done. The First Army base at Kribirsk was one of the largest in Ravka, sprawled out in the shadow of the Fold, with divisions coming and going all the time. Alina wandered around between the tents, frowning, trying to think back to where Mal had been before they met that day. Getting into trouble, she remembered that much, but she couldn’t narrow it down more than that – there were far too many ways in which Mal could be getting into trouble here.

She was so lost in thought, dredging her memories for some clue, that she almost didn’t hear it when he called her name.

“Alina!”

Her heart stopped momentarily at the sound of his voice behind her. She turned to see him sauntering towards her, jacket thrown over one shoulder, Dubrov and Mikhael just behind him.

Alina’s thoughts abandoned her as she flew towards him, laughing deliriously.

Mal moved to sweep her into his arms, but at the last moment she stopped him, placing both hands on his chest and leaning back to take a long look at his face. He was grinning at her, cocky, but his eyes held real warmth. The last time Mal had smiled at her, he had kissed her forehead, whispered a goodnight, and leaned over to blow out the candle by the bed. They had fallen asleep side by side, as they did every night, and when Alina woke up in the morning, he was dead.

She stared up at him now. Her husband – except he wasn’t. He was young, and strong, his body lithe and muscular, his face smooth and still rounded, like his childhood hadn’t quite been stripped away from him yet. Mal, alive again, in her arms again.

When it felt like she had been looking at him for too long, she let herself fall forward into his embrace, burying her face in his chest and breathing in the smell of him. He laughed, probably bemused by her reaction, but she couldn’t explain it to him – not without sounding like a lunatic.

Alina released her grip on him and stepped away. Dubrov and Mikhael had caught up with them, now, and hovered behind Mal’s shoulders. She looked at them with a twinge of guilt. She had never liked them all that much, although Mal got on with them well enough, but now she could only think about how young they were – barely more than children, really – and how they would bleed out into Fjerdan snow mere months from now. Unless she could do something to stop it.

She nodded a hello to them, and they greeted her with smiles almost as cocky as Mal’s. He was still laughing, telling her cheerfully how their units had been paired together again, but Alina was sinking in the beloved rough timbre of his voice and couldn’t pay attention to his words. He slung an arm around her shoulders, carelessly, easily. It had been easy like this, she remembered, when they were still pretending their childhood friendship hadn’t progressed into something else.

Alina spent what was left of the afternoon with the three trackers, and then they traipsed into the mess tent together when the dinner bell rang. After they’d eaten – well, the boys ate, Alina just picked at her food with no appetite – Lieutenant Bohdan stood up on a wooden crate at the front of the tent and cleared his throat. All conversation quickly died down. Everyone knew what was coming next.

Bohdan began by talking about the new Fabrikator-made skiff they would be testing out on the crossing – lighter and faster than any other. Maybe it should have been enough to make everyone relax a little bit, but the soldiers shuffled uncomfortably, muttering to one another. Otkazat’sya simply didn’t trust Grisha, not even when they were fighting together.

Alina glanced up anxiously at Mal’s face, watching his expression closely as his name was called. He responded as she knew he would, with jokes and bravado, and Alina didn’t have it in her to try to persuade him that he could find a way out of it. She put a hand on his forearm and gripped it tightly.

“It will be okay,” she said quietly. “You’ll be okay. I know it.”

Mal responded by taking her hand and squeezing it in his own. Neither of them said anything else.

Later that night, she lay on her back listening to the sounds of her tentmates falling asleep. Alina was exhausted, too, but she couldn’t let herself drift off. She had things to do tonight. She kept herself occupied by holding a tiny spark of light in between her fingers, hidden under the blankets where nobody could see. Its steady pulse flooded Alina with just enough energy to stay awake, her heart thumping wildly with anticipation.

Only once the rest of the tent was in a deep sleep did Alina judge it safe to move. She wriggled out from her bed, trying her best to be stealthy, and bundled her pack into the sleeping bag so that, at first glance, it would give the impression of her sleeping body. It wouldn’t hold up to close inspection but, all going to plan, Alina would be back here long before morning.

She snuck from the tent, keeping herself to the shadows at first. The good thing about the Kribirsk camp was that it was always full of movement, even in the dead of night. All Alina had to do was straighten her spine and walk with determined purpose, and nobody even glanced at her.

Alina slowed down as she came closer to the invisible line that divided the First Army and Second Army camps. She would have to be careful from here on. There was only one thing a First Army private could be looking for in the Grisha pavilion after dark, and that was not the type of attention Alina wanted to attract. She crouched behind a wagon as two Corporalki passed her, talking quietly between themselves. Once their footsteps had receded out of earshot, she moved, using the tents as cover, keeping low to the ground and darting between them.

Grisha had always been something of a mystery to First Army soldiers. As a mere cartographer, Alina certainly would not have been able to navigate through the sprawling tents so easily if not for the fact that she had spent – would spend? – some time in Second Army camps. The layout was familiar enough that she didn’t have much difficulty in finding what she was looking for.

The Fabrikator tent. Modest compared to the workshops of the Little Palace, she knew, but stocked nonetheless with all the tools the Materialki needed for their work. Alina had no doubt that she would find a spare lantern in here; Fabrikators were the type of people who understood the importance of backups.

Alina peered around the entryway to the tent. She was in luck – there was only one Materialnik here, and he appeared to be asleep at his bench. Alina slipped inside and tiptoed over, mindful not to knock anything from the cluttered workspaces. Her heart thrummed mournfully as she came close enough to recognise the sleeping face of David Kostyk. Another lost friend, back from the dead. Alina moved behind him carefully and smiled: arranged in a neat row by his head were four identical lanterns, their faint blue glow almost imperceptible in the warm light of the tent. She could always rely on David; even before he knew her.

With a lantern wrapped in her coat, Alina crept warily towards the dry docks. A pair of Grisha were stood in front of the skiff. Alina blew out a breath of irritation – that the skiff would be guarded wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it was still an inconvenience. She would have to resort to good old-fashioned distraction and hope that she didn’t get caught in the process.

Alina hunkered amongst a pile of crates and pulled a small box of matches from her inside pocket. She would have to be careful. It hadn’t rained here for weeks – the grass beneath her knees was dry and crisp – and she didn’t want an out-of-control fire spreading through the camp. Alina tore up a few handfuls of crackling grass stems and wedged them firmly in between two crates, then set them alight. A tiny flame caught hold; the stalks of grass blackened and started to smoke. Alina snatched up the lantern again and hurried away. The fire was still small, but it wouldn’t be long before it attracted the attention of the guards – hopefully.

Pressed in the narrow gap between two tents, Alina held her breath and waited. Sure enough, only a few minutes passed before one of the guards tapped the other’s arm and pointed in alarm, indicating the thin line of black smoke rising from the crate pile, and they both rushed over. Alina allowed herself a brief smile as she dashed the short distance between her hiding place and the gangway up to the skiff. Once on board, the high, wooden sides kept her mostly obscured from sight, and she relaxed ever so slightly.

She approached the mast with care, swapping out the lantern currently hanging there with the one she had taken from the Fabrikator tent. Peering at it closely, she could see that there was something not quite right – its blue light, though no weaker than the replacement, flickered slightly every few seconds. Alina smiled properly now as relief flooded through her. She was through with the most challenging parts of her plan and all that remained to do now was get off the skiff without being seen.

Alina was just about to search the storage hold below for somewhere she could stash the faulty lantern when her body seized up, contorting violently. She doubled over, the lantern clattering to the deck, pressing a hand to her chest where it felt like her heart was being squeezed by an invisible fist. Heartrender, she thought wildly, cursing herself for her confidence.

The pressure on her chest reduced just enough to allow Alina to turn around, gasping. The two Grisha guards stood between her and the gangway. The Heartrender released his grip fully and stepped forward, and now Alina’s heart stuttered rapidly all on its own, because she knew him. He had protected her the first time she was attacked by drüskelle, as she was rushed from the Fold to Os Alta, and he had died defending the Little Palace against the Darkling.

Fedyor’s normally friendly face was cold as he regarded her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. The Inferni behind him held her hands close together, ready to respond to any potential threat. Alina took a deep breath, her eyes flickering between the two Grisha, as she tried to think of something to say that would not get her killed.

She must have hesitated for too long, because Fedyor narrowed his eyes, twisted his hands again, and Alina’s body froze up. He gripped her by the left arm, the Inferni moving forward to grab her right, and without another word they hauled her down the ramp. Alina tried to stay calm. They would take her to the Senior Cartographer, or maybe Bohdan, who would give her a dressing down for messing around with Second Army property, and she would probably spend the rest of the day in the brig. But she had achieved what she set out to achieve – provided nobody did anything stupid, Mal should be safe on the Fold crossing.

It was only when she realised that the Grisha were not leading her in the direction of the Documents Tent, but further into the depths of the Second Army camp, that Alina began to panic.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked Fedyor. He didn’t respond – probably because it was clear she already knew where they were headed. Alina began to struggle in their grip. “I’m First Army. I don’t answer to your general.”

There was a note of desperation in her voice which made the Inferni girl smirk. It wasn’t uncommon for First Army soldiers to be frightened of the Black General, but most of them, Alina suspected, weren’t so obvious about it. She dug her heels into the dirt, scrabbling for purchase, trying in vain to pull her arms from her captors’ grip. Fedyor just sighed.

“If you don’t stop squirming, I’ll slow your heart and deliver you to General Kirigan half-unconscious.”

Alina’s throat closed over and she went still. Fedyor spared her a glance, and she saw a hint of his usual kindliness in his eyes.

“You may be First Army, but we found you tampering with a Second Army skiff the night before a crossing. That means you answer to the General. He’d have our heads if he found out we let you go back to your lieutenant without an interrogation.”

He muttered the last part low enough that only Alina could hear. She might have smiled, but the word interrogation had turned her organs into jelly. This had not been part of her plan.

The black tent came into view, torches flickering by the entrance where two oprichniki guards stood diligently. Fedyor exchanged a few words with them, briefly outlining the situation, and they nodded. Alina could do nothing as she was dragged into the tent.

It was dim inside, the space lit only by a sparse scattering of candles. Even though it was well past midnight, a group of Grisha stood huddled around a table over which many maps were scattered, engaged in rapid discussion. Only a few of them looked up as Fedyor and the Inferni girl entered, hauling Alina between them, depositing her a few steps from the gathering at the table.

“What is it, Fedyor?” the Darkling said. He stood with his back to them, not looking up from the sheaf of paper in his hand. The sound of his voice was enough to make all of Alina’s insides turn to ice.

“Moi soverenyi,” Fedyor released Alina’s arm and stepped forward. He cleared his throat and explained, quickly but in detail, how he had discovered Alina on board the skiff, apparently swapping their lantern with another. When he had finished, the Darkling set the papers back on the table before him, tapping his index finger quietly against the wood. The other Grisha were silent, looking to him in deference. He straightened his back and turned around slowly.

Alina wasn’t prepared for how she would react to seeing him again. She was exhausted, and she had seen too many dead faces already that day, and it was the Darkling’s – beautiful, unearthly, emotionless – that pushed her over the edge. It suddenly all became too much for Alina to manage, and when his dark eyes met her own, she burst into tears.

Chapter Text

For a single, relentless second, there was no sound in the tent other than that of Alina trying to stifle her sobs.

The Grisha in the room shifted a little, some of them clearly on the verge of laughter. The Darkling halted in the middle of walking towards her, his body completely still, with a look on his face that most would interpret as impatience or irritation. Alina could read him too well, though, even after all this time, and she knew that her reaction had taken him by surprise. The Black General may be feared amongst Grisha and otkazat’sya alike, but she wondered if anybody had ever started crying upon being introduced to him.

Alina took two deep, shuddering breaths and tried to get herself under control. The Darkling stepped closer to her again, considering her carefully, and it was all she could do not to shrink away from him.

“Have our Fabrikators check the skiff for any signs of tampering,” he spoke to Fedyor without taking his eyes off Alina. Fedyor nodded once, then he and the Inferni girl vanished from the tent.

Not trusting herself to meet his gaze again, Alina looked instead at the group of Grisha circled round the table behind him. She recognised most of them, although only knew a few by name – Ivan, at the General’s right-hand side as usual, and Zoya, haughty and disinterested. She would find no support from anyone there.

“What is your name?” the Darkling asked her, his voice soft but assertive. Alina swallowed her nerves. She knew Ivan would be monitoring her heartbeat, ready to alert the General to any sign that she was being untruthful. So, she told the truth.

“Alina Starkov,” she answered him, relieved that her words came out clearly and not with a croak as she had feared.

“First Army?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, marvelling at her ability to make the sir not sound like she had spat it out. “Cartography. I’m a mapmaker.”

The Darkling looked her up and down again. “And what is a mapmaker doing in the Second Army camp at night?”

Now there were a few titters from the Grisha behind him. Alina took another deep breath but didn’t say anything. Ivan was watching her closely, his eyes narrowed. When it became clear that Alina wasn’t going to answer him, the Darkling took another step towards her, aggravated by her silence.

“Who ordered you to sabotage the skiff?”

Alina dragged her eyes to his again, clenching her jaw. “Nobody ordered me. And I didn’t sabotage anything.”

He glanced over his shoulder to Ivan, who nodded subtly; there was no change to her heart rate. She was telling the truth.

“What were you doing, then?”

“I took a lantern from the Fabrikator tent and swapped it with the one at the mast.”

Alina felt calm now, her spine straight, her voice strong. The Darkling considered her again, in that inscrutable way of his, as if he was working out what question to ask next.

“Why?”

Again, Alina decided that the truth – or close to the truth – would suit her well enough here.

“My friend was assigned to the crossing tomorrow,” she said, making it sound like an admission, making herself seem like a silly, anxious young girl. “We grew up together in Keramzin. Orphans. He’s the closest thing to family I have. I don’t know what I would do if I lost him.”

She let her voice tremble a bit, which wasn’t difficult; the tears she had shed earlier still lingered, her body still flush with emotion. All she had to do was bring Mal’s face to mind and it came rushing back to the surface.

“I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about it – I knew that if something... bad happened on the crossing, and I hadn’t done everything I could to prevent it, I would never be able to forgive myself.”

The Darkling had barely moved while she spoke. Now, he raised his eyebrows a fraction.

“So, you decided to swap the lantern on the skiff for a newer one?”

She nodded. “I know nothing about ships, or sailing, or...” Alina gestured in the direction of the dry docks. “The ropes, the sails, the runners – none of it means anything to me. The only thing I could do for him is make sure that his rifle is loaded, and make sure that there’s light on the skiff.”

She broke off, waiting to see if they believed her.

“You don’t trust us to do a good enough job of lighting our own skiffs?” the Darkling asked, quietly, dangerously.

“I trust Fabrikator craftsmanship with my life,” Alina replied. She saw Ivan’s forehead crease a little at her honesty – few otkazat’sya soldiers would so willingly admit their faith in the Second Army – and continued, pressing her advantage. “But Grisha are still human, and sometimes humans make mistakes. Miss things.”

She heard the rustle of cloth and knew that Fedyor had come back into the tent behind her. The Darkling’s eyes flickered to him, silently commanding him to speak.

“Moi soverenyi,” Fedyor began. "I had David Kostyk inspect the skiff. He said there was nothing wrong with it. She didn’t touch anything.”

It was almost comical, the way the Grisha turned their heads simultaneously from Fedyor to Alina. Fedyor cleared his throat, and they all looked back at him, expectant.

“The only thing,” Fedyor said with a nervous glance at Alina. “Was the lantern.”

“It was damaged?” the Darkling asked, but Fedyor shook his head.

“Not exactly. The lantern that’s there now, that she put there, it’s fine. But the old one – the lantern that would have gone into the Fold tomorrow, if not for her – well, it’s faulty. David said it’s close to going out and probably wouldn’t survive a trip through the Fold.”

Alina’s heart sank as all the eyes in the tent settled on her once again. Thanks, David.

The Darkling stepped towards her again. He was so close now, not even an arm’s length away.

“How did you know about the lantern?”

There was no way Alina could answer that truthfully. She tried to tactfully avoid the question instead, blurting out a surprised laugh.

“How did I know? How could I have known? I’m no Fabrikator,” she said, managing to draw a few sniggers from the Grisha behind the Darkling. “I only knew that I wanted to keep my friend as safe as possible. Like I said, putting in a new lantern was about the only thing I could think of, save shooting him in the leg to stop him crossing at all.”

More muffled laughter from the Grisha. Alina didn’t care – she would let them laugh at her, if it meant they thought her foolish and harmless.

The Darkling was looking at her with an expression that told her he was not quite convinced.

“Were you tested as a child?” he asked, his voice disconcertingly gentle.

Alina nodded quickly. “Yes. They didn’t find anything.”

Over the Darkling’s shoulder, Ivan didn’t budge. Because it’s true, Alina thought to herself with glee. The tent was silent again as everyone waited to hear the Darkling’s judgement. He reached out as if to touch her cheek, and, without thinking, Alina jerked her head back sharply. Something flashed in his eyes then and she wondered if her panic had antagonised him even more. Alina steadied herself, preparing to stamp down on her light should he make another grab for her. But he didn’t move again – for a long time, his fingers hovered just inches from her skin, then he lowered his hand slowly.

She swallowed hard. The Darkling waved a hand lazily and turned back to his Grisha in silent dismissal. Alina tried not to seem too relieved as Fedyor stepped up behind her, gripping her by the shoulder again, and began to lead her out. As the oprichnik guard held the tent flap open for them, she almost looked back, but caught herself at the last second. The more time that passed before she next saw the Darkling, the better.

In the end, Alina was right – after a stern admonishment from Lieutenant Bohdan, she was sent to the brig to wait out the rest of the day. This meant she didn’t have a chance to burn the maps of West Ravka as she had intended, and her cartography unit were not placed on the skiff; they would continue north, to the Fjerdan front, as planned.

Mal came to see her before he left.

“What in the hells were you thinking, Alina, sneaking around Second Army camp at night?”

Alina just shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She was sitting in the corner of her little jail cell, leaning against the bars. Mal’s body mirrored her own, his hand resting gently on hers.

“So, what, you decided to find a Grisha to tumble?” he snorted. Alina almost smiled.

“No way. I don’t want to look like I’m following your lead.”

Mal chuckled and shook his head. “You should know I’m too scared of Grisha women to try anything of the sort.”

Alina just rolled her eyes at him, and they lapsed into a warm silence. Mal rubbed his thumb absently over the scar in Alina’s palm. She stared at his profile sadly. How long would it be before she saw this face she adored again?

“I should go,” Mal said eventually. Alina gripped his hand to keep him from standing up.

“Mal, listen to me – this is important. On the skiff you have to make sure that nobody lights a lamp. Okay? Promise me.”

Mal looked bemused. “Only an idiot would do that. Everyone knows that the volcra are drawn to fire – to light.”

“Fear does funny things to people,” Alina said. Her voice was strained, desperate. “Promise me, Mal.”

He stared at her for a moment before deciding that she was serious.

“Okay. I promise.”

Alina breathed out and released her grip on his hand. Mal smiled at her again and got to his feet.

“I’ll write to you from Novokribirsk. Maybe I’ll finally get a chance to see Ketterdam, or Novyi Zem. All those places we’ve dreamed of.”

She just nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you there,” she said, a whisper of a smile on her lips. He laughed, straightened his jacket, and left.

When they let Alina out the next morning, she learned that the skiff had reached Novokribirsk and returned again without incident. It had made record time, apparently, and there were no volcra attacks. Despite her worries, despite everything, her plan had been successful, and Mal was safe.

Safe, but in West Ravka. Alina had been left behind. Where could she go from here? There was nowhere in Ravka where she could stay concealed from the Darkling, but neither could she cross into Fjerda or Shu Han – not without putting herself in serious peril. Those countries were not kind to Grisha, and she would need to spend several years, at least, practicing and strengthening her powers. She briefly considered crossing the Fold herself, on foot, but she knew that her abilities were not yet strong enough. If she were beset by volcra halfway through, there was no way she could protect herself for long enough to make it out again. On a skiff, however, her chances increased significantly.

Eventually, Alina resolved to do nothing for now. She would stay with her unit and hope that they would be back in Kribirsk sooner rather than later – she could burn the maps then, ensure their place on the skiff, and once she had crossed into West Ravka she would find Mal. Her plan hadn’t been disrupted so much as delayed. It was an annoyance she would just have to live with.

By afternoon, the cartography unit were on their way to the northern border. Bumped and jolted in the wagon that would carry them until nightfall, Alina tried to ignore the teases and questions of the cartographers’ assistants, desperate to know what she done to wind up in the brig this time. She held no real animosity towards them – she had brought up enough children to recognise that this kind of cruel bravado was wielded as a weapon in the face of a greater fear – but she had only been back in this body for a day and already she was tired of being the butt of every joke. She was almost glad when the wagons stopped and they were ordered out, even though she knew they now faced a gruelling march.

Alina wondered if the Darkling had thought about her at all since she had been escorted from his tent the other night. Probably not. If he had harboured any suspicions about what she was, he would never have let her go that easily.

They made camp. The past few days had drained Alina so much that she didn’t even join the mapmakers around the fire for evening meal, she just crawled straight into her sleeping bag and tumbled willingly into unconsciousness. Her dreams were full of darkness, the kind of darkness that had weight to it. It was a darkness that Alina was achingly, intensely familiar with; but that in her dreams – only in her dreams – she was not afraid of.

Chapter Text

Morning broke, and they began the long walk to Fjerda.

Her cartography unit were now accompanied by an infantry division and Mal’s tracking unit. Which meant that, infuriatingly, Mikhael and Dubrov had taken it upon themselves to act as her personal protectors in Mal’s absence. Alina had to grind her teeth to keep from snapping every time they sought her out on the march, placing themselves on either side of her so that she had no escape. After a few days, though, their inane prattling had become somewhat welcome – something to distract her from the constant crunch of footsteps and the worries that plagued her.

If it wasn’t Mal – so far out of reach beyond the Fold – then it was the Grisha that her mind turned to, all those that she hadn’t even met yet, but whose lives still rested on her conscience. She tried to think logically, reminding herself that they were safe in the Little Palace, that they were not in danger yet; their deaths had been caused by her, by events that she had set in motion.

But she couldn’t quite convince herself. Alina knew that to be Grisha in Ravka meant always being in danger, Sun Summoner or no Sun Summoner. She was desperate to start training herself so that she would actually be able to protect the people she had come to protect. Right now, she was useless – she couldn’t even shoot straight. Soon, the frustration at her own helplessness was far greater than her frustration at Mal’s annoying friends. Alina could almost – almost – see why he liked them.

Alina lost count of how many days they walked for. The landscape around them changed gradually until they were marching among groves of stilted trees with bare branches over a crisp white carpet of fresh snow. It reminded her uncomfortably of her disastrous search for the stag, even though she knew that had been much further east than where they were now. They had tracked almost a straight line north from Kribirsk, keeping the Fold within sight on the left-hand flank of the convoy.

It was late summer, the covering of snow still shallow enough so as not to hinder their progress too much. Alina was aware that as they travelled further and further north, everyone became warier, always on their guard. Evening meals were no longer marked out by laughter and good-spirited chatter, accompanied by the passing of a bottle of kvas around the campfire. Their fires were built steadily smaller with every evening that passed, and the soldiers sat by the listless flames in a solemn, tense huddle, all eyes trained firmly on the shadows between the trees.

In the forests up here, almost permanently snow-laden thanks to their altitude and proximity to the permafrost, the exact definitions of the border between Ravka and Fjerda became vague. They may have already crossed into Fjerda and not even know it. Every step northwards increased the likelihood that they would encounter a troop of Fjerdan soldiers, or, worse still, drüskelle. Nobody wanted to consider the potential outcomes of such an event in too much detail.

After several sombre days amongst the still, white trees, the captain called the convoy to a halt.

“We have our orders,” he announced, gesturing to the sheet of paper in his hand. “The following units will travel west from here, towards the Fold. The rest of us will continue east until we reach permafrost. All units will regroup at Chernast.”

He began listing infantry units; Alina estimated that roughly a quarter of the division would be heading west. The soldiers stood stiffly in their ranks, but she could sense some unease among them at the premise of splitting up in such dangerous territory.

The captain finished his list, paused, and continued speaking. “We also need two from the tracking unit – you two,” he decided, indicating Mikhael and Dubrov, who looked around and realised gloomily that the rest of their unit were several rows behind them. “And a cartographer – you, there.”

Alina wasn’t surprised, but her heart sank anyway. She had made a point to walk near the front of the convoy, at a distance from the rest of the cartography unit, and in doing so had placed herself, along with Mikhael and Dubrov, in sight of the captain. Her thin skin had put them all in danger.

Grudgingly, the three of them trudged over to join the other units who stood to the side of the convoy. The captain addressed them again.

“You will all answer to Lieutenant Bobrik from here on. Track towards the fold, then double back and follow our trail to Chernast. The path you follow will mark the new border between Ravka and Fjerda.”

Without another word, he turned away, ordering the remaining three-quarters of his troops to continue marching with a single hand gesture. In a few minutes, the convoy had disappeared from view, leaving only bootprints in churned-up snow behind them.

Alina’s group, already arranged in a loose formation, stood to attention as Lieutenant Bobrik signalled them.

“We have our orders,” he said, his voice muffled beneath a huge, bristling moustache. “Trackers, cartographer – you lead. We head directly west.”

He didn’t bother telling them to remain alert. The knowledge that they were now much more vulnerable than they had been, mere moments ago, hovered unspoken in the air.

Dubrov and Mikhael, to their credit, remained remarkably upbeat. Their never-ending stream of chatter, although much quieter than before, kept Alina’s spirits up despite everything. She tried not to let them see it, but she knew they could tell she had warmed to them. They were delighted every time they managed to coax a smile onto Alina’s frozen face.

“Shouldn’t you two be, you know, tracking? We’re meant to be leading,” she grumbled. Mikhael just shrugged.

“We’re heading west until we reach the Fold – don’t exactly have to be Mal Oretsev to manage that. Barely counts as tracking at all.”

Both boys were frank about their lack of skill in comparison to Mal, whose ability to track even the smallest of creatures was uncanny. Still, they were better than Alina, who was much more comfortable drawing maps than she was at following them.

When they were about halfway to the Fold, the weather took a turn for the worse. Thick clouds swept in from the north, showering their party with alternating snow and hail, cloaking the world in white until Alina could barely see the trees ahead of her. It was too difficult to carry on, so they set up camp and prepared to wait it out.

They huddled in their tents for half a day and night. Alina, having been separated from the rest of her unit, was sharing with some of the infantry. Her new tentmates were not particularly pleased about this at first, since it made their sleeping space even more cramped than before, but as snow pattered on the canvas overhead they were all grateful for the extra body heat.

Eventually, a few hours before dawn, the snow stopped. Alina was the first to unbutton the tent flap and peer out into the gloom. Dense white fog, like skeins of sheep wool, shrouded the forest still, but the air felt drier, cooler – devoid of that heavy dullness that promises snow. The worst was over.

From all around the camp came a muffled fumbling as the soldiers poured out of their tents. Many headed straight for the treeline, desperate to relieve their bowels at last, while the rest set to building a fire in the centre of their small clearing, thawing their fingers around the cheering warmth of flame. Even Lieutenant Bobrik sat down amongst them and passed around his hip flask, clapping his officers on the back.

Alina did not feel overly inclined to join them at the fire. She had barely slept since they made camp here the day before and her body was shaking with exhaustion. Her tentmates clambered out into the snow, racing over to the fire with a laugh, and Alina was left blissfully alone. She curled into her sleeping bag contentedly.

Her relief did not last for long. Shortly after her eyes had flickered closed, her breathing slowed, was she jolted awake by the sound of rapid gunshots.

Alina scrambled to her feet, kicking aside the sleeping bag and tugging on her boots. All around her was chaos, barked commands and shouts, gunshots in every direction. Knowing that she should stay in the tent, knowing that she didn’t have a weapon with which to defend herself, Alina threw herself out into the cold night air.

Dead soldiers lay strewn in the snow, which was by now more red than white. Alina stared around in horror, watching as Fjerdan troops swarmed the clearing. Lieutenant Bobrik, still bellowing orders from his place by the campfire, managed to take down a few of the Fjerdans with his pistol before he collapsed, his body jerking violently, in another rapid burst of gunfire.

They have a repeating rifle, Alina realised with creeping horror.

On the other side of the fire, Mikhael and Dubrov stood back-to-back, rifles in hand, doing a good job of keeping the Fjerdan soldiers at bay. But Alina knew they wouldn’t stand a chance once that repeating rifle swung round towards them. She had to warn them – had to get them out of the way.

Alina pushed herself off her knees and took one stumbling step. As she broke into a run, something punched into her shoulder with a sudden, intense flash of pain, and she was thrown backwards. She had just enough time to register that she had been shot before blackness bloomed across her vision. Alina couldn’t have fought it if she had tried.

Chapter Text

Alina rose slowly, dizzily out of unconsciousness. The world around her was appallingly quiet.

She blinked her eyes open. The sky above was smothered by clouds, lit from behind by the first few feeble rays of dawn. She could hear the faint crunching of boots in the snow and mutterings in a language she didn’t understand. Alina’s body protested when she tried to sit up, so she settled for turning her head, blinking a few more times to clear her vision. One of her tentmates lay in the snow next to her. The bullets that had torn their way through her body had left spatters of gore over her uniform. Alina felt her gorge rising and forced herself to focus on something else.

Further away, across the clearing, two Fjerdan soldiers were slowly, methodically, picking a path through the corpses of the First Army infantry. She watched as one used the toe of his boot to roll Lieutenant Bobrik over before the second plunged a bayonet firmly into his chest. After removing the weapon, the two soldiers waited for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, moved on to the next body.

They’re making sure we’re all dead, Alina realised with a lurch in her stomach. Staying still and hoping they wouldn’t notice her was no longer an option – she was going to have to fight back.

She cast a careful eye around the clearing, inspecting the treeline. Where were the rest of the Fjerdans? Surely these two couldn’t be the only ones left alive – they had been so many, and the Ravkan soldiers had been in a state of disarray, barely able to fight back. But Alina couldn’t see anybody else around her, and the shadows cast by the forest were still. She gave her mind a few moments to settle and tried to think logically.

They’ve moved on, she reasoned. They’re gone to try and catch up with the rest of the convoy in the east. These two are just cleaning up.

This seemed like a satisfactory explanation, and more likely than the idea that two of the soldiers were given the job of finishing off any stray Ravkans while the rest of the troop lurked in the forest. And if this was the case, then these two Fjerdans were all that stood between her and escape.

Two Fjerdans. That was doable.

Alina blew out a shaky breath and winced as pain coursed through her. She had almost forgotten that she’d been shot. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to think about how that might hinder her getaway.

The Fjerdan soldiers were getting closer to her. Alina stretched her hand out, slowly, inch by inch until her fingertips made contact with the cold metal of the pistol that lay half-buried in snow between her and the body of her tentmate. She offered a silent thank you to her dead companion as she arranged her fingers on the grip.

Alina breathed in and out, focusing on the feeling of the gun. She had always been a terrible shot, but she needed these ones to count. She remembered Mal teaching her to shoot rabbits, how he had positioned her body just so, telling her where to squeeze tight and where to relax.

“You can do this, Alina,” he had said, sounding more confident than she felt.

Alina pinned that memory in her head, forcing everything else away. I can do this.

She pushed herself up, onto her elbows, and then into a sitting position. The wound in her shoulder screamed at her but she ignored it. She levelled the pistol at the first Fjerdan, the one with the bayonet, and fired. He collapsed onto the ground. The second looked up, caught sight of her and shouted, drawing his own pistol. Alina, acting on pure instinct, threw a blade of light at him – nothing powerful, just enough to startle him – and pulled the trigger for a second time. The bullet slammed into his forehead and he crumpled.

She dropped the gun with a cry and pressed her hand to the bullet hole in her shoulder. She twisted the other arm behind her, scrabbling at the worn cloth of her uniform, agony rippling through her muscles with every movement. Eventually, her fingers caught on a rip in the fabric – a hole almost identical to the one in the front of her jacket. An exit wound. That meant the bullet was no longer in her – that was good, wasn’t it?

Alina didn’t have time to think about it. There might still be Fjerdans in the area, and if there were, they might have heard those gunshots. She struggled to her feet. She had to get out of here.

She pulled a knife from the belt of one of the infantry soldiers and cut a few strips from the crumpled remains of her tent. They would do for makeshift bandages. She kept the knife, and the pistol, and was just about to run from the clearing when she stopped dead and turned around slowly.

Alina stepped carefully through the corpses. She passed the two Fjerdans she had killed, passed Lieutenant Bobrik and the remains of the campfire. There, at the very edge of the clearing, Mikhael and Dubrov lay in the half-shadow of the trees. Alina sank to her knees. She wanted to check if they were maybe, somehow, still alive, but it was clear that the Fjerdan bayonet had reached them first.

Visions from another life flashed before her. Mal, Dubrov, and Mikhael, setting out to search for the mythical stag. All three of them trudging resolutely into the permafrost on a mission only one of them would return from.

She had wanted to save them. She had promised herself she would. Yes, they could be irritating, and there were times the Amma Alina in her wanted to scold them and send them to bed without dessert. But they were Mal’s friends – no, more than that, they were her friends, even if she wouldn’t have admitted it to them. They had seen the loneliness in her when Mal was sent through the Fold, they had recognised the weary slump of her shoulders every time one of the assistant cartographers snickered behind her back, they had noticed these things when she tried to hide them. They adored Mal almost as much as she did, and they loved making fun of him even more. They made her laugh. They kept her company. They were children. She should have saved them.

But here they were, dead, again. Bleeding and broken in Fjerdan snow, again.

Alina knew she needed to leave, but her body was frozen to this spot, shuddering with grief. The mass of feeling reared up inside her, becoming hotter, hotter, hotter, and this wasn’t just grief but anger – until it was too much to hold inside and she unleashed it all, unleashed it with a terrible scream, light emanating from her core and exploding in a furious wave over the treetops.

The burst of power was so strong that it left her weak and dizzy, her vision cloudy. She stared at her hands, waiting for feeling to come back to them, wondering at how the snow in front of her had suddenly melted away.

A few moments passed and Alina regained control of her senses. That light would have been visible for miles – even in this fog. She had to move.

She got to her feet again, battling a grimace, and spared one final look at Mikhael and Dubrov before hurrying into the gloom of the forest.

The clearing was almost empty of snow, now, but the forest was thick with it. Alina stopped and forced herself to think. Anybody coming back here to look for her would find her tracks easily. What would Mal do?

Her brain was still muddled with grief and the exertion of using so much of her power. The best she could think of was to turn around and walk backwards from the clearing, so that her footprints seemed to be leading towards the camp rather than away. She knew that any tracker worth his salt would be able to tell that these prints were fresh, but it might buy her some time.

She was in luck. After a few minutes of distressingly slow progress through the dense woodland, Alina heard the distinctive gurgle of running water. Her heart leapt. She continued to walk backwards, carefully, following the sound, until the stream came into view. Her neck ached from craning to look over her shoulder. Alina stepped into the stream and sighed with relief, taking a moment to massage the tender muscles. She unwound one of her makeshift bandages and, after some painful contortion, managed to wrap it around her chest so that the wounds on both her front and back were covered. The binding wasn’t as tight as she would like, but it would have to do for now.

Alina examined her surroundings. The fog was still thick enough that she couldn’t make out the Fold, and in her panicked flight from the destroyed campsite she hadn’t taken any of her maps or gear. She had no idea where she was or what direction she should go in.

It was too late to go back now. Alina made up her mind and began to run, following the river downstream, praying that its path wouldn’t take her right into the arms of the drüskelle.

She tried to keep to the shallowest parts of the stream as much as possible, since splashing through calf-deep water would slow her down and make far too much noise for a stealthy getaway, but the exposed rocks on the banks were slippery with frost and she lost her footing several times. It wasn’t long before Alina found herself struggling to continue. Her palms and knees were grazed red raw, the wound in her shoulder throbbed with pain with every lurching step, she had barely slept in over twenty-four hours, and she had exhausted the last vestiges of her energy in that grief-stricken blast of light. But most of all it was her body, this body, this weak and sickly thing that had been wasting away every day that she stifled her powers. Alina cursed herself for it. She couldn’t handle this kind of exertion, not even on a good day; now, her lungs could barely take in air, her heart flailed feebly in her chest, her muscles felt close to wearing through entirely.

She couldn’t go on. But she had to.

Alina dug deep and somehow found it within herself to push forward. She ran until the trees thinned out, until the stream became wider and shallower, and at last, in a flat, open field of snow, Alina collapsed to her knees. The fog was somehow even thicker out here. She threw a few desperate glances around, listening intently for the sound of pursuers, but there was nothing. Only the quiet bubbling of water and the faint chirp of birdsong. Overhead, the sky was still completely obscured by heavy clouds, but Alina could tell that, behind them, day had broken. She wondered how long she had been running for.

Groaning, Alina dragged herself from the stream. The field was littered with small snowy bumps, through which a few withered brown stalks of grass poked their heads. She tried to fashion something similar, a burrow that she could hide in so that anyone who followed wouldn’t pick her out too easily amongst the flat, white landscape.

Huddled in the tiny space, Alina scraped the dregs of her strength and summoned a sphere of light to try and warm herself. It was too small to do any good, but she couldn’t make it any bigger. She just didn’t have anything left to give.

She stared into the light, letting a few tears roll down her frozen cheeks. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mikhael and Dubrov, couldn’t wipe the image of their dead faces from her mind’s eye. She had come here to save them – and had given up her peaceful old age to do so – but what if all the people she was trying to save were destined to die anyway?

Alina thought of all the others whose deaths sat heavy in her soul. Maybe there was nothing she could do for them. Maybe her cartography unit had been slaughtered by Fjerdan soldiers, too – maybe they already lay dead in the snow, their bodies ripped apart by bullets. Or maybe they would reach Chernast just fine and be sent back to Kribirsk to travel through the Fold. Maybe they would die at the hands of the volcra as they would have, had Alina not snapped the wishbone and come back here.

As she lay curled beneath the snow, numbness beginning to set in, Alina wasn’t sure if she had the energy to save anyone anymore. Instead of fighting the impossible riptide of fate, she would just give in and let herself be carried by it. Let events play out as they were always meant to – this life would end up the same as her previous, then, but hadn’t she been happy in that life? And at least this time she would know that she had tried to change things for the better, but the world had just refused to be changed.

Exhaustion finally took her. The light between her hands blinked out, and Alina sank into the swirling currents of despair.

Chapter Text

There were muffled voices around her, somebody dragging her by the shoulders out of blissful darkness and into harsh light. Alina moaned. Somebody was talking to her, but the words were indistinct. Alina wanted to go back to sleep. She tried to raise a hand to push them away, but her arms were too heavy. She moaned at them again. She was so comfortable, as if she was swaddled in soft furs. The voices around her were getting further and further away. Silence came over her, and her mind drifted.

Suddenly, there was a burning in her chest. Alina gasped, tried to open her eyes, tried to sit up, but it was like her body wasn’t listening. Heat flushed through her, from her heart outwards, uncomfortable, painful heat. She thought she would scream but there wasn’t enough air in her lungs to get the sound out.

The fire in her blood passed, and suddenly she was unbearably cold. Her heart was beating steadily, firmly. Alina finally managed to wrench her eyes open. The daylight was glaringly bright. Squinting, she could make out the figure who knelt above her. It was Fedyor, his face grim with concern, his eyes tight with concentration. His hands were close to her body, moving just above her chest. Keeping her heart beating.

Alina tried once more to sit up. She couldn’t feel her limbs.

“Don’t move just yet,” Fedyor commanded, and Alina obeyed, knowing that his heartrending was just about the only thing keeping her alive.

Moments later, Alina felt a warm tingling in her fingers. She started to smile, but the sensation soon sharpened into an intensely painful, stabbing throb. Her chest heaved and tears sprang to her eyes. Fedyor glanced at her apologetically. Just as the needles in her hands started to fade, they started up again in her lower legs and her feet. This time, Alina did scream, but she did so through gritted teeth. Finally, Fedyor lowered his hands and sat back on his heels, exhausted. The numbness that had filled her body was gone, but Alina still felt chilled to the bone.

“That’s the most I can do for now,” he said to someone outside Alina’s line of sight. “She’s stable, but we need to get her to a Healer as fast as possible. Help me carry her.”

Two Etherealki – a Squaller and a Tidemaker – stepped forward to grip Alina under the arms and drag her into a standing position.

“I can walk,” she protested, but as soon as she tried to put weight on her legs, they collapsed out from under her. Fedyor shot her another apologetic glance.

“I raised your body temperature and managed to stave off frostbite, but it will take a Healer to revive your muscles fully. And we should see to that bullet wound as well.”

Alina just nodded. The Summoners adjusted their grip on her limp form, and she only grumbled a few times as they half-carried, half-dragged her across the fields. Fedyor led the way, pausing when they reached the treeline to listen for heartbeats. Alina wondered if he was searching for his own people or surveying the area for enemies.

After a moment he nodded over his shoulder, and they continued into the forest. All three Grisha were on their guard, their eyes tracking carefully through the dim that lingered between trees, a murkiness that had not yet been fully shaken by the rising sun. Fedyor hadn’t lowered his hands. Alina tried not to think about what would happen if they were ambushed by Fjerdans.

“Don’t worry,” Fedyor told her without turning around. “There are no Fjerdan soldiers nearby. We’ll be fine.”

But he still didn’t lower his hands. Alina could only relax once they emerged onto a winding dirt track, much narrower than the road she had been marching on a few days earlier. The first thing she saw was Ivan, waiting in the road with his hands held similarly to Fedyor’s, constantly scanning the surrounding forest. The second thing she saw was the carriage – a plain, unostentatious thing – and the horses hitched up to it – four of them, chestnut brown, flicking their tails patiently. The third thing she saw was the group of oprichniki who had arranged themselves around the carriage, staring intently into the forest, their rifles at the ready.

Ivan caught sight of them and dropped his hands. His face was set in a grim mask, but she saw relief sweep across his features, albeit briefly, as Fedyor approached him. His eyes flickered to Alina and the frown settled firmly back in place.

“She needs a Healer,” Fedyor said. He and Ivan stood a few inches apart from one another, but she could read the affection between them all the same. “The sooner the better. I did what I could.”

Ivan’s gaze returned to his lover’s face, taking in the exhaustion written upon it. He nodded once. The four Grisha helped Alina climb into the carriage and she collapsed instantly onto one of the padded benches. Fedyor sat beside her, while Ivan was forced to squeeze onto the opposite bench with the two Etherealki. The oprichniki took up their positions on the outside of the carriage – two at the front, two at the back – and with a crack of the reins the horses pulled off.

They moved at a fearsome pace down the forest trail. Clearly nobody wanted to linger here, not when there could be drüskelle tracking their every move. Even at this speed, everybody in the carriage kept their gazes trained on the blur of trees beyond the window. Everybody except Ivan, who naturally continued to glower at Alina.

“Her heartbeat is too fast,” he remarked. Fedyor gave him a stern look.

“She’s afraid,” he said quietly.

“I do have a name, you know,” Alina muttered. Ivan did not respond except to twist his fingers subtly, and Alina felt the thud of her pulse pull out of its gallop and back to a normal pace. He didn’t bother telling her to stay calm; probably, he knew that it wouldn’t make any difference. He just kept her fearfully stuttering heart in check, silently, and that was enough.

The latest face sent to haunt her. Ivan, the most loyal of the Darkling’s soldiers, who had turned against her when she turned against his general. He was just one of the many Grisha who had stood resolutely by the Darkling, even in war with the Sun Summoner, even in the face of the horrors he committed. Many more, who had come to Alina’s side, had done so reluctantly, loath to betray their general. Driven by blind faith, perhaps, or fear.

Alina watched Ivan now and wondered. She didn’t know his story – she had never asked, but he didn’t seem like the type to share anyway – but she suspected, like many Grisha, he had come to the Little Palace with nothing. Most of them shared a similar history: families killed by war, or witch hunters, or fearful, Saints-fearing neighbours. Otherwise, it was their own families who were fearful, their own families who beat them and scorned them, who left them, abandoned, in the forest or in the chapel overnight for the Saints to decide what to do with.

In the face of all that, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that as many Grisha remained steadfastly loyal to the Darkling. He had given them protection, shelter, a place to belong. Who else could claim to have done so? The King? Alina nearly laughed. The Darkling was many things, but the one thing she had never doubted was his dedication to his people. He would set fire to the whole world, she knew, if Grisha could have a safe place atop the ashes.

The dirt track began to level out, its twists and turns becoming less severe. The trees on either side of them fell back, the path widening, until the carriage slowed and stopped in a huge clearing. Alina pressed her nose against the window to take in the building that stood before her – an old manor, deserted and falling into disrepair, still with an air of grandeur about its weathered façade.

Fedyor helped her down from the carriage.

“The General is staying here?” Alina asked, as they walked slowly to the enormous front doors.

“It saves pitching camp. We don’t intend to be here long.”

Alina thought of the Fjerdans with their repeating rifles and bayonets and shuddered. No, nobody would want to stay in these woods any longer than necessary. Certainly not a troop of Grisha.

Fedyor led her to a small room at the front of the house. Two Grisha in red kefta rushed forward to take Alina’s elbows, leading her to a dilapidated chaise longue which someone had thrown a clean white sheet over. Alina sank onto it gratefully while Fedyor explained how he had found her half-dead from the cold. One of the Healers swept his hands rapidly over her body and nodded.

“You did a good job. It will take a bit of work to fix the damage to her muscles, but it could have been much worse.”

Fedyor clapped a hand on the Healer’s shoulder and smiled.

“Well, this is high praise from you, Samuil. I must go to the General – he will want to see her as soon as she’s fit enough.”

Samuil nodded again. “You can assure General Kirigan that we will have her up and about in no time.”

Fedyor left the room, and the Healers began their work; brows furrowed, their focus directed on the inner workings of her body. It wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable – a prickling, itching sensation deep underneath her skin. Alina clenched her hands into fists and turned her mind to the Darkling.

Because she couldn’t avoid him, she knew that now. He would discover her power and there was nothing she could do, not unless she wanted to fight off these two Healers and run into the woods, back into the clutches of murderous Fjerdans. So she would just have to change her plans again. She would let him find her, let him take her to the Little Palace – after all, there was no better place for her to hone her summoning.

Let the Darkling think his Sun Summoner is a seventeen-year-old mapmaker, an orphan, the type of person he can easily manipulate. Let him draw her into his confidence. Let him make his plans. He would never account for the possibility that she had lived through this once before, that she knew where this path led, and he would certainly never imagine that she could be using him just as much as he used her.

The thought was terrifying enough to distract Alina from the increasingly intense scratching in her bones. Could she really hope to deceive the Darkling? She may be older than she appeared, but she had spent the better part of her life resolving the squabbles of children, not masterminding grand conspiracies. The Darkling had several centuries-worth of scheming and political machinations in his pocket.

She had one single advantage over him: he would underestimate her. The Darkling would try to manoeuvre her, a piece in a game, by giving her glimpses of himself, letting her see the character he so carefully constructed to win her over. But she already knew his past, his future, every lie and every truth he would tell her in the coming months. She knew the whole of him.

If the Darkling thought he held all the cards, Alina certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him of that notion.

The prickling in her limbs eased, then stopped altogether. The Healers straightened up, exhaling in tandem, flexing their fingers in relief. They had clearly worked together for a long time, Alina realised, because they moved about their tasks with a silent, smooth ease. They didn’t have to discuss what to do next, how to divide up the work. They just did it.

Samuil picked up a shallow enamel pan from the table next to the chaise longue and vanished without a word from the room. Meanwhile, the other Healer leaned over Alina again and started to unwind her attempt at bandages. Alina winced a few times, but the Healer’s hands were gentle.

“Is this... was this a tent?” she asked, her gaze darting between Alina’s face and the spool of torn, filthy canvas that now lay in a discarded heap on the floor. Alina shrugged half-heartedly.

“It was the only thing to hand.”

A faint smile flashed across the Healer’s face. Samuil returned, the enamel dish now full of steaming water, a wad of white fabric in his other hand. He stooped to inspect Alina’s wound a second time, then hooked his arms around her and levered her into a half-sitting position. The other Healer tore a large strip from the white cloth, let it soak in the warm water for a moment, then pressed the wad up to the bullet wound and squeezed out all the liquid.

Alina flinched, but Samuil held her fast. Both Healers were peering over her shoulder, watching for where the liquid drained out her other side. Alina could smell something pungent and herby and realised that whatever was in the enamel dish was not just water. Something to help clean the wound, maybe, or speed up the healing.

Apparently satisfied with whatever they saw dripping from the exit wound, the Healers let Alina settle back on the chaise longue. Samuil held his hands over her shoulder and paused.

“Ever been shot before?” he asked. Alina shook her head nervously and he nodded in understanding. “This will only take a second.”

And before she had a chance to say anything else, he twisted his fingers sharply and Alina gasped at the sudden flash of pain, her back arching. There was a horrible cracking sound which she realised was her ruined bones re-forming. Alina could feel a firm, insistent tugging within her as muscles, tendons, blood vessels and skin knit back together.

But Samuil was right – in an instant, it was over. They helped Alina to her feet and she couldn’t help but press a finger through the hole in her uniform. It was still tender to the touch, but the skin was flawlessly smooth – no scar, not even a bruise remained. She glanced up at Samuil with appreciation, and he just shrugged as if it was nothing.

“I’ll take you to General Kirigan now,” the other Healer said, putting both hands on Alina’s shoulders and directing her towards the door. “I don’t want to him to think we’re holding you up.”

She was led back out into the hallway, up the grand staircase, and into what Alina guessed had once been a dining room. Huge windows took up the whole length of the opposite wall, their fine glass panes now smeared with dust and dirt, and a crystal chandelier hung crookedly above them. Most of the space was occupied by a very long table, its wood now worn and eaten by age.

As he had been that night in the Grisha pavilion, the Darkling was stooped over a scattering of maps and papers. Unlike that night, he was alone – the only other person in the room was Ivan, standing to attention at his right hand as always.

The Darkling looked up when the door swung open, his eyes sharpening at the sight of them standing in the entrance.

“Thank you, Irina – I take it she is on the mend?”

“She needs rest, moi soverenyi, but otherwise she is recovered.” Irina bowed once as he nodded at her and left the room, closing the doors quietly behind her.

The Darkling stood up fully, leaving his place at the table and walking towards Alina. She held his gaze steadily.

“Alina Starkov,” he said, as if to himself. Alina didn’t think it was a good thing that he had remembered her name. “We seem to keep meeting in rather unusual circumstances.”

Despite herself, Alina almost smiled. She couldn’t really argue with that.

She didn’t say anything, because she could sense that he was not finished speaking; sure enough, after a moment of observing her in silence, the Darkling continued.

“My scouts in this area have reported something... interesting. Gunfire at a First Army camp – well, that in itself isn’t so interesting. Such occurrences are common this close to the border. The First Army was ambushed by Fjerdan soldiers at night, after an unexpected snowstorm. It was a massacre, apparently.”

He turned around again, sifting through the papers on the table behind him, until his fingers closed around whatever it was he was looking for. He held it up for Alina to see.

“I have a list of the dead here,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk. “My scouts are very thorough. It seems almost the entire camp was slaughtered. The only soldier not among the dead, indeed, nowhere to be seen, was an assistant cartographer by the name of Private Starkov.”

Alina remained silent. The Darkling crumpled the piece of paper and let it fall to the ground as he took two long strides towards her. His face was divine in its ferocity.

“Yes, that was certainly enough to grab my attention. But my scouts had more to say, Private Starkov, and that is where this business becomes very interesting indeed. Would you like to guess what it was?”

He loomed above her. Alina matched her breathing to the exaggerated but steady rise and fall of his chest and said nothing at all. He would have his Sun Summoner, but he would not have her compliant or meek. She would not yield to him yet.

The Darkling clenched his jaw in frustration at her ongoing silence. His voice became impossibly quiet, furious, tight with impatience. He wanted answers, and she wasn’t going to give them to him easily.

“Once the gunshots had died down, most of the Fjerdans left the area, travelling east. Most likely tracking the other First Army units who had passed through a few days before. My scouts were not far from the camp, on their way to investigate the aftermath, check for survivors in the unlikely event that the Fjerdans left anyone alive by mistake. Then, over the treetops, they saw a brilliant burst of light. Not fire. Light. As if the midday sun was suddenly shining on them, even though it was not yet dawn.”

Alina’s heart sputtered into double speed. From the other side of the room, Ivan tilted his head, his eyes boring into her.

He knows, Alina realised, with a glum sinking feeling in her stomach. But she didn’t abandon the game so readily.

“Moi soverenyi,” she said at last, keeping her tone of voice polite. “Are you accusing me of something, or are you asking me something?”

She relished the look of indignation on the Darkling’s face.

“I am ordering you, Private Starkov, to tell me what you saw when the Fjerdans attacked your camp, or else I may be forced to draw my own conclusions about your part in the events of that night. It is, after all, quite astonishing that you alone survived the ambush, and apparently fled the scene soon after.”

Alina didn’t rise to his threats. “But you’re not really concerned with the Fjerdans, General. First Army casualties mean nothing to you.”

She knew she was treading on the wrong side of the line between frankness and insubordination. The Darkling’s fingers twitched, and for a moment she wondered if he might Cut her in two then and there. Alina continued talking, knowing that if she did not speak, she would simply laugh at him – and that would almost certainly sign her death warrant.

“It is the light that interests you. That’s why you had me dragged here, let your Healers tend to me, even though I’m just an otkazat’sya mapmaker.”

He looked at her more closely, sensing the humour in her voice, and this time Alina did not hold back her smile.

“I will give you the truth, General,” she said softly, reaching out her hand to grip his wrist.

From the second her fingers grazed his skin, Alina felt the connection between them bloom. Power and conviction flowed into her with an intensity that almost made her weep – there was nothing like this, nothing else. Her body was flooded with light and, jubilant, she let it all go, shining through her skin and expanding to fill the room. It caught in the crystal chandelier above their heads and refracted, casting hundreds of glimmering rainbows down onto the bare wooden floorboards.

The Darkling was staring, not at the lights, but at her, the look on his face caught somewhere between surprise and triumph.

There was a clattering of footsteps beyond the doors and moments later the oprichniki burst into the dining room, their weapons ready, followed by a squadron of Grisha with arms raised. They stalled in the doorway, stumbling into one another comically, gazing around the illuminated room as their hands slowly dropped to their sides. Their faces were fixed with wonder.

There was a moment of silence.

“Sun Summoner,” one of the Grisha breathed. Others echoed his words, their voices low, reverent.

The Darkling pulled her closer, cupping her cheek with his hand.

“Alina Starkov,” he murmured, so that only she could hear. “Not just a mapmaker, after all.”

Chapter Text

They were back on the road within the space of an hour.

Alina had been given a spare kefta – Materialki purple – and she now sat opposite the Darkling, whose nose was buried in another stack of reports, as their carriage rattled towards Os Alta. Fedyor sat on the bench beside her, with a Durast she didn’t recognise on his other side, while Ivan, naturally, sat beside the Darkling. The other Grisha – the two Healers, the Squaller and Tidemaker who had dragged her out of the snow earlier, another Heartrender and an Inferni – took the other carriage, identically unremarkable to this one. The oprichniki occupied the outside seats.

It should have made her feel better, to be surrounded by this much firepower and Grisha power, but she just couldn’t shake her anxiety. The last time she had been bundled into a carriage and hurried off to the Little Palace in a kefta that was the wrong colour, they had been beset by drüskelle, and Alina had nearly died. Some of the soldiers that had been there to protect her had died. Her eyes darted around the carriage, wondering which of them it would be this time.

Her gaze settled on the Darkling. He hadn’t been with them on that journey, and his presence here now did make Alina feel slightly more relaxed. Even so, she sat ramrod straight, her hands fists in her lap, and stared out the window, tensing at every bump in the road, for the whole journey.

The ride to Os Alta was long – and would have been longer, if not for the fact that they just didn’t stop moving. Their route had them pass through Second Army camps and bases at conveniently timed intervals. Within seconds of coming to a stop, a team of rested and watered horses would replace their dusty, tired ones in front of the carriage, the oprichniki would rotate positions, and they would be moving again. They made it to the capital in under forty-eight hours.

Alina knew that she needed to rest – knew, in fact, that the Healers had ordered her to rest. Everyone else in the carriage, even the Darkling, would slip into drowsiness for a few hours here and there. But Alina just couldn’t do it. Any time her eyes fell closed and her head lolled against the wooden interior of the carriage, she saw visions of repeating rifles, drüskelle with axes and wolves, and she jolted awake with the violent certainty that they were about to be attacked.

So when their carriage finally passed through the gates of the Little Palace, Alina had not had more than a few moments of rest. Her eyes felt gritty, her body achy, her mind groggy. The Darkling threw open the carriage door and stepped out into the daylight, no less elegant than normal despite his travel-crumpled kefta, and extended his hand towards her. Alina blinked at him a few times before unfolding herself stiffly from the position she had been locked in. She accepted his hand and stepped down onto the shining cobblestones of the Little Palace courtyard, at which point her legs promptly collapsed out underneath her.

Black spots began to cloud her vision, and Alina knew that she would pass out. She was aware of commotion around her – so many people running to her, crowding around her – but it was the Darkling who swept her up into his arms and carried her inside. She saw his mouth form the syllables of her name, and then she lost her grip on consciousness.

When she slept, she didn’t dream. And when she woke up, some unknown length of time later, she felt more relaxed than she had in days – years, maybe. There was not a single ache or pain in her body.

Alina opened her eyes but didn’t move for a while, slowly tracing over the events in her memory until they felt solid once more. The wishbone, the Fold, the ambush, the Darkling. The life she should have had, no longer in reach, no longer real.

As she had buried herself in snow, slowly freezing to death, her feeling of hopelessness in the face of inevitability had been too much to overcome. But somewhere between Fedyor pulling life back into her body and the dawning realisation that she had no choice but to face the Darkling, Alina’s strength of will had returned to her with fierce vitality. She refused to let this world take any more of the things she loved away from her. She would bend reality to her behest, if that’s what it would take.

She had fixed this vow in her mind with grim determination as she stood before the Darkling and filled up the room with light. And it had gone well, she thought, until she collapsed at his feet.

Alina groaned and covered her face with a pillow. The Sun Summoner, fainting into the arms of the Black General – that would keep the Little Palace’s most ardent gossipmongers going for weeks.

After stewing in embarrassment for a moment, Alina replaced the pillow, her fingers idling on the silky material. Saints, this bed was comfortable. And the embroidery on the canopy overhead was familiar.

Alina pushed herself up onto her elbows and took a proper look around the room. The curtains were wide open and she was momentarily blinded by sunlight, but she recognised her surroundings nonetheless – the Vezda suite. Alina was not entirely surprised; where else in the Little Palace could the Darkling keep her close to himself, constantly guarded by oprichniki, and suitably isolated from the rest of her cohort?

Right on cue, the double doors swung open and Genya’s face appeared in the entrance.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said, striding towards the bed. Alina managed to resist throwing herself at her friend in relief and settled instead for a sleepy grin.

“I’m awake and I feel wonderful. How long has it been since I...” Alina trailed off as she saw Genya bite back a smile.

“Since you swooned at the sight of General Kirigan? Two days. Well, you were unconscious of your own accord for one day, but when you started to wake up the Healers put you back under. They said your body needed time to recover from its ordeal.”

“Ordeal is the word for it,” Alina muttered. “And, for the record, I did not swoon at the sight of him.”

Genya laughed. “I know that, but the stories are much more fun.”

Alina scowled but said nothing. Genya stood up from where she had perched at the end of the bed, smoothing out her kefta, and shot Alina a stern look.

“I am going to get you breakfast, and then I will be right back. You have a busy day. Try not to do anything to injure yourself while I’m gone.”

She vanished from the room before Alina could do more than huff in exasperation. Her plan to make a good impression on the other Grisha at the Little Palace had not got off to a great start.

True to her word, Genya returned a few minutes later, balancing a tray of food on one hand and carrying what Alina knew to be her Tailoring kit in the other. She set the tray down on the bedsheets in front of Alina.

“Don’t get used to this,” she warned. “From tomorrow you will be expected to dine alongside the other Grisha in your class.”

While Alina ate, Genya carried her kit over to the little dressing table in front of the window and busied herself in setting it up. There were a few moments of companionable silence before Alina dared to speak her fears aloud.

“I take it I’m to be presented to the King today?”

Genya turned towards her, pursing her lips and running an appraising eye over Alina’s appearance. She could only imagine how she looked right now. She may have been well-rested, her injuries tended to, but she hadn’t brushed her hair or even washed her face – never mind the rest of her body – in more days than she cared to count.

“Yes,” Genya said eventually. “I think the General would have liked to spare you this for a few more days, but, unfortunately, news of a Sun Summoner in the Little Palace spreads fast. Once the King learned you were here, he demanded to see you as soon as you were awake.”

Alina just nodded, already resigned to her sentence, and pushed her half-finished breakfast away from her. Genya’s gaze flickered between Alina’s face and the remnants of food on her plate.

“That will get better, you know,” she said kindly. “The more you practice your summoning. Frailty, lack of appetite, general ill-health – these symptoms all come about when you don’t use your powers.”

Alina knew this already, too, but she nodded again anyway.

“I’m Genya,” the Tailor said with a small smile. Alina gestured to herself.

“Alina. As I’m sure you know.”

Genya confirmed this with a slight inclination of her head. “Yes, Alina Starkov – everyone knows your name, now.”

There was a sharp knock on the door. Genya swept across the room and threw the doors wide, letting in a stream of maids all clad in white. Each girl carried a pail of steaming hot water, and they filed efficiently into the adjoining bathroom, all the while casting curious and amused glances at Alina. Setting her jaw stubbornly, she pushed back the covers and got to her feet. Genya appeared next to her and made a horrified noise.

“Saints! Don’t you ever bathe?”

Alina glanced down at herself. She was clad only in her shirt and underthings – the shirt, which had once been white, was now an off-putting shade of beige. Her arms and legs could only be described as filthy. Dirt and blood were crusted underneath her broken nails.

“I’ve been through an ordeal,” she said defensively, and Genya smiled.

The maids finished filling the bathtub and made to undress Alina. She brushed them off, disinclined to listen to their snide remarks about her upbringing or her eyes.

“No, thank you,” Alina said firmly. “I may be a peasant from Keramzin but, as unbelievable as it seems, I have used a bath before. I’ll manage perfectly well on my own. You can just... take an early break, if you want.”

Alina could imagine that she was not a particularly authoritative figure in this instant, being as she was half-starved, half-naked, and covered in grime from head to foot. But she imbued in her voice the kind of sternness that she had to use to get her children to eat all their vegetables, and it was enough to make the maids freeze in place and look towards Genya questioningly. Genya, struggling to hide her smirk, nodded at them, and they hurried from the room without another word.

With a grateful sigh, Alina stripped off what remained of her clothes and sank into the water. Genya took a seat nearby and observed her carefully.

“To Grisha, you’re nothing short of a legend – something pulled straight from a fairytale. The common people are already calling you a Saint. The King regards you as the solution to all his problems. A mapmaker, an orphan from Keramzin...” Genya mused, her eyes sparking with amusement. “Yet you hold yourself like a leader. Speak like one.”

Alina picked up the brush and started scrubbing her arms clean. “I have no desire to be anybody’s salvation or Saint. And if the Grisha ever turn to me as leader, I fear General Kirigan might resort to poison in my cup or a knife in my back to rid himself of an inconvenience.”

Genya smiled slightly. “Men with power don’t like to give it up easily. But I doubt the General would do anything to harm you.”

Just to control me, Alina thought bitterly, but she didn’t say anything to Genya. She took a deep breath, pinched her nose, and submerged herself fully in the bath, letting the swell of warm water wash the residual stress from her bones.

Once she was clean and dry, Alina surrendered herself to Genya. Under the Tailor’s skilled touch, the knots in Alina’s hair were smoothed out, the shadows under her eyes erased, her chipped fingernails repaired. She even let herself be dressed in that ridiculous facsimile of a First Army uniform without complaining, and only grumbled once when Genya pinned the ornate, golden veil over her head.

“The King has to be the first to see you,” Genya explained, sensing Alina’s displeasure.

Alina couldn’t help but scoff. “Of course – after you, General Kirigan, all the Healers, the Little Palace servants, and the oprichniki and Grisha that escorted me here.”

Genya looked again like she was trying to hide her smile. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but this kind of pomp and ceremony is important to the royal court.”

Alina just sighed, nodded, and allowed Genya to lead her through the endless corridors of the Little Palace. It was an eerie sensation, being back in these halls again – everything was acutely familiar and yet Alina still felt completely lost.

The Darkling was waiting for them at the entrance to the courtyard. Genya passed her over to him with a silent bow, then vanished before Alina had a chance to say goodbye. She turned to the Darkling.

“You seem much improved, Miss Starkov,” he said as he offered her his arm. Alina took it graciously, grateful that the veil would at least conceal her scowl.

“Thank you,” she said smoothly. “I do feel better. Well enough that you probably don’t need to clutch my arm quite so hard.”

She heard his soft chuckle, and he loosened his grip slightly. “You don’t expect to fall at my feet today, then?”

“We’ll see,” Alina muttered. “If this audience with the King goes awry, I might be forced to resort to desperate measures.”

The Darkling laughed again, steering Alina through the gardens towards the massive domes of the Grand Palace. “Establishing an escape plan before heading into unknown territory – wise move.”

“They do teach us some useful things in the First Army, you know.”

“I'm sure,” the Darkling said evenly. “Speaking of which, I feel I should tell you that your service in the First Army has officially ended. You are a mapmaker no longer, Alina Starkov.”

In response, Alina cast an exaggerated glance at the First Army uniform she was currently wearing. The Darkling’s eyes flashed.

“That is for the King’s benefit – he wants you to be presented as his soldier, likely so that he can take credit for you. From tomorrow, you will be wearing a kefta.”

“Am I in the Second Army now, then?” Alina asked coolly. They had emerged from the neatly trimmed lawns and hedgerows of the palace gardens into the vast courtyard, and the Darkling drew Alina to a sudden halt.

“Technically, you are still in training, but yes. All Grisha serve in the Second Army, even Saints,” he smirked as he felt Alina body tense at the word. “To be Grisha is to be hated, hunted – I know you understand that, since it is the feeling that kept you awake for practically our whole journey to Os Alta. Ostensibly, the Second Army serves the King, but it was made to keep us safe, to make us into soldiers so that we can fight back against those who would see us dead.”

The Darkling glanced up at the gleaming, gaudy building in front of them, and his lip curled ever so slightly. He tugged on Alina’s arm, and they resumed their path to the ornate double doors.

“The King wants to claim you as his own,” the Darkling continued in a low voice. “But he also needs you to tear down the Fold, and he knows you can’t do that without training – Grisha training. So he cannot speak out against your conscription in the Second Army, however much he would like to.”

Alina marvelled at how he managed to make it sound like this was all for her benefit, and not at all like she had been at the Little Palace for two days and he was already making decisions for her.

“And when I finish training?” she asked. “Will the King be happy to send me off to the front lines, like a proper Second Army soldier? Will you?”

The Darkling looked at her again, his face now cast in shadow as they approached the palace building. “I will be happy for you to fill whatever role you feel best suits your abilities, whether that be on the battlefield or not.”

Alina remembered Genya’s appraisal of her leadership abilities and understood what the Darkling was hinting at. She stayed silent as they passed between the guards at the doorway and carried on down the lavishly decorated hallway, their footsteps ringing sharply on the marble floor.

“Maybe I think the Second Army would be better served by two generals,” she muttered at last, once they were well out of earshot of the guards.

She didn’t look up at the Darkling, but she could feel him smile.

Her presentation to the royal court was just as bad as she remembered. She stood before the King and Queen, letting them talk about her as if she was not there, suffering their obnoxious remarks and keen glances in grim silence. Alina did not miss how Crown Prince Vasily abandoned his normally disinterested demeanour when her veil was removed, how his eyes swept over her body with possessive anticipation, and Alina allowed herself the petty joy of remembering the moment his body had been rent in two by the Darkling’s nichevo’ya.

The gathered crowds fell into an expectant hush when the Darkling brought his hands together, drawing shadows like a curtain over the throne room. Even though she couldn’t see him, she could sense him in the darkness next to her, her body humming with an awareness that transcended her senses. Alina reached for him, and he clasped her hand in his own. The feeling of his amplifier making contact with her light, the connection springing open between them, was jarring but not unpleasant. It was a tugging in her gut, a flush of heat through her veins. It was a sense of wholeness.

Alina let the Darkling’s touch amplify her power but she refused to let him drive it. He kindled the light within her, drew it up to the surface until it emanated from her skin, but it was at her behest that it filled the room. She let it expand into a globe that surrounded her, a miniature sun, and held it there for a moment before throwing it wide. There was an involuntary gasp from the onlookers as sunlight washed over them like a wave, and Alina saw the King and Queen shield their eyes against the sudden brightness. When the light hit the walls it scattered, separating into hundreds of twinkling sunbeams, before slowly fading away into darkness again.

The Darkling released her hand and motioned for the shadows to recede, letting daylight seep in through the high windows again. There were murmurs all around her.

The King got to his feet, slowly, staring not at Alina but at the Darkling. “How long will she need?”

“I cannot say for sure, moi tsar,” the Darkling said, his manner so polished that he even managed to make himself sound apologetic. “Her training will begin tomorrow. She has power, but it is raw, unshaped – honing it will take practice on her part, and patience on ours.”

The King narrowed his eyes, searching for a glimmer of the deceit the Darkling must be hiding, but his mask was impeccable. Eventually the King flapped his hand in assent and returned to his throne.

The Darkling turned to Alina, hooked one arm around her waist and swept her briskly from the throne room. She hadn’t even been aware that the enraptured onlookers had crept closer to her after her lightshow, their eyes wide with awe, and although she might take umbrage at the way the Darkling had drawn her close to him without even asking, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of relief; the crowds parted instantly before him and, pressed into his side as she was, nobody dared to reach out for her.

Once they were back in the hallway, he released his grip and stepped away but did not break stride. Alina got the sense that he wanted to be gone from this place just as much as she did. She looked up at him carefully.

“How did you know?” she asked.

The Darkling tilted his head questioningly. “Know what, Miss Starkov?”

“That I don’t like crowds.”

His face didn’t change, but she knew he had filed that piece of information away for later and cursed herself inwardly for revealing it so easily.

“I didn’t. But being set upon by a fervent crowd is not a pleasant experience, regardless of whether they are praising you, clamouring to lay hands on their newest Saint, or naming you a heathen and dragging you to the gallows.”

He sounded as if he was speaking from experience, and for all Alina knew, he might be.

They emerged back into the open air and sunlight. Alina breathed a small sigh of relief. They were silent all the way back to the Little Palace, but when they reached the main courtyard, the Darkling stopped again and turned to look at her.

“May I ask you a question now, Miss Starkov?”

She couldn’t very well say no, but she didn’t want to say yes either. She settled for saying nothing at all. The Darkling took this as a sign to continue.

He stepped closer to her and spoke in a low voice. “How did you know that I am an amplifier?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alina saw a flash of red as Ivan appeared between two columns of the walkway. She smiled slyly at the Darkling.

“I will tell you my secrets when you tell me yours, General,” she said, before casting a pointed glance towards Ivan. “And when you trust me enough not to have your personal Heartrender listening to make sure I’m telling the truth.”

The look on his face was somehow simultaneously disappointed and pleased.

“Very well,” he announced, stepping backwards. “Until then, Miss Starkov.”

He turned away and, in a whirl of black kefta, had vanished inside and up the stairs, Ivan following at his heel. The two oprichniki who were stationed on either side of the door stepped forward.

“If you’d come with us, Miss Starkov, we shall escort you back to your rooms.”

Alina’s body unfroze. She nodded mutely and followed them inside.

Chapter Text

Alina settled quickly back into her routine at the Little Palace. She enjoyed every minute of combat training with Botkin, even though she spent most of her time getting knocked down onto the straw-covered floor. Alina was not by any means a naturally gifted fighter, but she made up for it with sheer doggedness – she saw a spark of approval in Botkin’s eye every time she got to her feet, winded and bruised, dusted the straw from her kefta and demanded to go again.

Her enthusiasm did not wane outside of the training yard. Once a week, they had lectures on Ravkan history, in which Alina was top of the class – nobody needed to know that she had used the very same books when she taught the children in the orphanage about their country’s history. Her Small Science theory teacher was pleasantly surprised by how quickly Alina managed to pick up the material, especially since she was joining the class late.

“I can’t believe you enjoy this stuff,” Nadia had groaned one day as they crowded round a table in the common room to work on their assignments. Alina just shrugged.

“It’s interesting. I like understanding how our summoning works.”

“As long as it works, I don’t really care how,” Marie pitched in. She was lounging back in her seat, no longer even pretending to be studying.

“Exactly. Leave the finer details to the Fabrikators – they love that stuff,” Nadia agreed, rubbing her hand across her cheek and leaving behind a smear of ink. Alina smiled and passed the Squaller a crumpled handkerchief.

“Once we’ve graduated you’ll never have to think about this stuff again, if you don’t want to,” she placated them. “But first you need to make sure Professor Olkhovsky doesn’t fail you because you didn’t finish the assignment.”

The other girls grumbled but could not dispute Alina’s argument.

Befriending Marie and Nadia had been easy, and once she had done so, the rest of the Etherealki quickly followed. But since their combat training and theory classes were divided by order, getting to know the Materealki and Corporalki was more challenging. The only chance she had was during her language and culture classes.

Alina had opted to study Shu as her primary language. She had shied away from it before, intimidated and perhaps a little ashamed of her estrangement from her own culture – something she was now determined to resolve. Her grasp of the language did not come as instinctively as her understanding of Small Science theory, but she was surprised to discover that this did not make her enjoy it any less. Shu classes quickly became her favourite part of the week.

This was also one of the few opportunities she had to make friends outside her order. Alina made a point not to sit with any of the Summoners in her class, and after a few days, she had struck up something of a rapport with a bubbly Durast called Taisa and her friend Stefaniya, a softspoken Heartrender.

It’s a start, Alina thought to herself as she watched Taisa, in her regular enthusiastic manner, explain something to Stefaniya with a great deal of vigorous arm movements.

Her ambitions were thrown into jeopardy by Zoya’s return to the Little Palace. They were in the middle of a training session with Botkin, during which Alina was just beginning to feel like she might be able to hold her own against Nadia, when she came gliding into the yard in an immaculate blue kefta.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Botkin breezily. Nadia stopped completely and stared, along with most of the class.

Marie appeared at Alina’s shoulder to dispense gossip.

“Zoya Nazyalensky,” she breathed. “She’s the best in our class – at just about everything. She’s such a talented Squaller that she’s already running trips through the Fold. That’s where she’s been all this week. She’s one of General Kirigan’s favourites.”

None of this was news to Alina; nor was the fact that, should she really want to win the favour of the other Grisha, she could do a lot worse than to befriend Zoya. The only problem was that, at this point in time, Zoya really did not like her.

Botkin clapped his hands together loudly. “Okay, everyone, back to it. Alina, come over here.”

Alina set her shoulders stoically and walked over towards her instructor. Zoya, upon hearing Alina’s name, had fixed her with a piercing glare. The rest of the class were pretending not to be listening in.

“Alina, this is...” Botkin trailed off as he looked around, realising that none of his students were doing as he had ordered. “I said back to it, everyone! If you want to eavesdrop, at least do me the courtesy to hide it. You’d all make terrible spies.”

Her classmates scrambled to make their play-fighting look more convincing. Botkin sighed and turned back to the girls.

“Alina, this is Zoya – she’s my best student. I’m going to pair you two together so that she can help you catch up with the rest of the class.”

Zoya looked about as pleased with this suggestion as Alina felt, but Botkin’s tone brooked no argument. He placed a heavy hand on Alina’s shoulder and gave her a nod, then walked away without another word.

Alina tried for diplomacy. “It’s nice to meet you.”

"Likewise, Sun Summoner. I’ve heard so much about you,” Zoya said, the curl of her lip the only break in her otherwise perfectly polite veneer. “How are you adjusting to life at the Little Palace? It must be quite a change from the orphanage.”

She tossed her hair and shot Alina a smile. A challenge. But if Zoya was expecting to find a rival here, she would be sorely disappointed – this wasn’t a game Alina was going to play.

“True, it’s not like anything I’ve known before, but I’m settling in,” Alina said with a shrug. “I appreciate you helping me to catch up.”

Zoya’s voice was cold. “It’s not like I have much choice, Sun Summoner, but we’re soldiers. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do.”

“You can just call me Alina,” she said firmly. “And I know you’d rather be doing anything other than tutoring me – that's why I appreciate it.”

Zoya looked at her carefully for a moment, her eyes narrowed, like Alina was a wild animal she expected to lash out at any second. Eventually she sighed and threw up her hands.

“Show me your stance, then.”

Alina bit back her smile.

Zoya, as it turned out, was a good teacher. She spent the rest of the training session watching Alina’s every move, adjusting the way she held herself, pointing out weaknesses in her attacks. To her surprise, Alina didn’t end up on her back in the straw once.

“You’re not bad, Starkov,” Zoya admitted when Botkin let them go for the evening. At some point in the session, Alina had gone from ‘Sun Summoner’ to ‘Starkov’. First names might be a way off, but Alina counted this as a small victory, nonetheless.

“You just need practice,” the Squaller continued, as they made their way into the Little Palace. “You’ve got the basics, but now you need to focus on getting faster. And stronger.”

It sounded remarkably like what the Darkling had said to the King, about her summoning. Alina made a face but nodded her understanding.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Zoya said forcefully. “And it doesn’t mean I’m going to bend and scrape and call you sankta.”

Alina shot her a grin. “Oh, I was counting on that.”

Zoya smiled back, just for a second, then tossed her hair and stalked off down the corridor. Alina turned in the opposite direction, tailed by two oprichniki as usual.

She hadn’t seen the Darkling since her presentation to the King, although there were signs of his presence everywhere – a glimpse of black kefta at the other end of a hallway, muffled voices behind the door to the war room, footsteps passing outside her chambers at all hours. Alina had no problem with the distance that had sprung up between them; if anything, it put her at ease. Being near the Darkling meant always being on her guard, deliberating over every word that left her mouth, taking care to only reveal what she wanted him to know. It was exhausting, and it gave her a headache. So, for the moment, she was quite happy to focus on keeping up with her studies and tending to her budding friendships and alliances.

And, of course, her summoning.

Alina was looking forward to her first lesson with Baghra with an equal amount of enthusiasm and trepidation. She knew she needed to harness her powers, strengthen them, and that Baghra, despite her mean streak, was the best person to help her. Baghra had always had her own agenda, Alina knew this, but it didn’t change the fact that she was the one who told Alina the truth about the Darkling. She had taught Alina a great number of valuable lessons, including how to use the Cut. She had died to protect her.

Her feelings towards Baghra were complicated, and Alina certainly did not relish having to endure her punitive teaching methods a second time, but she did think she would feel a little glad to see the ill-tempered old woman again.

Alina pushed open the door to Baghra’s hut, remembering to close it swiftly behind her lest she earn a reprimand for letting the heat out. She advanced carefully through the dim corridor and into the stifling main chamber. Baghra occupied her usual perch by the fire, one hand resting atop the notorious cane.

“Come into the light then, girl, so I can have a proper look at you.”

Alina did as she was told. Baghra stood and circled her slowly, her cane hitting the stone floor with regular clicks.

“So, you are the Sun Summoner. Come to save us all. Where’s the rest of you?”

Baghra’s keen dark eyes always saw beyond what was visible.

“This is all of me,” Alina said firmly, daring the old woman to argue. Baghra snorted.

“Is that so? You barely look strong enough to light a doorway, never mind tear down the Fold. Can you even summon without clutching the General’s wrist?”

Alina touched her hands together, drawing on the weak spark of light she felt inside her and focusing it into a sphere. It wasn’t very big, but Alina felt a thrill run through her all the same. Baghra merely grunted.

“That’s all? Make it bigger.”

Alina put her hands down and glared. “I can’t.”

Baghra twitched the hand that held her cane, but Alina had seen this coming and jumped out of the way before it made contact with her shins. Seemingly unfazed, Baghra leaned forward and jabbed Alina’s upper arm with a bony finger.

“Ow!” Alina exclaimed, more in surprise than pain. Baghra settled both hands back on her cane.

“Make it bigger,” she repeated.

Alina gritted her teeth. “I’m not strong enough yet. Baghra – wait!”

She jumped back again as Baghra swung her cane a second time. All of the good-natured feelings that Alina had built up towards her old teacher in the decades after her death were rapidly dissipating.

“I know I’m weak,” Alina said quickly, her hands raised in a placatory gesture. “But you don’t need to start from square one with me. I know... I know a lot of the basics already. I’m just not used to using my power. I need to get stronger, and quickly. Can you help me?”

For a moment, Alina thought Baghra was going to hit her again, but the old woman settled into an unnerving stillness while she regarded Alina thoughtfully for a moment.

“You know the basics?” she asked eventually. Alina’s shoulders relaxed.

“Yes. Just the basics. I read some books.”

“And do you think, foolish girl, that you can learn Grisha summoning from books?”

In answer, Alina summoned her light again, but this time she continued moving, sweeping her hands through several poses, making the little shining bubble separate into two, then three, which danced and twisted around Baghra’s head. It only lasted a moment before Alina’s power waned and the lights blinked out, but she had made her point.

“You’ve been hiding, girl.” Baghra said, her voice steely.

Alina didn’t try to refute it. “For my own safety.”

“And what makes you think you’re not safe here?”

“Everything!” Alina threw up her hands in exasperation. “Now that I’m here, the whole world knows I exist. Ravka’s enemies would see me dead. Everywhere I turn there are people who want to use me for their own ends. I’ve lost my personhood – I’m either a threat or a tool. Who would voluntarily choose a life like that?”

Something flickered in Baghra’s eyes, something that looked a little like approval. Eventually, she lowered herself back into her seat by the fire and gestured for Alina to take the shabby armchair opposite.

“You’re not as dim as you seem, girl. You’re right – there are enemies everywhere, both within Ravka and beyond her borders. You did well to avoid discovery for so long, but the question is, what are you going to do now that you’re here?”

Alina blew out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. “I had planned to go to Novyi Zem, to train myself up there. But I think, even if I could somehow escape the Little Palace, I wouldn’t be safe even there, not now that the world knows about me.”

Baghra inclined her head. “The General has spies everywhere. Were you to flee now, he would not stop looking for you until you were back in his grasp. He is nothing if not persistent.”

“Then I need to get stronger – fast.” Alina emphasised, leaning forwards. Baghra clicked her tongue.

“I am a teacher, not a miracle-worker, but yes – I will help you. As you say, you already have some understanding of the fundamentals of summoning. What’s holding you back is lack of practice; your power is weak because it has been unused for so long. But we will soon change that.”

With a glint in her dark eyes, Baghra brought her cane up to whack Alina on the arm, and this time Alina wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. She flinched but didn’t cry out or complain. Baghra nodded once, satisfied.

“Let me see your light again, girl. This time focus on holding it – don't worry about anything else, just hold it still and keep it there until I tell you to stop.”

Alina did as she was told. Baghra continued talking.

“Of course, if you really want to improve your summoning, you need to learn the theory of the Small Science. More than what they teach you in those ridiculous classes in the Little Palace. I’ve seen the syllabus,” she scoffed. “Laughably simple. I will select some more advanced reading for you.”

The light between Alina’s palms was beginning to flutter. Baghra got to her feet and approached slowly, peering down at Alina critically.

“The light,” she asked, her voice acerbic. “Where does it come from?”

Alina’s voice was barely a whisper. “From me.”

Baghra’s cane leapt up again, crashing into Alina’s forearms. “Foolish girl. You know well enough that Grisha do not create – we manipulate what already exists. That is the Small Science. To make matter from nothing requires –”

“Merzost,” Alina finished. “Abomination.” Her voice was bitter. She was well acquainted with merzost and its effects.

“Ha!” Baghra spat contemptuously. “So, you do pay attention in your classes, you just choose to ignore their teachings. Where does the light come from, girl?”

“From everywhere,” Alina said weakly. Her arms were beginning to shake from the effort of holding her light in place and her body was running with sweat. Baghra paused, her eyes flashing, then nodded.

“You can lower your arms now,” she said, and Alina gasped in relief. “We’re done for today, girl.”

She flapped a hand in dismissal and Alina did not wait to be told twice. She bolted to her feet and scrambled for the door, stopping at the last moment and glancing over her shoulder. Baghra’s hunched form was silhouetted by the orange glow of flame.

“Thank you, Baghra,” Alina said. The old woman merely grunted.

Grumpy old hag, she thought to herself, almost fondly, as she left the hut.

Despite having exhausted herself, Alina felt close to cheerful as she returned to the Little Palace. Her good mood was ruined entirely by the sight of the Apparat loitering in the shadows of the colonnade. He was at her side in an instant, smiling at her greasily.

“Alina Starkov,” he breathed. “I am so glad I managed to catch you. We haven’t been introduced yet, you see, and I think it is very important that the two of us be friends.”

“I know who you are, Apparat,” Alina said coldly. “And while I will gladly be your ally in service to Ravka, I have no interest in being your friend.”

The Apparat stopped walking, clearly expecting Alina would draw to a halt alongside him, but she did not break stride and he had to hurry to catch back up. He pushed on, unperturbed. “I have a gift for you. To aid in your studies.”

Alina did not look at him. “Is it, by any chance, a copy of Istorii Sankt’ya?”

He nearly stumbled over the hem of his robe. “You are wise indeed, Sankta Alina.”

Now, Alina did stop. She whirled to face him with her hands clenched into fists at her side.

“While I thank you for the kind intention,” she said through gritted teeth. “I can assure you that I am familiar with the stories already – familiar enough to know that I am no Saint.”

“Perhaps,” the Apparat smiled condescendingly. “But it is not the Saints who name themselves as such. It is for the people to decide.”

He stepped closer, his hands disappearing into his robes. The smell of him, dampness and incense, enveloped Alina and she fought to stand her ground.

“The people are already praying to you,” he murmured, and there was a fervent glint in his eyes. “Some would argue that makes you a Saint, whether you wish to be or not.”

“Some may try to argue that,” Alina said sharply. “And they may also live to regret doing so.”

The Apparat was not disturbed by her thinly veiled threat. He smiled again, as if to a child who did not yet understand the complexities of the world, and drew a familiar-looking book from his robes.

“For you,” he said, thrusting it towards her. “I insist.”

Alina pursed her lips with displeasure but, sensing it was the fastest way to get rid of the fanatical priest, snatched the book from him.

“Thank you, but I should get back to my studies,” she said, managing to imbue her voice with a firm note of finality. The Apparat bowed to her as she turned her back on him and hurried down the corridor. She was late for dinner.

She joined her classmates in their dining hall. Alina was so hungry that she wolfed down her own portion and went on to clean up the few scraps of pickled herring left on Marie’s plate.

“I’ve never seen you eat so much,” Nadia noted. “Did Baghra work you hard?”

Alina groaned aloud. “Don’t talk to me about Baghra.”

Her friends giggled and launched into stories of their own trials with the Grisha teacher.

“She set a hive of bees on me!” Marie complained, and Alina couldn’t help but laugh.

The plates were cleared away and the Grisha drifted from the room in small groups. Alina, Nadia and Marie made their way to the common room to revise before their next Ravkan History class. They settled into favourite seats – tucked in the recess beneath the huge arched window – and paged through their books a little half-heartedly. Then Taisa and Stefaniya appeared, and Alina beckoned them over eagerly, and their books lay open but untouched for the rest of the evening.

Later, Alina trailed back to her rooms after bidding the girls goodnight. She paused outside her door, looking down the corridor towards the pair of oprichniki outside the Darkling’s chambers. She needed to talk to him, and it wasn’t something that could wait much longer. It had been a week since she arrived at the Little Palace and word of the Sun Summoner had spread through Os Alta. News travelled slowly through the Fold, she knew, but it still travelled – Mal would find out soon enough. Alina wasn’t sure what he would do when he got wind of her situation, but she knew him well enough to know it would probably be something stupidly noble.

Alina didn’t want that. As long as Mal was on the other side of the Fold, he was relatively safe; the most immediate threats to his life were all here, in East Ravka. It hurt, knowing that she had to keep him at a distance to keep him safe, but she would not risk losing him – not to the Darkling’s Cut, not to a Fjerdan bullet, not as a deserter at the end of a rope.

Steeling her nerves, Alina marched down the corridor towards the Darkling’s chambers.

“I want an audience with the General,” she demanded of the oprichniki. “Now, if he isn’t busy, or otherwise whenever he’s next available.”

Alina thought she saw amusement on the face of the oprichnik who knocked once, sharply, on the door before disappearing inside. He returned after a moment and motioned for her to enter.

The Darkling’s war room was exactly as she remembered it. The tall, narrow windows on the far wall were obscured, their dark curtains pulled closed. A fire burned low in the hearth while candles guttered on their sconces. The map table occupied the centre of the room, its edges strewn with the latest scout reports.

He kissed me there, Alina recalled, the memory lancing through her treacherous mind vividly. She pushed it down. She had to focus.

The Darkling himself was not at the map table but his desk in the corner of the room. He was leafing through pages and pages of documents, pausing every so often to take notes.

“Miss Starkov,” he greeted her without looking up from his work. It was a test, Alina reckoned, a game – one she was all too happy to play.

She stalked over to the desk. He did not invite her to sit, but she did so anyway, pulling out the seat opposite him noisily and flopping into it. His eyes flickered up to her and the movement of his pen stilled. He smiled slightly.

“You don’t need to request an audience with me so formally, you know,” he said, putting his pen down. “You’re welcome any time.”

“Even during your war cabinets?”

“Especially then, if you have an interest. Did you have something you wanted to talk about?”

Alina hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I want to send a letter to someone – a friend. He’s stationed in West Ravka right now, but I’m not sure exactly where."

“Of course. You can just give the letter to Genya, and she’ll see it delivered.”

Alina fought the urge to hit him. He lied to her so easily, like it was nothing, and then wondered why she turned against him.

“No, I’m not going to do that. I’m going to make a deal with you instead.”

Now she had his attention. The Darkling narrowed his eyes and nodded for her to continue. Alina sat forward in her seat, leaning against the desk.

“I can imagine,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “That any letters I write to send to my friends in the First Army might, mysteriously, fail to arrive. They might even, mysteriously, fail to make it out of the Little Palace gates. I can imagine that this would happen because you want me to feel that the Little Palace is my home, that I belong in the Second Army, and that the only people I can rely on are Grisha.”

Alina paused to take a breath. The Darkling, to his credit, didn’t speak – didn’t try to deny any of this.

“I can understand why you would do that, although I think it is unkind to play with my emotions in that way. I am Grisha, and I do belong here, and I’ll never get control of my powers until I accept that. So, fine. Since you are so determined to cut me off from my previous life – I'll agree to it. If you let me write this letter, if you guarantee that it will be delivered, it will be the only one I ever write.”

There was a moment of silence. Alina could see the Darkling calculating the different costs and benefits of her suggestion. Finally, he spoke.

“Who is this letter to?”

Not an outright refusal. Alina bolstered her confidence.

“My friend Mal. He’s an orphan, like me. We grew up together.”

“And what do you want to say to him?”

“I want to make sure he doesn’t try to come here.”

He tried to hide it, but Alina could tell that her answer had surprised the Darkling. She buried her smug smile and pressed on before he had a chance to say anything.

“The thing is, I know Mal. I know that when this news about me being the Sun Summoner reaches him, when he hears that I was rushed to the Little Palace under armed guard, he’s going to go out of his mind with worry. For a long time, the only people we could count on to look out for us, to protect us, were ourselves. It’s not the sort of thing either of us can just shrug off. If I knew that Mal was in trouble, nothing else would matter to me except finding a way to help him – my loyalty to the First Army, Second Army, to the King, it would all become insignificant.”

The words started tumbling out of her, faster and faster. She had let her fear for Mal, the panic, seep in and scatter all her thoughts. Alina knew that if she carried on like this, she would say something she didn’t want the Darkling to hear, so she forced herself to a halt and took one long, shaky breath in.

The Darkling leaned back in his chair, his face openly curious. He was waiting for her to finish her piece before giving his answer, but she got the sense that he had decided already. It made her furious. She grabbed hold of the rage and used it to pull her mind back into focus.

“I cannot have him risk his life for me. He would leave his post, try to cross the Fold on foot, try to break into the Little Palace, to make sure that I am safe and well. And he would be killed for the crime of desertion, by volcra, maybe even by you, if he made it this far.”

The Darkling’s face flickered, but again he said nothing, did not deny her allegations. Alina swallowed hard. She could feel herself reaching the end of her tirade, her wild energy evaporating.

“Let me write to him. Let me assure him that I’m happy and healthy, that I’m among my people. I’ll tell him that I didn’t know I was Grisha, that I never lied to him, but now that I know, I can’t go back. He has to hear it from me. I’m the only one who can convince him.”

Alina suddenly realised, appalled, that there were tears pricking at her eyes. She refused to cry in front of the Darkling. She fixed him with a fierce glare, staring at his expressionless face until her vision blurred.

“And if I say no?” he asked quietly, his voice as smooth as velvet.

“If you say no and Mal gets himself killed on his way here, not only will I never forgive you, but I will renounce the Grisha. I will hand myself over to the Apparat and let them make me into their figurehead, a Saint. I will crawl to the King on hands and knees and beg him to remove me from your corrupting influence. How long do you think Grisha would be safe for, if the Sun Summoner herself spoke out against them?”

Alina sat up straight, her fingers twisted in the material of her kefta underneath the desk. She hated having to use her people’s lives as a bargaining chip, but it was the only thing that had any leverage against the Darkling; that, and the fact that she knew the image of her, pious and holy, in the Apparat’s hands would be enough to make the Darkling nauseous with anger. All the same, this was a risky move.

The Darkling’s face was carefully impassive. He regarded her across the desk, every inch a general on the battlefield. Eventually, he reached for his pen and returned to surveying the papers in front of him.

“Very well. Write your letter.”

His tone was dismissive, but it couldn’t quell the triumphant glee that surged through Alina’s body. She sat back in her chair with a satisfied smile. Her first negotiation with the Darkling, and the victory was hers!

She was so busy congratulating herself for her success that she didn’t notice at first when the Darkling stopped taking notes and glanced at her in amusement.

“You should work on trying to hide your relief when a gamble like that pays off,” he said.

Alina blushed but inclined her head in thanks. “Noted.”

“How was your first lesson with Baghra?”

She almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. To go from bartering with the life and livelihood of people they cared about to small talk in just a few sentences was more than a little jarring.

“It was better than I was expecting,” Alina said at last. The Darkling almost smiled.

“That’s a glowing compliment, by Baghra’s standards.”

Alina hesitated, then shrugged in acquiescence. “I think I surprised her.”

The Darkling’s eyes roamed her face with a thoughtfulness that made her cheeks heat. “You’ve surprised us all, Miss Starkov.”

Alina fidgeted with the buttons on her kefta. The Darkling tilted his head as the smile that had been playing at the corners of his mouth for a few minutes finally broke across his face.

“Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?” he prompted.

“Yes,” Alina admitted. She hadn’t been sure about making another request because she currently didn’t have anything else to bargain with. But the Darkling, in that uncanny manner of his, had been able to read it on her face. “My cartography unit. They were marching east, towards Chernast. I just want to know if they’re alive.”

“I will make enquiries,” he said with a nod. Alina stared at him.

“Just like that? You don’t want anything in return?”

“You don’t have to blackmail me with threats of jumping into the Apparat’s arms, if that’s what you mean,” the Darkling smiled wryly as Alina flinched. “No, Miss Starkov, I don’t want anything in return. But perhaps I will call in a favour of my own someday soon.”

Alina did not like the sound of that, but she had no choice other than to agree.

“Well, thank you,” she said, pushing back her chair slowly. “I should probably go. You look busy, and it’s late, and we have combat training first thing tomorrow.”

The Darkling rolled the pen between his fingertips, almost absentmindedly, as he watched her get to her feet. “Good night, Miss Starkov.”

“Good night, General,” she replied.

Alina kept her steps even as she walked towards the door. She could feel his eyes on her the whole way, but she didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The last dregs of summer drained away. Alina’s days began to blur together, a haze of training, studying, and more training.

Botkin was pleased with her progress in combat sessions. Zoya was a stern and demanding tutor, reacting to every one of Alina’s missteps with an impatient scoff and an eyeroll, but before long Alina was winning one out of every two sparring bouts against her classmates. She was yet to beat Zoya; any time they faced each other in the ring, Alina inevitably ended up getting knocked on her back. But Alina’s strength was growing, and so was her confidence.

A well-placed blow sent her opponent Valentin, a Squaller built like an oak tree, tumbling to the ground. Botkin watched with a nod of approval. Alina grinned, her chest heaving with exertion, and leaned forward to offer Valentin a hand up. He took it with a grunt of thanks.

“Well fought,” he said with a grudging smile.

“You too,” Alina replied graciously.

“You have straw in your hair, Valentin,” Zoya said, appearing out of thin air at Alina’s shoulder. As the other Squaller started plucking at his head, Zoya turned to Alina, her beautiful face as serious as ever. “I’m going back to the Fold tonight. I’ll only be away for a week, two at the most – don't go forgetting everything I taught you, Starkov.”

It was the closest thing to affection Alina was going to get. She smiled at Zoya, but she could feel that familiar worry coiling in her stomach, cold and heavy.

“What’s so urgent at the Fold?” she asked. Zoya merely shrugged a shoulder.

“The King is demanding more regular crossings, and they need Squallers. Between the Fold, the Fjerdan frontlines, and the disputes on the Shu Han border, the Second Army is stretched thin. It’s not just me – there are a few Healers and Inferni being pulled from training for the Fold crossings, too.”

“Are you going to try and tell me it’s an honour to be among the few, most talented Grisha chosen for this?” Alina asked drily. Zoya nearly laughed, her perfect white teeth gleaming in a sly smile.

Her humour faded after a moment, though, and she shook her head. “No. I’m not that kind of heroic fool. But I am a soldier, and I have my orders.”

Alina hesitated, then spoke again in a low voice. “Doesn’t it bother you? That General Kirigan would risk his own people, even those not finished training, for the King’s benefit?”

Zoya’s eyes flickered briefly around the training yard. When she finally answered, her voice was even quieter.

“Kirigan may be our general, but he is still the King’s soldier. It is on the King’s orders that Grisha sacrifice their lives. It is the King who sends us through the Fold, just as it is the King who sends the First Army into Fjerda to draw a new border.”

Alina’s skin prickled. To speak such treason, even at the Little Palace, where most were already unsympathetic towards the crown, was risky. She nodded in acknowledgment and Zoya resumed her typically haughty air.

“I reckon, Starkov, that you’ll tire of knocking Valentin on his arse pretty quickly. Maybe by the time I get back you’ll finally be up to the challenge of facing me.”

Alina rolled her eyes as Zoya flashed her an arrogant grin and strode towards the Little Palace.

“I’m definitely growing on her,” she said happily to Marie and Nadia as they made their way inside.

“You’re right,” Marie agreed. “She likes you as much as she’s capable of liking anyone other than General Kirigan.”

“I don’t know why she wastes her time with him when she could be with me,” Nadia sighed.

Alina didn’t know where the rumours about Zoya and the Darkling had come from; certainly, they’d been circulating longer than she had been at the Little Palace. But she knew they were just that – rumours. Zoya herself had confirmed as much, one evening in Keramzin after a few too many glasses of kvas.

“Saints, no!” she’d exclaimed, at which Genya had choked on her kvas and collapsed into a fit of giggles. Zoya shot her a glare which would have anybody else trembling at the knees.

“Oh, come on Zoya. You’re not fooling either of us,” Genya had managed eventually, hiccupping with glee in between her words.

Zoya huffed in submission. “Fine. It was a girlish infatuation, nothing more, and it was one-sided – that is the solemn truth. He was never interested in me as anything other than a soldier.”

She looked for a moment like she wanted to break something, and Alina had worried briefly for the safety of her most expensive vase on the table in front of them. But, in the end, the Squaller had merely reached for the bottle of kvas and topped up her glass.

“Besides,” she grumbled. “Who among us can honestly say that they’ve never harboured any feelings towards the Darkling?”

Genya acceded to this with a tilt of her head. Alina’s gut had flipped over, shame and guilt flooding her body as the memories came racing back. Zoya and Genya watched her, understanding, as the warring emotions had played out on her face. They were waiting for her to say something, but there was nothing more to say; Alina just took a steadying breath and held out her glass for another refill.

They had toasted the Darkling in silence and moved on.

Alina knew that meddling in Little Palace gossip would achieve nothing except perhaps renew the rumours of her own relationship with the Darkling, so she kept her mouth shut while Marie and Nadia chattered and giggled their way down the corridors.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” she said, distractedly, as she peeled off in the direction of her chambers. “I need to go to the library.”

“I would prioritise a bath!” Marie called after her with a grin, while Nadia thumped her on the arm. Alina knew that Marie was probably right – combat training always left her sticky with sweat and covered in dust – but she really was behind on her reading, so unfortunately the bath would have to wait for later.

Alina hurried into her room, collected up the ever-growing stack of books beside her bed, and rushed out again. Her eyes registered the black-clad body on the other side of the door just a second before she ran into it. Her books tumbled to the floor, and Alina would have gone with them had the Darkling not caught her just in time.

She righted herself, swearing viciously. The Darkling’s eyes flashed with amusement.

“Is that what they teach you in the First Army?”

Alina flushed and extricated herself neatly from his grasp. “Among other things.”

With a sigh, she dropped inelegantly to her knees to gather up her books. The Darkling knelt beside her, wordlessly passing Alina the battered volumes that had scattered around them. He paused as he inspected the titles.

“These aren’t on your Small Science theory syllabus,” he noted, his voice curious. Alina shrugged nonchalantly.

“Baghra assigned them,” she responded.

The Darkling made a noise in the back his throat, some emotion that Alina couldn’t quite place, but set the books back on top of her pile and stood up. Alina struggled to her feet, feeling bedraggled and unkempt in her rumpled, dirty kefta beside the Darkling. She hadn’t so much as glanced in the mirror in her room, but she could tell that her hair was a disaster, and she had no doubt that she smelled awful. He was, as always, a figure of perfection – his kefta impeccable, not a hair out of place.

He was standing very close to her.

She took a step backwards, almost stumbling as she reversed into the wall behind her.

“I was going to the library,” Alina said. “I have a lot to read before tomorrow. Baghra is...”

“Relentless,” the Darkling supplied. “Demanding. Particularly when she expects great things from you.”

Alina watched him carefully. He tried so hard to be impassive, to keep his perfect mask in place, but little bits of feeling inevitably snuck through the cracks whenever he spoke about his mother.

He caught himself, glancing at Alina to see if she had noticed, shrugging it off when he realised that she had. The Darkling gestured in the direction of the library.

“I was heading the same way. Shall we?”

Alina couldn’t very well refuse him. They set off down the corridor in silence.

It was the Darkling who spoke first. “I’ve heard back from my agents in Chernast. Your cartography unit arrived there unscathed.”

A weight Alina had barely been aware of lifted itself from her chest.

“They’re alive?” she asked. “All of them?”

“As far as I’m aware.”

Alina took a moment to process this. Alive. It was a short-lived kind of relief. She remembered Zoya’s words earlier and knew that life and death in the First Army was decided based on the whims of an indifferent King. Her cartography unit had survived the Fjerdan border, but what now? They could be sent south to the Sikurzoi, to map the treacherous mountain passes, or further north, into the permafrost. Or maybe they would be ordered to cross the Fold into West Ravka.

She couldn’t protect them any more than she already had.

The Darkling was watching her closely.

“You feel responsible for them,” he observed. Alina hesitated, unsure how much of the truth she wanted to reveal to him.

“Not just them,” she said at last.

He nodded as if he understood the feeling but didn’t say anything else. Alina looked up at him and saw a deep weariness in his eyes, just for a moment, before his face closed over again. He had spent centuries carrying the burden of responsibility for all Grisha, feeling the weight of every life lost. Alina wondered what kind of person she would turn into if she had lived like that. Maybe it wasn’t so unexpected, she thought, that he had been driven by despair into so many acts of violence.

Alina shook herself. He was manipulating her – he had allowed her to get a glimpse of the desperation and fatigue hidden underneath his apathetic demeanour, but it was just a trick, just a way to make her feel sympathy for him. She knew how this game worked; she had played it before. She wouldn’t be so easily manoeuvred this time.

They were nearing the library. Alina stopped outside the entrance, clutching her books a little tighter to her chest.

“Thank you,” she said evenly. “For asking after them. I appreciate it.”

The Darkling merely nodded. “I am a man of my word, Miss Starkov.”

Alina felt as though a hand had closed itself around her throat. Liar.

“I should get on with these,” she muttered, indicating her pile of books with her chin.

“Of course,” the Darkling said, amused. “I don’t want Baghra to accuse me of interfering with your studies. I will leave you to it. Good evening, Miss Starkov.”

With another nod, he continued down the corridor, his oprichniki following closely behind him. Alina’s face twisted into a scowl. He was so damned charming. It gave her the childish urge to kick something in frustration – preferably his shins.

Alina turned and stomped into the library. Every interaction with the Darkling left her either confused or furious. Being furious was easier to handle, but it did make focusing on her books much more difficult, and by the time the bells rang for dinner, Alina had barely made it through two pages.

She heaved a sigh as she flipped the book closed again. Baghra would not be pleased.

Alina slept poorly that night, her dreams haunted by visions of a pure white stag with a twisted crown of antlers.

Not yet, she told it when she jerked awake in the early hours of the morning. I’ll find you, but not yet.

In an attempt to stave off the dreams, Alina pulled one of the huge books from her bedside table into her lap. She summoned a small amount of light and let it hover over the pages as she picked up where she had left off in the library the previous evening. But it wasn’t long before the dense, complicated theory had sent her straight back to sleep.

That’s where Genya found her the following morning.

“Rise and shine!” she said cheerily. Alina blinked groggily, sat up, and yawned.

“Genya?” she mumbled in confusion. The Tailor hadn’t come to wake her since her first morning in the Little Palace, the day she had been presented to the King. Alina sincerely hoped she didn’t have another audience to prepare for today.

“Saints, Alina, what do you do to your hair when you’re asleep?” Genya sighed. She perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to push the tangled strands from Alina’s face. Alina batted Genya’s fingers away indignantly.

“I like to give your talents a challenge,” she said with a tired smile. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Well, you’ve been excused from classes for today – which is just as well, since you seem to have slept through the breakfast bell.”

“Oh, hells.”

Alina threw the covers aside, stumbling out of bed and running to the fireplace. Genya looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh. Alina glared at the little clock on the mantelpiece.

“I’ve missed breakfast!” she exclaimed, rounding on Genya. “How could they let me sleep?”

“Don’t worry,” her friend soothed, leading Alina towards the dressing table. “I sent word to the kitchens to have somebody bring a tray up for you. Let me see to your hair while we wait.”

Alina sank into the seat, still grumbling. Genya, wielding a gilded hairbrush expertly, managed to tease every knot from Alina’s hair. One of the servants brought in a tray of food – the regular breakfast fare, Alina noted with disappointment – and Genya continued to work while she ate. By the time Alina had cleared her plate, her hair was smooth and shiny, her cheeks pleasantly flushed, the dark circles of sleeplessness erased from under her eyes.

“There,” Genya declared with approval. “Now you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Alina asked, narrowing her eyes at Genya in the dressing table’s mirror.

In answer, Genya held up a pair of shiny riding boots. Alina groaned.

“I’m skipping my classes to go horse riding with General Kirigan.”

“You’re not skipping classes,” Genya said with a twinkle in her eye. “You’ve been excused from classes.”

Alina sighed and stomped gracelessly to the wardrobe. She was just about to slip into her kefta when Genya cleared her throat. Spinning around, Alina noticed with a sinking heart that there was a garment bag draped over the armchair by the fireplace. She already knew what was inside.

Genya opened the bag to reveal the kefta within, carrying it carefully to where Alina stood, frozen in horror.

It was beautiful, of course – black as midnight, embroidered intricately with gold over the chest and arms. But she had sworn she would never wear his colour again.

Alina clenched her fists, her mouth curling in the beginnings of an enraged sneer.

“Before you say anything,” Genya interrupted nervously. “The General asked me to remind you that you owe him a favour.”

Alina did not think of herself as a person predicated to violence, but the Darkling seemed to bring out the worst in her. Deathly silent, she seethed with fury, fighting the urge to flick her fingers and send bolts of light to smash through the windowpanes. She had been vain enough to believe that she had out-negotiated the Darkling, and now she was paying the price for that error.

"Fine,” she snapped, glaring at the kefta. “But just this once.”

Genya nodded, an apology written over her features. Alina tried to control her anger, partly because she knew it wasn’t really Genya’s fault, and partly because she knew her friend would report all of this back to the Darkling – and she really didn’t want him to know how easily he could get under her skin.

She let Genya help her into her new clothes and arrange her hair neatly. Finally, Genya stepped back, examining her handiwork with a critical eye.

“Don’t tell me I suit the black,” Alina sighed, frowning at herself in the mirror.

“You do,” Genya said softly. “But it sets you apart. I can understand why you wouldn’t want that.”

Alina turned to her friend, exquisite but forlorn in her spotless white kefta.

“I would wear white if I could,” Alina said. “If only so that you weren’t so alone.”

“It would be appropriate, I suppose,” Genya smiled as she tucked a rogue strand of Alina’s hair back into its place. “The light to his shadow. His opposite – his balance. But, unfortunately, the royal family have already claimed it for their servants.”

Alina gave Genya’s hand a squeeze.

“I will do everything in my power to get you out of that colour,” she vowed.

Genya’s smile turned sharp. “When the time is right, Alina. Now – the General will be waiting.”

Alina turned to look at herself in the mirror one last time before following Genya down to the stableyard. The Darkling was, indeed, waiting for them; a picture of indifference at first glance, but Alina could read tension in the lines of his body. They were late, and it bothered him.

The strain in his posture vanished when he saw Alina. She hated the way his face changed, softened, at the sight of her in his black kefta. His eyes flickered over her shoulder and he nodded, a sign for Genya and the oprichniki to depart. Then they were alone together.

Alina turned to the horses; two stallions, one black, one silver-grey. She could guess which was for her.

“His name is Artemiy,” the Darkling said, gesturing to the silver horse. He hesitated, then, running his hand absentmindedly down Artemiy’s neck. “I realise I may have been presumptuous in assuming you can ride.”

Alina rolled her eyes. Without saying anything, she gripped hold of Artemiy’s saddle, put one foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up. It wasn’t particularly elegant – it had been a long time since she’d last been on horseback – but she settled into the saddle comfortably, naturally.

Mal had always had aspirations of being a farmer. It was something they had laughed about, something Alina had teased him for, affectionately nicknaming him ‘Old Man Mal’ any time he started talking about crops and pasture with a wistful look in his eye. When they moved back to Keramzin, they had turned a part of the expansive grounds into space for animals – a few goats for milk, chickens for eggs, and a couple of ponies. She and Mal spent many hours giving the children lessons in how to ride, leading them at a trot around their little paddock. On market days, they would harness the ponies to their cart and trundle into the village, returning a few hours later laden with supplies. Sometimes, in the long, drowsy afternoons of late summer, Alina would saddle up and disappear for a few hours, basking in the solitude of it – just her, the hum of cicadas all around, the even thud of hoofbeats, the sunlight and the open sky.

Artemiy, a thoroughbred stallion, was quite a different beast to those sturdy little ponies she had grown used to, but Alina was confident she could at least stay in the saddle. She adjusted her grip on the reins and shot a pointed look at the Darkling. He tilted his head, not quite impressed, but pleased, and mounted his own horse with ease.

Alina sat in silence, waiting for him to take the lead, but the Darkling held his black stallion at a standstill. He looked over at her, his eyes dark with some unreadable emotion.

“The colour looks good on you,” he said eventually.

She shook her head. “It’s your colour, not mine.”

“When you wear it, it’s yours.”

Without waiting for her response, the Darkling clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward. Alina did likewise, following him out of the stableyard and into the vast expanse of the palace grounds.

The sheer enormity of it still managed to take Alina by surprise; acres and acres of land – neatly tended gardens, a lake with its own little island, seemingly never-ending stretches of grassland and forest stocked with game – set aside so that the royal family could stroll and ride and shoot without having to travel beyond their palace walls. Not too far from here, families were shivering and starving in the slums of Os Alta, but as Alina led her horse at a canter through the woodland, such suffering felt worlds away. This was intentional, she knew – the Grand Palace and its grounds were designed to keep the common people at arms’ length.

Ahead of her, the Darkling slowed his horse to a walk, pulling off the main trail and down an overgrown path to their right. He cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure she was still following, but didn’t speak. The dense tangle of branches overhead cast jagged patterns of light and shadow down upon them.

They emerged into a small clearing. Alina recognised this place, with its sculpture-like natural rock formations. Her eyes came to rest on the carved well, almost obscured by brambles and weeds, and she steeled herself. This was where the Darkling had first shown her his humanity, where he had spoken so expressively of regret. Alina had felt sorry for him, then, but she wouldn’t let herself fall into that trap again.

The Darkling dismounted from his horse and strode over towards Alina, reaching his hand out to help her down. She accepted, somewhat reluctantly, and pretended not to notice when his hands lingered on her shoulders just a second longer than they ought to.

She had to tread a fine line, here. She didn’t want him to think she was hopelessly naïve, but she needed him to believe he was winning her over. If he thought he could manipulate her too easily then he would never confide in her, but if she resisted too much then he would force her into submission by binding her powers to his own.

Malleable, Alina thought to herself. Not fragile.

So she let him help her down from the saddle, and she let him lead her to the fountain with one hand at the small of her back.

When they reached the edge of the well, the Darkling drew two coins from the inside pocket of his kefta. He tossed one into the water and handed the second to Alina. She took it gingerly. Now that she knew the true power of wishes, she was less inclined to cast them so casually.

The Darkling, watching her reaction closely, misunderstood her hesitancy.

“You hid from yourself, from your true potential, for so many years – even now, you’re still holding back. Are you so desperate to be like everyone else?”

Alina smiled slightly and turned to face him, turning the coin over in her fingers.

“I’m an orphan of war with the face of the enemy. Being like everyone else has never been an option for me.”

He absorbed this information with a look of understanding. Alina supposed, being one of the only two Shadow Summoners in existence, this may well be a sentiment he shared.

“Baghra is pleased with your progress,” the Darkling said, clearing the overgrown brambles and dead wood from around the fountain. “I’m telling you this because I know she would never do so herself.”

Alina snorted. “She certainly won’t be pleased that you cancelled my lesson with her today to take me to a wishing well.”

A smile flashed across the Darkling’s face. “No, probably not,” he conceded. “But I think you are due a day off.”

Alina stepped back, her gaze roving over the carvings on the base of the fountain.

“Are you going to tell me about him?” she asked with a nod towards the images. “The Black Heretic.”

“You recognise the story just from these old pictures?”

“Of course. He may have been Grisha, but every child in Ravka learns his story. Or one version of it, at least.”

The Darkling’s eyes searched her face intently. “You don’t think it’s true?”

Alina took a moment to come up with the right words. “I think it was in the King’s interest to paint the Black Heretic as a villain – and, in the same stroke, he managed to absolve himself completely and denounce all Grisha. It doesn’t change the fact that the Shadow Fold has killed thousands of people, but if the story is true, it worked out very conveniently for Anastas. I don’t know if history is ever so convenient for anyone, even kings.”

The Darkling hummed in agreement. “You’re very perceptive, Miss Starkov.”

She smiled but didn’t say anything. The Darkling ran his hand over the stone carvings, then stepped back to join her.

“I was going to tell you that I would run away and hide here as a child. Throw a coin in the fountain and wish to be somebody else – anybody else.”

“But you changed your mind?”

“I did,” the Darkling’s voice was steady. Alina turned to face him properly.

“Because it would be a lie?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “In part. I didn’t live here as a child. But I did wish I could be somebody else. I would lie awake at night, unable to sleep, crushed by the weight of my own existence. A few years after I came to the Little Palace, I found this place. It all came back to me – the weight of that feeling – to have the whole world looking at you as if they know who you are.”

Alina admired the way he took a skeleton of truths and fleshed it out with untruths. She knew the only reason he was telling her this was to garner her sympathy, and yet she could see through to the bones beneath. She imagined the Darkling as a boy, powerful beyond imagining but terrified of it, cursed with an ability that only served to make him other.

Still, she couldn’t help but challenge him – just a little.

“Is it easier?” she asked quietly. “To just give in and become the thing they expect you to be?”

He did not answer, but in his gaze she saw the full weight of his age, of his hundreds of lifetimes.

Not easier, his eyes told her. But inevitable, nonetheless.

“I merely want you to know that I do know how you feel, Miss Starkov. Alina.”

The sound of her name in his mouth sent a shiver through Alina’s body. He said it so carefully, so tenderly, forming the syllables with a nervous kind of awe. She dropped her gaze to the coin in her palm, the metal now warm with the heat from her skin. The Darkling cleared his throat.

“If I might make a request,” he began, his voice as smooth as ever. “Since Ivan is not with us, I wondered if you’d consider answering some of my questions now?”

Alina raised her eyebrows. “I would, but only if you answer some of mine in return.”

“Naturally. A question for a question.”

“A truth for a truth,” Alina replied, narrowing her eyes at him.

The Darkling smiled easily. “As you say, Alina.”

He stepped closer to her and took hold of her arm, pushing up the sleeve of her kefta and wrapping his fingers around her wrist. Alina gasped in indignation. While not quite so reliable as a Heartrender, the force of their connection was such that the Darkling could feel what she felt; if she didn’t control her emotions, he would be able to tell when she was lying.

“That’s cheating!” she accused.

“I’m afraid not,” the Darkling smirked. “You should have been more specific when laying down your terms, Alina.”

She couldn’t really argue with that, but Alina wasn’t going to let him off so easily – the connection between them flowed two ways, after all. She twisted her arm in his grip, sliding her fingers underneath his sleeve so that she could hold his wrist just as he held hers. The Darkling looked as if he had expected this and didn’t protest.

“I’ll begin,” he said, his anticipation and curiosity rushing to her through their shared bond. “How did you know I was an amplifier?”

This one was easy. Alina focused on the connection between them, strong enough that even when they were not in physical contact, she could always feel the nearness of him.

“Like calls to like,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I feel more... awake when I’m near you.”

His face was unreadable, but he seemed to accept this. Alina tightened her hold on his wrist. His skin was cool beneath her touch, making the warmth of her body in comparison feel like fire.

“My turn,” she breathed, considering her question carefully. “In the north – how did you find me? We’d been marching for more than a week. There can’t have been enough time after the ambush for you to receive your reports and travel all that way.”

The Darkling looked at her curiously.

“This is your question?”

She nodded. She didn’t want to plunge straight into the deep end and start with questions he wouldn’t want to answer – that would only serve to make him suspicious, and guarantee that he would lie to her.

“We started travelling north not long after you,” the Darkling said. “My scouts had been reporting more and more Fjerdan activity at that part of the border and I was worried for their safety. It was an extraction mission – a small team of elite Grisha, some of my most talented. It was just good fortune that we found you.”

Alina thought about that for a moment.

“I would have died,” she said quietly. “If Fedyor hadn’t dug me out of the snow.”

The Darkling squeezed her wrist a little tighter. “I know.”

“When did you know?” Alina asked, looking up at him. “When did you know that I was the Sun Summoner?”

A smile twitched on the Darkling’s face. “Is that another question?”

“Yes,” Alina said, then hesitated. “I wondered if, maybe, you suspected when we first met. In your tent in Kribirsk.”

He huffed a breath, almost laughing.

“No. You certainly intrigued me – you didn’t act like a normal otkazat’sya soldier. I could tell you were hiding something, but First Army mapmakers with secrets are not my responsibility, so I didn’t concern myself with it.”

He paused, gazing at her with something like regret, as if the realisation that she had been within her grasp and he had let her go still burdened him. The Darkling took a breath in and continued.

“Then we went to retrieve the scouts, and they told me about the light they had seen in the forest. They had compiled a list of all the soldiers killed in the ambush, which we compared with the roster for that mission. Yours was the only name on the roster not also on the casualty list. I thought it was too much of a coincidence, to have a mere assistant cartographer brought to my attention twice in such a short space of time.”

“That’s when you suspected?”

The Darkling was silent for a moment, his eyes still fixed on Alina’s face.

“I had my suspicions, but I couldn’t bring myself to hope. I have been waiting for you for so long, Alina. If it had turned out the Sun Summoner had died that day, that you were simply an otkazat’sya lucky enough to escape...” he didn’t finish the sentence – he didn’t have to. “But when you were brought before me, I knew I had guessed right. You should have been terrified – I could have had you tried for desertion – but instead, you were laughing at me.”

Alina couldn’t help but smile, remembering the indignation on the Darkling’s face when she had the gall to talk back to him.

“I liked knowing something you didn’t,” she admitted to him now. “Knowing that, just for a moment, I held all the cards.”

The second she had yielded and revealed herself to him, the balance of power had tipped firmly in his favour. But with every truth that he spoke now, Alina could feel herself clawing a little bit back, and she planned to wrest many more confessions from him – willingly or otherwise. It would just take time.

“I get to ask another one, now,” he said, drawing her even closer. “When did you know what you were?”

Alina remembered, sixty years ago, in her previous life, how it was the Darkling himself who showed her the truth of herself. She remembered her sheer disbelief in the moment that he had drawn the light out of her, her insistence that there was a mistake, and, beneath it, the arresting certainty that the part of her she had been missing her whole life had finally fallen into place. She remembered waking up in her tent a few weeks ago, suddenly young again, and feeling sunlight in her fingers once more.

The joy of having her power back, without the uncertainty or the doubt she had carried for so long, still struck her every time she summoned the light. A huge smile broke across her face and she let the strength of her delight flood the link between her and the Darkling.

“The day I arrived in Kribirsk. The day I saw the Shadow Fold for the first time. Somehow, I just suddenly knew.”

“Like calls to like,” the Darkling murmured, echoing her words from earlier. Their faces were very close together, now, close enough to make Alina’s heart pound. He smiled slowly and untangled their arms before taking a step back, adjusting the sleeves of his kefta. Alina’s body sang mournfully at his absence.

“That’s enough secrets for today, I think. We should get back – it looks like it’s going to rain.”

Alina nodded mutely. She was still holding the coin in her hand, a wish unspent, its edges pressing a perfect circle into her palm. She slipped it into her pocket as they walked slowly to where the horses were tethered, on the other side of the clearing. Her eyes drifted upwards; sure enough, the sky overhead was blotted with thick, dark clouds.

“I suppose this means I have to go to my afternoon lesson with Baghra,” she said with a sigh. The Darkling chuckled.

“You can spend the afternoon however you like. I told you before, Alina – I am a man of my word.”

Alina swung herself up onto Artemiy’s back, ignoring the hand that he offered her. “In that case, I should get you to make me promises more often, General.”

The Darkling settled into his saddle and brought his horse alongside her. Their eyes met, and Alina was taken aback by the openness in his gaze.

“Please, call me Aleksander.”

The breath rushed out of Alina. Aleksander. She had spent her whole life running from that name, keeping it locked out of sight behind the Darkling, a pretence, an illusion she had built out of stone. Aleksander. The last time she had said it out loud she had been watching his body burn.

Aleksander.

It cracked something open inside her, a well of grief she had long since buried.

“Aleksander,” she said, barely a breath. I am going to save you this time.

Chapter Text

Alina tried her best to keep a little bit of distance between herself and the Darkling. Having been on this path before, she knew that it wouldn’t be long before he looked to further their closeness, and as much as she wanted him to believe he was winning her over, she would prefer to avoid that particular route as much as possible.

A few days after her ride with the Darkling, Alina and Genya were having tea, as they liked to do in the rare moments when the breaks in Alina’s training and Genya’s duties at the palace lined up. Alina, sat at her small desk, looked up from her sketch as Genya appeared at the door carrying a silver tray laden with pastries, fruit, and a pot of tea.

“Genya!” Alina exclaimed in delight, throwing down her charcoal and rushing to greet her friend. She hesitated a few steps away, sensing that something was not right. Genya looked as beautiful as she always did – her skin creamy and flawless, her exquisite red hair perfectly arranged – but there was a tiredness in the way she held herself, something that not even her Tailoring could smooth away.

Alina, of course, knew about what the King did to Genya – had been doing for years – but she had to tread carefully. She didn’t want to pry too deeply, too obviously, and risk Genya shutting her out. For now, Alina determined the best thing she could do was to simply be a good friend – be supportive, caring, a place where Genya could laugh and feel loved – and hope that she would confide in Alina in her own time.

But, seeing her now, so withdrawn and weary, it was too difficult for Alina to hold her tongue.

“Is everything okay?” she asked cautiously. “Nobody’s... hurt you, have they?”

Genya merely reached out with a tired smile, smoothing Alina's hair away from her face.

“Don’t worry about me, Alina. The Queen has been particularly vexing of late – that's all.”

Alina didn’t push her; she would tell the truth when she was ready. And then, Alina vowed silently, she would do everything in her power to remove Genya from the Grand Palace, from the King’s clutches.

But she wouldn’t be able to do anything at all unless she held sway with the Darkling – and that meant she had to continue playing her part, being a good little Sun Summoner. She dedicated herself to her training and threw herself into her studies. What with all the extra reading she was doing for Baghra, Alina was now coasting through her lessons in Small Science theory. Her Shu was coming along in strides, although she was still far from fluent, and she continued to excel in Ravkan History. Their teacher, a Suli Tidemaker called Nilima, was so impressed with Alina’s understanding of Old Ravkan that she encouraged her to read the original texts rather than the translations.

When devising the curriculum at the orphanage, Alina had taken it upon herself to teach the children at least one language, and Old Ravkan books were by far the easiest to come by down in Keramzin. Over the years her Old Ravkan had become, not quite fluent, but passable in conversation – a fact which delighted Nikolai who, like most of the old nobility, had grown up speaking it. Whenever he had a chance to visit the orphanage, face heavily Tailored and under the guise of ‘Professor Sturmhond’, he and Alina would cheerfully exasperate Mal by conversing entirely in Old Ravkan.

At Nilima’s behest, Alina struggled through the old texts, earning her a headache and an invitation to tea one afternoon. Alina swelled with pride at this small privilege; she liked and respected Nilima enormously. The Tidemaker also taught their Modern Cultures classes – these were compulsory for all Grisha in their final year of training, ensuring that every Second Army recruit had at least a basic understanding of the languages and cultures of all their neighbouring countries, on top of whichever language they had decided to specialise in. Nilima was tiny, even smaller and slighter than Alina, but she was fluent in at least six languages and had a razor-sharp wit.

Alina spent a pleasant few hours in Nilima’s rooms, sipping a deliciously sweet and spicy cha, listening with interest to the stories of her childhood. Nilima told her how she had grown up in a Suli caravan in West Ravka, that she had two older sisters and a little brother, and that she was the only Grisha in her family.

“Officially, at least,” Nilima said as she refilled her cup with a wave of her hand. “My grandmother could heal just about any injury, tend to any sickness, and I never saw her get so much as a fever. But she always said she just had good knowledge of herbs.”

“Why do you leave?” Alina asked curiously. “I can’t imagine they send Grisha testers to the caravans.”

Nilima smiled knowingly. “No – it’s definitely easier for Suli Grisha to go undiscovered.”

She took a long sip of tea, her eyes far away. Most Grisha were brought to the Little Palace as children, often coming from families who were happy to see them go. Very few travelled here of their own accord. It couldn’t have been an easy choice to make.

“I’ve known what I am since I was a child,” Nilima said eventually. “And it’s not that I felt out of place, but I was very aware that there was nobody else like me in our caravan. I wanted to find others who shared my gift and I wanted to learn how to use it properly. It’s complicated, though. My people have not been treated well by Ravka – I had no interest in fighting wars on behalf of the King, or serving a country that disparages me for being Suli.”

Her lip curled a little when she spoke of the King. Alina found herself liking her teacher even more with every passing word.

“But I also knew that the Little Palace is a haven for Grisha, and I knew that the Second Army is led by a man who treats us as people, not just tools, whose aim is to have all Grisha free of persecution. That is a cause worth fighting for – a man worth serving. Here, nowhere else, I can be both Grisha and Suli.”

“It can’t have been easy, though. There aren’t many Suli at the Little Palace, and I know –” Alina gestured at her own face “– that Grisha can be just as prejudiced as otkazat’sya.”

Nilima rolled her eyes. “You are right about that. But I have found that it is much easier to remind Grisha that, beneath our skin and beyond the language we grew up speaking, we are the same on the inside. How can they deny it, when they watch you, day after day, wield the very same gift that they possess?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not really an option for me,” Alina said with a half-smile. Nilima shook her head.

“Perhaps not, but it’s for that very reason that people are drawn to you. Besides, I’ve seen you in class – you have no problem making friends, even with Grisha outside your order. That’s a gift almost as rare as Sun Summoning.”

Nilima’s words heartened Alina considerably. When it was time for her lesson with Baghra, she thanked her teacher for the tea in halting Suli before making her way down to the stone hut by the lake.

The sky was already starting to get dark – the lengthening nights a reminder that winter was a mere stone’s throw away – and the path down to the lake was lit with lanterns. Alina flexed her fingers, making the warm, orange glow they cast over the cobbles dance and twist. It was a simple enough trick, but it made her smile anyway.

It was another punishingly difficult session with Baghra. Alina knew that her abilities were growing, that she was gaining more control of her power in weeks than many of her classmates had achieved in years, but the old woman never seemed satisfied. She snapped and sneered at Alina, brandishing her cane with vigour, tirelessly pushing for more.

Alina left Baghra’s hut that evening drained to her core. Her muscles ached, she was sweating rivers beneath her kefta, and there was a neat bruise forming on her shin where Baghra had been especially vicious. Alina trudged back to the Little Palace and ate her dinner mostly in silence, listening half-heartedly to Marie and Nadia discuss the day’s most important gossip.

Soon, the servants came to clear away the dinner plates. Alina knew that she really should go with the others to the common room to study, but she just couldn’t face it; instead, she sought the solitude of her room, allowing herself a long soak in the bath while she paged through a book on Suli folklore that she had taken from the library the other day. Once the tension in her body had drained away into the hot water – she would have Genya or one of the Healers see to that bruise tomorrow – Alina reluctantly climbed out of the bath. She ran a comb through her damp hair, leaving it loose around her shoulders as she crawled gratefully into bed.

Alina fell asleep almost immediately. For a brief, blissful period, she dreamt of nothing at all. Images, memories, flickered in her mind like the whisper of bird wings in flight. Then a stag walked out of the blackness. His fur was pure white, his antlers forming a corona of bone around his head. He glowed with an ethereal power, something ancient beyond understanding, gleaming like the curve of a crescent moon that hung in the sky behind him.

Almost against her will, Alina was drawn to him. He dipped his nose, inviting her closer, and she closed the space between them. With every step, more of the landscape became clear to her: the fresh snow holding her footsteps so perfectly, the stooped trees with their coats of white, the constellations swept across the fabric of the night sky. This place was familiar. Alina knew what would happen here.

She reached the stag, her fingers brushing the soft fur of his nose. Energy pulsed through her, throwing bright light all around the clearing, banishing the shadows.

“You’re not safe here,” she whispered. “You need to go.”

But the stag lowered his head, nuzzling her shoulder affectionately. He would not leave her. Tears dripped down Alina’s face. She didn’t want to kill him, but how could she save his life? If she were not the one to strike the killing blow, it would be somebody else, and the stag would not strengthen her but shackle her to the whims of another. She could not let that happen.

The stag raised his head again, bringing his face level with her own. In his eyes, she could see calmness, certainty, acceptance. He understood. He had come to her willingly, even knowing how it would end.

Alina saw the shadows at the edge of the treeline begin to lengthen, despite the light she was casting. She didn’t have much more time.

A deep sorrow reverberated through her body, overpowering her fear. She brought her hands together, summoning an arc of light which she honed to a fine, sharp edge. A blade.

Darkness seeped into the snow at her feet. Alina let loose a furious scream and hurled the Cut with all her might.

She sat up, the shape of the scream still on her lips. She was in bed in her room in the Little Palace, the candle on her bedside table almost burned out, her sheets twisted up around her legs.

Alina covered her face with her hands. Her skin was flaming and she could feel herself trembling, her body racked with emotion. But it had only been a dream – a strange conflation of memory and fiction. Eventually, the tremors died down, and her breath came a little easier, but Alina still felt twitchy and altogether too on edge to go back to sleep. She disentangled herself from her bedsheets and padded over to her desk for a spare candle. The clock on the mantle told her that it was past midnight.

She was planning on getting comfortable by the fire and reading some more of her book – she really, really was. But her eyes lingered a moment too long on the door to the corridor and another thought became stuck in her mind.

Sighing, Alina slipped into her robe and snatched up her candlestick before making for the door. The oprichniki on the other side looked surprised to see her, but she calmed them with a gesture, letting them know everything was alright.

Mere metres away, another pair of oprichniki stood guard outside the Darkling’s rooms. She approached slowly, giving herself ample time to change her mind and turn back, her footsteps soft in the darkened hallway. She nodded at the oprichniki.

“Is he still awake?” she asked. The one on the left inclined his head in assent. Alina didn’t wait for their permission to enter – she knew he had given orders that she could come in and out of the war room any time.

The Darkling was indeed awake, leaning over the map table and surveying the pieces with a critical eye. He looked up when he heard the door open, his face creasing into an irate frown, ready to admonish whoever had interrupted him without so much as a knock, but he relaxed when he saw her.

“Alina,” he said, sounding pleased and a little surprised. “What can I do for you?”

She drew nearer to the table, setting her candle down in the middle of the True Sea.

“I just couldn’t sleep. I had a feeling you’d still be awake.”

The Darkling smiled, very slightly, and she saw the fatigue in his eyes.

“My position does lend itself to late nights,” he agreed, reaching with one hand for the dark glass bottle perched beside him. “Would you like a drink?”

Alina nodded and gratefully accepted the glass. She took a sip and raised her eyebrows at him – it was not kvas, as she had expected, but brandy. The Darkling smiled again, conspiratorially.

“As far as the King is aware, one or two bottles from his shipment were unfortunately broken during transport.”

Alina almost laughed at him, then – a centuries-old creature with power beyond imagining, resorting to petty thievery to spite the king he despised. She took a second sip of brandy and set the glass down with a sigh. The Darkling poured himself another glass.

“What’s keeping you awake?” he asked.

“Nightmares,” Alina said simply, casting him a slow glance. “Do you get them?”

It was a silly question. Of course he did.

“Sometimes,” he acknowledged. “What were they about, tonight?”

Alina remembered the horrifying feeling – giddy with power, fraught with desperation – of calling upon the Cut to fell the stag. She shook her head silently and, to her surprise, he did not push her to answer.

The Darkling walked around the table until he was by her side. Unusually, he was not wearing his kefta, just a simple black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He reached out to trace the outline of the Fold. The pale skin of his arms glowed orange-pink in the light from the fire.

“What do you see?” he asked her, gesturing to the map.

Alina considered. East Ravka was surrounded by enemies – Fjerda, Shu Han, West Ravka and the Fold. Both the Unsea and the True Sea stood between them and any potential allies. Year on year, East Ravka became more dependent on what could be grown within her own borders, while merchants in West Ravka got richer and richer off the back of lucrative trade contracts. The King wasted money ordering crates of expensive brandy shipped from overseas and transported through the Fold while his people died on the battlefield or starved in their beds. Grisha, hunted by Fjerda and Shu Han, bought and sold by Kerch, feared even by Ravka, had no true home. All over the world, they were dying in the hope that the future might be gentler to their kind.

“Something that can’t continue,” she whispered.

The Darkling’s voice was low and dangerous. “Which piece shall we topple first?”

He did not ask as if it was a hypothetical question. Alina raised her eyes to meet his and found his face bleak with fury. This was the countenance of a man whose patience was nearing its end.

She knew that her answer wasn’t the one he was looking for, but she gave it anyway.

“The Fold,” she said, firmly. “Remove it, and West Ravka becomes a nonentity. Zlatan might still be a problem, but it would be much easier to deal with him, and without him the movement for secession will crumble. It would open up our access to the True Sea, allow us to trade and make alliances. We would no longer have to send Grisha on suicide missions to supply our armies. Once the country is united again – then we deal with Fjerda and Shu Han.”

The Darkling did not object to her argument. He considered her carefully for a long moment, scrutiny clear in his gaze.

“You’ve thought about this,” he concluded.

Alina turned away from him, letting her eyes rest on the map again.

“At length,” she murmured. “I know you don’t agree, so tell me – where would you start?”

The Darkling’s fingers hovered momentarily over the Lantsov double eagle positioned at Os Alta, then he withdrew his hand. Alina smiled slightly at his allusions to treason.

“I can’t decide,” he said eventually. “There are so many irritations to be dealt with. I’m not sure which would be most satisfying to deal with first.”

Irritations. It seemed an understatement to Alina. She watched, silent, as the Darkling put both palms on the table and leaned over, his face darkening as he surveyed the map again.

“I have been fighting the war, alone, for so long. I have seen so many good soldiers killed. Buried so many friends. Every direction I turn in, I am faced with more enemies. It is never-ending.”

Again, Alina saw how he took the truth and dressed it up to make himself seem sympathetic. She knew the scale of his loss – centuries of it. She wondered when he had last really allowed himself to feel that.

Alina walked away from him, towards the bottle on the other side of the table, where she poured another two fingers of brandy into her glass. She and the Darkling observed each other from opposite ends of Ravka.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said simply.

The shadows that had been creeping outward from the corners of the room receded. The Darkling exhaled, his body relaxing, and stepped back from the map. His eyes did not leave her face.

“I have been waiting a long time for you, Alina.”

“What will you do with me, now that you’ve found me?” she countered, her voice so quiet she wasn’t sure he would hear.

The Darkling’s expression was inscrutable as he ran his fingers around the rim of his now-empty glass. The only sound in the room was the low popping and crackling that came from the fireplace, the faint singing of his touch on the fine crystal glass. It reminded Alina uncomfortably of how it felt when he touched her.

“When is your birthday?” he asked, breaking the silence suddenly. She shook her head, taken aback by the abrupt change in topic, but his eyes were serious.

“The winter solstice.”

Alina had very few memories of her life before, of her family – her mother’s face, her father’s voice, they had all faded away in the consuming haze of time. The only reason she knew the date of her birthday was because it was memorable. Most of the children at Keramzin were too young to know theirs, and it became tradition among the orphans to adopt the day they arrived as their birthday from then on. Mal hadn’t known his birthday; it was fitting, she thought, or perhaps just fate, that he showed up at Keramzin on the summer solstice.

The Darkling, though he tried to hide it, started at her words. Alina frowned.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said with an idle wave of his hand. “I’m just surprised, I suppose. It’s a little ironic that the Sun Summoner would be born on the shortest day of the year.”

Alina tilted her head to one side, contemplating this.

“Maybe,” she said eventually. “Maybe not. My mother used to tell me that the winter solstice is the darkest day, but it’s also a day of hope – a turning point. It marks the beginning of our return into light.”

This was one of the handful of faded, fractured images of her mother she could still recall: fragments of Shu folktales in a lilting voice, the feeling of gentle hands smoothing out knots in her hair, a presence beside her as they lit candles on Alina’s birthday to banish the darkness. The memories felt somehow closer, fresher, in this body.

“It’s about light and dark, equally,” she continued now, feeling emotion clog her throat. “It’s about balance.”

The Darkling’s face softened just a fraction. She could tell that the allegory appealed to him.

“Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Alina said. “But I like to think so, too.”

She looked back down at her hands, twisting the glass in her fingers. The look of understanding in the Darkling’s usually unfathomable eyes was too much to bear. Carefully, she set the glass back on the tabletop, and was about to say something else to change the subject when she broke into a huge yawn.

Alina cast a sheepish glance at the Darkling. He was leaning against the table, watching her with amusement as she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a second yawn.

“Perhaps I should go back to bed,” she muttered, and he smiled briefly.

“That might be wise. It’s late, and I don’t want you to fall asleep in Ravkan History.”

“Nilima would not be pleased with me,” Alina agreed, offering him a small smile of her own. “Thank you – for the drink and the distraction.”

“Any time, Alina. Sleep well.”

“Thank you. Good night, Aleksander.”

The look of undisguised longing that crossed his face when she said his name made Alina shiver.

She knew that Baghra believed it all to be a trick, just one of many ways he had manipulated Alina into following him. And he had manipulated her – Baghra was right about that. He had lied to her over and over again, he had hidden his true intentions, and when she tried to break free from him, he had hunted her down, bound her to him with a collar of bone, and threatened Mal to ensure her compliance. It would have been enough to make her to believe Baghra’s words, to believe that his affection, his loneliness, had been feigned from the start.

It would have been enough, if not for that name. Almost everything he had told her had been some form of untruth, but he had given her his name; his true name, the name nobody but his mother had ever called him by in his many centuries of life. He had no reason to do so – he had countless aliases that he could have given her instead – unless some part of him wanted a connection with her that was real.

Alina had gone round and round in circles thinking about this in the decades after his death. She had never come to any satisfying conclusion. But looking at Aleksander – at the Darkling – now, something in her heart stilled. She wondered at the possibility that he could lie about one thing while simultaneously be truthful about another. And, if so, was what had passed between them entirely imagined? Was the way he looked at her now a falsehood?

She decided not to dwell on it – not tonight, at least. With a timid smile, Alina left the room, letting the door close softly behind her.

Chapter Text

The winter fête was approaching, and it quickly became the favourite subject of gossip at the Little Palace. Every day at breakfast, Alina listened to Marie and Nadia discuss the latest additions to the (very long) list of guests and performers rumoured to be making their way to the Grand Palace.

Alina was less than excited. For one, she knew she would be expected to give a demonstration of her light, and for two, she was plagued with worries about the safety of her friends. She knew that General Zlatan would seize this opportunity to send an assassin after her, to rid himself of a threat to his secession movement – and previously, this had resulted in Marie’s death. Alina would not let that happen again, but planning exactly how to avoid it was difficult; she was coming to the realisation that she knew painfully little about the assassination attempt, such as where or even when it had taken place.

Trying to find a way around events with only a handful of their details made Alina cross and irritable. She stomped into Baghra’s hut one afternoon, shaking the rain off her kefta as she crossed the threshold, muttering angrily to herself. She was in a terrible mood and she knew that the old woman was unlikely to make her feel any better.

How right she was. As Alina arrived in the main chamber, accosted by the usual blast of heat that made her damp hair steam, Baghra stormed over to greet her in a fury.

“Stupid girl!” she hissed. Alina stopped in her tracks, bemused, running through the possibilities of what she could have done that would have displeased her teacher quite so much.

Baghra clutched her wrist and dragged her towards the fire. Alina felt the familiar rush of power and certainty that accompanied her touch – similar to when Aleksander touched her, but not as strong. Baghra stopped just in front of the fire but did not let go of her.

“Stupid girl,” she repeated. “You should be more careful.”

Alina wrenched her arm from Baghra’s grip. “What are you talking about?”

“I expected better from you – I expected you to have more sense. Instead, I find you moon-eyed like a lovesick child. Don’t look at me like that, girl, I know all about your late nights in the General’s study.”

Alina flushed. Her dreams lately had been stalked by visions of the stag. The ending was different every time – some nights it was she herself who struck him down, sometimes the Darkling appeared, wreathed in shadow, and unleashed the killing blow while she stood frozen, unable to move. Worst of all were the nights when a horde of drüskelle poured forth from the trees and both Alina and the stag were torn to pieces by bullets.

The knowledge of what awaited her in unconsciousness meant Alina was having trouble falling asleep. After that first night when she had joined the Darkling in the war room, she began to visit more often – now, it was an almost nightly routine. Most of the time they didn’t even talk; he had plenty of reports to read and paperwork to fill out, and she had a stack of books from various classes demanding her attention. Alina would sit in the armchair by the fire, he at his desk in the corner, and they would pass the time in silent companionship. His presence was stabilising, even from the other side of the room; after a few hours, when Alina’s eyelids began to droop, she would bid him goodnight and return to her own chambers.

“You should stop meddling in things that don’t concern you. I know what I’m doing,” Alina snapped.

“You know nothing. That boy will not stop until he has what he wants. He will consume you.”

Alina’s face twisted into a scowl. “Do you really believe I don’t know that already? You may think me a naïve child, easily led, but I am fully aware that General Kirigan would use me for his own ends. Has it ever occurred to you that I might be the one using him?”

Baghra’s black eyes narrowed. “You cannot possibly think you can outwit him.”

“Can’t I?” Alina scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “He underestimates me, Baghra, just as you do.”

The old woman was silent for a moment, and Alina wondered if she was going to stage her intervention a few days early. She waited patiently for Baghra to spill all of her son’s secrets, to redouble her efforts to pull Alina from the path she was on, but, with a glower twitching across her face, she seemed to accept Alina’s reasoning.

“Take care, child,” she said simply. “He has had a long time to master lying to girls like you.”

“There are no girls like me,” Alina retorted. Baghra huffed.

“Call the light. I want to see more than that pitiful display of sparkles you have planned for the winter fête.”

And just like that, the discussion was over.

Her sessions with Baghra were spent making the light burn brighter, dimmer, hotter, colder; focused into an intense white needlepoint that could scorch wood; split into multiple beams that she controlled independently. They never stayed on the same skill for too long – one day, Baghra wanted her to shape her light into golden images, the next, she would demand that Alina make the dank little hut appear bathed in natural daylight. It was all an exercise in honing her control, and it was helping. But it wasn’t enough for Alina.

She had already begun practising more advanced techniques – namely, invisibility and the Cut – whenever she had some time to herself. She was nowhere near strong enough to manage a manipulation of light on that scale, but she wanted to make sure that, when she was ready, she would already have the fundamentals of these skills within her grasp. That meant laying the groundwork well ahead of time.

It was a maddening, tedious task, but Alina was determined. She sat awake in her rooms at night, attempting to bend light around something small – a hairpin, or a pen – but so far, the most she had managed to do was make the air around it seem wavy and distorted. She simply didn’t have the finesse required.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep going.

The Cut was even worse; she was able to call the light, to shape it into an arc, but to concentrate it into a sharp edge needed a forcefulness that was currently beyond her. She also had no way to practise the act of releasing it – even if it wasn’t sharp, that arc of light would do considerable damage if she flung it around her room. Her only option was to hold it still for as long as possible, sweat beading on her forehead as she attempted yet again to hone the edge into some semblance of sharpness, before letting the light dissipate into nothingness. It was an intensely dissatisfying sensation, and one that only become more frustrating as time went on.

This was what led Alina to take the drastic action of sneaking out through her window in the middle of the night. Although she was two floors up, it was relatively easy thing to do – the architecture of the building was kind to her, providing convenient footholds and ledges almost as if somebody had known she would need an escape route one day.

The stables were quiet. Moving quickly, Alina tacked up Artemiy and climbed into the saddle. She winced at the loudness of his hooves on the cobbles as she walked him across the yard – there was nothing she could do about that, though – and breathed a quiet sight of relief when they reached the edge of the woods. Alina suspended a small light above Artemiy’s head to illuminate their surroundings, then urged the horse into a canter.

They raced through the forest. Alina’s heart leapt at every tree that loomed out of the night, but she kept the path well-lit, and Artemiy seemed to know the trail well enough that he could anticipate when a turn was coming up. It wasn’t long before the path widened, opening out into a huge meadow; in summer, it would be lush with tall grass and wildflowers, but now the ground was barren and frosty. Alina tugged on the reins and her horse slowed, allowing her to slip from his back.

She felt herself relax as she stepped into the centre of the clearing. This was much better – she had more than enough space to practise throwing the Cut.

Alina focused on her breathing, letting it slow into a steady rhythm, feeling her heartbeat settle. When her body was calm, she pressed her hands together and summoned light. She still couldn’t get it thin or sharp enough, but she followed through the motion of release anyway. She remembered Baghra teaching her to wield this power, instructing her to slice the top off a mountain, fully confident that it was within her abilities. Alina had two amplifiers then, of course, but the theory was the same. She picked out a tree at the other end of the clearing and let the Cut fly.

It slammed into the tree and Alina threw up her hands in delight. She had hit her target! She ran across the meadow to inspect the damage. The trunk was not sliced through, but it was dented and a little bit charred. She may not be able to form a blade yet, but she could wield a significant amount of force.

Feeling more than a little proud of herself, she walked back across the clearing to try again.

She was in the middle of creating another fine, focused arc of light when a voice behind her broke her concentration.

“Alina.”

Alina whirled, the Cut already dissolving into the night air. The Darkling stood behind her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice frigid.

She bolstered her confidence and lifted her chin an inch. “I’m practising. What are you doing here?”

A dark expression crept over his face. His jaw tightened. Alina wondered if she had pushed too far this time.

“You didn’t come to me tonight,” he said quietly. “I was worried that something was wrong. But when I came to your rooms, the window was open, and you were gone.”

Alina’s eyes widened a fraction. Of course he was angry, she could understand that – he thought she had run from him – but he had been worried?

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just needed... space.”

The clearing was silent, save for the faint creaking of the trees. The Darkling’s face was unreadable once more.

“I don’t recall Baghra telling me she was teaching you the Cut,” he said in a smooth voice. Alina considered her options for lying – “it wasn’t the Cut”, or “Baghra doesn’t tell you everything” – but in the end she settled for the truth.

She was doing that disturbingly often, these days.

“She’s not,” Alina admitted. “But she has me reading a lot of books on advanced theory, these days.”

Tacking on a lie at the end made Alina feel a little bit better, a little bit more in control.

The Darkling cocked a brow in disbelief. “So you decided to teach yourself?”

Alina shrugged. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”

He observed her for a long time. Alina tried not to squirm under his piercing gaze. Eventually, he sighed and gestured towards her.

“Show me,” he said simply.

Alina blinked in surprise. “You want me to... do it again?”

The beginnings of a smile started to show on the Darkling’s face. “While running off in the middle of the night without your guards to practise is not a strategy I approve of, I don’t disagree that the Cut is a useful weapon to have in your arsenal. I will help you to perfect it, if you like.”

Alina stared at him, stunned; she had not anticipated this. Still, since he was offering up his help...

“Okay,” Alina said. She turned back to her tree, feeling the light coalesce and condense in between her palms. Once she could compress it no further, she released it, watching as it hurtled across the clearing. This time, the tree bent back considerably, groaning and shaking its branches, before righting itself again.

She risked a glance at the Darkling.

“Your aim is admirable. Creating the blade is one thing – controlling its path to successfully hit a target is quite another. You’ve managed to master the hard part first.”

Alina beamed, but he wasn’t finished yet.

“You need to condense the light more. At the moment, you’re throwing a club rather than a blade – it still does damage, but it’s not very elegant. You need to shape the edge, sharpen it, like a sword at a grindstone.”

“I’m trying!” Alina exclaimed. “But I just can’t do it!”

The Darkling smiled at her miniature tantrum. “You can’t do it yet. Alina, you have been here mere months and you’re already one of the strongest Summoners in the Second Army, never mind your class. A few more sessions like these and you’ll be able to wield the Cut without a thought.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in.

“You mean you’ll help me practise again?”

“Yes. But not at night, when you should be sleeping. Let’s go.”

Alina started to follow him towards the horses, then stopped in her tracks. The Darkling turned around with an impatient frown.

“Will you show me?” she asked quietly.

His face relaxed, an almost smug kind of satisfaction flaring in his eyes.

“Stand aside, then,” he said as he brought his hands together in front of him. Alina didn’t hesitate to do as she was told.

Almost imperceptible under the night sky, a crescent of black shadow formed in front of the Darkling. Alina watched how he moved his hands, how he commanded the darkness so effortlessly, honing its edge into a slick, oily blade so fine it could split hairs. Then he shifted his stance, the tension in his arms seeking and finding its release, and the Cut flew from his grip with a singing sound.

There was a moment of stillness. The tree that Alina had used as her target creaked, swayed, and tipped to one side, crumpling into the ground.

The first time Alina had seen him use the Cut, he had saved her life. It had frightened her, then, and it still did, but she also envied the ease with which he wielded such power. It made her stomach churn a little bit – the realisation that she wanted what he had.

The Darkling turned back to her. She had no idea what he could read in her face, but he seemed to like what he saw.

They rode back to the Little Palace in silence.

“I have to leave,” he said, eventually, as they walked through the deserted corridors. “There’s been another skirmish in the Sikurzoi that demands my attention. But I will be back before the winter fête.”

He didn’t try to hide the distaste in his voice. Alina knew what he thought of the winter fête – a waste of time, not to mention the country’s dwindling coin – and, like most Grisha, agreed with him. The majority of her cohort, though, were still somewhat excited by the prospect of such a party; particularly given that they had been invited to this one, unlike most of the Grand Palace functions. Alina felt no such thing. She was dreading her performance, dreading the feeling of so many eyes on her, expectant, reverent.

“You’re ready for your demonstration?” the Darkling asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Of course,” Alina muttered disparagingly. “All they want are a few sparkling lights. I think I can handle it.”

“Their expectations are low, and yet they are infuriatingly demanding,” he practically growled in response.

“I don’t know how you’ve managed for so long,” Alina said in a low voice. “I’ve been here not even half a year, and my patience is worn thin.”

The Darkling let out a breath, half laughter and half sigh. “I simply remind myself that they are a distraction I will not have to put up with forever.”

Alina thought again of the King’s slow, suffering death at Genya’s hands, of Vasily torn asunder by the nichevo’ya at the Darkling’s command. The images shouldn’t have brought her gratification, but they did. She decided not to question why.

They had reached her rooms. The oprichniki still stationed outside looked relieved to see her, but they wilted ever so slightly when the Darkling turned a steely glare on them. Obviously, he had not forgiven them letting her slip out unnoticed.

“Keep practising, when you can,” he said to her with a nod. “I will see you at the winter fête.”

Alina paused with one hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alina.”

He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway to his own rooms. Alina slept without dreaming.

When she rose the next day, the Darkling had already gone – he and a battalion of his most favoured soldiers left in the early morning, according to Marie.

This wasn’t unusual. Since she had arrived at the Little Palace, the Darkling was always coming and going, his duties as general calling him away to different parts of the country every few weeks. In his absence, Ivan was left in charge of the day-to-day running of the Little Palace; as such, it was the sullen Heartrender that Alina was forced to face off with, the day before the winter fête.

Arguing with Ivan was even more difficult than arguing with the Darkling. Although he was formidable, and experienced in the field of deception, Alina knew the Darkling – she knew how to irritate him, how to skirt his arguments, how to press and prod and coax him into giving up a few inches of ground. But Ivan was made of stone. His stubbornness equalled Alina’s, and when the Darkling gave him an order, he would not sway from it. He was immovable.

“Absolutely not,” Alina glared at him. “I'm not having a body double at the fête. I won’t have somebody else put themselves in danger for my sake. I’ve already told the General this.”

Ivan had summoned her to the war room to discuss security protocol for the following evening. He seemed to have taken up an almost permanent residence there, and any time Alina saw him he was either deep in conversation with a set of important-looking people or buried under stacks of paperwork.

Now, he was standing on the opposite side of the map table, his shoulders stiff and his expression disdainful.

“Do you expect him to obey your every word?” he sneered. “He is a general – you are a little girl.”

Alina gritted her teeth. I’m working on it.

“Call me ‘little girl’ one more time and we’ll find out which of us he values more. I am the Sun Summoner,” she emphasised her furious words by letting her palms fill with burning hot sunlight. “You are his lapdog.”

Ivan’s hands twitched and she knew he would like nothing more than to bear down on her with the full force of his Heartrending power, but he could not. They were both fully aware which one of them the Darkling valued more – attacking the Sun Summoner was a serious offence, even if she was the one to initiate it. Alina smiled coldly and leaned forward over the table.

“There will be no body double. I will be present for the duration of the fête, not just the demonstration. If you’re worried about my safety, then tighten security, don’t shove one of my friends into harm’s way and call it job done.”

Ivan looked as though he was swallowing down a string of words that he knew he would regret saying aloud.

“I don’t know how he stands you,” he growled eventually.

Alina snorted. “The feeling is mutual.”

She walked out of the war room with her head held high, unable to smother the smug smile that spread across her face. Somehow, she had managed to intimidate the Darkling’s most intimidating Heartrender into doing what she wanted – an accomplishment very few Grisha could match.

Alina went to her combat training feeling confident that today was the day she would finally beat Zoya. The Squaller had returned from two weeks of shuttling between Kribirsk and Novokribirsk, taken one look at Alina in the ring and clucked in disapproval.

“You’re all over the place, Starkov!” she had called as Alina’s opponent, a Fjerdan girl called Ylva, caught her in the stomach with a hard punch. “Is this what happens when I’m away?”

Ylva stepped back, giving Alina a moment to collect herself.

“Maybe you’re not as good a teacher as you thought, Zoya,” the Fjerdan retorted with a sharp grin. Zoya had merely scoffed.

“I’m an excellent teacher. It’s not my fault Starkov doesn’t pay attention.”

Alina had ignored them both and settled back into her fighting stance. With Zoya gone, she had taken to partnering with Ylva because she and Alina had a similar combat style – they were both small and wiry, relying more on speed and quick reflexes than brute force. As the next bout began, Alina felt Zoya’s critical eye on her, analysing every move. Fortunately, she managed to retain some of her dignity by catching the Fjerdan off-guard, distracting her with a lunge to the right while hooking her other leg out from beneath her. Ylva hit the floor hard.

“Better,” Zoya had said, not quite impressed. “But I bet I could have you on the ground in less than ten seconds.”

And that is exactly what she had done – and continued to do, in every training session since then. But Alina wouldn’t give up. Zoya was going to get a taste of her own medicine.

Her opponent was waiting for her when Alina arrived in the combat hall. They had been forced to move their training sessions indoors after the first snow fell, although Alina suspected Botkin felt they would toughen up faster by practising in the cold.

Zoya caught sight of Alina striding across the wooden floor and grinned. It was meant as a taunt, but it wasn’t entirely unfriendly. Alina knew that the other girl still wasn’t overly enamoured with her – Zoya was not the type of person to hold regard for someone who hadn’t earned it – but every time she got to her feet after being knocked down, every time she proved that she had learned from Zoya’s tutelage, she felt herself pry a little bit more respect from the obstinate Squaller.

“I’m going to beat you today,” Alina said firmly.

“Come and have a go then, Starkov,” Zoya goaded, her eyes flashing with amusement. “Since you’re so confident, how about we make it interesting? If you win, I’ll volunteer to be in your personal guard at the winter fête tomorrow.”

“And if I lose?”

Zoya made a show of thinking about it. “You take my shift cleaning the latrines next week.”

Alina’s heart sank. As a permanent occupant of the Vezda suite, she was lucky enough to have the cleaning and upkeep of her rooms tended to by servants – but she knew that the rest of her cohort were assigned a weekly rotation of chores in their barracks. There was a good reason Zoya had waited until now to propose a bet like this, but Alina could hardly back out, not with all their classmates watching.

“Alright, Nazyalensky,” she declared, stepping into the ring with false confidence. “I hope you’re looking forward to tending to my every whim tomorrow night.”

Zoya’s smile was a vicious thing. “I’m looking forward to the sight of you up to your elbows in shit, Sun Summoner.”

The room fell silent as the two girls faced up to one another. Even Botkin, who had expressly forbidden his students from making wagers in combat sessions, was quiet, his huge arms crossed over his chest, watching to see what would happen.

Alina knew that she couldn’t count on Zoya underestimating her – the girl was arrogant, yes, but she was also fiercely competitive. Their whole class was watching, but Zoya wouldn’t play to the crowd; she was far too practical for that.

With long exhale of breath, Alina took up her stance. Zoya did likewise.

“Care to back down?”

Alina smirked. “Not familiar with the concept.”

It didn’t get off to a great start – Zoya lunged at her with a rapid sequence of blows which Alina only just managed to fend off. But she followed the rhythm that the Squaller set, letting her push them towards the edge of the ring, at which point Alina struck out with a well-aimed punch of her own. Zoya dodged it easily enough, but it gave Alina space to move, turning them around so that it was Zoya whose back was to the edge of the ring. Alina pressed the advantage, landing two hits on Zoya’s right shoulder then, hoping she was distracted, aiming a kick at her left knee. She saw it coming, though, and blocked Alina’s movement, twisting her leg and throwing her to the ground.

Alina let herself roll, putting some distance between them, then got to her feet. Zoya was smirking – she was enjoying this.

Zoya approached again, her speed astonishing. Alina knew that she only had one chance to win this, and she had to pick her moment carefully, so she let Zoya advance, diligently meeting each of her blows but not making any strikes.

Alina could feel herself tiring. She knew that Zoya must be, too, but it was hard to tell; her movements were no less precise, her punches no less powerful. A few of them slipped past Alina’s guard, winding her, turning her muscles to jelly. Alina knew that she couldn’t keep this up much longer.

So, the next time Zoya’s punch connected with her body, she let herself go down. Zoya, ever cautious, was already moving, but not fast enough – Alina swept her legs out from under her with a perfectly timed kick. Now they alternated: Zoya went down, Alina jumped up, leaping onto the Squaller before she had a chance to recover, pinning her arms beneath her knees.

“Yield!” Alina crowed. “Do you yield, Zoya?”

“I yield,” Zoya muttered with a roll of her eyes.

“Do you promise to be the best guard of all time and do everything I ask?”

“I promise!” she squawked, struggling a little under Alina’s weight, her expression disgruntled but resigned.

Alina beamed and scrambled to her feet, reaching out a hand to help Zoya up from the floor. She rolled her eyes again but accepted it.

“You have straw in your hair,” Alina told her. Zoya burst into spluttering laughter.

“Yours is no better, Starkov. Congratulations, you beat me – now it seems I need to teach you how to fight gracefully,” she gestured towards Alina’s kefta, dishevelled and covered in dust. Alina shook her head.

“It’s a lost cause. I’m not a graceful kind of girl.”

Zoya snorted and resumed picking straw from her hair. Botkin clapped his hands twice.

“Okay, everyone, show’s over. Back to training.”

The Grisha dispersed, with a few muttered complaints, many of them shooting Alina congratulatory smiles.

They like me, she realised suddenly. It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise – she’d set out to befriend her classmates from the first day she set foot in the Little Palace – but the emotional weight of it hit her fully in that moment. Because they did like her; more than that, they liked her for who she was, not merely because she was the Sun Summoner (although, some of them had definitely started off that way).

In her first life, Alina had never felt completely at ease amongst the other Grisha her age. She had told herself that they all either didn’t like her or were only pretending to, in order to curry favour with the Sun Summoner; but, to be completely honest, it wasn’t like she had really tried to be friendly with anyone other than Genya.

But Alina was older now, and she recognised that her status as a social outcast had been at least partially self-inflicted. She and Mal had truly been outsiders at Keramzin – they looked too different to be accepted in a house full of children who had never known peace in their lives – but after that, in the First Army, in the Little Palace, she had deliberately kept people at arms’ length, assuming their bad intentions without ever giving them a chance.

There had certainly been bullies and bigots in the ranks of the First and Second Army alike – those people existed everywhere. But Alina looked at her classmates now and saw a group of young people, still figuring things out, many of whom had lived through the worst kind of hell. They weren’t perfect, but who was she to judge? Alina was sixty years older than them all and she was still a mess.

But she was learning from her mistakes. Some of these Grisha – like Zoya – had become her close friends in adulthood, once Alina had grown out of the impulsive and somewhat judgemental outlook common to seventeen-year-olds. More of them – like Marie – had never had that chance.

They like me.

Alina grinned to herself. She wasn’t just learning from her mistakes; she was rectifying them.

“Sun Summoner,” Botkin’s rumbling voice came from next to her ear, startling Alina from her thoughts. “I believe you have drills to run.”

She nodded and rushed over to Nadia and Marie, who were waiting expectantly. Alina laughed at the look of impatience on both their faces.

“You beat Zoya!” Nadia gasped, grabbing her arm.

“How did you do it?” Marie squealed, at exactly the same time.

Alina smirked, snuck a glance at Zoya – who had removed all the straw from her hair and somehow looked even more perfect than before – and launched into a detailed account of how she had orchestrated the move that brought her victory.

“Now she has to be your guard tomorrow, and you can make her do all sorts of horrible jobs,” Marie giggled. Try as she might, Alina was unable to stop herself from smiling at the thought.

Chapter Text

All classes were cancelled on the day of the winter fête. When Alina went down for breakfast, the room was abuzz with chatter and laughter – it seemed everyone was in a good mood. Marie and Nadia were excitedly discussing their new silk kefta, specially made for the fête.

“The General must have arranged something spectacular for you, Alina,” Nadia said pointedly.

“Actually, I have no idea what I’m meant to be wearing tonight,” Alina replied through a mouthful of buckwheat kasha. “My kefta hasn’t been delivered yet. It will be as much as surprise to me as it is to you.”

They both looked a little crestfallen, having hoped they would be able to coax Alina into sharing a few details about embroidery and jewels, but she had nothing to tell. The only thing she knew for certain was that her kefta tonight would be black – that went without saying.

After breakfast, most of her classmates headed out into the palace grounds, eager for a much-needed break from assignments and studying. Alina sat by the lake with her friends, watching a group of younger Grisha sledding on the far bank. Nadia whipped up a miniature snowstorm while the Tidemakers crafted intricate ice sculptures. Alina caught Marie sneaking glimpses at Sergei, a brazen and often irritating Heartrender, who sat with the Corporalki not too far from them.

“Marie,” Alina whispered, nudging her friend in the ribs. “What’s going on? I thought you hated Sergei.”

When Alina had first arrived at the Little Palace, Marie and Sergei had argued so fiercely over whether she should sit with the Etherealki or Corporalki, she had worried they were about to descend into a fistfight.

Now, Marie’s cheeks coloured slightly.

“He’s an ass,” she agreed. “But he’s not bad looking. He helped me study for our Grisha theory exam.”

Nadia dropped her arms in shock. The little tornado of snow she had been directing collapsed, releasing a flurry of snowflakes which showered down on Alina’s legs.

“You had a study session with Sergei, and you didn’t tell me?” she gasped accusingly. Marie shushed her.

“There’s nothing to tell!” she hissed, her eyes flitting around to make sure nobody had heard. Fortunately, their classmates were distracted by a rowdy commotion breaking out among the Corporalki, where two boys had started tussling. Alina blinked at the red kefta rolling around in the snow.

“Is that Sergei?” she wondered aloud. Marie looked mortified.

Presently, the squabble devolved into a snowball fight. At first it was confined to just the Healers and Heartrenders, while the rest of the class watched in amusement from a distance, but it wasn’t long before a stray snowball sailed over their heads and exploded in Zoya’s face.

She was on her feet in an instant, her eyes flashing murderously, shaking snow from her hair.

“Who threw that?” she demanded. The Corporalki froze in unison, glancing between each other nervously.

Not content with their lack of response, Zoya swept her arms upwards and dumped a whole snowdrift on their heads. Chaos erupted – what loosely began as Corporalki versus Etherealki quickly descended into a free-for-all, with even the Fabrikators getting involved. The Tidemakers and Squallers definitely had the advantage, working together to form perfectly shaped snowballs and then launch them at the enemy with powerful gusts of wind. As the barrage became more intense, it became too hard for anyone to coordinate, and soon everyone was just scooping up handfuls of snow and flinging them around with abandon.

Alina was laughing so hard that her belly hurt. It had been such a long time since she had laughed like that – completely uninhibited, letting go of every thought in her head and just existing in the moment. Nothing else mattered beyond this wild, feral joy she had found amongst her friends.

When, at last, they had exhausted themselves, Alina flopped onto her back in the snow underneath the broad branches of an oak tree. Marie and Nadia joined her, breathing hard. Alina’s skin was flushed – she was wearing her cosy, fur-lined winter kefta – and her hair was a mess of tangles. Genya was going to have her work cut out this evening.

“We beat them, didn’t we?” Nadia said with a tired grin. Alina snorted.

“I think Zoya did most of the heavy lifting. Although I’m pretty sure she slipped a bunch of ice down the back of my neck, in the middle of all the pandemonium.”

“Damn right I did, Starkov,” Zoya said, tossing her hair and sitting down next to them. “I'm being forced to be nice to you all of tonight.”

“You lost that bet fair and square, Nazyalensky,” Alina grinned as she sat up. Zoya shrugged.

“That doesn’t mean I have to be gracious about it.”

Alina laughed at that. “I’ll go easy on you tonight, I promise.”

“No way!” Marie exclaimed from Alina’s other side. “You can’t let an opportunity like this go to waste, Alina.”

She snuck a glance at Zoya, expecting her to snap or sneer at Marie, but to her surprise the Squaller only smiled.

“She likes me too much,” Zoya said confidently. Alina laughed again.

“You’re not wrong,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you annoy the hells out of me, most of the time.”

Zoya shrugged and got to her feet, dusting snow from her blue kefta.

“Likewise. I’ll see you later, Starkov. Don’t be late,” she said, in a tone that made Alina feel like a naughty child being scolded.

Once she was gone, Nadia sighed longingly.

“She could order me around all day, and I’d thank her for it,” she said. Alina and Marie burst out laughing.

“Maybe I’ll tell her that this evening,” Alina teased.

“Please do,” Nadia groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the snow.

In the evening, they made their way back to the Little Palace, giving the dining hall a wide berth – there would be food served at the fête, and nobody wanted to fill up on cold pickled herring and rye bread when they could feast on delicacies later. Unfortunately, this meant that by the time Alina had finished soaking in her bath and Genya appeared in her doorway, she was famished.

“Did you not eat?” Genya asked, exasperated, as Alina’s stomach let out another thunderous growl.

“I was saving myself for later,” Alina mumbled sheepishly. Genya sighed and turned her attention back to Alina’s fashionable hairdo.

“Well then, let’s hope you don’t collapse from hunger in the middle of your demonstration.”

“Hey!” Alina protested, catching Genya’s eyes in the mirror. “I have only collapsed once since I arrived at the Little Palace.”

“True, but you caused quite a stir.”

Alina hummed a vague agreement, watching as her friend twisted and pinned sections of sleek, black hair in place. Genya was always beautiful, but this evening she was heart-stoppingly stunning; the long, elegant curves of her body were draped in an ivory silk kefta with gold embroidery that made her skin seem to glow, and her vibrant red hair had been swept up on top of her head, save for a few strategic curling locks which framed her perfect face. Alina had taken one look at her and sighed in awe. Her eyes, though, were drawn to the teardrop-shaped diamonds that swung gracefully from Genya’s earlobes – a gift from the King. Alina, feeling slightly sick, was momentarily glad that she hadn’t eaten any dinner.

“Where is your kefta?” Genya asked, glancing around the room.

“Oh, it hasn’t been delivered yet. I was hoping you might know why.”

Genya frowned. “Why would I know?”

“Well, I know you’re quite friendly with a certain Fabrikator...” Alina smiled slyly. Genya cuffed her lightly in the back of the head.

“Enough of that,” she said, though her eyes twinkled. “David doesn’t work on the kefta, you know that. Besides, I stopped by the workshop on my way here, but he barely even looked at me.”

“I think he pays more attention to you than you realise,” Alina said honestly, but Genya merely smiled and waved a hand airily.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll have an excellent night tonight, without him. And since the Queen has suddenly taken unwell, and doesn’t feel up to attending tonight, I have more time to help you get ready.”

“The Queen’s unwell?” Alina asked, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “Oh dear.”

Genya snorted. “Indeed. She claims she has a headache. As if! She just wants her ladies – and the King – to make a fuss so she can feel more important. Not that I mind.”

After pinning the last strand of Alina’s hair in place, Genya stepped back to admire her handiwork with a satisfied nod. She turned around and started rummaging in her Tailoring kit.

“How are you feeling about your performance? Sorry, demonstration.”

Alina made an amused noise in the back of her throat.

“It’s a nuisance, but I’m not worried about it. I just don’t like the thought of everyone watching me.”

Genya’s face was sympathetic. “It's only for a few moments. Then you can spend the rest of the evening with your friends – eating, drinking, dancing.”

“I hope so,” Alina sighed, allowing Genya to tilt her chin upwards and spread a rosy flush across her cheekbones. “But I’ll probably have to make a few rounds of the room, to meet the King and Queen’s guests. Play the part of the demure sankta they expect.”

She let resentment seep into her voice. Genya’s fingers drifted across her face, touching up blemishes and neatening her brows.

“We all know who you really are, Alina,” the Tailor said gently. “That’s what counts.”

Alina squeezed her hand gratefully.

“Well,” Genya said, filling her voice with forced brightness. “My work is done. Now all we’re waiting for is the kefta.”

She reached out and flipped the mirror on the dressing table over, so that Alina couldn’t see her own reflection. Alina gasped in indignation and pouted, but Genya just tutted, raising one perfect eyebrow.

“Not until you’re dressed.”

Moments later, there was a knock at the door. They both rushed to answer it, giggling and elbowing each other out of the way in a very unladylike fashion. Alina got there first, throwing open the double doors to let in a pair of servants, their arms piled high with boxes. They set the boxes on the bed and vanished again; Alina immediately leapt for the largest one, pulling the lid off. Genya squeaked in excitement.

Alina’s fingers traced the lavish embroidery that coiled down the kefta’s sleeves and neckline. Tiny, delicate beads of obsidian glittered in amongst the golden threads.

“It’s black,” Genya whispered, watching Alina’s reaction closely.

“It’s beautiful,” Alina said grudgingly. She had long ago come to accept that she would be wearing the Darkling’s colour tonight. The kefta was almost exactly as she remembered it.

Genya helped her to dress, tightening her stays just enough to be comfortable and helping her to wriggle into the black satin shift without disrupting her hairdo. Then there were the stockings – gossamer-fine – and the neat little ankle boots in soft black velvet. Finally, Alina shrugged into her kefta. It was made of corecloth, of course; nobody was taking any chances with her safety tonight, but the Fabrikators had made it feel as lightweight and smooth as silk. It fitted her body perfectly.

She let Genya guide her towards the full-length mirror standing in the corner of the room. The Tailor’s smile was radiant.

“I told you the black suits you,” she said, delighted. Alina turned her gaze to the mirror and started in surprise.

After nearly six months in this body, Alina had stopped being surprised by her reflection – but she couldn’t help being taken aback by what she saw. Her face was full, her cheeks glowing with a healthy blush as if she had just come in from the cold, her eyes smoky and mysterious. Genya had arranged half of her hair in an intricate but elegant knot on top of her head, while the rest fell down her back in loose, gleaming black curls.

The kefta was a work of art. It hung on the contours of her body like darkness given form; Alina noticed that when she moved, the black silk rippled subtly with colour, like the blue-black iridescence of a raven’s wing.

“Genya, you’re spectacular,” Alina said slowly.

Genya tilted her head to one side. “I am good, aren’t I? But I can really only take credit for your face.”

In the last box, the smallest of them all, they found a set of gold drop earrings inlaid with obsidian, and a black velvet ribbon threaded with a golden pendant – the sun in eclipse. The Darkling’s symbol.

Alina slipped the earrings on but left the necklace in the box. He would have to content himself with seeing her in his colour.

“Alina,” Genya gasped, her eyes widening. Alina shrugged casually but her heart was pounding.

“He can force it round my neck himself if he’s that desperate – otherwise, I’m not wearing his symbol.”

Her friend continued to look nervous, but Alina thought she seemed a little relieved as well.

Genya brushed some invisible specks of lint from Alina’s black-clad shoulders.

“Are you ready?” she asked as their eyes met in the mirror. Alina risked a nod, and Genya gave her a breathtaking smile. “Then let’s go! I’m in desperate need of champagne.”

She gripped Alina’s hand and pulled her down the corridor, laughing. The halls of Little Palace were crowded with Grisha in their elegant formal kefta, all of whom turned and smiled to Alina as they walked past. She didn’t miss the way their eyes widened at the sight of her in black, the restrained intakes of breath, the whispers that struck up in her wake. Alina’s skin felt scratchy with discomfort. She wanted just to be their friend, their equal; this evening was making it perfectly clear that such a hope was impossible. She could befriend as many Grisha as she liked but she would always be different.

Alina’s personal guard for the night were stationed in the entry hall, clearly waiting for her. She recognised the three oprichniki in their charcoal grey uniforms, alert and attentive, their eyes constantly moving as they assessed potential threats. Of the three Grisha, she recognised two of them – Zoya, of course, with an expression of deep disinterest, looking glorious in a kefta of midnight blue silk. Next to her stood Ivan, who seemed as though he would rather be anywhere else. Alina had mixed feelings about seeing him there; while the two of them most certainly did not get on, and she was not particularly pleased at the thought of having to deal with his bad temper all evening, he was the Darkling’s right-hand man and most favoured Heartrender. The fact that he had been assigned to her guard was something of an honour.

The final member of her guard was a Heartrender whom Alina did not know. Unlike the other two scowling Grisha at his side, his expression was perfectly neutral, and when Alina approached he even greeted her with a brief but amiable smile.

Genya tried to slip away as they reached the doorway, but Alina held tight.

“I know you can’t be with me the whole night, but you can at least walk over with me,” she said in her friend’s ear. Genya smiled and squeezed her arm in response. Alina nodded to her guards as she passed them, sweeping out of the Little Palace and into the open air. They followed closely behind as Alina and Genya strolled, arm in arm, through the palace gardens, admiring the lights that had been strung between the trees and the decorative ice sculptures that littered the paths. Closer to the Grand Palace, actors, musicians, and acrobats performed for passing guests.

Alina could see a few colourful kefta in the crowds here, but the majority of the guests were otkazat’sya aristocrats in fancy evening wear. Some of the men wore formal military dress, adorned with the stripes of major or colonel and decorated with rows of shiny medals.

In her black kefta, Alina drew quite a few stares as they made their way towards the enormous entryway – even otkazat’sya knew what the colour black represented. Thankfully, her guards deterred anybody from getting too close, swiftly ushering her and Genya inside. As they began to climb the sweeping marble staircase, a servant appeared at Genya’s shoulder.

“The Queen’s headache is much improved, apparently, and she needs me to attend to her before the ball begins,” Genya said as she scanned the note with a sigh. “I’ll find you later on. If I don’t see you before the demonstration – good luck.”

She dropped a feather-light kiss on Alina’s cheek and vanished into the crowds. Alina missed her immediately – despite being surrounded by guards, she felt exposed and lonely without her friend by her side. She was glad to see Marie and Nadia at the top of the stairs, hovering amongst the refreshment tables. When they caught sight of Alina, their faces dropped into twin expressions of shocked delight.

“Alina,” Marie breathed, one hand at her throat. “You look...”

“You look beautiful,” Nadia said with wide eyes. “And you’re wearing his colour.”

“He insisted,” Alina informed them, trying to keep her voice steady.

“It’s an honour. No other Grisha in history was worn black.”

Alina didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She plucked a crystal flute of champagne from one of the tables and took a sip, scanning the room for familiar faces. She could see a few Grisha here and there, mingling and chatting, sampling the exorbitant display of food on offer. Her stomach grumbled again.

“I’m starving,” Alina said, nudging the other girls towards the nearest table.

This was enough to distract Marie and Nadia from her black kefta. Together, the three girls made their way methodically between each of the overflowing tables, trying out many of the dishes with gasps and squeals of glee, wrinkling their noses at many more. There was enough food to feed practically the whole city. As grateful as she was to have a meal of something other than herring and rye, the extravagance on show here made Alina’s stomach churn.

They bumped into Fedyor near the entrance to the ballroom. He greeted Alina warmly, seeming genuinely happy to see her.

“How are you enjoying the evening?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at Ivan. The taciturn Heartrender did not respond, but Alina thought she saw his face soften just slightly.

“Very well, thank you,” Alina said. “Do you know when the demonstrations will begin?”

“In about an hour,” Fedyor responded. “In the meantime, there are quite a few people anxious to meet you, Sun Summoner.”

He offered his arm to Alina, who groaned internally but accepted, allowing Fedyor to lead her into the ballroom. She abandoned her empty glass on one of the tables, snatching another from the silver tray of a passing servant. Fedyor chuckled.

“Careful, Alina,” he cautioned in a quiet voice. “I don’t think the King and Queen would be too pleased with you if you ruined their fête by throwing up in the middle of your long-awaited demonstration.”

“Never mind the General,” Alina said under her breath, to which Nadia and Marie gasped and Fedyor snorted. “Don’t worry – it’s only my second. I don’t plan on being drunk, but nor do I plan on socialising with this lot without at least a few drinks in me.”

“Fair enough,” Fedyor granted. “If you need something stronger, I’ve snuck in some vodka which I’d be happy to share.”

Behind them, Ivan cleared his throat in a warning. The girls giggled while Fedyor rolled his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” he said loudly. “No vodka for the guest of honour.”

“I’ll find you if I get desperate,” Alina told him in a stage-whisper, and he smiled.

She spent the next hour being whisked around the ballroom, introduced to a hundred people that she would never remember the names of. At some point, Marie and Nadia slipped away, casting apologetic glances at Alina before they went off to seek their classmates. Fedyor guided her between noblemen, courtiers, military officers and yet more noblemen, his genuine, courteous demeanour never once faltering.

“You have the patience of a Saint, Fedyor,” she hissed to him as he steered her away from the elderly Count and Countess Belyakov and towards a group of young women in lavish court gowns. “They should be praying to you, not me. Sankt Fedyor the long-suffering.”

Fedyor made an amused noise, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I have a lot of practice,” he said, casting a glance towards the frowning Ivan. Alina had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Despite having spent much of the evening searching for his black-clad form in amongst the crowds of jewel tones, Alina didn’t even notice when the Darkling appeared at her elbow. By this time, she was on her third glass of champagne, which probably went some way to explaining her lack of awareness; one moment, she was engaged in polite discussion with a young First Army major, the next she glanced up to speak to Fedyor only to find that he had disappeared, and the Darkling stood in his place. She blinked in surprise, her words abandoning her, and he smiled at her in amusement before making some excuse to the major whose name she had already forgotten.

“You look lovely,” he said in a low voice. He slipped one arm around her waist and led her towards the stage that had been constructed at the far end of the ballroom.

“Have you come to save me from more inane chitchat?” Alina asked, letting the last word drop from her mouth like it had a bad taste. She was, in fact, immensely grateful for the way his presence parted the crowd – the people they passed watched with wide eyes but did not try to approach her.

“For now,” he replied. “I’m certain there will be plenty more otkazat’sya nobles eager to make your acquaintance after your demonstration.”

Alina scowled. “If I asked you to scare them away for me, would you?”

Their bodies were close enough that she could feel his laugh, vibrating in his chest, even though he did not make a sound.

“Unfortunately for us both,” the Darkling said, his lips twitching into a smile. “Tonight we must be charming.”

“Charming,” Alina scoffed. “That’s easy for you. I don’t do charming very well.”

“Well, I’ve had lots of practice.”

They made their way to the space behind the stage. It was quieter and less crowded here, and Alina felt herself relax just a little bit. The Darkling noticed, of course.

“Are you nervous?”

Alina shook her head. “Not about the demonstration, no. I just don’t like the thought of all those people watching me. Once I step onto that stage, I become the thing they believe in. A myth. A martyr.”

The Darkling didn’t have a chance to respond before the lights in the ballroom dimmed, signalling the start of the Grisha demonstrations. The orchestra, which had been playing soft background music all evening, suddenly struck a dramatic chord. Alina realised for the first time that the ballroom was crammed with people; all the guests who had been wandering the gardens and the hallways of the Grand Palace earlier had since made their way here, eager to witness the main event of the night.

The Grisha took to the stage. A duo of Inferni shot sweeping arcs of flame around the room before weaving fiery threads into the shape of a dragon. Squallers sent spirals of snowflake-like confetti soaring overhead. A team of Tidemakers brought a wave of crystal-clear water flowing over the balcony and, with the Squallers’ help, suspended it above the crowd, rippling and undulating. With another twist of their hands, the Tidemakers blew the sheet of water apart, but before any drops of rain could fall, the Inferni raised their arms and it all dissolved into a cloud of mist.

The crowd oohed and aahed and broke into furious applause. The Grisha bowed once before filing offstage, grinning to each other, nodding respectfully at Alina and the Darkling as they passed.

The Darkling leaned forward to speak in Alina’s ear.

“I was going to join you on stage, but I’d rather let this moment be yours. Show them who you are, Alina, and make them see – don't give them the chance to define you.”

His dark eyes fixed on her with conviction. She nodded once, then he released her and vanished, melting into the crowd.

Alina took a deep breath and started to climb the stairs up to the stage. Her appearance was met with even more fervent applause from the masses gathered in the ballroom – dressed as she was, she needed no introduction.

Her eyes roved over all the faces below, turned up towards her expectantly, until she found the one she was searching for. At her nod, he brought his hands together, and the room plunged into blackness with an echoing boom. Alina heard gasps of alarm, the uneasy shuffling of feet, and low muttering voices from the onlookers. The anticipation in the room was a tangible thing.

Even though the Darkling was standing in the middle of the ballroom, Alina could feel him next to her, as if his presence was contained within the darkness that cloaked her – a hand on her shoulder, his breath on her cheek.

Alina was long past the point where this felt either threatening or frightening. The shadows on her skin brought with them a ghost of the same surety that rushed through her at Aleksander’s touch. She smiled, hoping he would somehow feel it, and called upon the light.

It came to her easily now – the spark lay close to her skin, always within reach. A single beam of light erupted from her hand, thin as a needle at first, slowly widening. Alina could hear whispers and gasps from within the crowd.

She moved her hands apart, drawing the light into both palms, directing it so that it reflected off one of the Fabrikator-made mirrors on the ceiling. The light bounced around the room in a complex pattern, the entwining golden streams creating an intricately woven tapestry of pure sunlight.

Alina made the light gradually brighter and brighter, until people were shielding their eyes from the glare, before sweeping her hands down and extinguishing it all at once. The crowd was murmuring louder, now, and there was a feverish sense of exhilaration in the room. Alina’s pulse thrummed in her veins urgently. She summoned a small sphere of light, no larger than her fist, to hover before her; at a wave of her hand, more lights appeared throughout the ballroom, dangling above the heads of the stunned guests. She could see a few guests reaching up, trailing their fingers through the brightness, laughing at the unexpected coolness of it. She moved her hands apart, expanding the globe in front of her until it enveloped her entirely in a radiant halo. The shadows behind her twisted and stretched, their curling tendrils of darkness reaching into her light where they dissipated like smoke.

Power hummed through her, effortless. Alina let the crowd in front of her wait in wonderment just a little bit longer – then, at last, she flung her arms wide, feeling the deepest parts of herself unfold, and suddenly the light was everywhere. She brought her palms together. The sound of a thunderclap reverberated through the ballroom as brilliant white daylight shattered the darkness, drawing another collective gasp from her audience.

Alina let her hands fall to her sides. The light dissolved and the gas lamps on the walls flared up again, their weak, sputtering flames appearing laughably feeble compared to the display Alina had just given. There were a few second of stunned silence. Nobody in the ballroom seemed to know how to respond; there was some uncertain, scattered applause which died down almost as soon as it had started.

“Sankta Alina,” somebody whispered into the stillness, and soon the words were sweeping through the room with reverence. Alina could see people kneeling, people weeping, people gripping one another in joyful embraces. In amongst all their faces, she caught the Darkling’s eye. His expression was hard to define – like he was caught between triumph and admiration. He did not kneel, he did not murmur a prayer, but there was a kind of veneration in the way he looked at her.

Alina released a breath she had not been aware she was holding. All the eyes on her suddenly became too much to bear, and she took an involuntary step backwards, then another, before turning and hurrying from the stage. Her guards were waiting at the bottom of the staircase, shielding her from the crowd, and Alina took a moment to compose herself. Servants rushed through the room with tapers, relighting all the candles that the Darkling had snuffed out, while the orchestra resumed playing. Soon, the room was full of chatter and movement, almost as it had been before she took to the stage, but Alina knew that nothing would be the same now.

Her hands were shaking; she clenched them into fists until her fingernails dug painfully into her palms. Alina set her jaw and turned to her guards. The oprichniki were impassive as always, Ivan’s face was perhaps a little bit less stony than she was accustomed to, and the other Heartrender smiled supportively. There was not a trace of wide-eyed awe about them. Zoya did not seem overly impressed by her display, but for the first time since they had met, she looked at Alina with something like appreciation.

Fedyor appeared next to her, placing his hand casually on Ivan’s shoulder – a gesture which absolutely nobody else would get away with.

“Are you ready to take another turn about the room?” Fedyor asked, his voice gentle. He knew that she wanted nothing more than to refuse. Alina heaved a sigh and nodded.

“I need a drink, first,” she said.

Grinning, Fedyor reached one hand into his kefta and used the other to cover Ivan’s eyes, handing her a small silver hip flask. Ivan huffed in protest but did not move to push Fedyor’s hand away. Alina took her chance, snatching the hip flask in delight and taking a long swig. The vodka kindled a small fire in the pit of her stomach, a warmth that spread outward until her whole body was flushed.

Alina coughed once, wiped her mouth, and passed the hip flask back to Fedyor. Ivan looked disapproving but, happily, said nothing.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Now I’m ready.”

She slipped her arm through Fedyor’s and allowed him to lead her back out into the ballroom. Remembering what the Darkling had said earlier, Alina tried her best to be charming, but it was difficult when everyone she was introduced to stared at her in wordless astonishment, their mouths agape, or addressed her as Sankta Alina and reached fervently to touch her hair, her hands, asking her to bless them. Before long, she was trembling with agitation, her smile fixed stiffly on her face, her grip on Fedyor’s arm vice-like.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly, shooting a glance at Ivan like he was daring him to argue. “You need some air.”

Alina nodded silently, slumping against Fedyor in relief. Her guards moved smoothly into a tight formation around her and they made a beeline for the glass doors at the other end of the room. Alina stepped out onto the wide marble balcony and filled her lungs with cool night air. It was a startling consolation after the stuffy, crowded ballroom. There were only three other people out here – Grisha in purple and red kefta. Alina realised after a moment that she recognised them.

“Taisa!” she called happily. Her friend looked up from her conversation and grinned. She came skipping across the balcony, paying no heed to the guards that surrounded Alina. At her heels were Stefaniya and a young Fabrikator that Alina was sure she didn’t know, although his face was familiar. Stefaniya greeted her with a shy smile, while Taisa grabbed her in a crushing hug.

“Alina, you were amazing tonight!” she said breathlessly. Alina returned the hug with a laugh.

“It was nothing, honestly. It only looked impressive because nobody’s seen a Sun Summoner’s power before.”

“Oh, don’t put yourself down,” Taisa scoffed affectionately. “You look beautiful, too – this kefta is exquisite.”

“You were probably too far away to see the King and Queen,” Stefaniya said in that soft way of hers. “But we were practically right next to them. You should have seen the looks on their faces, Alina, it was like they were afraid. I think they realised for the first time that they can’t control you. You might be the only Grisha alive who could be on the same level as General Kirigan.”

Alina was glad for the darkness that covered up her blush, although she was painfully aware that if any of the Heartrenders were paying attention they would hear how her heartbeat stumbled, stopped dead, and then resumed in double time. Was that what she had shown them tonight? To otkazat’sya, she was a figure of holy redemption; to the royal family, she was either an instrument to prop up their regime or a force strong enough to tear that very regime down; to Grisha, she was a symbol of power – a leader.

Saints. Snapping the wishbone, coming back to the past, it had seemed like such a simple decision at the time. Things were rapidly spiralling beyond her control. The alcohol that she had consumed throughout the night was beginning to go to Alina’s head, and this was all too much to think about right now, so she filed it away to examine in more detail later.

“This is my brother, Kir,” Taisa was saying, gesturing to the younger boy in a Durast’s kefta. Alina smiled at him. Now that it had been pointed out, it was obvious the two were related – they had the same curly chestnut-brown hair, the same round face, the same snubbed nose.

“Nice to meet you,” Kir said, speaking almost as quietly as Stefaniya.

It was a relief to be among friends once again. Alina stayed out on the balcony with them until her nose was pink with the cold. Taisa was in the middle of recounting the story – accompanied by elaborate arm movements – of how she ‘accidentally’ locked one of her dormmates in the latrines all night, when the music from the ballroom behind them suddenly got louder.

“Oh!” Taisa said, her story abandoned. “The dancing! Let’s go!”

She grabbed Kir with one hand and Stefaniya with the other, dragging them behind her as she ran inside. Alina followed in their footsteps, laughing hard at the sight of Kir’s apprehensive expression. Fedyor had slipped away from them at some point, sensing he was no longer needed, but her guards filed after her dutifully.

There was indeed dancing in the ballroom – the couples that spun around the floor were mostly otkazat’sya nobles, but there were a few Grisha there too. As Alina followed her friends across the room, Nadia and Marie materialised beside her, enthusing about her display, their cheeks a little ruddy and their steps a little uneven. In fact, Alina realised as she glanced around, most of the guests here were comfortably inebriated. Feeling bold, she grabbed another glass of champagne and tipped the contents down her throat.

“Zoya,” she announced as the orchestra finished their song and the couples on the dance floor bowed to one another. “Let’s dance.”

Zoya raised one dark eyebrow sceptically. “I can’t dance, Starkov – I'm meant to be guarding you.”

Alina looped her arm through Zoya’s and turned to Ivan.

“I want to dance, and Zoya will be able to protect me even better if she’s dancing with me. So you can’t say no.”

Ivan looked as if he knew full well that he could say no, but he took one look at Zoya’s face, smirked, and nodded his assent.

“Bitch,” Zoya hissed in her ear. “He’s letting you get away with this because he knows it will annoy me.”

“Oh, I know,” Alina chuckled.

“Do you even know how to dance, Starkov?”

Alina shrugged a shoulder. “I know a few.”

Couples filed onto the dance floor. Alina stopped in the very centre, directly underneath the huge chandelier, and began to dance without even waiting for the orchestra to begin playing. Zoya stared at her in horror.

“What are you doing?” she yelped, the most self-conscious Alina had ever seen her. Alina threw her head back and laughed. She was dancing a rapid, upbeat reel – a true peasant’s dance, the kind that belonged in a barn or under the open sky around a campfire.

“Come on, Zoya,” Alina teased. “I know you know the steps.”

Zoya’s face went white. She was sensitive about her upbringing, and most in the Little Palace would never have guessed that she grew up poor – her natural haughtiness lent itself to someone of wealth.

But Alina wasn’t going to give up. She reached for Zoya’s hands, pulling her into motion. Zoya resisted for a moment, her body as stiff as a board, before her feet reluctantly started to mimic the beat of Alina’s own. A tentative smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

The courtiers on the dance floor, who had been preparing for a stately waltz, were staring at them in confusion. This was not a dance anyone of high birth was familiar with; it was far too jovial, too lively, designed to be danced with abandon rather than discipline – preferably after ingesting a copious amount of alcohol.

Alina and Zoya whirled through the steps of the reel. It felt as though the whole room was watching them. Not a single otkazat’sya noble joined in – not a single one of them recognised the dance – but among the Grisha, it was a different story. Children were brought to the Little Palace from all over the country and, more often than not, they came from poorer families. They were the children of farmers, blacksmiths, weavers, woodworkers. They were the type of people who recognised a reel when they saw one.

After a moment, the room unfroze and Grisha began to flood the dance floor, jostling dumbstruck aristocrats out of the way. Alina saw Fedyor dragging a protesting Ivan from the sidelines, Marie and Sergei grabbing each other’s hands and running into the fray, Taisa and Kir spinning giddily next to them. Even the orchestra caught on, following the blistering, pounding rhythm of the dance and striking up a jaunty folk tune to match.

Alina and Zoya were at the centre of it all, surrounded by hundreds of swirling kefta, laughing uncontrollably as they stomped and clapped and spun in time with the beat.

Show them who you are, the Darkling had said. This was who she was. The type of person who could stun a room into silence and lead a revolution on a dance floor; the type of person who the aristocracy would fuss and fawn over but who would never belong amongst them.

She hoped the reminder would make the Lantsovs, and everyone else in their saintsforsaken court, think twice before claiming she was one of them. She hoped it struck terror into their hearts.

Chapter Text

Later in the night, after the Grisha had surrendered the dance floor to the nobility for their dignified court dances, Alina stood in the hallway with her friends, chattering loudly and picking at the remaining food on the refreshment tables. She knew the Darkling had appeared behind her when, all of a sudden, her friends’ eyes widened and their words trailed off into nothing.

“Moi soverenyi,” they mumbled, dropping their heads in deference. Alina did not even turn to face him.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have pressing matters to discuss with the Sun Summoner,” he said coolly, resting a hand on Alina’s shoulder. She resisted the urge to shrug it off. Her heart was pounding, her mind racing – what pressing matters could he be talking about? Nothing good, surely.

The Darkling nodded to Ivan and the rest of her guard. “You are dismissed for the evening. Feel free to enjoy the rest of the festivities.”

Without another word, he swept her down the corridor. Alina caught a glimpse of Zoya’s narrowed eyes before the Darkling steered her down the grand staircase.

“I am your superior officer, you know,” he said quietly as they descended. “You should really show me due respect, or at least address me by rank, when we’re in company.”

She could tell from his tone that he was only partly joking. Alina bristled.

“Really? I thought we were on first name terms, Aleksander.”

His eyes flashed, but when he spoke there was no anger in it. “That name is not for others’ ears.”

Alina hummed noncommittally. His grip on her shoulder tightened, and she laughed softly.

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “You seem to enjoy mocking me.”

“Well, if I don’t, who else will?” she said with a wry smile. He was gracious enough to grant her a smile in return.

“What’s so pressing that you had to drag me away from my friends?” she asked, anxiety seeping into her voice despite her best efforts. The Darkling hesitated.

“That was something which in politics we would call a tactical misrepresentation of the truth.”

Alina said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. She frowned.

“You mean... a lie.”

“If you like. The pressing matter at hand is merely that I wanted to invite you to join me for a drink, to celebrate your victory tonight.”

They reached the end of the long marble hallway and stepped through the doorway into the courtyard. The performers had long since packed up and gone, but there were a few drunken revellers out here, singing and swaying in the lamplight. Alina could see two Grisha in blue kefta locked in a passionate embrace underneath one of the sycamore trees. Her cheeks coloured slightly, and she glanced away.

“Victory?” Alina asked quizzically. The Darkling looked down at her, and once again she found herself struggling to read the expression on his face.

“You put on quite a show for the royal court tonight. Nonthreatening, of course, but alluding to the true extent of your power just enough to unnerve the King. And then there was your stunt on the dance floor – solidifying your role as a leader in the eyes of the Grisha while simultaneously reminding the court that you are not their plaything.”

Alina opened her mouth to object, but couldn’t quite manage it – the Darkling, naturally, had seen and understood the intent behind her every action that night. He smirked as he watched her face crease in exasperation.

“I have been playing this game a long time, Alina. I recognise strategy when I see it. It was quite masterful, really.”

She tried not to be too pleased to have earned that particular compliment; if the Darkling was impressed by her scheming, she wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. Alina tried to shrug it off.

“I just wanted to get a smile from Zoya.”

The Darkling laughed at that, a low chuckle. The palace gardens were all but deserted at this hour, and Alina felt a flutter of panic as they wove their way through the hedgerows and flower beds. She had been so caught up in the relief that the Darkling wasn’t about to deliver bad news, it hadn’t immediately sunk in that they were going back to his chambers together, in the middle of the night – alone.

Alina gathered her courage. She knew what the Darkling wanted from her; if she was smart, she could use that to her advantage. She tried not to look too much like she was walking into battle as they entered the Little Palace. Its corridors were empty and quiet, its occupants either still at the fête or already passed out.

The Darkling nodded to the pair of oprichniki stationed at the entrance to his wing as he strode towards the door, which he held open for Alina with a perfect gentleman’s smile. She did not trust it one bit.

The war room was dim, lit only by the faint glow from the fireplace. Alina went straight to the Darkling’s desk drawer where she knew he kept a box of matches and set about lighting all the candles in the room while he put another log on the fire. She blew out her final match and turned to see him setting two glasses on the map table. The bottle in his other hand gleamed where the firelight caught it.

“More of the King’s brandy?” she asked, a teasing edge in her voice. He shook his head with a slight smile.

“Kaelish whisky.”

Alina raised her eyebrows but accepted the glass he offered her wordlessly. She took a long, slow sip and regarded the Darkling thoughtfully. They were stood in front of the fire, so that half of him was bathed in soft orange light, and the other half was draped in shadow.

“What were you doing in the Sikurzoi?” she asked, breaking the silence. The Darkling’s face shifted infinitesimally. Anybody else would not have noticed, but she could see the mask slipping into place, a reflexive preparation for the lie on his lips. Alina wasn’t having it. Emboldened by the whisky, their closeness, she reached out and grabbed his arm just as he was about to pull away.

“No,” she said firmly, drawing up the sleeve of his kefta and seizing his bare wrist. “Whatever you were about to say, forget it. I don’t want the diplomatic lie, the collection of half-truths you tell the King. Tell me what really happened.”

He towered over her, looking down with a guarded expression. His black eyes reflected the flickering firelight.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with such things, Alina. You’re still in training.”

Alina was already shaking her head. “That’s not how this works. You want me to be a leader one day, by your side, but that’s only going to happen if I can be your equal. Just as I am not interested in being the King’s pawn, nor am I interested in being your puppet. If that means facing up to some hard truths, I can do so – if you’ll give me the chance.”

He did not move, did not say anything for another long moment, before deciding she must mean what she said. Aleksander carefully set down his glass and pushed up her sleeve, his long fingers closing around her forearm, just below the elbow.

“Fine,” he conceded. “There’s a village in the mountains, not much more than a day’s ride from Os Alta. We have been using it as a command post for our agents in Shu Han – all our scouts pass through for briefing and debriefing. The soldiers stationed there were some of my best, most experienced soldiers.”

Alina caught the change in his voice and swallowed. “Were?”

Aleksander nodded once, bluntly. “The commander failed to report in, two weeks in a row, so I had to investigate. As I feared, there had been a raid – the Shu took all the Grisha and killed everyone else. We searched for survivors, hoping to find somebody who might be able to tell us what had happened, but there was nobody left. This is the kind of escalation I’ve been dreading. Tensions with Shu Han have been rising for years, but this is an act of war. There’s no coming back from it.”

His face was blank, but his voice was stretched raw with anger and desperation. Alina felt sickness curling in her stomach.

“Do you care?” she asked cautiously. “I know you care about the Grisha, the soldiers you lost. But do you care about the otkazat’sya villagers they slaughtered?”

He tilted his head to one side. She could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed, too fast, and wondered if she had made him angry. It was a long time before he spoke.

“Maybe I would have, once,” he said softly. “But I have spent too long fighting this war, fighting alongside men who will gladly turn on us as soon as the enemy is subdued. It wears out your ability to care for anyone’s survival other than that of your own people.”

It was a terrible excuse, but Alina believed him. I would have, once. She could feel the truth in it, the fatigue and the regret, humming forlornly in the connection between them. She nodded once, slowly, and made to pull away, but Aleksander held tighter.

“My turn now, remember?” he murmured, his eyes flashing. Alina lifted her chin defiantly.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

He paused, as if considering his question, but she knew it was an act.

“Malyen Oretsev,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllables. “What is he to you?”

Of course he would ask about Mal. Of course. He may be hundreds of years old, but he had never tempered his jealous streak. Alina thought quickly, wondering how much to tell him – wondering how much he had already inferred.

“I’ve already told you,” she tried. “We grew up together.”

“I know what you’ve told me,” he said, his smile sharp and dangerous. “I want to know what you haven’t told me.”

Alina closed her eyes and remembered Mal – her Mal, her husband, the man she buried, the man she loved, not the young, fresh-faced boy she had met in Keramzin months ago. He wasn’t hers. She could spend another lifetime with him, would happily choose to do so, but she couldn’t love that Mal just yet.

When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I loved him, once.”

“Not now?”

Alina tried valiantly, desperately, to put some distance between herself and Mal. If the Darkling didn’t think he was a threat anymore, he might still be safe.

“Not now,” she confirmed. “I suppose I’ll always care for him – he's my family. Neither of us ever fit in at the orphanage and we only had one another. But we’ve been on different paths for a while, now, and I don’t know if there’s a future in which we can be together in that way again.”

It was her usual strategy – one she had learned from him – of following up a series of truths with a lie. But there must have been something in her that gave it away. Aleksander drew her close to him, until their bodies were pressed together, and brought his free hand to her face, holding her chin between his fingers and thumb. He tsked softly.

“Alina,” he breathed. “You know I can tell when you aren’t being truthful.”

Alina’s traitorous body trembled at the close contact between them. She scowled at him, jerking her head out of his grasp.

“Fine,” she snapped. “I may not be in love with Mal, but I care for him more than anybody else. If there is a happy ending waiting for me after all this, I want him to be there for it. Is that good enough? Can you understand that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Can I understand the bond that forms between people who are outcast and alone, who are each other’s only source of strength and comfort, who have experienced the same kind of grief, lived the same nightmare? Yes, Alina, I think I can understand that.”

His tone was scornful. Alina felt her cheeks colour guiltily. He had spent decades, centuries, constantly on the run, seeking out other Grisha who would become companions, friends, and lovers. A family, of sorts. One that had not survived Ravka’s deep-rooted superstition and distrust.

“How long has it been since you let yourself care for somebody in that way?” she asked quietly.

Aleksander reached for her face again, slowly, cupping her cheek in his palm. She didn’t pull away this time.

“What makes you think I don’t?”

They were so close together, now. Alina knew with stunning certainty that if she leaned into his hand, tilted her head upwards, he would kiss her. It would be so easy to let him.

But Alina had never planned to make things easy.

“The problem with wanting,” she said, holding his gaze steadily. “Is that it makes us weak.”

Aleksander froze. He hadn’t spoken those words to her, not in this life, but they seemed to have an effect anyway. His eyes widened and, for the first time, when he looked at her he seemed – not quite vulnerable, but close to it. Alina smiled knowingly and disentangled her arm from his grip.

“I should go,” she whispered.

The flames in the fireplace leapt and danced, throwing long, distorted shadows over them both. Alina stepped away. Aleksander’s eyes fixed on her, open with longing, then his face snapped closed again.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. Alina exhaled a long, shuddering breath. She could feel something inside of her going to pieces as she reached for her glass of whisky, abandoned on the tabletop, and downed the contents in one gulp.

“Goodnight, Aleksander,” she said. He let her go without a word of protest.

Alina should have just gone back to her rooms. Her energy was completely spent and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into the comfort of her bed, but her pulse was rattling alarmingly and her skin was aflame, so she turned the other way down the hall in search of some fresh air. As she walked, she summoned tiny figures of light to keep herself amused – directing horses, bears, falcons, and serpents in a weaving dance around her.

Looking back on it, she wasn’t sure what alerted her to a presence behind her. She certainly wasn’t paying too much attention, but she sensed something nonetheless – a shift in the air, perhaps, a noise over her shoulder, a shadow that shouldn’t have been there – and before she knew what she was doing she was twisting out of the way. All her hours in Botkin’s combat lessons had paid off; her body moved at its own behest. There was a man inches away from her, his arm already in motion, something silver glinting in his grip. Alina jerked away. The knife that had been going for her jugular caught her cheek instead.

The sudden flash of pain sharpened Alina’s senses. She stepped back, giving herself more room, easily parrying the next two attacks before shooting a bright burst of white light at her attacker’s hand. He cried out and dropped the knife, and Alina took the opportunity to lash out with a kick at the side of his knee, hoping he would crumple. But the assassin was well trained; the sudden shock of a burn wasn’t enough to distract him and he quickly moved out of Alina’s range, drawing another knife from his belt.

He moved again, astonishingly fast, slashing and stabbing at her arms, her stomach, her throat. Alina matched his speed – all those sparring matches with Zoya had prepared her well – and waited for just the right moment to throw up a shield of light. He was lunging at her from above, the tip of the knife angled down towards the base of her neck, and the momentum of his attack was enough to shatter the blade when it struck the shield. He staggered backwards. Alina grabbed the fingers of his knife hand and twisted to one side until she heard a crack, then flung up her other hand and released another flash of light directly into his eyes. He howled, but rather than try to pull away, he came closer, flipping Alina up over his hips and dropping her onto her back. The manoeuvre was only partly effective – he was still momentarily blinded, and Alina managed to catch his legs with her own, throwing him to the marble floor a few feet away from her.

Winded, Alina scrambled away from him. Her muscles trembled and her cheek was warm with blood. She knew that nothing would stop this man from carrying out his task; she was going to have to either incapacitate him or kill him.

She breathed a sigh of relief as two oprichniki – presumably drawn by the noise – rounded the corner at a sprint. They immediately saw what was happening and rushed to restrain the assassin, who was struggling to his feet, pinning his arms behind his back so that he couldn’t move without tearing a tendon.

The Darkling was right behind them. Alina wondered blearily if she had ever seen him really run like this before. With his black kefta billowing like huge dark wings and his beautiful face wild with concern, he looked like some sort of vengeful god. He strode right past the oprichniki and their prisoner without so much as a glance, dropping to his knees by Alina’s side, reaching for her frantically.

“Alina,” he said, his normally smooth voice cracking a little on the final syllable of her name. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He helped her into a sitting position, his fingers curling around her jaw for the second time that night as he gently turned her cut cheek towards him. His face darkened. The fury in his eyes was like nothing Alina had seen before.

Before Alina could convince him that she was mostly unharmed, the Darkling turned to face her would-be assassin. His voice was deathly quiet as he addressed the oprichniki.

“Take him to a cell – I will deal with him later. I want as many guards as possible sweeping the Little Palace from top to bottom. He may not have been alone.”

He bit out the commands, his eyes still fixed on the man who had attacked her. The Darkling’s anger was a tangible thing – the shadows in the hallway flared with every word that he spoke. As the oprichniki marched the assassin down the corridor, the Darkling lifted Alina and set her carefully on her feet. His gaze strayed to the bloody slash on her face and his expression hardened again.

“You need a Healer,” he muttered, gripping her elbow and hauling her in the direction of the infirmary.

“Aleksander,” Alina entreated. He ignored her, his pace only increasing. Alina dug her heels in and forced him to a halt.

“Aleksander!” she said again, insistent. When he stopped and turned to face her, she took his hands and guided them to cup her cheeks, holding his gaze firmly.

“I am fine. It’s only a tiny scratch,” Alina continued, her words slow and calm. He seemed to relax a little at that, rubbing his thumb absently over her cheekbone, leaving a smear of blood on both his skin and hers.

“You might have died, Alina,” he said. His voice was still tight with rage.

“I might have,” she conceded. “But I didn’t. All my training with Botkin has been good for something. I think I did more harm to him than he did to me – I broke most of his fingers and may have blinded him.”

Aleksander exhaled a shuddering laugh. Alina’s hands loosely circled his wrists; she poured all her reassurance through their connection. She was still shaken, and her body hurt more with every passing second, but she was fine – more than that, she was actually quite proud of herself for fending off a trained assassin. She couldn’t wait to tell Zoya.

“You still need to see a Healer,” he said at last. Alina nodded and released his arms, but it was another few seconds before he pulled away from her.

The infirmary was quiet at this time of night. The Healer on duty scrambled to her feet when she saw them walk in, her eyes widening as they darted between Alina and Aleksander.

“Moi soverenyi,” she said as she rushed forward.

“The Sun Summoner was attacked,” Aleksander told her, indicating Alina’s face. The Healer led them over to a nearby cubicle, gesturing for Alina to sit, and leaned forward to inspect the cut on her cheek.

“It’s not deep,” she said, with a glance towards Aleksander. He was hovering behind Alina’s chair, struggling to control the shadows that twitched restlessly at his ankles, glowering at the Healer as if he was considering how best to threaten her. Alina stifled her sigh. He was not being very helpful.

The Healer held her hands close to Alina’s skin and flexed her fingers. Alina winced at the itching, prickling sensation in her cheek as the damaged tissues were mended. After just a few seconds, the Healer put her hands down and stepped back, examining her work carefully. Alina reached up to touch her face – the skin was perfectly smooth.

“There won’t be a scar,” the Healer said with a small smile, handing Alina a damp cloth to wipe the blood away. “I’m just going to get you a tisane, to help ease your muscles – so you don’t wake up aching all over tomorrow morning.”

Alina nodded and returned the smile. Once the Healer had rushed off, Alina spoke without turning around.

“Do you realise that it’s possible to ask people for help without terrifying them?”

Aleksander said nothing, so Alina twisted round in her seat to look at him. He was no longer glaring daggers but he still looked furious.

“That poor girl probably thought she was for the firing squad if she didn’t do an absolutely perfect job,” Alina said, exasperated.

Aleksander seemed to consider this. “Surely a little extra motivation is a good thing?”

Alina threw up her hands. Saints. “We’re all on the same side, Aleksander. You don’t need to threaten your people into compliance. Sometimes a little kindness can be just as much incentive as fear.”

“Nobody is on our side but us, Alina.”

“I’m not on your side,” she muttered viciously, turning around in her seat and crossing her arms. The Healer came trotting towards them across the infirmary floor with a small glass bottle clutched in her hand. Her steps slowed and her smile faded as she approached, nervously taking in Alina’s frustrated scowl and Aleksander’s tightly coiled rage.

“Make sure to drink it before you go to sleep,” she said, pressing the bottle into Alina’s hand.

“Thank you,” Alina said earnestly. Aleksander nodded to the Healer, who visibly relaxed. She bowed again and left them alone in the cubicle.

“Stay here,” Aleksander said once the Healer was out of earshot. “I’m going to deal with our unexpected guest. I’ll put oprichniki on the door – you’ll be safe.”

Alina shot to her feet, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. I’m coming with you.”

His face was closed off, distant, but Alina could sense the anger that seethed inside him. On impulse, she reached out and grabbed his hand in hers, conveying her confidence, her certainty, in her touch.

“You don’t want to be there for what is about to happen,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“No, Aleksander, we’ve already talked about this tonight,” Alina wanted to scream in frustration. “Stop cutting me out of these things. You can’t pull me into your war room any time you want to trade secrets and then order me around like any other soldier. You can have one or the other – not both.”

Aleksander bristled. “I have never treated you like any other soldier, Alina. You are singular among Grisha. But that doesn’t change the fact that you are still in training, and this is way beyond your purview.”

Alina scoffed. “I disagree. I’m the one he attacked. I think I have every right to be the one asking the questions, don’t you?”

She stepped closer to him, until she had to tip her head back to look him in the eyes. He was completely still, unblinking, barely even breathing.

“What are you so afraid of, Aleksander?” Alina asked quietly. “That you won’t be able to control your murderous side in the presence of a man who tried to kill your Sun Summoner – that I will realise just how much blood is on your hands and run screaming from the building?”

His nostrils flared and he tried to pull his hand from Alina’s grip, but she kept a stubborn hold on him. She made her voice a little kinder.

“None of that is news to me. If I was going to run, I would have run already.”

She let him feel the truth of her words, pouring it through the thing that bound them together. Like calls to like. She wasn’t going to run away, not now. She had far too many plans for him.

“Fine,” Aleksander said eventually. “I’ll agree to this. You argued your case well – with a little refinement, I could put that skill to use.”

Alina smirked and released his hand. “Good. I don’t want to just be a figurehead.”

“Yes, you have made that abundantly clear.” Aleksander said under his breath, placing one hand on her waist and guiding her towards the door.

She had never been to the dungeons of the Little Palace before. Their footsteps echoed loudly as they made their way through the narrow corridor; Alina had to hurry to keep up with Aleksander’s long strides. The air down here was cold and slightly damp, chilling her to her bones. The two oprichniki on guard outside the door at the far end of the corridor nodded to Aleksander when they approached and stood aside to let them both enter.

The cell was small and dim, with thick stone walls and no windows. There were two more oprichniki in here, along with Ivan, who seemed quietly surprised to see Alina at Aleksander’s side. Her would-be assassin was bound to a chair in the centre of the room. He didn’t look scared until he saw the Darkling.

Aleksander exchanged a few words with Ivan before turning to Alina again, his eyes asking her wordlessly if she wanted to leave yet. She set her jaw stubbornly in response. Something dark and desirous flashed across his face, so fast that Alina wondered if she had been imagining it, then he swept past her and strode towards the assassin.

“I hope you know that any attempt to lie to me will be futile,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “But if you tell us the truth, we can make this painless.”

The assassin’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. The Darkling tilted his head to one side.

“Do you know we keep records of everyone who crosses the Fold? For the winter fête, we had ambassadors from Kerch, Novyi Zem, the Wandering Isle – but you didn’t cross with them, did you?”

Alina’s attacker spoke for the first time. His voice was clear and remarkably steady given the man who loomed in front of him, shadows writhing at his feet.

“It doesn’t matter what you do – you won’t get any information from me.”

Darkness began to creep up the walls. The air in the room went from cold to frigid.

“I bet you really believe that,” the Darkling said softly. “But we have ways of making men talk that you have never even heard of before.”

He signalled to Ivan, who took a step forward and brought his hands up. The man in the chair tensed, his face contorting, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He strained at his bonds but shook his head fiercely. It would take more than this to break his strength.

Aleksander continued speaking while the assassin thrashed in front of him. “Your passage through the Fold was arranged by a certain West Ravkan general who has notions of ruling his own country – so long as the Fold separates him from us.”

At another nod from the Darkling, Ivan relaxed his fingers, but he didn’t lower his arms – he moved his hands again, gentler this time, and the assassin slumped over in relief. He was breathing very slowly, now, and when he looked up towards the Darkling, Alina could see that his pupils were huge and dilated.

“Tell me,” the Darkling breathed, leaning down over the chair. “How much did Zlatan pay you to kill the Sun Summoner?”

“A million,” the man muttered, his voice slurred, his eyes blinking slowly. “It would have been less, but the risk of crossing the Fold twice...”

He trailed off into nothing, his mouth hanging open, a frown creasing his forehead as if he was wondering why he had spoken.

“Were you alone?”

The assassin looked as though he were trying to stop himself from saying any more. The Darkling shot a glance at Ivan, who moved his hands again; he spasmed once then relaxed even more, his head lolling on his chest, mumbling indistinctly.

“Yes. Just me. Work alone.”

Aleksander straightened up and stepped back to join Alina. There was satisfaction in his eyes, although his expression was no less ferocious.

“I believe this is the perfect opportunity to practise,” he murmured, and there was that hunger she sometimes saw in him, seeping through his words. “Don’t you, Alina?”

She forced her breathing to remain even. He was talking about the Cut. Alina could still remember the first time she used it to kill someone – the horror of it was so much that she had vomited. But, in this moment, all she could think about was her friend Marie, choking on blood while wearing somebody else’s face, and the harm that this man might have done. Rage shot through her like steel wire. Zlatan wanted her dead and he didn’t care who else he had to cut through to get to her. Alina would not let him get away with this.

She touched her palms together briefly, calling sunlight down into this awful, dank room, shaping it into a gleaming crescent. The light sizzled and flared between her hands as she thrust all of her power into the edge, drawing it as sharp as she possibly could.

The man in the chair raised his head to look at her. His face was slack, his pupils still blown up, and he seemed to only vaguely comprehend what Alina was doing. She didn’t know what kind of hold Ivan had on his body right now, but it was as if he had been drugged.

Alina stopped moving. She knew that she still wasn’t strong enough to make the Cut properly. If she released it from this near to him, even with the edge still partially blunted, it would certainly do damage – maybe enough to kill him – but it wouldn’t be pretty, and it certainly wouldn’t be fast. Looking at his disoriented expression, the way he didn’t even struggle when she raised the blade to kill him, Alina realised that she could not condemn this man to a death like that.

She dropped her hands, letting the Cut evaporate into nothingness with a quiet hiss. Alina turned to face Aleksander, unsure what to say, but he looked neither disappointed nor surprised. His hands were already moving, his fists tightening slowly; shadows dripped from the ceiling like liquid, crawled over the floor towards the legs of the chair.

The assassin seemed to realise what was happening, and now terror was visible in his eyes. He shook and thrashed as the blackness swarmed his body, prying open his mouth, forcing its way down his throat, up his nostrils, under his eyelids. He retched and choked, jerking stiffly in his seat, then he didn’t move again.

Alina couldn’t help it; she took an involuntary step back from the Darkling. She had seen him kill people before – sometimes, she had even been glad of it – but the way he did it so casually disturbed her. She had told him that she knew he had blood on his hands, knew that he was soaked in the stuff, and had promised that she wouldn’t back away from him because of it, yet that was exactly what she had just done.

“Let’s go,” the Darkling said, gripping her upper arm and wheeling towards the door. His voice was perfectly composed, not even a hint of anger or betrayal in his words. Alina allowed him to lead her almost all the way back to her rooms in complete silence. As they approached their wing of the Little Palace, Alina’s mind came back to her, and she tugged her arm from his grasp and stopped in the middle of the corridor. The Darkling spun around as she struggled for words, eyebrow raised expectantly.

“I didn’t kill him,” Alina blurted out. It was, stupidly, the only thing she could think to say.

“No, I didn’t think you would.”

His calm, collected manner was infuriating. Alina fought the urge to stamp her foot like a child.

“Then why did you...” she gestured vaguely in the air. “Why did you tell me to? Why did you let me come at all?”

He tipped his head to one side, taking in her frustration silently. “You made a good point, earlier. I do not plan on allowing you to have a regular career in the Second Army – you will not be sent off to Chernast, to the Fold, to any of our outposts, to work your way through the ranks. If you want to start learning now about what it takes to lead, then you should do so. And the first thing you need to learn is that this position forces you to make impossible choices, to do things that keep you awake at night, to dirty your hands for the sake of others.”

Alina could only stare at him. He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his expression softening ever so slightly.

“I want you to know what kind of life you’re signing up for, what will be required of you, one day, but I don’t expect you to dive into it headfirst. It’s not a failing, Alina, I have just been doing this much longer than you. Know that I would kill a hundred men if you needed me to.”

“I don’t want you to kill a hundred men for me,” Alina said hurriedly. “But... thank you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The Darkling was looking at her like he knew she had more to say.

“I’ve killed people before,” she admitted, before she could lose her nerve. “I killed two Fjerdans in the forest after the massacre. I shot them.”

He nodded as if he’d already known this. “Killing someone in the heat of battle is quite different to executing someone bound and defenceless in front of you.”

“He attacked me,” Alina breathed. “Surely I should have wanted him dead.”

“Wanting a person dead isn’t always the same as wanting the finger that pulls the trigger to be your own,” Aleksander countered.

Alina blew out a sigh. He was being uncharacteristically patient and she didn’t know how to respond to it. Part of her wanted to goad him into snapping at her, while another part wanted to take advantage of it and ask him questions all night until she had worn herself out. She settled for the latter – but it was close.

“How old were you? The first time you killed someone?”

He hesitated before answering, his eyes still fixed on hers. Alina knew he was weighing up whether or not to tell her the truth.

“Thirteen,” he said. “But I had seen more than my fair share of death, even then.”

Even though they stood apart, the connection between them absent without the touch of skin on skin, Alina could sense the truth of what he said. Foolishly, she wanted to reach out to him. She kept her hands firmly at her sides.

“Will you tell me the story?” she asked softly. Aleksander smiled ever so slightly.

“Another night, perhaps. It’s later than I think you realise.”

He was probably right. Alina fell into step behind him as they continued down the corridor. There were more oprichniki outside her door than normal, she noticed, and outside his.

“We’ve swept the whole palace,” Aleksander assured her as they reached her rooms. “It seems the assassin was working alone, as he said. But I’ve arranged for more security for a few days, just in case.”

Alina nodded, her hand already on the doorknob. Aleksander took her by the shoulder and tugged her to look at him again.

"No more unaccompanied midnight walks, Alina,” he said, his voice deadly serious, his eyes narrowed menacingly. This was the face of the Black General, at whose feet many a lesser man had crumbled in fear, whose word none would dare defy – none but Alina. She shot him a coy smirk.

“Of course. Next time I want to go on a midnight walk, I’ll insist you escort me.”

The oprichnik directly behind her stiffened as if trying to subdue a chuckle. Aleksander’s jaw tightened, but he released Alina’s shoulder and stepped back, still frowning at her.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he retorted, and Alina laughed openly.

“I would never. Would you?”

“I keep telling you,” Aleksander said, an arrogant smile dancing on his lips. “I’m a man of my word.”

With that, he turned and stalked down the hall towards his own room, giving her no time to respond. Alina glared at his retreating back. Coward. He was just running away to make sure she couldn’t talk back.

Alina flounced into her bedchamber and began the elaborate process of removing all her clothes. For one single, ludicrous second, she considered going down the hall and asking him to untie her stays, just to get back at him, but such recklessness was unwise. She paused a moment before she resumed unlacing herself, deciding to file that idea away for another day – if she ever got truly desperate.

Her fine clothes were abandoned on the floor and Alina sank into her bed. She knew that, in all likelihood, a host of nightmares waited to pounce on her the second she fell asleep, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The night had been truly exhausting. As her eyelids began to droop, Alina realised muzzily that she had forgotten to draw the curtains. She fell asleep looking at the full moon.

Chapter Text

The following morning was subdued. The entire Little Palace, it seemed, was nursing a collective hangover; Alina was no exception. She stumbled from her bed, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand, towards the door to her chambers, which she cracked open just enough to hoarsely demand that somebody bring her some water.

She was splayed out on her bed with an arm flung dramatically over her face and one leg poking from beneath the sheets when Genya appeared.

“How’s your head, sunshine?” she asked teasingly. Alina cracked open one eye to glare at her friend.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she rasped. Genya chuckled as she set down a large pitcher of water and a tall glass beaker on the bedside table. Alina reached for the water greedily, groaning as she sat up too fast and nausea shot through her gut. Genya tutted as she perched on the bed.

“I thought so. I brought you something that might help – put a few drops in water and drink it slowly.”

She opened her hand to reveal a tiny brown glass bottle nestled in her palm. Alina struggled into a half-seated position, taking the bottle gingerly from Genya and inspecting it closely.

“What is it?” she asked. Genya shrugged.

“Some concoction we have the Healers and Alkemi to thank for. I don’t know what’s in it – everyone just calls it the hangover cure. It works best if you drink it before going to sleep, but it will make the more unpleasant symptoms fade a little faster if you take it now.”

That was good enough for Alina. She used the little glass dropper in the lid of the bottle to dribble some of the strange-smelling, dark green liquid into her beaker of water, which she promptly downed in one, long gulp.

“Does this mean I’m the only person waking up like this?” she grumbled as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Genya burst into peals of tinkling laughter.

“Saints, Alina, no! There are plenty here worse off than you. The Healers and Alkemi are always so busy that they rarely have time to whip up a batch of the hangover cure, so there’s never enough to go around. To get you that bottle, I had to resort to blackmail, extortion, and finally name-dropping.”

Alina groaned. “Oh, Saints. Now I owe someone a favour – and an apology. Who did you take it from, Genya?”

The Tailor shrugged again. “Some young thing, only too happy to help the Sun Summoner. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“You know I hate it when people try to pander to me like that,” Alina whined, but Genya was having none of it.

“You won’t hate it in twenty minutes when you miraculously no longer feel like a reanimated corpse.”

She stood up from the bed, tucking Alina’s bedraggled hair behind her ears, and began sighing and fussing over the crumpled pile of clothes on the floor. Alina buried back beneath her sheets and watched her friend bustle around the room fondly. As she tidied, Genya told Alina all the scandalous gossip she had overheard from the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting the previous night, while Alina shared what she could remember from Marie about the various Grisha couplings that had occurred during the fête.

In the end, Genya was right – twenty minutes later, Alina felt like a whole new person.

The events of the winter fête were enough to keep the Little Palace occupied for the whole week. Details of clandestine trysts became common knowledge, as did a frankly startling diversity of drunken escapades: skinny dipping in the lake, vomiting on the shoes of a retired First Army colonel, accidentally setting fire to one of the royal carriages... the list went on and on. Alina wondered if the King regretted extending an invitation to the Grisha, but then, she supposed that alcohol-fuelled otkazat’sya revels were hardly more restrained.

Everyone knew about the assassination attempt, of course, and that said assassin had swiftly been dealt with by the Darkling. The excitement of an attack within Little Palace walls fortunately distracted her cohort from wondering what she had been doing leaving the fête alongside the Darkling so early – all except Zoya, it seemed, who shot Alina suspicious glares every time she saw her but so far had yet to bring it up.

The week after the winter fête was Alina’s birthday.

She wasn’t expecting it to mean anything – it had never really meant anything, not to anyone other than Mal. They always celebrated their birthdays together, just the two of them, a tradition that stemmed from their childhood in the orphanage. They would raid the kitchens for soft currant buns, or pastila, or gingerbread, or whatever else they could find that felt like some sort of indulgence, however small. They ran out to their meadow, furtively cradling their pilfered snacks wrapped up in a faded tea towel, and lit a candle as day turned to dusk. Once they were adults, they no longer had to steal food for themselves – they owned the orphanage, after all, so they were in a position to choose more carefully which delicacy they would share between them, scattering crumbs over themselves and the earth as they laughed and blew out the candle together.

“Another year,” Mal always whispered as the little flame vanished into the gloaming, replaced by a thin trail of curling smoke.

But Mal wasn’t here now, so Alina thought her day would pass by as uneventfully as any other. Instead, she had just finished dressing herself and was halfway across the bedroom on her way down to breakfast when the doors burst open and her friends piled into her chambers, their faces alight with glee.

“Happy birthday Alina!” they chorused. Marie and Nadia lunged forward, gripped her by the hands and whirled her around and around in a giddy, spinning dance. Alina laughed, startled.

“What?” she gasped out when her friends finally stopped twirling across her room. “But how did you know?”

She hadn’t told her friends when her birthday was. She hadn’t told anybody – except....

Alina glanced towards Genya, who was leaning against the dressing table and smirking to herself.

“He told you,” Alina breathed. Genya came towards her, clasping Alina’s hands in her own and drawing her into a fierce embrace.

“He wanted me to plan something special for you,” she said into Alina’s ear. “To mark your first year amongst your people.”

Genya drew back, her fingers fluttering absentmindedly around Alina’s face as she tidied up stray locks of dark hair. Alina smiled at her friend – she really just couldn’t help herself.

“Genya,” she said softly. “You have enough going on without having to organise something for me. It’s only a silly birthday!”

“Happy birthday, Alina,” was all Genya said in response, her eyes full of warmth. Alina hugged her again, gripping her shoulders tightly, trying to blink back the tears before they could fall.

Genya, as it turned out, had a hidden talent for organising birthday parties. Alina wasn’t particularly surprised about this – she suspected that Genya could do pretty much anything she set her mind to, if she was feeling determined.

They began their day down at the shores of the lake. It was still dark, the deep blue sky overhead just beginning to show the first signs of brightening. Under the whorled boughs of an ancient oak tree, a huge picnic rug had been laid out over the snow-covered ground. There were furs, warm woollen blankets, cushions, and even a fire burning in a raised brazier. A feast was spread out on the rug which the party fell upon happily. They sat there for several hours, eating and chatting and laughing, watching the sun rise over the lake.

Alina looked around the little group Genya had assembled, her eyes lighting on each of their faces with affection. There was Nadia and Marie, of course, Taisa and Stefaniya too, even Zoya, her usual condescending air replaced by what seemed like genuine cheer as she refilled her cup with cha from the huge samovar. She was glad to see that Fedyor had been excused from his usual duties and was able to join them – he had even managed to drag Ivan along. Alina had been surprised to see him in the party at her bedroom door that morning, and was even more surprised to see him tucking into pink zefir while he listened to but did not participate in Fedyor and Genya’s conversation. She supposed it was likely that he was technically here as part of her security detail, but she wasn’t sure such a job normally involved stuffing one’s face with confectionary. Besides, there was a whole squadron of oprichniki lurking in the shadows nearby – she had even more of them guarding her, these days, but thankfully most of the time their presence was unobtrusive.

Day broke at last, the sun coming into view over the bare treetops and reflecting silver light off the still water of the lake. Alina flopped onto her back with a contented sigh. She felt as though she would never need to eat again. Her gaze fixed on the sky, visible in the space between the oak tree’s twisted branches – a pale, winter’s day blue, decorated with wisps of fluffy white clouds.

She had only been lying there for a moment when Genya’s perfect face appeared above her.

“Come on, Alina, we have things to do!” she said with a grin, grabbing Alina’s hands and hauling her to her feet.

“You mean... there’s more?” Alina asked in amazement. Genya laughed lightly and slipped her arm around Alina’s waist.

“Of course. It’s your day.”

They wandered back up the path towards the Little Palace, waving to Fedyor and Ivan as they peeled away from the group.

“They’ll be back later,” Genya said at Alina’s questioning glance. “They couldn’t abandon their jobs all day. But that’s fine – we’ll just have a girls’ afternoon!”

She almost squealed with excitement and Alina couldn’t help but laugh. “Remind me, Genya – was this day meant to be for me, or for you?”

Genya rolled her eyes and bumped Alina’s hip with her own, but didn’t disagree with the observation.

The girls made their way to the banya, which was blissfully empty even at this hour – probably another one of Genya’s little miracles. They took their time, revelling in the warmth and the steam, gossiping indulgently. Whenever the heat became too much, they would dart out to plunge into the pool of cold, clear water just outside the banya, or roll in the snow, shrieking as they did so.

Alina felt completely relaxed as they finally emerged from the bathhouse. She was warm right down to her bones, her muscles loose and supple, her skin soft and flushed lightly pink. The girls strolled leisurely back to the Little Palace, admiring the way the muted light of the winter sun caught on the images carved into its dark wood façade. Genya walked ahead of her, in deep discussion with Marie about what colours would best suit her skin tone, while Alina had linked arms with Zoya and Stefaniya, somewhat surprised to see how easily her normally shy Heartrender friend and the notoriously intimidating Squaller bonded with one another. Stefaniya had grown up in Novokribirsk, just a few streets away from where Zoya’s aunt lived. Alina listened to them with a twinge of guilt. She knew that Zoya’s aunt had been killed when the Darkling slaughtered Novokribirsk – when she had failed to stop him – but she hadn’t been friends with Stefaniya, in that life. Had she lost her whole family to the Fold? If Alina couldn’t change the course of events, if she was once again unable to thwart the Darkling’s plans, would Stefaniya end up an orphan in this life too?

She shook herself and banished these thoughts from her head. It was her birthday – she wouldn’t ruin the lovely celebration Genya had planned for her by being morbid.

The group of girls burst into Alina’s suite, giggling. There was a bottle of champagne on the little desk, accompanied by seven elegant crystal flutes. Alina inspected one of them closely.

“Genya,” she gasped. “Did you steal these from the Grand Palace?”

There was a twinkle in Genya’s eye as she lifted the bottle of champagne and popped the cork with aplomb.

“I surely couldn’t say,” she murmured, dropping Alina a playful wink as she filled her glass.

Genya’s Tailoring kit was perched on the edge of Alina’s dressing table, next to a wooden crate of various Alkemi-designed waxes and creams and ointments. Soon, the girls were spread out on the rug by the fire, their kefta flung haphazardly on Alina’s bed, testing out as many of the moisturisers, hair oils, and perfumes as they could feasibly rub into their body. The atmosphere in the room went from merry to faintly delirious as they worked their way steadily through several bottles of champagne.

Alina was sitting with her legs crossed, an almost-empty glass of champagne in one hand, wondering whether she really should be letting Marie and Nadia brush and style her hair, when Fedyor swept into the room. His jaw dropped when he saw them all – lounging by the fire in their chemises and shifts, giggling uncontrollably, an inordinate quantity of cosmetics adorning their skin. Fedyor seemed particularly taken aback by the sight of Zoya who, after three glasses of champagne, had allowed Genya to paint her eyelids, mouth, and cheeks in glittering bright pink. She scowled as he clapped a hand over his mouth to hide his laughter, the wrathful look in her eyes quite at odds with the girlish colours that decorated her face.

Genya leapt to her feet and dragged Fedyor to join them.

“Your turn, Fedya!” she crowed, pressing a glass of champagne into his hand. Fedyor took a bemused sip as Genya yanked him into a seated position and hauled her Tailoring kit over the rug towards her. None of the girls were particularly bothered by having him around while they were in a state of partial undress – Grisha tended to have a more casual attitude towards such things, and they all knew he wasn’t remotely interested in half-naked women anyway.

“Is Ivan not with you?” Alina inquired innocently, and Fedyor shot her a rueful grin.

“Unfortunately, he has pressing matters to attend to – but he sends his regards.”

Pressing matters. Alina snickered to herself. This must be the convenient excuse the Darkling and his officers used to get out of social engagements they didn’t want to attend.

Genya, Taisa, and Zoya began to argue over what colour they should make Fedyor’s hair. Zoya wanted to see how awful green would look against the red kefta, Taisa was in favour of making him blonde, whereas Genya thought he would suit ginger almost as well as she did.

“No!” Fedyor interrupted them. “I have briefings to attend this evening. I forbid you from doing anything hideous to my hair.”

Alina burst out laughing. Genya smiled artfully and ran her fingers through Fedyor’s hair, leaving him with a head of bouncy, shiny ringlets. Fedyor scrambled for a mirror, glaring into the glass for one horrified second before directing his ire towards his friend, who dimpled serenely in response.

“I’ll undo them before your briefings, darling,” Genya said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. Fedyor grumbled unintelligibly as he took a long swig of champagne. The rest of the girls were doubled over, clutching their sides as they collapsed into fits of hysterics.

Later, when the party had quietened down a little, Genya sat with her head against Alina’s shoulder, staring into the low light of the fireplace. Behind them, Zoya and Fedyor were arguing about who looked better in red lipstick.

“Dinner will be the same as usual, I’m afraid,” Genya sighed. “I have to attend the Queen this evening. I was lucky to get this much time away from the Grand Palace.”

Alina wrapped an arm around her friend and squeezed tightly. “That’s okay, Genya – it’s been a perfect day. Thank you for organising it.”

“I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself. You deserve a break.”

“You deserve a break, Genya,” Alina said, her face creasing sympathetically. “If you ever need anything, I’m right here.”

Genya looked up at her with wide eyes. She nodded once but didn’t say anything. Alina kissed her forehead quickly before twisting over her shoulder to address the room.

“It’s nearly the dinner bell,” she announced, and everyone groaned but shuffled to the bed to retrieve their kefta.

Fedyor made his escape quickly, but not before forcing Genya to uncurl his hair. He took Alina by the arms and smiled at her broadly as he pulled her in for a hug.

“Happy birthday, Alina,” he said, then bid everyone a goodnight as he rushed out the door for his briefings.

The girls slipped into their kefta and shook out the glitter from their hair. Genya smoothly Tailored away the most egregious splatters of colour on their skin, pretending not to notice Zoya at first; she actually made it all the way to the door, her hand almost on the doorknob, before the Squaller tackled her with a shriek.

“I’m not going to dinner with this on my face!” she bellowed. Alina had to hang on to Nadia for support as frenzied laughter racked her body yet again.

In the end, they all went down to the dining hall looking mostly normal but noticeably drunk. Alina gave Genya another bone-crushing hug in the corridor before the Tailor slipped away to her duties, lifting her fully off the ground until she squealed.

“I adore you,” Alina said, her voice deadly serious. Genya shrugged as if it was nothing, but she couldn’t hide the self-congratulatory shine in her eyes. She kissed each of Alina’s cheeks then waved to the rest of the girls as she vanished into the courtyard.

Alina was rarely hungry for pickled herring and cold boiled potatoes, but she found herself ravenous that evening and scoffed down her meal greedily. Zoya watched her eating with a contemplative nod.

“You’re a hungry drunk,” she observed. Alina paused, her mouth full of half-chewed potato, to think this over.

“What kind of drunk are you?” she mumbled. Nadia, seated on Alina’s other side, hooted with laughter, ignoring Zoya’s fierce glare.

“You could say Zoya gets very affectionate when she’s drunk,” Nadia grinned. “Just ask the boys in our class – some of the girls, too.”

“It depends on the night,” Zoya said tersely. “Sometimes I just go around getting into fights.”

“You mean... more than normal?” Alina asked, and Zoya rolled her eyes.

“Don’t push it, Starkov, or tonight might turn into one of those nights. I don’t care if it’s your birthday.”

“You’re not so tough, Nazyalensky.”

Zoya tossed her hair with a harrumph and turned to speak to the Tidemaker on her other side, but Alina could see her smiling.

After dinner, her friends hugged her again, wishing her a final happy birthday before Alina went back to her rooms. It had been a wonderful day, but she needed some time to herself now. She meandered through the hallways, trailing her fingers over the carvings in the walls as she walked, aware of the squadron of oprichniki following her at a distance. Alina stifled a sigh. She knew it was reasonable that her security had been increased following the assassination attempt, but having people around her so constantly was tiring.

She picked up her pace as she reached the Darkling’s wing, hurrying towards her bedroom door. Her chambers were quiet and empty; the relief of it was staggering. Alina impatiently unlaced her boots, kicking them off into a pile by her wardrobe, then slipped her kefta from her shoulders and peeled off her stockings one by one. The kefta was lucky enough to be draped over the back of a chair, but the rest of her clothes – a plain white blouse and navy-blue twill skirt – were dumped unceremoniously into the same corner as her boots.

Alina took a long, slow breath. This was her first birthday without Mal since they had been married. She missed him terribly.

Dazed with a sudden surge of grief, Alina fumbled in her desk drawer for a candle. It was well past dusk, now, but she needed to do this anyway. It was their tradition.

Alina lit the candle and sank into the chair to watch the little flame. Beyond the glass of her window, the sky had sunk fitfully into night-time – a dark, indigo velvet studded with the silver pinpricks of stars. Alina’s candle seemed so small compared to the vastness of the world, but she clung to it desperately.

“Another year,” she murmured to herself. She thought of Mal, somewhere in West Ravka, unreachable, and wondered if he too was lighting a candle and looking up at the night sky.

She was startled from her reverie by a knock at the door. Alina frowned. Had one of her friends forgotten something here? Or maybe Genya had been released from her duties early tonight, after all.

Alina opened the door curiously. Of all the people she had expected to be standing on the other side of the threshold, the Darkling was probably last on her list, but there he was – resplendent in a neat black kefta, his eyes widening ever so slightly as they landed on Alina’s body.

She was wearing nothing but her stays and a long, sleeveless shift in white linen. Alina blushed and fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest. If she had known it was him, she would have at least put on a robe before answering the door, but it was too late now and she refused to appear meek or demure in front of the Darkling.

“Alina,” the Darkling said, a little gruffly. Alina bit her lip and stepped to one side, welcoming him in.

She let the door close softly behind her, pressing her back against the wood. He cleared his throat.

“I just came to wish you a happy birthday,” he said. “I apologise if I’m interrupting you.”

Alina’s gaze darted to the candle on her desk and back to the Darkling. “No, you’re not. I’m glad you’re here, actually – I wanted to thank you.”

He frowned. “What for?”

She straightened up and took a step towards him, smiling at his unawareness. “For telling Genya it was my birthday. I know it was you. Nobody else could have known.”

The Darkling’s face relaxed. “Of course. I knew I could trust Genya to organise something special.”

“She outdid herself,” Alina confirmed, and the vague outline of a smile traced his lips. The Darkling reached into the pocket of his kefta and passed her a small black velvet box.

“This is for you,” he said softly.

Alina reached for the box hesitantly, glancing up at him questioningly. The Darkling’s customary inscrutable expression revealed nothing.

“You really didn’t need to,” she mumbled, her cheeks colouring. “You already got Genya to arrange such a beautiful day.”

He tilted his head to the side. “I wanted to. Happy birthday, Alina.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she prized open the lid. Nestled on a plush satin cushion was a delicate gold chain, impossibly fine. Alina lifted it free, letting it hang from her finger, admiring the way it caught the light. A tiny pendant was suspended from the chain – a flat circle of gold engraved with a fiery, blazing sun.

Alina looked up at Aleksander, speechless.

“I noticed that you declined to wear my symbol at the winter fête,” he said in explanation. “I thought this could be a reasonable compromise.”

He reached out slowly to turn the pendant over in his fingers, and Alina saw that on the reverse side was an engraving of the sun in eclipse. Alina smiled wryly.

“Two sides of the same coin?”

He shrugged. “It felt appropriate. Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful, Aleksander,” Alina breathed. “Would you –”

She handed him the necklace and turned her back to him, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. He hesitated only momentarily before stepping forward, closing the distance between them entirely, and looping the chain around her neck. Alina felt as though he left a trail of sparks anywhere his fingers came into contact with her skin.

He deftly fastened the clasp, his hands lingering on the nape of her neck, then took Alina by the shoulders and turned her round to face him. He looked a little odd; Alina tried to read his expression, but it was one of his more impenetrable masks. Her fingers closed around the little pendant and she smiled.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Aleksander nodded. He looked as if he were about to say something but then thought better of it. Just as Alina began to pull away, he changed his mind again.

“It’s my birthday today, too,” he blurted. Alina stared at him.

“Today?”

He nodded again, silent, frowning as if he wasn’t sure what had driven him to tell her. Alina gasped, indignant.

“You mean – but you’ve done all these lovely things for me, and I don’t have anything for you! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Aleksander recovered his words. He directed his frown towards Alina, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, you didn’t ask.”

Alina stopped mid-tirade, closing her mouth with a snap. Hells. He had her there.

“If I had asked, would you have told me?” she retorted with a glare.

Aleksander’s shoulders relaxed and he chuckled. “Probably not,” he admitted.

Alina watched him closely for a long moment. She didn’t know exactly how old he was – over four hundred years, at least – and it occurred to her that probably the only reason he still remembered his birthday was the same reason that she remembered hers. She couldn’t imagine that Baghra had ever done anything to mark the date. Did he have traditions of his own? Had he, at some point in his lonely childhood, come up with his own way to observe the passing of another year? Had anyone, in all his centuries, ever wished him happy birthday?

“Do you want to blow out the candle with me?” she asked softly. Aleksander’s eyebrows raised in astonishment. Alina nodded to the desk behind him, where the flame still flickered on its wick. “It’s sort of a tradition of mine.”

He seemed to freeze for a moment, caught off guard by Alina’s spontaneous act of vulnerability.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said slowly, but Alina just shook her head with a smile.

“It’s no intrusion.”

She brushed past him as she walked to the desk. He only hesitated for a second before following.

“A Keramzin tradition?” he asked, and she nodded.

“You get to make a wish,” she explained. “Anything you like.”

He looked thoughtful. “Do you know what you’ll wish for this year?”

Alina nodded again. “Do you?”

His eyes flickered over her, just briefly, and he inclined his head. Alina took a deep breath in, slowly, pinning all her hopes for the next year in her mind. Aleksander caught her gaze and they blew out the candle together.

Alina watched the coil of smoke ascend towards the ceiling. Something warm tightened in her chest.

“Happy birthday, Aleksander.”

Chapter Text

With the darkest nights of winter behind them, everyone in the Little Palace seemed to be counting down the days until spring. The amusement to be found in snowfall had long since passed, and now the Grisha could be heard grumbling about cold feet and damp hair any time they came inside, shaking off their kefta and stamping their boots in the entranceway. Alina and her friends had abandoned their usual seat in their common room, opting instead to sit as close to the fire as possible. Botkin’s training sessions were still held indoors, but sometimes, when he was feeling particularly harsh, he sent them on long runs around the palace grounds. On those days, Alina practically crawled back to her chambers – her strength and stamina had increased significantly since her arrival at the Little Palace, but hours of wading through deep snow while Botkin barked at them to pick up the pace drained every last drop of energy from her body.

“I suppose we need the practice, in case we end up stationed in Fjerda,” Marie grumbled unhappily as they trudged back to their rooms after one especially gruelling session. Alina could not argue with the logic of it, but that didn’t make her enjoy it any more.

Everyone was glad when the snow finally melted. Unfortunately, it was replaced with a downpour of rain which lasted for almost a week without stopping. The gardens and grounds flooded, their normally perfectly maintained hedges and grass turning into one huge mudbath. Botkin surveyed this new landscape with a spark in his eye that had their whole class groaning.

“I still think the snow is worse,” Nadia panted as they jogged around the lake. Alina wasn’t so sure – she’d slipped only a few minutes out the door and was now drenched from head to foot in freezing cold sludge.

Gradually, the weather improved, although heavy rain showers were not infrequent. The view from her bedroom window became greener, lusher, brighter. Some days it felt like spring really was just around the corner – then, inevitably, dark grey clouds would descend from the heavens and a vicious wind would whip the surface of the lake into a frenzy.

The Darkling was called away often, to the Fjerdan and Shu Han borders, and frequently to the camp at Kribirsk. As the largest Second Army base outside of the Little Palace, a great many Grisha soldiers passed through Kribirsk as a matter of procedure. The increased fighting on both of Ravka’s borders meant the Darkling had to hold more regular meetings with his officers, most of whom were almost constantly in the field, and after a few weeks of almost constant travelling back and forth from Os Alta he simply relocated to Kribirsk. Alina barely saw him from the time the snow melted until all the flowers in the palace grounds had bloomed.

Without the Darkling around, somebody else had to suffer the consequences of Alina’s impatience. Fortunately, Baghra was more than capable of handling whatever Alina could throw at her; the two women clashed, frequently and fiercely, during Alina’s summoning lessons.

“I should be stronger than this by now!” Alina shouted in frustration. Baghra had been demanding she make her light hotter, and for several days now Alina had repeatedly been pushing the limits of her power but was still unable to melt the sheet of Grisha steel propped against the stone wall of the hut.

Baghra, unimpressed by her outburst, merely clicked her tongue. “Do you expect to achieve everything on your first try? You have been summoning less than a year, girl. Even the most talented Grisha cannot master their control in such a space of time.”

Alina ground her teeth. “I’m not like other Grisha. Other Grisha don’t have the future of their whole country resting on their shoulders. I need to be stronger.”

“Pah!” Baghra flapped a hand. “You want to be stronger? Strong enough to tear down the Fold? These things don’t happen overnight. It takes patience, and practice. Dedication.”

Baghra jabbed Alina with her cane to emphasise the last word. Alina rounded on her, furious.

“And how have I been anything but dedicated? I practise what you tell me to practise, I read what you tell me to read. I train every day. What more do you want from me?”

Baghra’s dark eyes narrowed to slits. “I want you to stop complaining, girl. I want you to stop acting like a child. If that is too much to ask, then you’re wasting my time. Come back when you’re ready to face your problems like a Grisha.”

Alina clenched her fists, her blood bubbling with anger. Barely suppressing an enraged scream, she turned back to the metal plate and unleashed a searing bolt of sunlight from her palms, so bright that the dim interior of the hut was illuminated in a blinding flash, forcing Baghra to shield her eyes. Alina dropped her hands to her sides, breathing hard. The metal had been reduced to a silvery pool on the floor. Baghra nodded appreciatively.

“Good. Now do it again, without the dramatics.”

Alina’s bad mood followed her from Baghra’s hut. She stomped through the gardens, glaring at the neat rows of flowers, the marble statues and fountains which had recently been scrubbed clean. The air felt milder again today, though still with a lingering dampness from the most recent rainfall.

She had been planning to find her friends in the common room, where she knew they would be studying – or, more likely, gossiping – but she altered her course and headed for the stables instead. It had been a while since she’d been out to the clearing to practise the Cut, and she was in the mood to destroy some trees. She stopped in her tracks when she entered the stableyard, every scrap of rage fleeing from her body at the sight of the black carriage and its team of six black stallions. Stablehands and servants bustled around, paying no attention to Alina as they set about unhitching the horses and unloading the luggage. There was no mistaking it – it was the Darkling’s carriage. Alina turned on her heel and sprinted into the Little Palace.

She screeched to a halt outside the Darkling’s chambers. The oprichniki on guard shot her quietly amused glances as she paused to catch her breath, smoothing down her hair and dusting off her kefta as best she could. Then, before she could think about it too hard, she threw open the doors to the war room.

Aleksander was standing at the map table with Ivan and Fedyor, discussing something undoubtedly very important – a new spy report, perhaps, or planned troop movements. All three men looked up when Alina barged in. Fedyor looked slightly surprised to see her, and Ivan’s expression darkened into his usual scowl, while Aleksander’s face softened with relief as their eyes met. He glanced at the Heartrenders by his side, a silent command, and they inclined their heads before leaving Alina alone with him.

“Alina,” he said. In that single word, she could hear all the strain and the weariness that had built up inside him since they last met.

“I missed you,” she exclaimed, surprised to find that it was true. She had stalled part way between the doors and the map table, taken aback by the strength of emotion that hit her when she saw his face again. Now, she resumed her journey, walking slowly towards Aleksander until they stood an arm’s length apart. He smiled at her, pleased by her confession.

“And I you. Tell me, what excitement has there been since I left?”

He placed one hand, gently, on her shoulder and gestured towards the armchairs by the fireplace. Somebody must have prepared the room for his return, Alina noted, as the flames were blazing in the hearth, and all the surfaces had been swept clean of dust. She settled into one of the chairs thoughtfully.

“No excitement, unless you count Botkin forcing us to run drills in the mud.”

The corners of Aleksander’s mouth twitched. “Botkin does enjoy the rainy season. It makes for better training.”

Alina groaned. “Don’t you start!”

He laughed and settled back in his seat. “And Baghra?”

At the mention of the old woman’s name, Alina’s earlier ire returned to her. She glowered. “You know, I think she’s even worse when you’re not around.”

Aleksander hummed in agreement. “That wouldn’t surprise me. I’ll have a word with her.”

“Saints, no!” Alina gasped, sitting forward urgently. “Don’t do that! It would only make her more insufferable. Besides, I can handle her myself.”

“I can believe that,” he chuckled.

Alina fidgeted with the sleeve of her kefta. “So, what’s been keeping you so busy?”

From the look on his face, he recognised her question for what it really was – a test, to see if he would be honest with her this time. Aleksander eyed her for a moment, his body language still guarded, then slumped backward and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Fjerda and Shu Han are becoming increasingly bold – I suspect because they are threatened by you. They know that your existence strengthens Ravka. Shu raiding parties have for decades been an occasional threat, but now there are reports of raids almost daily. People who live near the border are leaving their homes and travelling north, such is the extent of the murder and pillaging, and now whole villages are lying abandoned. It won’t be long before the Shu claim some of those villages as their own. Meanwhile, in the north, Fjerda have progressed from merely sending drüskelle parties over our border to seek out Grisha and have begun moving whole battalions of troops into Ravka with the intent to wipe out whatever settlements they can find. We have responded, of course, and the invaders have been dealt with – but in doing so we lost many of our own.”

He took a breath, tapping his long fingers on the arm of his chair, then abruptly stood up, turning away from Alina.

“The King is a petulant child, a fool, and a drunk,” Aleksander continued, his voice low and harsh. “I cannot fight a war on two fronts while I must also fight to make our esteemed leader see sense. It has taken weeks to get him to agree to increase First Army presence on the Fjerdan border, to reinforce our defences, and in the meantime, I am forced to use my own people to take the fall for his stupidity. We lost twenty Grisha in the past week alone, trying to stop the Fjerdan advance, before Raevsky managed to convince the King that we needed First Army support.”

The room was getting darker with every word that he spoke. By his side, Aleksander’s hands clenched into fists, and tendrils of shadow writhed around his body. Alina recognised this emotion as the same one that had driven her to lash out at Baghra earlier that day – the sense of impatient helplessness, the knowledge that she had the power to stop all this suffering but could not yet use it to do any good. Alina had been grappling with this for months and it was sending her insane. For Aleksander, it had been centuries.

She stood up and walked to his side, softly, letting a faint glow emanate from her body to break through the intensifying blackness that rolled off him in waves. He looked down when she stopped next to him, the despair on his face evaporating at the sight of her. Aleksander sighed and shook his head.

“Forgive me my moroseness, Alina. It has been a... trying month.”

“Will you be back long?” she asked quietly, and Aleksander sighed again.

“I’m not sure. I hope I won’t have to rush away immediately, but it’s possible that situation may arise.”

She tried to stamp down on the melancholy that rose up within her, but it refused to be quelled. Everything was just easier with him here – despite their constant dancing around one another, the game of truth truth lie they played in every conversation, Alina felt more confident in herself when the Darkling was nearby. She needed that confidence, for the days when she doubted her capacity to change anything for the better.

He read her uncertainty in her face and laid the back of his hand on her cheek, letting a soothing sense of reassurance flow through their connected skin. Alina tried not to lean into his touch.

“There is so much weighing on you,” he murmured. “So much hope and expectation. I wish I could do something to ease that burden.”

Alina almost snorted with amusement. She couldn’t help but think that her burden would be eased considerably if not for the Darkling’s possessive, murderous, and occasionally psychotic disposition. She wondered what his response would be if she said as much.

Instead, she tilted her head up so that his hand dropped down to rest on her collarbone.

“You have more than enough burdens of your own,” Alina said. His fingers curled around her shoulder, drawing her towards him gently but insistently.

There was a sharp knock at the door. The Darkling released his grip on Alina and took a step away from her, his face settling back into its customary impassive mask as he turned expectantly towards the door. Fedyor appeared in the threshold, his posture stiff, his expression carefully neutral. He looked as if he were bearing bad news, and he was.

“Moi soverenyi,” Fedyor said. “I apologise for the interruption, but the King has demanded to meet with you.”

The Darkling gave him a nod. “Thank you, Fedyor. I’ll be there momentarily.”

The door closed again and the Darkling clenched his jaw, whirling around angrily. The shadows reared up around his body, flexing and snapping, until he managed to get control of himself.

“He summons me like I am his hound, trained to heel,” the Darkling snarled. “And, like his hound, he expects me to do all his hunting for him. He calls me to meetings to seek my advice, but does he listen to what I have to say?”

He scoffed with derision. Alina watched in silence, unmoved by his outburst. Aleksander let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, before meeting her eyes apologetically.

“I must see what our witless King wants of me now. I am sorry, Alina, I haven’t been very good company today.”

She nodded her understanding. He straightened his kefta and swept towards the doorway, pausing before he left the room.

“If I am called away again, I will find you before I go.”

Alina wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he was already gone. She stood alone in the middle of the war room, her thoughts scattered like ash in the wind, for several more minutes until the dinner bell rang.

She was subdued that evening, only half listening to whatever new rumour had caught Nadia and Marie’s attention. Alina was so distracted that she didn’t even notice when Nadia turned to her after the meal.

“Alina?” the Squaller repeated, a little louder, and Alina jumped.

“What? Oh, sorry, Nadia. I’m not quite with it this evening,” she said guiltily.

“Late nights?” Nadia asked, her mouth curving into a wicked smile.

Marie leaned forward eagerly. “Anything we should know about? Or, rather, anyone?”

Alina waved them off. “Unless you count my Grisha theory textbook, I’m afraid not.”

“Speaking of which,” Nadia said with a laugh. “I was just saying we’re going back to the common room to finish our assignments for Nilima. Do you want to come?”

“I don’t know if I have it in me – I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Alina confessed. “But you guys go ahead, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

She bid her friends goodnight and returned to her chambers. The stormy clouds of unease that had been swirling around her since her earlier interaction with the Darkling dissipated the moment she flung open her bedroom door to see Genya waiting there for her.

“Genya!” Alina gasped in delight, catching her friend in a tight hug. Genya laughed and returned the embrace.

“Hello, sunshine,” she giggled. Alina unwound her arms from Genya’s shoulders, staring at her beloved face.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” Alina babbled. “It’s been weeks since we spoke properly. I missed you!”

“I know, Alina, I’m sorry. The Queen has been even more demanding than usual. I’ve barely had a minute to myself,” Genya explained, leading Alina to the chairs by the fireplace. There was a tea set already laid out on the little table.

“So you decided to spend your evening off catching me up on all the hottest Grand Palace gossip?” Alina asked with a grin, gratefully accepting the cup of tea that Genya passed her.

“In exchange for Little Palace gossip, of course,” the Tailor replied.

They sipped their tea and chatted, avidly exchanging stories until the sky beyond the window had darkened to inky blue, and one of the maids came in to light all the lamps. Genya idly watched her progress around the room, her eyes far away, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on her china cup. The maid left with a curtsy and their conversation ebbed into silence. Alina was trying to think of something else to talk about when she noticed Genya struggling to hold in a yawn.

“I’m fine!” she exclaimed at Alina’s motherly expression.

“Genya, you don’t need to tire yourself out for my sake. It seems like you could do with getting an early night,” Alina said sternly.

Genya smiled weakly and shook her head. “I just needed to see a friendly face. The Queen is a harridan, and her ladies are like a clutch of giggling schoolgirls. I thought I might lose my mind if I had to spend one more minute in their company.”

“Has it been bad, lately?” Alina asked, her voice sympathetic.

“You have no idea. These past weeks have been exhausting – Her Royal Bossiness, Tatiana, has absolutely no regard for my need to sleep. She’s been waking before dawn, every day, demanding I touch up her face.”

Genya sighed, her grip tightening on her teacup.

“I don’t mind, actually,” she continued in a quiet voice. “It tends to shift the King’s gaze in her direction. At least until nightfall.”

Alina’s heart broke for her friend. “Genya...”

Genya was studiously avoiding her gaze. “The King has his way with lots of servants,” she said dully, with a half-hearted shrug. “At least I got a few jewels out of it.”

Alina’s hands curled into fists. She wanted to march over to the Grand Palace right there and tear the whole monstrosity to the ground. Genya was normally so good at hiding the horrors she experienced, of covering it all up with a blithe smile and an air of confidence. Even as she had grown older, as she had begun the long process of healing, there was only so much that she ever let Alina see.

Looking at Genya now, a pale ghost of her usual self, Alina was struck with the full weight of what had been done to her.

“The General should have done something,” she growled. “He should never have handed you over to them in the first place. He should have protected you.”

“He has, Alina,” Genya sighed. “More than you know. But General Kirigan is as much a slave to the whims of the King as the rest of us are.”

Alina shook her head. She wasn’t going to stand for this, to hear Genya defend him. “He could easily have you reassigned. You shouldn’t have to suffer this, Genya.”

“I won’t have to suffer it much longer,” Genya bit back, her smile sharp. “Please, Alina, let this one go. Promise me you won’t go meddling in things.”

Alina sat back and crossed her arms but said nothing. Genya raised an expectant eyebrow. After a moment of silence, Alina nodded reluctantly.

“Now, let’s not dwell on depressing thoughts,” Genya said, reaching forward and catching hold of Alina’s hands in her own. “It’s my night off! Let’s do something fun.”

In the end, they went down to the Materialki workshops – it wasn’t really Alina’s idea of ‘fun’, but it made Genya happy. They perched at David’s bench and watched as he tinkered with an array of complicated-looking objects, explaining quietly what they were all for. His words went completely over Alina’s head and, from the look on her face, Genya’s too, but her friend watched David work with a kind of fascination, nonetheless. Alina leaned into Genya’s side, resting her head on a soft, cream-clad shoulder, and wished that she could keep Genya safe in this moment forever.

It wasn’t long before Genya was yawning again, her eyelids fluttering closed as she tried to pay attention to what David was saying, and Alina hauled her friend to her feet.

“Go to bed, Genya,” she said firmly. Genya’s answering smile was sheepish. They waved a goodnight to David, who mumbled the same in response, and left the workshops. Alina wrapped Genya in a tight hug as they parted ways.

“You know you can tell me anything,” Alina said in a low voice. “If you ever need to talk, or distract yourself, or scream and break things, I’ll be there.”

Genya smiled warmly and squeezed Alina’s arms. “I know, darling.”

She dropped a delicate kiss on Alina’s cheek and turned down the path to the Grand Palace with a wave. Alina watched her go, feeling her sorrow and rage build up again at the sight of Genya’s lonely, spectral figure vanishing into the night.

Alina stormed through the Little Palace, throwing open the doors to the Darkling’s war room. He was seated at his desk, sorting through stacks of papers, and barely looked up as she marched across the room.

“How long have you known about what the King does to Genya?” she demanded. He paused, setting down the file he had been rifling through, and met her eyes warily.

“Alina...” he began, and she slammed her hands on the desk.

“How long?” she said again, louder this time.

He leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh. “It was brought to my attention, I believe, about two years ago.”

“Then why is she still there?” Alina hissed. Her anger was spinning wildly out of control, flickers of bright light leaking across the ground where she stood, coiling down her fingers and leaving little scorch marks on the wood of the Darkling’s desk.

“Alina, you need to calm down,” he said, his voice infuriatingly steady, as he sent a wave of shadows washing over the desktop, extinguishing her light. Alina yanked her hands back and glared at him.

“Don’t tell me to calm down. Answer me!”

Irritation showed on the Darkling’s face for the first time. He stood up to match her, leaning across the desk.

“Tell me, Alina, do you know anything, anything at all, about how I select my undercover agents?”

She curled her lip but shook her head.

“In that case, I shall illuminate you on the subject,” the Darkling said. “My spies are incredibly valuable to me. They collect information which has, on multiple occasions, saved countless lives. They uncover weak spots in our enemies’ strategy which we can then exploit. They are also in constant danger – if their true identity is ever discovered, they may very well lose their lives – and in order to keep their cover, they may be forced to commit atrocities or suffer them. All of our agents are vetted extensively before their assignment, and they are briefed on every aspect of their cover, including the risks.”

The Darkling let his words sink in, watching Alina’s reaction closely; when she didn’t say anything, he continued.

“I know you think me heartless, Alina, but I would never send one of my soldiers into a situation they have not been suitably prepared for. It is crucial that they understand the dangers associated with their position, that they do not confront anything unexpected which may cause them to lose their grip on their cover.”

“Genya wasn’t a soldier when you gave her to the Queen,” Alina hissed. “She was a child.”

“She was a child, but she was also a soldier,” the Darkling said. “Genya was vetted and briefed as every other agent is. Once a year, every year, I meet with her so that she can bring to me any concerns and I can make the suitable adjustments to her assignment.”

“You’re trying to tell me she knew what she was getting herself into?” Alina asked, her anger rising again.

The Darkling hesitated momentarily. “No. I briefed Genya on the risks of her undercover position, but I was... short-sighted. I knew of the King’s proclivities, of course, but I also knew how he resents and distrusts Grisha. I thought, therefore, that he would not look twice at Genya. It was my mistake.”

Alina stared at him. The Darkling rarely admitted to making mistakes. She wondered if he felt genuinely sorry for this one – his devotion to his Grisha was one of the only genuine things about him – or if it was all for show.

He passed a hand over his face and sighed. “As soon as word reached me, I called Genya back here and I gave her the choice to leave her post. I had failed to brief her properly, and if she felt unable or unwilling to continue in the face of this new... ordeal, I could have her reassigned immediately. But she refused. Every year, when we debrief, I ask her the same question, and she always gives the same answer.”

“Did you really give her the choice, or did you spin her some tale about how she is a soldier – your soldier – and how she is strong enough to endure this torment for your sake?”

“I told her the truth. I told her that she is the most capable spy I have ever trained. I told her that if she were to remain in her post, to keep up her cover, then she would one day be granted the revenge she deserves.”

Alina threw up her hands with a cry of exasperation. “Do you not see how that would influence her decision? You’re her superior officer – in telling her this, you’ve put her in an impossible situation.”

The Darkling shook his head at her. “Genya knows that if she ever feels out of her depth, if it ever gets too much, I would have her out of the Grand Palace and far from Os Alta in a heartbeat. Her decisions are her own.”

“If you truly believe that, you’re more of a fool than I thought,” Alina spat. The Darkling bridled.

“And have you actually asked Genya about this?” he said, his voice quiet but with an edge to it.

Alina had nothing to say to that. She vibrated with silent rage as he cocked an eyebrow triumphantly.

“I can’t stand the thought of that man laying a hand on her,” Alina seethed. “I want to get her out of there.”

“I am working on it, Alina,” he said firmly. “Do you trust me that much?”

“I do not trust you at all,” she muttered, but it was a lie, and he could tell.

“Ask me a question, then,” he said, pulling up the sleeve of his kefta and offering her his hand. Alina stared at him for several seconds then shook her head slowly.

“Another time,” she said, backing away from the desk. He looked disappointed but nodded anyway. She left the room quickly, her mind wheeling, her emotions in turmoil. Everything was too close to the skin – she couldn’t trust herself to be near him without it all spilling out.

The following evening, Genya visited her again. Alina trudged into her chambers after a brief, unproductive study session with Nadia and Marie to find Genya holding one of Alina’s black kefta against her body and admiring herself.

“I do suit black,” Genya mused aloud, catching Alina’s eye in the mirror. “It’s a shame only you and he wear it.”

“I don’t even wear it,” Alina said with a scowl. Genya laughed and made her way back to the wardrobe, replacing the black kefta and drawing out one of the blue ones instead.

“What do you think?” Genya asked, splaying the skirt of the kefta and spinning around. “Would I make a good Summoner?”

“Did General Kirigan really offer to have you removed from the Grand Palace?” Alina blurted out. Genya froze, her face going very still.

“Alina,” she said quietly. “I asked you not to meddle.”

“I’m not meddling. I just need to know. I need to understand why you wouldn’t get out of there, if you had the choice.”

Genya slowly returned the blue kefta to the wardrobe and sat down on the edge of Alina’s bed with a sigh.

“What do you think would happen, if I did leave?” she asked Alina carefully. “The King won’t stop – it would just be some other poor serving girl who has to suffer him. Nothing would change, not really.”

She stopped talking, taking a few deep breaths. Alina came to sit on the bed next to her, gently wrapping Genya’s cold fingers in her own, but said nothing.

“I considered it,” Genya continued. “When the General found out – I was so ashamed that this had happened to me, and worse, that he knew – but he didn’t react how I expected. He didn’t treat me like some fragile little thing, which I would have hated, he just told me very plainly that he would reassign me immediately if it’s what I wanted. He gave me time to think about it. I came close to giving up completely and having him send me away.”

“What made you change your mind?” Alina asked, barely a whisper. Genya straightened her back almost imperceptibly.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the girls who the King would turn on after I left,” she said firmly. “I am a soldier. If I have to go through hell to fight for a better future, where no girls have to suffer what I’ve suffered at his hands, then that’s what I’ll do. I can endure it – I will endure it – for them.”

“Those are his words,” Alina said slowly. “Those are the General’s words.”

Genya sighed in irritation. “Do you not believe I can know my own mind?” she snapped. “Give me more credit than that, Alina.”

Alina bit her lip and squeezed Genya’s hand in apology. The Tailor sighed again, softer this time, her shoulders slumping a little.

“The General has a few spies in the Grand Palace, but none so close to the royal family as I am. I stayed because – because right now, there is no way to hold the King accountable for what he has done, to me and so many others. But what we can do is remove him from a position where he has that power – we can make the whole Lantsov dynasty pay for the harm they have caused. And if I stay, if I keep gathering information from the heart of the royal household, I can make sure they fall much harder and much sooner than they would if I leave. So I’m going to stay, Alina, and I’m going to have a front row seat when they finally get what’s coming to them.”

Genya’s gaze was fixed stonily on some point in the distance. She lapsed into silence, her skin pallid, her hands trembling. Alina longed to wrap her friend in her arms, to hold her until everything else went away.

“I swore I’d do whatever I can to get you out of the white kefta,” Alina said. “And I meant it. I want to help, Genya – what can I do?”

Genya shot her a small smile, now. “So keen to mire yourself in treason, Alina?”

Alina smiled a little in return. “It’s not much of a leap from where I stand already.”

“General Kirigan has plans for us all,” Genya said, twining an errant lock of Alina’s hair in her fingers, leaving it perfectly curled. “You should speak to him, if you want to know what he has planned for you.”

“Do you trust him?” Alina dared to ask. Genya’s hands stilled.

“I trust him to finish what we’ve started,” was all that she said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Genya smiled and withdrew her hands. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Alina did not speak to the Darkling about his plans for her – in fact, she made a point to avoid him as much as possible. The jumble of emotions that assaulted her whenever she felt his dark eyes on her body was too much to handle, and she had enough to contend with as it was. Their language assessments were fast approaching; Alina spent every second she wasn’t training with Botkin or Baghra with her Shu dictionary, working fastidiously on her translations and her calligraphy. She and her friends sat in the common room or the library until late at night, testing each other on their pronunciation and vocabulary.

One evening, shortly before their exam, she showed up at Taisa’s invitation to a study night in one of the empty classrooms.

“We’re going to speak Shu to each other all night,” Taisa said excitedly. “We do this most years – it’s a great way to practise.”

Alina was quietly surprised, therefore, when she walked in and saw a frankly alarming number of kvas bottles assembled on the desks. She raised her eyebrows at Taisa, who giggled.

“Sorry, I didn’t mention the drinking.”

“I thought we were meant to be studying?” Alina queried, and Taisa shrugged.

“We are studying. It adds a layer of difficulty – if you can get through a night of conversation entirely in Shu, while drunk, you know you’ll have no problem in the exam.”

Alina was not entirely convinced, but she couldn’t really argue with that logic. She sighed and took a seat at the desk next to Stefaniya.

“I thought this was a terrible idea at first, too,” she confided in Alina. “But last year it genuinely did help me.”

In the end, most of their class showed up. Once they were all seated, Taisa passed around the first bottle; Alina took a long swig before handing it over to Stefaniya, who grinned and thanked her in flawless Shu. Taisa nodded at her approvingly.

“That’s the spirit, Stef,” she replied in the same language, her intonation similarly perfect. Alina groaned. The kvas was already making her light-headed. She had the feeling this was a decision she may come to regret.

The next morning, Alina was very glad that Genya had left the Alkemi hangover cure in her bedside drawer – she had taken three drops in water before she went to sleep, as directed, and woke up feeling surprisingly fresh, given that she had probably consumed close to an entire bottle of kvas by herself the previous night.

She skipped down to breakfast, smugly catching Taisa’s eye as she waltzed past the Materialki table. The Durast shook her head at Alina with a scowl. Her hair was bedraggled and her skin had an ashen cast to it. Alina did not feel sympathetic at all – Taisa had nobody to blame but herself for being the one to come up with the idea of a drunk study session in the first place.

“How was the Shu study night?” Marie asked intently as Alina sat down.

“It was fun,” she admitted. “It definitely helped my confidence. I think we may have overindulged, though.”

“You seem perky compared to the rest of them,” Nadia said, nodding at her classmates around the room, who were alternately drinking water as if their lives depended on it or resting their heads face-down on the tabletop.

Alina grinned. “Genya stole me a bottle of the hangover cure after the winter fête.”

“You lucky bitch!” Marie gasped indignantly. “I thought I was going to die that morning.”

“There’s got to be some perks to being the Sun Summoner,” Alina said, the beginnings of a grumble in her voice.

“Other than your private bedchambers, a full battalion of oprichniki to guard you, an audience with the General any time you like...” Nadia trailed off, her eyebrows raised, and Alina laughed.

“Yeah, okay, other than those,” she conceded.

When she returned to the Vezda suite later, there was an elegant slip of cream-coloured paper on her desk. Alina recognised it as the Grand Palace circular – something she had initially ignored when, twice a month without fail, it was delivered to her room. The pamphlets were typically filled with court gossip, most of which she heard from Genya anyway, with only a smattering of news from beyond the palace walls. These days, she saved the little papers for Nadia and Marie, but not without sparing a cursory glance at the text herself; other than what little information she could drag out of the Darkling, these circulars were the only way she could find out what was happening in the world.

This evening, as she plucked the paper from the desk and sank into her favoured armchair, her eyes stilled on the brief mention of First Army soldiers who would be honoured with a medal this month. According to the pamphlet, these soldiers would be presented at the Grand Palace and the King himself would bestow the distinction upon them. In a few cramped lines of black text at the bottom of the page, the soldiers’ names and ranks were listed.

Alina felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Damn the Darkling. She shot to her feet and marched out of her chambers, the paper clutched angrily in her fist. The oprichniki did not stop her as she burst into the war room, casting her gaze frantically between his desk, the map table, the chairs by the fire. He was nowhere to be seen.

Deflating slightly, Alina returned to the oprichniki at the doorway.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“General Kirigan went into the war room with Lieutenant Colonel Kaminsky just over an hour ago. Lieutenant Colonel Kaminsky left the war room twenty-five minutes later, alone.”

Alina frowned. “So, the General is still in there?”

The oprichnik nodded his head once. “Yes, Miss Starkov.”

Alina thanked him and backed into the war room once again, closing the doors softly behind her.

“Alina?”

A voice called from across the room. She spun to see him – the object of her ire – leaning in the doorway to his bedchambers, one eyebrow raised in silent question. He had the gall to look concerned at her outrage but couldn’t quite shake the air of condescension in the way he gazed down at her. Alina stomped towards him, her scowl deepening. Aleksander continued to act unperturbed, vanishing from his spot in the doorway as he strolled into his chambers, forcing Alina to follow him inside.

She found him at the long mirror next to his wardrobe, neatening the collar of his shirt as he fastened the silver clasps of the slim-fitting black leather coat he wore under his kefta. He met Alina’s eyes in the mirror as she stalked across the room until she was right behind him.

With a restrained sigh, Aleksander turned to face her.

“What is it, Alina?”

She brandished the offending slip of paper in his face.

“Did you know about this?” she hissed.

“Despite rumour to the contrary, I am not omniscient, nor am I capable of reading minds. You’re going to have to tell me what I’ve done to anger you this time.”

“I’ve just found out – from this stupid court pamphlet – that Mal is being given a medal. From the King.”

“Mal?” the Darkling asked offhandedly. A violent spasm twitched Alina’s arms as she fought the overwhelming desire to hit him in the face. He watched her wrestle with her emotions and smiled, pleased to have gotten such a rise out of her, before feigning recollection. “Ah, Malyen. Your tracker.”

“He’s in East Ravka again – hells, he’s already here in Os Alta!” Alina fumed. “You knew about this?”

He didn’t reply, merely raising an eyebrow at the futility of the question. Of course he knew. Alina let the full force of her anger sweep over her.

“How long has it been since he crossed the Fold?” she asked, seething, then continued without waiting for a response. “Why wouldn’t you tell me about this?”

“We agreed that you wouldn’t have any more contact with him,” the Darkling said calmly. Alina hated it when he met her fury with this dispassionate composure. He could rile her so easily, bring her from mere irritation to simmering rage with a single sentence; there had been times when Alina had managed the same, but it was becoming more and more difficult to crack through his hard, unfeeling shell, as if he was learning to reinforce his armour in the very places Alina liked to prod and poke.

“No,” she countered now, narrowing her eyes at him. “We agreed that I wouldn’t write to him, or anyone else. We did not agree that if he was here, upon my doorstep, you would hide that from me.”

“I have hidden nothing from you, Alina,” he said, and she was gratified to hear that his voice was a fraction louder than before. “I knew you would find out, and you have done. Not bringing something to your attention is not the same as concealing it from you.”

“Oh?” Alina snapped. “What about the fact that he had returned from West Ravka? Did you conceal that from me? If his skiff had been attacked by volcra, if he had been killed by the very thing that I am meant to destroy, would you even have told me?”

Once again, he was silent, confirming Alina’s suspicions. This was too much for her to bear: incensed, she shoved him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back a pace. His hands shot up and he grabbed hold of her wrists.

“I thought we had agreed not to lie to one another,” she said desperately. As always, she cracked open at his touch, unable to stem the fierce outpouring of her emotion, unable to block the unwanted rush of calm that cooled her temper. Alina twisted her wrists, trying to escape his hold, but his grip was unyielding. Aleksander pulled her closer until their bodies were almost pressed together, their arms crushed in between them.

“Had we?” he retaliated, his eyes fixing on her sharply. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d want that, Alina.”

Her next words stuck in her throat. No, she didn’t want that, not really – her secrets held far too much weight to be shared – but it made her uncomfortable to hear it thrown in her face so plainly. She didn’t like how exposed she felt, knowing that Aleksander could see the lies stacked up inside her.

“I want to see him while he’s here,” Alina insisted. She struggled again to remove herself from his grasp, to put space between them. He would not let her.

“That would not do any good for either of you,” Aleksander replied immediately. As gratified as she was that he, at last, had been honest about his intentions to keep her and Mal apart, Alina couldn’t help but bristle with indignation.

“This isn’t your decision to make! Let go of me!”

Aleksander did not let go of her. He bent his head towards her, his voice soft in her ear. “Be careful, Alina. Remember that I am your superior officer. This is, in fact, my decision to make.”

“I told you once what would happen if you didn’t let me write to Mal. I could still do it, you know,” Alina said, equally quiet.

He shot her an openly unbelieving look and released her. Alina stepped back quickly, glaring at him, rubbing her wrists where the echo of his fingers still stung. Her breath came in stuttering gasps.

“I know you well enough now to know that you would never do such a thing,” Aleksander said, observing her coolly. Alina could not disagree with him – it had always been an empty threat, one which the Darkling had since recognised.

“You offered me a truth the other day,” she said slowly. The Darkling cocked his head in interest.

“And do you want to claim it, now?”

Alina nodded once. “Since I’ve lost my previous bargaining chip, I want to know what else I can hold over you.”

Aleksander smiled drily. “You want to know my weaknesses.”

“You know mine,” Alina pointed out. “It only seems fair.”

He crossed the space between them. Alina reversed automatically until she felt the post of his bed digging into her back. She reached for his arm, this routine of theirs familiar by now, and felt a flutter of surprise when he shook off her grasp. Surprise turned to alarm as he put both his hands on her face, sweeping her hair back with startling gentleness, tilting her head upwards until her eyes met his.

“I would tell you,” he said, and she saw earnestness in his black gaze. “But I want to see you figure it out on your own.”

He let his hands drop but didn’t move any further away. Alina said nothing, pressing her lips together stubbornly. Aleksander nodded at something over her right shoulder.

“Will you pass me my kefta?”

Alina twisted round to see his kefta, laid out neatly on the bed behind her. She spared him another brief glance, checking to see if he was serious, but his face was calm and expectant. Tentatively, Alina picked up the kefta, running her hands over the familiar stiff feeling of the fabric, her fingers tracing the nearly invisible black-on-black embroidery. She snagged it by the shoulders and held it up for him; he had to stoop a little as he slipped into it, one arm at a time.

Aleksander straightened up and turned to face her again, adjusting his sleeves, his head tilted to one side like he could tell she had something more to say. Alina hesitated before saying it.

“What if I agree to wear black from now on?”

He regarded her silently for a moment, his dark eyes alight with interest, before answering slowly.

“No.”

Alina frowned. “Why not?”

“If I agree to that, you will forever associate wearing black with a sacrifice you made. You will resent it, and me, just as much as you would if I had forced you into the colour.”

“You have forced me into it!” Alina gasped, and he shook his head.

“Only on two occasions have I insisted on black. Do you realise, Alina, how easy it would have been to have you wear my colour from the day you arrived here? I could have made it the only option – blue might never have been a part of your wardrobe.”

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Alina realised that he was right.

“When you choose to wear black – and you will – I want you to step into it willingly. Not for the sake of a childhood friend, but for yourself. One day, you will come to realise that it is the colour that suits you best – not merely in terms of how it looks, but what it represents.”

“You sound very certain about that,” Alina said shakily.

Aleksander smirked. “I am. It may be some time before you come to that realisation, but I am a patient man, Alina, and I am more than happy to wait.”

She took a breath, steadying herself, making her voice calm and even. “I want to see Mal.”

“You are Grisha, Alina. We rely on nobody but each other.”

“Letting me see him for half an hour one day isn’t going to make me less Grisha!” Alina shot back with a glare. “Let me see him. You know what he means to me, Aleksander.”

Another lie: Aleksander did not and could never understand what Mal was to her. His words from earlier came back to her, and Alina realised with an unsettling certainty that she could not build any kind of relationship with him based on being wholly truthful.

“I’ll find a way to see him anyway,” she said, trying a different tactic.

“You may well try, Alina,” Aleksander said with an unbearably smug smile.

Alina harrumphed and swept out of the room noisily, pushing past Aleksander as she left. He let her go.

Back in her own rooms, Alina fumed silently to herself. This was the Darkling at his most controlling – refusing Alina any connection with anything not contained within the walls of the Little Palace. His deep distrust of otkazat’sya was going to ruin the only good thing she had ever had in her life.

Alina threw herself face-down onto her bed and screamed into the pillow. There were moments where she thought she might be getting the better of the Darkling, might be managing to tease a little more humanity, a little more empathy, from beneath his time-hardened, callous exterior. There were times she had hope that he wouldn’t become the same creature as before, that in this life he would not be destined to die at her hand. Then he would say or do something so breathtakingly cold that she wondered whether she had imagined it all.

He would not stop her from seeing Mal. Alina sat up, wiping tears of frustration from her eyes, and surveyed her room. Sneaking out of here was easy enough, as she had already discovered, but beyond that, her plan quickly came unstuck – she didn’t even know where Mal was staying. In all likelihood, he and the other soldiers would be accommodated in the Grand Palace itself, but that didn’t really do much to narrow down her search. Genya would know exactly what wing of the palace he was in, but would she share that information with Alina? The Darkling had probably ordered her not to.

According to the circular, the soldiers would receive their medals from the King in three days. Alina had a little time to figure out her way around this situation.

She stood up from her bed and went to the window. The knowledge that Mal was so close to her, now, after so long, made her body fizz with energy. When would they next be sleeping within a mile of one another? Nothing would stop her finding her way to him – certainly not an over-possessive Shadow Summoner.

Alina idly drew the curtains, shutting out the deep blue twilit sky, and began to undress for bed. She felt confident that if she could just get a good night’s sleep, she would be able to work this out in the morning. After turning off the gas lamps and blowing out the candles, she settled under her sheets, her mind a swirling eddy of images.

When she finally managed to brush the memories away and sleep, it was another image that haunted her dreams. The stag came to her instantly, vividly, more so than ever before. He stood before her, the steam of his hot breath in the cold night air rushing over her, bowing his head, inviting her to trace the jagged lines of his antlers with her fingers. She could feel the power that thrummed through the bone, the amplification that pulled something up from the recesses of her soul. He wanted her to have it.

The stag raised his head and Alina’s fingers caught in his soft fur, curling through the long, white strands. His eyes were ancient. They fixed on her with a profound knowingness, and Alina got the sense that he could see all of her hopes and fears, that he knew all of her secrets as surely as if she had spoken them aloud. Her past, her future, it was all laid out before him like a map.

The stag dipped his head again, nudging his cheek against her own, his nose into her shoulder. There was an urgency in his movements that she had never seen before, something insistent, impatient, in the way he stamped his hooves into the snow.

“What is it?” Alina asked, looking around anxiously. There was no sign of any attacker, no movement in the trees.

The stag huffed a breath. His forehead came to rest on her own and feeling flashed through Alina like lightning, igniting her senses, burning in her cerebrum.

She wakened with a start, her eyes opening to nothing but a darkened room. She could still feel the stag’s intent coursing through her. Alina sat up and waved a hand in the air, conjuring an image of him from silvery light, staring into his wise face for a long time while she got her breathing under control. She knew what the stag was telling her. The pieces had been in her head for so long, scattered and disparate, but they had come together at last.

The stag. Aleksander. Mal. Her past self. The chance to change destiny lay within her hands again.

Alina let the glowing depiction of the stag fade away as she stood up, padding across the room in the darkness, quickly throwing on her robe and opening the door with a quiet creak. The hallway was dimly lit, the oprichniki standing to attention as always.

The war room was empty, just as it had been when she stormed in earlier that evening. She wondered if he was sleeping, and if so, whether she had the courage to wake him up or not, as she walked slowly to his bedchamber. The door was open a crack; she knocked once, softly.

Aleksander appeared in the threshold, looking down at her like he couldn’t quite decide how to feel. She saw confusion, worry, and suspicion flicker across his face in quick succession.

“Alina,” he said quietly. “Is something the matter?”

He took a half-step forward. Alina felt her cheeks redden at the sight of him – she had clearly caught him halfway through undressing. His shirt was untucked and almost entirely unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up haphazardly, his dark hair mussed. A thin triangle of white skin was visible from his collarbones to his navel.

“Not quite,” she said, forcing her gaze to fix on his face. “I’m sorry – I keep barging in here. I can come back in the morning.”

“You are welcome here any time, Alina, barging in or otherwise,” he said with a faint smile. “Did you have another nightmare?”

She screwed up her face. “Not quite,” Alina repeated, drawing another smile from him. He stepped to the side, holding the door open.

“Come in. Tell me about it.”

So Alina stepped inside, her heart jumping in her throat as he shut the door behind them. Alina kept her back to him, wandering across the room to the desk – dark wood like the rest of his furniture – scattered with papers, maps, and several well-paged books. She imagined this was where he took care of his most confidential business, the kind of things too sensitive for even the war room.

When she turned around, he had buttoned his shirt back up again, leaving only the top two undone, the smooth skin at the base of his throat catching the candlelight like marble. Alina was struck again by the ethereal beauty of him – something timeless. His face belonged to a character of myth, an ancient hero, a dark god, captured in bronze or in paint by an artist thousands of years ago. But here he was, flesh and blood, looking at her with intrigue from the other side of his bedroom as she leaned back on his desk and wondered how to get him to do what she wanted.

“I’m going after the stag,” she said, a statement of fact rather than a request.

His eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. “The stag?”

“The stag. Morozova’s stag. The mythical amplifier.”

“I know what it is,” Aleksander said carefully. “But you’ve never mentioned it before. I’m curious as to where this is coming from.”

“I need an amplifier,” Alina replied. “If I want to be powerful enough to make a change in this saintsforsaken country any time soon. The stag – I think it was meant for me.”

He considered her words. “What makes you think that?”

“I have dreams,” Alina admitted. “Or maybe not dreams. Maybe something more like premonitions.”

Aleksander hummed quietly. “Your nightmares.”

She nodded once. He was quiet again, his eyes keen, contemplative, his long fingers tapping a slow beat on the wood of the dresser he was leaning against.

“Very well,” he said eventually. “It seems only fitting that you should hunt down a legend, being one yourself. I will see to the arrangements – we can set off next week.”

“No,” Alina shook her head. “You’re not coming.”

His face darkened; his fingers ceased their steady rhythm. “Excuse me?”

“I have to do this on my own.”

His expression was one of incredulity. He pushed himself upright, taking one step towards her then stopping, motionless, as if he knew that any attempts to intimidate her would only be to his disadvantage.

“You cannot truly believe that I would let you go off into the wilderness alone? You are the single most valuable person on the continent, Alina.”

She scoffed. “I don’t mean ‘alone’ as in by myself. Send as many soldiers with me as you like – send a whole battalion for all I care. Just not you.”

“And what have I done to deserve such resentment?” he asked, his jaw tightening.

“It is not about resentment,” Alina said honestly. She had resented him, that was true, and had in fact done so for a very long time. But now.... she wasn’t sure what she felt, now. “It’s about proving myself capable.”

It’s about the fact that I can’t trust you to have the stag within your reach and not use it to chain me, use me, make me your thing.

These were words she didn’t dare say out loud. Alina knew that he had already considered this path, that the knowledge of what he could do with a powerful amplifier like that stag had been tucked away in the back of his mind for a long time. She didn’t know when, in her past life, he had let that knowledge morph into the huge and monstrous need to control her. Had he always known it would end that way? Would he only ever be content if he had her tied to him forever? Or, as he later claimed, had the sudden loss of her after the winter fête tipped him from merely overprotective into a deranged kind of possessiveness?

Aleksander narrowed his eyes, as if he could sense her dipping her toe in the waters of his psyche, seeking some sort of understanding of his thoughts and actions.

“Give me one good reason why I should do as you ask.”

And then Alina smiled, a true, genuine smile with something of a smug edge to it. She walked towards him slowly, dragging the silence out as long as she could bear before she laid her trump card out before her.

“Because I know how to find it.”

Chapter Text

Four days later, Alina prepared to leave Os Alta.

It had taken a little work to convince Aleksander to let her go at all, never mind without him, but he seemed to have faith in her unshakeable belief that she could find the stag.

“I would feel better if I was there to protect you,” he told her quietly, the evening before she left, as they leant over his map table to discuss the route she would take. Alina kept her eyes firmly on the map in front of her, her fingers planted on Chernast, mere inches from his own.

“But you know why you can’t be.”

They hadn’t really spoken about it since the night she had first broached the subject of the stag. But the knowledge sat heavily in between them – the knowledge that the power of the stag could be used to bind just as it could be used to strengthen, and the knowledge that at some point, perhaps only briefly, a long time ago, perhaps as recently as the day they met, he had been tempted to use that power.

Alina took a breath in and stood up, withdrawing her hands from the map as she made herself look at him and attempted a smile.

“Besides, you’re needed here. You’re the general of the Second Army – you can’t abandon your people to go on a quest for a fairytale.”

It had become something of a private joke, their continued reference to the stag as something made up while simultaneously planning all the details of how they would hunt it down. Aleksander had never asked her why she was so certain it was real, nor had she asked him the same thing; like so much else between them, it was left unsaid.

In the end, Alina would be accompanied by a squad of twelve oprichniki, a select group of the Darkling’s most trusted Heartrenders – including Fedyor but not Ivan, to Alina’s gratification – and just as many Etherealki. Alina had insisted that Zoya be among the number of Squallers, knowing that she would never hear the end of it otherwise, which prompted a raised eyebrow from the Darkling, but he acquiesced. She wasn’t surprised – Zoya was already one of his favoured soldiers, easily among the strongest Squallers in the whole Second Army, and he wanted nothing but the best for Alina’s protection.

Then there were the Healers, Samuil and Irina, the very same pair who had patched her up after she’d escaped the massacre at the border and been dragged before the Darkling.

“You will need a Durast,” Aleksander had said contemplatively as they surveyed their list of chosen soldiers. “I would recommend David Kostyk – while he may not be overly suited to the field, he is without a doubt one of my most talented Fabrikators –”

“Not David,” Alina interrupted, feeling the stir of panic in her stomach. She loved David, truly she did, but in her previous life he had been the one to fuse the amplifier to her; to bind her, body and soul, to the Darkling, and even though she had long since forgiven him, the thought of David placing the antlers on her again was nauseating.

The Darkling glanced at her curiously. Alina took a breath, trying to conceal the way her chest shuddered, and kept her voice calm.

“I want Taisa,” she said. Aleksander frowned.

“She’s still in training, Alina.”

“So is Zoya,” Alina countered. “So am I, for that matter. She’s the best Durast in her class, and, frankly, I trust her to be better in a fight than David.”

Aleksander accepted this with a tilt of his head. “Fine. Take your friend. But I’m assigning two more Heartrenders to your detail – I know what you’re like, Alina, and if it comes to combat, I don’t want you to get yourself killed in trying to protect her.”

Alina didn’t argue with this. Her desperation to save the people she cared for was exactly what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

She thought back to months earlier, the feeling of the wishbone in her old, wrinkled hands, and looked up at the Darkling. His face was smooth, inscrutable, but there was a gleam in his eye as he glanced between Alina and the roster of scribbled names on the desk in front of them – an emotion she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Saints! How complicated her life had become since that moment. Despite it all, she couldn’t bring herself to regret the decision she had made.

Alina agreed to almost all of his demands without argument. It would make things easier, she thought, if she did not debate the finer details of each precaution taken, nor protest at the ever-increasing number of oprichniki and Heartrenders assigned to her, when she came to make a sizeable demand of her own.

It didn’t stop the Darkling from curling his hands into fists upon the map, his jaw tightening and his nostrils flaring, when she told him that she was bringing Mal.

“Why him?” he growled.

Alina kept her cool in the face of his barely-concealed contempt. “He’s a tracker.”

“There are plenty of trackers in the First Army. Choose another.”

“I don’t want to. I know him, I trust him, and he’s already in Os Alta.”

Aleksander glowered at her. Shadows began to leak from the cuffs of his kefta, pooling out across the surface of the map table like oil. Alina rolled her eyes at his dramatics.

“Stop that,” she said, with a pointed glance at the tabletop. “This is non-negotiable, Aleksander. I have gone along with every one of your conditions so far. You can give me this much.”

He straightened up and stepped back, letting the darkness that had seeped from his palms evaporate into mist, staring at Alina in disbelief. She smiled sweetly, raising her eyebrows as she waited for him to respond.

Aleksander ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath of exasperation. “Alina, if you had really gone along with what I wanted, I would be going on this damned expedition with you. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

“Yes, you do,” she said softly, and his lips twitched into another brief scowl.

“I could always change my mind,” he warned. “It’s not too late for me to call this off entirely.”

In his frustration, he had disrupted his perfectly styled hair, leaving a few strands sticking out at odd angles. Alina couldn’t help but smile endearingly at him.

“But then you will never know for sure if it’s real,” she pointed out, closing the distance between them with a few steps as she reached for his arms, letting her fingers wrap reflexively around his bare wrist. He did the same thing, and she felt the familiar tug of their connection opening up. Aleksander was silent as he awaited her question.

“Do you trust me?” she whispered.

He worked hard to cover it, but she felt an involuntary spasm of reluctance shoot through her from where their hands were joined. Alina’s smile grew wider. He did trust her, although he may not want to.

Aleksander let his eyes fall closed, a pained expression flitting across his face momentarily before he spoke in a resigned tone.

“Against my better judgment.”

“Then trust me,” she said simply. “I’m going to find the stag, but I need Mal with me.”

He sighed, blowing his breath out sharply. She could still feel his hesitancy, pulling and snapping at the link between them, and she wondered if she had ever seen him so discomforted before. She wanted to reach up and smooth out the frown lines on his forehead.

Aleksander smiled slightly, as if he could sense her instinctive tenderness, and Alina blushed.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I will send word to your tracker. At the very least he will be one more person to stand between you and a Fjerdan bullet.”

Alina recoiled away from the thought, glaring at him, but beneath her outrage there was the thrilling glimmer of triumph. She didn’t pull away from him just yet – she knew better by now. Aleksander seemed to be wrestling with indecision as he tried to choose which question he was going to ask her. She could see his different sides battling with one another: the tactician, who wanted to ask what would be most advantageous to him in their war of words, and the man, who wanted to ask the thing that he was most curious about. His face stilled as he reached a conclusion.

“Why don’t you trust me?” he murmured, the words soft in her ear.

Alina would have laughed had it not been so awful. Images flickered in her mind’s eye: the Darkling killing the stag, the Darkling commanding her power, the Darkling raising his arms and watching with a grim smile as Novokribirsk was engulfed by shadow. The Darkling murdering her friends, their people, as he attacked the Little Palace with his army and his nichevo’ya. The Darkling dying, her knife in his chest, his hand gripping hers, begging her to make sure there was nothing left of him.

“I am afraid,” she said, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. “Of what you could become.”

Aleksander’s breath caught and he loosened his grip on her forearm, stepping back involuntarily. He looked at her like he had, for the first time, considered the unsettling possibility that she knew more about him than she was letting on.

Alina didn’t bother trying to hide the wreck of emotion that she knew must be evident on her face. His eyes were dull and distant as they swept over her. Alina turned her head away, staring stubbornly at the map again, tracing her planned route one more time until it was firm in her mind. Her fingers only trembled slightly as she reached the permafrost.

She didn’t notice him moving, but suddenly Aleksander was at her side again.

“Alina,” he said flatly.

She couldn’t look at him for fear that all the things she had stamped down and buried would rise back to the surface.

“Aleksander,” she replied, keeping her voice low.

Neither of them spoke again for a long time. He reached across the table, his fingers ghosting over her own, featherlight, drawing a line of tiny golden sparks from Alina’s skin.

“You always manage to surprise me,” he said at last, withdrawing his hand. It sounded like something he almost didn’t want to admit. Alina tipped her head towards him, dragging her gaze slowly along his arm, up his body before, at last, settling on his face. The honesty in his eyes made her shiver.

Alina forced herself to breathe. “I should go. Genya said she would help me pack.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, and the openness that had shown in his face moments earlier was already gone. “I will see to the final arrangements.”

“And Mal?” she prompted.

"As we agreed,” he said grudgingly. “I will send for him.”

Alina couldn’t help but smile to herself as she left the war room and wandered the short distance down the hallway to her own chambers. She could tell it bothered Aleksander, the way she so frequently managed to wrangle him into giving her what she wanted, but such was the push and pull of their relationship. They would each give up a little ground if it meant gaining a few inches someplace else.

True to her word, Genya was waiting in Alina’s chambers with clothes strewn all over the floor, staring thoughtfully at the empty trunk at her feet.

“I don’t know how we’re going to fit all of these in here,” Genya said when she saw Alina at the doorway. Alina burst out laughing, clapping a hand over her mouth as she snorted unflatteringly. Genya’s eyes twinkled with silent amusement.

As they sorted through the huge pile of clothes, Alina quickly learned that Genya, for all her many skills, knew precious little about packing for the wilderness.

“You will... wash, won’t you?” she asked, a delicate frown creasing her forehead. Alina hesitated a little too long before replying.

“Yes, but...”

Genya held up one hand to silence her.

“I don’t even want to know.”

Alina laughed again and plucked the pair of silk stockings Genya had been holding from her grasp, tossing them over her shoulder.

“I won’t be wearing silk while marching through the permafrost, Genya.”

Genya’s cheeks coloured marginally. “Right. Of course.”

Alina’s bedroom was somehow even more of a mess by the time they were done; having picked out a selection of the most practical items from her wardrobe and packed them into the trunk, the rest of her clothes now decorated every available surface in the room.

“I didn’t even know I owned as much as this,” Alina muttered to herself as she picked up yet another kefta that had been flung over her bed.

“I’ve been secretly sneaking nice clothes into your wardrobe for months now,” Genya said with a sly smile, and Alina couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

Genya stayed for hours, even after they had tidied the worst of the mess away, until long after the maid had come in to light the gas lamps on the wall. She had attended the Queen at the ceremony that day, had seen Mal receive his medal from the King, and Alina pressed Genya for every little detail that she could remember about the tall, good-looking tracker. Genya, in turn, demanded that Alina tell her everything about their childhood together.

“What was he even getting a medal for?” Alina asked. She was sat at the dressing table while Genya brushed the waves out of her hair with slow, unhurried strokes of the horsehair brush.

“They didn’t really go into it. Some great heroic deed, that’s for sure – he saved his unit and an accompanying Second Army unit from an ambush somewhere along the Shu border.”

Alina’s heart swelled. That sounded like her Mal – something stupidly dangerous and noble.

“How did he seem at the ceremony?”

Genya smiled a little. “He seemed entirely unimpressed to my eyes. But somebody had clearly taught him how to behave in front of the royal family because his manners were perfect, from start to finish. I bet they have somebody school all the soldiers in court etiquette before they go before the King.”

That also sounded like Mal. She knew that he had absolutely no love for the spoiled, lazy man who called himself a leader but had never set foot on a battlefield, never waded through mud and dead men for so-called glory, never seen a friend shot in the face or blown to pieces and had to carry on fighting.

“The King has no idea what First Army soldiers are really like,” Alina murmured, and Genya made a noise of agreement.

“Now, Alina, you have to tell me everything about this tracker of yours – beginning with why I am only just hearing about him!”

Alina laughed at Genya’s expression of mock outrage.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but I promise it’s not that interesting.”

And so she told her, mindful that everything she said would make its way back to the Darkling, about the summer’s day when Mal first showed up at Keramzin. She told her about life at the orphanage, how they found solace in each other’s company, standing together against the taunts and bullying of the other children. She told her about their stern matron, Ana Kuya, who chastised them both fiercely for their mischief, but whose near-constant prodding to keep working on her shading was probably the sole reason Alina ended up a cartographer rather than a regular infantry soldier. She told her about the year they enlisted, the dismal six months she had to spend at the orphanage after Mal had already started his training before she could join him. She told her about how, even though they were often parted, sent to different ends of the country, they would always find each other again.

“It sounds like you two are very close,” Genya said softly. She had pulled Alina’s hair back into an elegant but comfortable braid, her fingers deftly weaving the strands together. The rhythm of it stirred some long-lost memories of the days before the orphanage: the repetitive pull of a wooden comb in damp hair, the familiar melody of a lullaby.

Alina could only nod. Underneath the surge of affection she still felt for Mal, there was a hard thud of fear. It had been months since they had seen each other, and the last thing he would have heard from her was her letter explaining that she was Grisha now, that the Little Palace was where she belonged. She didn’t know how Mal would have reacted to that letter. She didn’t know how he would react to seeing her again tomorrow. She didn’t know if she had marred her only hope of a happy ending.

She would never say any of this to Aleksander, so she didn’t say it to Genya. But the Tailor seemed to sense her unease, because when she finished Alina’s perfect braid she wrapped her arms around her waist and squeezed, planting a firm kiss on the crown of her head.

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you, Alina,” she said comfortingly. “Even if he doesn’t know it himself. Men can be like that, sometimes. You just have to give them time to realise what is blindingly obvious to the rest of us.”

A tiny smile appeared on Alina’s face and she huffed a reluctant laugh. “You’re so wise, Genya.”

Genya released her and stepped back, admiring her work on Alina’s hair, then cocked a hip and winked. “I am a woman of many talents, as you already know.”

Alina jumped to her feet and grabbed Genya’s hands, spinning her around and around until she felt woozy. Genya shrieked then laughed, collapsing into Alina’s arms, and their spinning slowed and then stopped while the two girls embraced.

“I’m going to miss you,” Genya mumbled into Alina’s shoulder.

Alina tightened her arms protectively around her friend. She hated having to leave her here.

“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, feeling a lump rise in her throat. Genya pulled back, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and gave her a wobbly smile.

“Bring me back a present.”

Alina laughed a little shakily as she pulled Genya back for another fierce hug. Then, with a whispered farewell and a kiss on the cheek, the Tailor was gone, slipping out of the room with a quiet flourish.

The next morning, Alina woke early, her whole body wound up tight, excitement vibrating within her like the strings of a fiddle.

She dressed herself in her comfiest travelling clothes, her most weatherproof kefta, and her riding boots. When the breakfast bell rang, she bounded out of the room, practically skipping down the corridor towards the stables. The pair of oprichniki that followed her from her chambers struggled not to let their amusement show.

The stableyard was in turmoil, a clamour of noise and motion as stablehands and oprichniki hurried to and fro. Alina spotted a lone purple kefta in amongst the melee and darted over towards Taisa with a huge grin.

“Alina!” Taisa exclaimed, wrapping one arm around Alina’s shoulders. “I can’t believe you managed this.”

Alina shrugged modestly but was unable to control the smile on her face. “It wasn’t so hard.”

Taisa glanced around them then lowered her voice, whispering surreptitiously. “You know, if you just wanted to get us out of our Shu exam, there are easier ways than going on a quest for a mythical creature. I heard about these Corporalki a few years ago who made each other throw up and pretended they had food poisoning.”

Alina jabbed her friend lightly in the stomach and Taisa gasped with surprise, then giggled.

“I know it seems ridiculous, but believe me – the stag is real. We’re going to find it,” Alina insisted. Taisa looked unconvinced but nodded anyway.

“This is really something, Starkov,” came a drawling voice from behind her. Alina turned to see Zoya, a smile on her face despite the sneer in her words, slipping her hands into a pair of leather gloves and adjusting her cuffs. “How did you ever manage to convince the General to let you get away with this?”

Alina heard the insinuation in her voice and debated whether punching Zoya in the kidneys would be a good way to start their expedition. Probably not, she reasoned, but it was still tempting.

“He actually didn’t take much convincing,” Alina said evenly. “Maybe once all the stories of the Sun Summoner turned out to be true, he has an easier time believing in other legends.”

Zoya scoffed and tossed her hair. “Well, I’m not complaining. It’s better than more trips through the Fold, anyway.”

She shot Alina a sharp-toothed grin and turned away to see to her horse. Taisa rolled her eyes and flicked her long curls over her shoulder in a poor imitation of Zoya, prompting a snort of laughter from Alina.

“What a bitch,” Taisa sighed admiringly. “I think I love her.”

“She’s a sweetheart deep down,” Alina said under her breath, then glanced at Taisa with wide eyes. “Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

Taisa’s eyes gleamed with delight, but she pressed her lips together tightly and didn’t say a word. Alina surveyed the chaos around her, her eyes roving around the stableyard, counting all the familiar faces. There was Fedyor, deep in discussion with some other Heartrenders, Samuil and Irina fixing their medical kit to the saddle of a horse, a huddle of blue-clad Etheralki laughing about some in-joke while they tacked up.

Alina’s heart faltered when she saw a familiar lanky figure edging through the crowd of oprichniki. Mal looked utterly out of his depth in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by Grisha, but when he caught sight of her his face broke into a huge smile. Alina gasped and flew across the cobbles, shouldering people out of the way, but stopped short when she came nearer him and saw his smile vanish, replaced by something uncertain.

“Alina?” he said it like a question, like it might not actually be her. Alina took another step forward.

“Mal,” she said quietly. She wasn’t sure he had heard her over the hubbub around them, but at the sound of her voice the smile returned to his face, timidly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Alina flung herself at him and he caught her with a startled laugh.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaimed as she stepped back, keeping her hands on his chest while his grip tightened on the sleeves of her kefta.

“I’m – me too – I just –” he broke off and shook his head ruefully. “You’re going to have to explain what’s going on.”

Alina raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know?”

With a frustrated sigh, he released her, looking around the stableyard in bewilderment. “All I know is what you told me in that letter, Alina, except from what you said then I thought you never wanted to see me again. So, you have some explaining to do.”

Alina groaned. “Oh, Mal, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I just – I knew that when you found out about the whole Sun Summoner thing, through some First Army gossip most likely, you would panic and think it was a mistake, or worry that I’d been dragged off against my will. I just – I didn’t want you to come and try to rescue me.”

Mal’s frown lessened ever so slightly. “Because you didn’t need rescuing?”

“Partly that,” Alina said with a brittle smile. “Partly because I didn’t want you to get yourself killed abandoning your post, crossing the Fold alone, trying to break into the Little Palace.”

“I wouldn’t have –” Mal said scornfully, but Alina cut him off.

“Yes, you would.”

He paused to think about it, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

“But now you’re here – you got a medal!” she exclaimed, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “And when I heard you were in Os Alta, I suddenly realised you were the piece that had been missing all this time.”

“Missing from what?” he said curiously.

“We’re going to find the stag,” Alina whispered, bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. Mal’s face furrowed in confusion before his jaw fell open in astonishment.

“The stag? From those dreams you had as a kid? Alina...”

“Don’t say it’s not real,” she chided. “It is real. And you might be the only person alive who can find it.”

Mal stared at her for another long moment, then started shaking his head slowly. “Even if it is, you’re the one who had the dreams, Alina, you’re the one with the connection to the stag – not me.”

“Just trust me,” Alina said. “I know I need you with me for this.”

Mal shifted on his feet a little, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Was that... is that the only reason you wanted me here?” he muttered, his eyes dancing between Alina and the ground. Alina leaned into him with a soft smile and his arms went around her automatically.

“Not the only reason,” she confirmed, and he squeezed her harder.

“Corporal Oretsev,” a voice spoke from behind her. As Alina pulled out of Mal’s grip and turned around, she saw Fedyor; he shot her a brief smile and a wink before turning his attention back to Mal, his demeanour instantly becoming that of a commanding officer rather than a friend. Upon being addressed by rank, Mal straightened up and snapped into a salute – every inch the perfect soldier. Alina could see Fedyor assessing him silently.

“Sir.”

Fedyor let him hold the salute for a moment before his face relaxed into its usual grin. “At ease, soldier. I am Lieutenant Colonel Kaminsky. General Kirigan has assigned command of this mission – and, therefore, you – to me.”

Mal’s posture slackened and he let his arm fall back to his side. Although he maintained his neutral, composed expression, she knew him well enough to recognise the wariness in his eyes as he took in the colour of Fedyor’s kefta. She could imagine that he was remembering the horror stories that would make the rounds in the orphanage dormitories when they were children – tales of the Grisha who could burst a man’s heart in his chest from twenty paces, who could boil your blood, stop up your lungs and watch you choke on your own breath, all with nothing but a simple hand gesture.

From the tilt of Fedyor’s head, she got the sense that he knew exactly what Mal was thinking. It was probably something that he saw – the initial flash of fear, too fast to be hidden away – in the eyes of every First Army soldier placed under his command, in the few instances that the First and Second Armies formed mixed units.

“As your commanding officer, you will answer to me, however,” Fedyor turned to Alina with something like pride. “This is also Alina’s mission. You answer to her, too.”

Alina blinked, surprised. She hadn’t been aware that the Darkling had given her such authority. Fedyor’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at her before directing his attention back to Mal.

“I believe you two already know each other,” he said, and his voice became gentle. “I understand it may be intimidating, to be the only First Army representative in this unit. If you have any concerns, or any questions, you can bring them to either of us.”

Fedyor nodded at Mal, winked again at Alina, and walked off, already calling out orders to the squad of oprichniki who were settling themselves into their saddles. Mal blew out a long breath.

“He’s scary,” he remarked, and Alina couldn’t hold back her laughter.

“Fedyor?” she said, incredulous. “He’s a big teddy bear, Mal!”

He furrowed his brow. “He’s a...”

“A Heartrender,” Alina supplied. “You can say it. He’s also an excellent commander, and a good man, and my friend.”

Mal gave her a funny look. “You really didn’t know?” he asked, almost hesitant.

“That I’m Grisha?” she responded, surprised at how defensive her voice became. Mal’s silence was enough to answer her question.

Alina took a step towards him again, wordlessly begging him to look at her and see her, letting her fingertips rest lightly on his abdomen where she could feel his diaphragm expand and contract with each breath.

“I didn’t know,” she said, quietly, steadily, her eyes searching his for some sign of understanding. “But I am Grisha – that’s not going to change, but it doesn’t mean I’m a different person now.”

His silence stretched a while longer, until Alina almost couldn’t bear it anymore, then he breathed out loudly and pulled her towards him for another crushing hug. Alina smiled into his chest, relieved. It would take him a while to adjust, to shrug off the misconceptions he’d picked up in the orphanage, in the First Army – it had been the same in her previous life – but she knew that he would, with time. All that mattered now was that they were together.

“Corporal.”

The sound of the word brought all the commotion surrounding them back to Alina. She pushed herself away from Mal, her senses returning, and saw an oprichnik standing before them. Mal nodded at him in acknowledgement.

“If you’d come with me, your horse is this way,” the oprichnik said, gesturing to the far end of the courtyard. Mal’s eyes widened slightly and he glanced at Alina, a question in his eyes; she nodded and gave him a playful shove in the direction the oprichnik had indicated.

“Go,” she said with a chuckle. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up later.”

“My horse?” Mal muttered, slightly dazed, as he followed the oprichnik across the stableyard.

Alina scanned the yard for Artemiy’s familiar silver colouring. One of the stablehands was already tacking him up and fixing her pack to the saddle. He jumped slightly as she approached, despite the warm smile she gave him, and bowed a little nervously before scurrying away. Alina suppressed a sigh. When she had first arrived at the Little Palace, a lot of the Grisha had looked at her wide-eyed, reverent, but they had quickly grown used to her, and the stares and whispers as she passed in the corridor died away. The staff, carefully selected, held no belief in the old superstitions about Grisha, nor were they pious followers of the Church, and most did not even look at Alina twice. But every so often she would encounter a maid or a footman or a stablehand whose jaw popped open when they saw Alina in her gold-embroidered kefta. They might not call her Sankta Alina to her face, but the sharp intake of breath, the hurried bow or curtsey that followed, spoke the words loud enough to her.

Shaking off her discomfort, Alina hopped up into the saddle. This was the life she had chosen, the burden she had taken on for the sake of so many others, and she would just have to bear it.

Alina was adjusting her seat in the saddle when Fedyor appeared next to her on a chestnut brown horse.

“You and the tracker will ride with me, at the head of the convoy,” he said. “We’ll have four oprichniki up here at the front, and the rest at the tail end. Taisa and Zoya will be right behind us, then the Healers, and the rest of the line will be made up of Heartrenders with Etherealki.”

It felt odd that he was telling her all this, and even odder that he looked at her as if for her approval. Alina cleared her throat a little self-consciously.

“Sounds... good,” she tried to sound decisive, but from the glint of humour in Fedyor’s eye she could tell she was failing dismally. Alina sighed and decided to be honest. “I can’t say I know the first thing about any of this, so I’m happy to go along with whatever you think is best.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement, grinning slyly as if there was some joke she wasn’t in on yet, then he clicked his tongue and pulled away again to arrange the rest of their party in some semblance of order.

The chatter and bustle around her faded to silence. She knew without turning around what – or who – had caused the sudden hush, but Alina looked anyway. The Darkling, flanked by a pair of oprichniki, moved through the stableyard with barely a glance spared for the Grisha that shifted out of his path.

He stopped by her side, running a gloved hand down Artemiy’s neck.

“Alina,” he greeted her casually, but his eyes burned as they met her own.

“General,” she murmured. Aware of their audience, she raised her chin just slightly, openly defying the respect that his superior rank was due, and she saw a smirk pull at the corners of his lips.

Without another word, he took hold of her reins and led Artemiy towards the huge stone archway where Fedyor already waited. The rest of the soldiers, now mounted, were drifting into formation. Alina could feel the weight of Mal’s gaze, Zoya’s scrutiny, the attention of everyone in the stableyard fixed on her and the Darkling.

They came to a stop under the arch. Around her, the heavy clopping of horseshoes rang out on the cobblestones and her fellow Grisha slowly resumed their conversations, somewhat more subdued than before, but it all seemed very far away. Alina and Aleksander regarded one another, each waiting for the other to break the silence.

“It feels strange,” Alina said at last. “For me to be the one going away, and you to be the one staying behind.”

She couldn’t escape the knowledge that the last time she had left the Little Palace in search of the stag, she had been running away from him. All of his lies and betrayals had been too much for her to bear – the truth of him had been too much to bear – and she had fled.

Alina was done with running away.

“I don’t expect I shall enjoy the experience,” Aleksander replied mildly.

“At least now you’ll know how I feel,” she said, and he almost smiled.

Aleksander looked to Fedyor. “Are you all ready to depart?”

“We are, moi soverenyi,” Fedyor confirmed with a bow of his head.

He turned back to Alina, then, his hands tightening on the reins, and for a moment she thought he was going to forbid her from leaving after all. Aleksander looked up at her, stricken with indecision, and the clarity of emotion on his face was startling. It was gone in an instant.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. Although his perfect, expressionless mask was back in place, Alina could make out something like concern stirring in the black depths of in his eyes. She nodded at him mutely.

Aleksander loosened his grip on the reins and stepped back, nodding once to Fedyor, and then they were all moving, trotting smartly down the path towards the palace gates. Alina couldn’t bear to look back, to see his black-clad form motionless beneath the archway, so she focused instead on the road ahead of her. She focused on the tentative spring sunshine filtering through the rainclouds. She focused on Mal, his face screwed up in concentration as he got used to the motion of his horse, at her side again, where he belonged. She focused on the stag, the power she was going to claim for herself this time.

The ache in her chest lessened. By the time the Little Palace had disappeared from view, it had almost faded away entirely.

Chapter Text

Alina rode next to Mal for most of the journey. Their conversation was a little stilted at first, but after a few hours they settled back into themselves – if they lapsed into the occasional silence, it was comfortable and well-worn.

As they left Os Alta behind, the road widened out. The landscape here was flat and open, a sweeping prairie scattered with silvery birch trees and scrubby, low-lying brush. It reminded her a little of Keramzin; as she caught Mal’s eye, she could tell that he was thinking the same thing.

Their reminiscing was interrupted by Zoya, who, having grown bored of riding behind them, urged her horse forward until she was level with Alina. Taisa followed suit, shooting Alina an apologetic glance.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your otkazat’sya tracker, Starkov?” Zoya crowed, her eyes glinting deviously. Mal stiffened in his saddle but said nothing.

Alina bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Of course. Mal, this is –”

“Zoya,” Zoya interrupted, flashing him a sly smile. “We’ve met before, actually.”

Mal looked surprised, then worried. “We have?”

“I was assigned to your skiff when you crossed to Novokribirsk,” Zoya said. Mal pursed his lips and squinted at her.

“I don’t remember seeing you,” he muttered dismissively.

Zoya’s eyes narrowed, her smile turning even sharper. “So, tell me, how do you two know each other? Alina hasn’t mentioned you before.”

Alina, caught helplessly in the middle of this conflict, could do nothing as the air between the tracker and the Squaller crackled and sizzled with tension.

“She wasn’t always a fancy Sun Summoner,” Mal retorted. “We grew up together. I’m her family.”

Zoya nodded knowingly. “Of course – in the orphanage. Well, it’s no wonder you’re so close.”

Alina rolled her eyes, but the barb still stung. Mal’s face was like thunder. Taisa, riding on Zoya’s other side, took the awkward silence as an opportunity to lean forward and wave to Mal.

“I’m Taisa,” she said cheerfully. “It’s nice to meet you, Mal.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he replied, although he was glaring at Zoya. She bristled, her hackles rising, but Alina could see the interest in her eyes as she looked him up and down. There was nothing Zoya liked more than a challenge.

Alina was glad when Taisa continued to chatter away, upbeat and unfazed, while Zoya curled her lip in a haughty sneer and Mal stewed in silence. Her constant babbling soon smoothed over the strained, jagged atmosphere. Alina was impressed that Taisa managed to be almost as animated as normal, even on horseback, replacing her regular hand gestures with lots of enthusiastic head-wiggling.

Once Zoya, Mal, and Taisa were safely engaged in a friendly debate – she wasn’t really paying attention, but she thought it had something to do with cheese, although she had absolutely no idea how that would even come up in discussion – Alina decided to leave them to it. With a click of her tongue, she brought her horse alongside Fedyor’s.

“Hello, Alina,” he greeted her warmly and she returned his smile. “How does it feel to be away from the Little Palace?”

Alina took a moment to think before giving her answer. She surveyed the countryside around them, taking in the warmth of the sun on her face, the breeze tugging at her hair.

“Freeing,” she said slowly. “But...”

She wasn’t entirely sure when the Little Palace had become home. It felt strange to admit this to Fedyor, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic.

“When you’re Grisha, the Little Palace is the only place in the country where you can be fully, unapologetically yourself. So it’s difficult, the first time you have to leave that behind. But it gets easier.”

Alina nodded. There were a few minutes of companionable silence before she spoke again.

“Did General Kirigan really say that – about this being my mission? That Mal answers to me?”

He shot her an amused glance. “We all answer to you, Alina, myself included. I’m only really in charge on paper: you don’t have a rank at all yet, never mind one that could be assigned command of a unit this size.”

Alina’s eyes widened. Her first command – albeit an unofficial one. The Darkling’s message was clear. He was testing her.

Fedyor chuckled a little, breaking through her astonishment. “The General also told me that he’s giving me command to stop you from making any ‘stupid, reckless decisions’.”

She could hear the Darkling’s voice echoing under Fedyor’s words.

“That seems like something he’d say,” she muttered, and Fedyor laughed again, louder this time.

Most of the days passed in a similar pattern as they made their way north from Os Alta. They spent the day on the road, from dawn until dusk. At night, they pitched camp, lit a fire, and stretched out their aching bones. Inevitably, somebody would produce a bottle of kvas, and it would be passed around while they traded stories or sang folk songs. It reminded Alina of her days in the First Army, although their accommodation was much more comfortable – the Fabrikator-designed tents were like a veritable palace compared to the old, saggy canvas she had slept beneath as a cartographer.

She shared with Taisa and Zoya and a Kaelish Tidemaker called Fiadh. Mal had been grouped in with the oprichniki, who now seemed to have adopted him as one of their own. Alina wasn’t particularly surprised by this; he had always made friends more easily than she did, at least once they had left Keramzin. His initial wariness upon walking into the stableyard had quickly eased, but Alina suspected that he was still a little bit relieved to have the company of others who weren’t Grisha. Every evening, as they pitched camp, she would glance across to find him regaling his new comrades with yet another tale – probably something Alina had heard one hundred times already – and she was always somewhat surprised to see the usually taciturn oprichniki roaring with laughter.

As if he could sense her watchfulness, Mal always looked up just in time to catch her gaze and grin at her, the affection in his eyes no longer shuttered behind paranoia and doubt. Sometimes, she would see something in that smile that reminded her painfully of her Mal, her husband, something that would breathe life into the embers of warmth in her chest – then, inevitably, the next second he would revert back to an obnoxious boy.

Alina was glad to have him nearby. The knife-wound of separation ached a little less, even if he wasn’t quite the man she missed so desperately.

It grew colder as they reached Tsibeya – in Os Alta, spring was rearing its head, but winter still had a tight grip on the land here. Alina’s breath feathered out in the frigid air as they pitched camp in the advancing dusk.

“I’ll get us some water,” Fiadh said once they were done, heading off in the same direction as the other Tidemakers.

First Army soldiers loved to gripe and complain about how Grisha had it so easy, and, despite everything, Alina could understand where that idea came from. Alongside their superior tents and warm, bulletproof kefta, things like hot food and clean bathing water – both luxuries for First Army foot soldiers on the march – were an almost everyday occurrence in Second Army. Since setting off from Os Alta, Alina had gained a new appreciation for Tidemakers. When she was in the First Army, having warm water for bathing meant heating up a big pail of it on the fire, which the entire cartography unit had to make last between them; Alina, being at the very bottom of the pecking order, was normally last to get to the pail, by which point the water was cold and murky.

But now, Alina could bathe as often as there was a stream nearby or snow on the ground, which, in Tsibeya, was every night. It only took Fiadh a few seconds to heat the water in their shallow metal tub until there was steam rising from the surface. Alina thought she might be falling a little bit in love with the red-headed Tidemaker.

“Don’t even think about jumping in that tub, Starkov,” Zoya said sharply, tugging off her boots and throwing her kefta down in a crumpled heap. “You hogged it all last night. It’s my turn to go first.”

Alina rolled her eyes. “Fine, Zoya. I’m going to sleep, anyway – I'm on last watch again tonight.”

She scooted into her sleeping bag and wriggled around until she was comfortable. In truth, she had been looking forward to a bath, but she was in no mood to argue with Zoya. Their party was arranged into four shifts to keep lookout through the night; on the nights when she was assigned to the last rotation, Alina preferred to go to sleep as early as she could – otherwise she would be yawning for most of the following day.

It wasn’t long before her eyes fluttered closed, the muted conversations of her tentmates drifting out of her awareness, and then Alina slept. Her dreams had been fragmented of late, tiny slivers of images piercing her subconscious for an instant before vanishing into darkness. She could feel the fur of the stag, soft and warm beneath her fingers, but she couldn’t see him yet.

Soon, she promised him.

Alina was shaken awake some hours later by Fiadh.

“It’s your watch, Alina,” she whispered. Tiredness oozed from her voice.

Alina sat up, stretching out the slight crick in her neck. “Thanks, Fiadh. Go get some rest.”

Fiadh nodded her thanks and crawled gratefully over to her corner of the tent, passing out almost immediately. Alina shrugged into her warmest kefta and took a moment to bundle on an extra pair of woollen socks before grabbing her boots. They were a little snug, with the addition of another layer, but she was glad of it when she stepped outside. It was bitterly cold. She really didn’t know how she and Mal had survived hiking through Tsibeya and the permafrost on their own, with no supplies and no preparation.

She spotted him easily, perched on a boulder at the far end of their encampment. Alina went first to the fire, grateful to see that there was still some stew left in the pot, and filled two bowls before joining him.

“Dinner?” she offered. Mal glanced at her with a half-smile.

“More like breakfast,” he said, but took the bowl from her anyway. His rifle rested in his lap and his eyes continually roved the surrounding woodland. Alina’s gaze, too, was drawn to the treeline; being up this far north, in a snow-laden forest, brought back memories of the massacre she had barely survived.

They ate in silence, listening to the gentle creak of the trees and the soft noises of the forest waking up. In the east, light was beginning to creep over the horizon, but dawn was still some way off.

Still, daylight was daylight. Once she had scraped her bowl clean, Alina held her hands out and pulled some brightness towards their camp, her brow furrowed with concentration. She was careful not to summon too much – just enough to increase the natural light in their surroundings ever so slightly, pushing back the long shadows cast at the edge of the forest.

As ever, Mal watched her call the light with something between wonder and unease. The first time she had summoned in front of him he had actually taken a step back, his eyes wide and startled, as if he hadn’t really believed that she was the Sun Summoner until that moment. He scrambled to apologise, reaching for her as the light blinked out and she clenched her fists tight to stop the hurt from showing on her face.

“It just took me by surprise, Alina, that’s all,” he had assured her as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I mean, I knew this is what you are, but seeing it, seeing that there’s this whole other side to a person I thought I knew inside out...”

Her stiff posture had relaxed a little as he spoke. His words trailed off into silence and he had released her, guilt evident on his face. Alina could tell there was something else he wanted to say.

“Can you... can I see it again?” he had asked haltingly.

Now, every night while they were on watch duty, she taught him a little bit more about the Small Science, about Grisha, about her life at the Little Palace. Today, she felt like complaining, so she decided to tell him about Baghra. Mal chuckled as he listened to her stories about the vindictive old woman’s penchant for cruelty, wincing sympathetically as she described the numerous bruises Baghra had inflicted over the months.

“It seems to have worked, though,” he said, once Alina had talked herself into a wordless sulk. “I mean – look. You’re barely even paying attention.”

He gestured towards the snow in front of them, which was glistening as if under lamplight, although they were still cloaked in the blue-black of night. She could feel that, behind her, more and more light had crept into the sky, making it ever easier for her to draw a soft circle of illumination into the space around them. Mal was right – she hardly had to think about it.

She scowled at him, then sighed. “I know. I owe her a lot. But it surely wouldn’t hurt to say, ‘well done, Alina’ every once in a while.”

“I can say it, if it would help,” Mal grinned, a teasing edge to his voice.

Alina made a show of thinking about it. “Hmm. You know, I think it might.”

“Well done, Alina,” he said with mock seriousness. She laughed and bumped his shoulder with her own.

“Can I ask you something?” Mal asked after a moment of silence.

“Anything,” Alina replied.

He pursed his lips in deliberation. “How do you know we’re going the right way?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Do you think we’re going the right way?”

“Yes,” he said instantly, then shook his head with a frustrated sigh. “But that’s not what I asked.”

Alina hesitated, drumming her fingers anxiously against the cold stone. “The dreams came back recently.”

“Of the stag?”

She nodded quickly. “They’re more than dreams, Mal – they always have been. The stag has been calling out to me my whole life. He showed me where I need to go.”

Mal frowned again. “What do you need me for, then?”

“I’m a mapmaker, Mal, I can use the landscape and the position of the stars to point to a vague area on a map. You’re the tracker. I know I won’t be able to find it without you.”

She thought back to her previous life, the endless days they had spent labouring through snow almost waist deep. It was Mal who had guided her – they’d had no maps, no compass, no real idea where they were, but he had led them to the stag nonetheless.

“You’re not just a mapmaker,” Mal said quietly. “You’re Grisha. That means you’re connected to – what did you call it – the making at the heart of the world. I’m just otkazat’sya.”

Alina gazed at him sorrowfully. He had no idea that he was tied to the making just as much as she was – maybe even more so. He was the product of a stolen life, the power of creation itself, the force that hummed in his bones and tied him to every other living thing. But how could she tell him the truth, force this unhappy inheritance upon him?

Her hand found his, their fingers lacing together.

“How many birds are in those trees, there?” she asked.

Mal didn’t hesitate. “Twenty-six.”

“You see?” Alina said with a tilt of her head. “Nobody can find the stag but you. I know this as surely as I know my own name.”

He pulled his eyes away from the treeline and stared at her, trying to understand where her certainty was coming from. Alina met his gaze placidly. The Darkling would sense that she was holding something back – he always did – but it was easier to hide things from Mal. She hated that she had to.

They kept their backs to the sun as it rose.

The following day, they reached Chernast. Alina couldn’t help but feel apprehensive as they rode into the First Army base, the only Grisha for miles, their coloured kefta drawing the attention of all the soldiers they passed. She could feel their eyes following them as their convoy trotted towards the commander’s tent at the centre of the camp.

Fedyor jumped down from his horse and motioned to the oprichniki nearest him, who did the same.

“Alina, you’re with me,” he said, offering her a hand as she dismounted. “The rest of you – try not to antagonise any First Army louts in the meantime.”

He gave Alina another moment to straighten her kefta and stretch the aches out of her legs, then they marched into the tent side by side, tailed by four oprichniki.

“Good day, Commander,” Fedyor said as they entered.

At the desk in the middle of the tent, a man with a droopy moustache sat in stunned silence, the expression on his face sliding from alarmed to awed as he looked from Fedyor to Alina. She fought the urge to roll her eyes and glanced pointedly at Fedyor, hoping he would get her message and continue speaking before this man started burbling about Saints and miracles.

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Kaminsky, Heartrender of the Second Army,” he said, brazenly ignoring the way the commander kept trying to launch into speech. “Our unit is travelling north on a mission of top priority. We’re going to need a week’s worth of rations, several rounds of ammunition, and your best team of sled dogs.”

Across the desk, the First Army officer – a captain, by the stripes on his uniform – managed to overcome the slack-jawed wonder that seemed to strike him every time he glanced in Alina’s direction and dig up a seed of arrogant indignation.

“Well, now, I’m afraid you can’t just –”

But Fedyor wasn’t finished.

“I have signed orders from General Kirigan here,” he said, with a smile that was just a few degrees shy of genuine. He reached into his kefta and drew out a small rectangle of pristine ivory paper. Alina recognised the Darkling’s seal – a circle of black wax stamped with the symbol of a sun in eclipse. Her hand went to her throat, where she still wore the same symbol, imprinted in gold.

The captain drooped almost as much as his moustache. There was a slight tremble in his hands as he unfolded the letter and scanned the content, then re-read it again more carefully. When he was finished, he put the paper down on the desk in front of him, slowly looked up at Fedyor, and sighed heavily, defeated.

“Take what you need,” he said listlessly.

Fedyor dipped his head and turned to Alina, quirking his eyebrow.

“Thank you, Captain. We appreciate your help,” Alina said with a sweet smile. He mumbled something unintelligible as she and Fedyor strode out.

Alina was relieved to see that no brawls had broken out between Grisha and First Army, although a small huddle of soldiers had gathered nearby and were staring at them with openly hostile expressions. Fedyor saw it as soon as she did and cursed lightly under his breath, increasing the pace of his steps ever so slightly. Alina hurried to Zoya’s side.

“Otkazat’sya,” she said with a sneer, never once taking her eyes off the soldiers. “They really think they look threatening.”

Taisa fidgeted nervously. Alina could feel the tension in all of them, even Zoya, despite her bravado.

“Come on,” Alina said. “We have too much else to think about to get worked up over First Army intimidation tactics.”

Zoya bared her teeth but turned away with a toss of her hair. Alina shared a glance with Mal – his face was perfectly passive but there was an edge of anxiety in his eyes. He was worried that, if it did come to blows, he would be forced to pick a side. Alina’s heart thumped forlornly at the realisation that he didn’t yet know who he would stand with. She brushed past him a little roughly as she went to grab Artemiy’s reins. He didn’t say anything.

They left their horses in the stables at Chernast; they would be travelling on foot from here on. With their supplies piled onto a sled, packs hefted over their shoulders, they set off towards the permafrost.

It wasn’t easy going. The ten dogs hitched up to their sled didn’t seem to mind the harsh conditions, but it was a gruelling trek for the soldiers. Alina trudged alongside Mal and Taisa, their heads bent over, none of them speaking. Her back was already hurting, the muscles in her legs burning from the effort of marching through snow. Her eyes stung with frustrated tears. Alina berated herself for being so childish – what was this, compared to the hardships she had lived through?

When she and Mal were searching for the stag, they had been fleeing in fear of their lives – their pursuit was much more urgent, then, with the threat of the Darkling looming over them. They had both been painfully aware that if they didn’t reach the stag first, all their hope was lost. Maybe that had done something to lessen their awareness of the physical struggle somewhat.

As if he had sensed her thoughts, Mal reached out for her, catching her elbow as she stumbled. She leaned into him a little, breathing heavily.

“Come on, Alina,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “This was all your idea in the first place.”

She thumped him on the chest, not hard enough to do anything other than make him grin breathlessly. With a sigh, she straightened up, squeezing his hand once, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

It was easy to get caught up in the toil of the march and forget where they were, but every so often Alina stopped and looked around her. The strange, eerie beauty of the landscape always caught her off guard – white in every direction, the dark, jagged tips of pine trees slicing up into the sky like knives, clouds like mountains looming overhead, their edges turning rosy with the creeping stain of dusk. It was difficult to believe that anything could live here.

But then Mal would point out some near-invisible tracks in the snow – “Hare,” he said confidently, and then later on, “Lemming,” – or the soft call of an owl from somewhere in the distance, or the frozen, scattered droppings that Alina would have stepped over without a thought.

“Deer,” he nodded to himself after inspecting them closely. “This herd is different – even in the frost, they’re not going hungry. Their alpha is exceptional. It knows these lands incredibly well.”

Alina beamed so wide it hurt her ice-scoured cheeks. Mal looked up at her with a similar expression.

“We’re heading in the right direction. A few more days, I’d say.”

Fedyor reached down, offering his arm to Mal. After barely a second’s pause, he took it, allowing the Heartrender to pull him to his feet.

“Then let’s keep moving,” Fedyor said.

Alina was glad to see Mal beginning to lose some of the unease in the way he acted around Fedyor. Despite the fact that they were trekking through one of the most inhospitable parts of the continent, exhaustion plain on the faces of every single one of his soldiers, Fedyor somehow managed to remain upbeat, to stay focused on their mission while the rest of them were sweating and freezing and cursing their way through the snow.

They made camp in a small grove of stunted evergreens. Alina crashed out on her roll mat for a few hours of sleep before she had to take watch, rising when Zoya nudged her – not entirely gently – in the ribs.

Alina groaned internally as she piled herself back into all her layers of clothing. Stepping out the tent, the cold was so intense it made her eyes hurt.

I’m here for the stag, she forced herself to remember. The thought ignited a fire in her lungs; the next breath wasn’t quite so painful.

Fiadh, who had been on first watch, was crouched by the fire, spooning food into her mouth with the grim determination of somebody who knew that this bowl of rabbit stew was the only thing standing between her and sleep. She managed a smile when Alina approached.

“Your tracker’s over there,” she said, waving her spoon towards where Mal had taken up his post at the edge of the clearing. “Tell him thanks for the rabbits, would you? He’s a marvel. I’ve never known anybody able to find so much food in this saintsforsaken place.”

Alina nodded as she took two portions, pride curling in her stomach. “I’ll let him know.”

She tramped over to stand beside Mal, wordlessly handing him his bowl. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“They like you,” she spoke without looking at him, but she could still tell when he smiled.

“Yeah? I guess they’re not so bad, either.”

“Even Zoya?” she said, digging an elbow into his side.

Mal rolled his eyes. “We just about tolerate one another.”

Alina laughed softly, turning her attention back to the still landscape, and gasped.

“Mal, look!” she grabbed at his arm and pointed upwards. The huge, black expanse of the night sky was lit up: ribbons of green and pink rippled above them in nebulous forms, coalescing and pulling apart, weaving their way from horizon to horizon. Alina and Mal stood frozen in astonishment, gripping one another tight, as the lights danced for them.

“They’re beautiful,” Mal said simply.

Alina stared. There was something familiar in those lights, something kindred. She could feel them tugging at the edge of her consciousness in the same way that sunlight did.

Acting purely on instinct, she raised her hands, reaching out towards the aurora overhead. She pulled her fingers through the air and the lights responded, their colours spilling into the darkness like ink into water.

A delighted laugh burst from Alina’s lips. Mal was too stunned to speak.

“It’s some sort of sunlight,” she said, spreading her fingers and smiling as the aurora flared brighter at her command. “I don’t know how, but...”

There’s sunlight in all this darkness.

She lowered her hands, releasing her hold on the lights, and burrowed into Mal’s side. He held her and they watched the colours unfurl in the sky until they had faded away to nothing.

Chapter Text

Mal stopped so suddenly that Alina bumped into him. Taisa and Zoya crowded around her shoulders, peering at the spot in the snow where Mal was staring so intently, while Alina rubbed her nose with a scowl.

“What have you found?” Taisa asked eagerly. Mal hunkered down, indicating a perfect cloven hoofprint in the snow. Alina forgot her sore nose and gasped.

“Deer?” she hedged, crouching down next to him.

“Well done, genius,” Mal said with a roll of his eyes. He’d clearly been spending too much time with Zoya recently. Alina thwacked his arm with the back of her hand, which only made him chuckle.

She turned her attention back to the hoofprint. It was huge – as wide across as both her hands, side by side. Alina’s heartbeat picked up speed.

“This must be the stag,” she breathed, glancing to Mal for confirmation. He nodded.

“We’re getting closer. See the edges of the print – they’re starting to round over as they melt, but only just. We’re only a few hours behind it.”

Taisa grabbed at Alina’s shoulder in excitement. Zoya blew out a long breath, her lips curling in satisfaction. Alina didn’t take her eyes off of Mal, caught up in the look of absolute certainty written on his face, the impatient twitch of his head as he turned in the direction the stag was travelling. Her faith in him was unwavering. He had led her to the stag once before, and he would do it again.

Mal looked back to Alina again. The smile on his face was wolfish.

“Last chance to turn around.”

Alina flashed him a grin and struggled to her feet. “And admit defeat? Never.”

So they continued on through the snow, with Mal leading the procession. She could sense the exhilaration rippling through their line as they marched – the knowledge that their quarry was at last within reach had buoyed everyone’s spirits – but there was an underlying strain of fear. They had passed through the strange no-man’s-land that blurred the border between countries and crossed firmly into Fjerdan territory the previous day. Everyone was on edge, the Heartrenders constantly scanning their surroundings for heartbeats. Alina hadn’t had a restful sleep in days – her dreams were overrun by memories of Fjerdan soldiers appearing between the trees, of blood-soaked snow, of bullets ripping through her body.

They followed the stag’s trail from the vast, exposed snow-covered plains into a forest of loosely scattered evergreens. The woodland was still and quiet; their crunching footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the crisp, frosty air.

Dusk came down quickly. Fedyor called the convoy to a halt with a gesture, his gaze picking through the ever-darkening shadows that loomed from the trees.

“We need to stop for the night.”

Alina rushed forward, gripping his arm tightly. “No, Fedyor, we’re so close! We should keep going.”

Mal nodded reluctantly when Fedyor looked to him. “If we stop now, there’s no way to tell how far it will have travelled by morning. But, if we keep going, we will catch up to it tonight.”

The Heartrender surveyed their group thoughtfully. Alina could see he was teetering on the edge of agreeing, so she pressed on, her words rapid and urgent.

“We’ll split the unit in two – half to stay here and pitch camp, half to continue tracking the stag. Then, once we have it, we can come right back here and everything will already be set up.”

Mal stared at her like she was insane. “You want to split up?”

Fedyor clearly agreed with his sentiment.

“Alina, I’m pretty sure that splitting our group in half, at night, while deep in enemy territory is exactly the sort of thing the General would class as a ‘stupid, reckless decision’. You can’t seriously be suggesting that?” he said, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

“We’ll travel faster as a smaller group – we’ll get to the stag much sooner. And do you really want to be pitching camp in the middle of the night? Come on, Fedyor, you know it makes sense,” Alina pleaded.

“It’s suicidal,” Fedyor argued. She just shrugged.

“Only if we’re unlucky enough to run into drüskelle. The risk of that happening is lower if there are fewer of us.”

Fedyor didn’t reject this out of hand. Alina could sense herself edging closer to victory and pounced on it, elated.

“It’s my mission, Fedyor...” she reminded him quietly, a teasing grin playing on her lips. The Heartrender groaned and covered his face with one hand.

“Oretsev, give me one of your guns,” he said eventually.

Mal hesitated. “Sir?”

“If anything happens to her, I’m done for,” Fedyor said, gesturing to Alina. “I might as well save General Kirigan the bother of killing me himself.”

The tension in the air dissipated as Mal bit back his laughter and Alina let out a sigh of gratitude, throwing her arms around Fedyor.

“I won’t tell him you let me talk you into this,” she promised him. He huffed and shook his head.

“I will hold you to that,” Fedyor said, waggling a finger in her face, before he made his way down the line to share the new orders.

Mal shot her a worried look. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” Alina admitted, feeling that familiar cold edge of fear whip through her. “But that’s how I know we need to do it.”

Fedyor quickly divided up their numbers, assigning half the oprichniki, Heartrenders, and Etherealki soldiers to stay at the camp while the other half would carry on with them in search of the stag. Taisa and the Healers would stay behind too. Alina gave her friend a tight hug before they moved off.

“Just don’t go to sleep,” Alina said as they parted. “I have a feeling we’re going to need your talents later tonight.”

Taisa grinned and waved them off as they slipped one by one into the gloom of the forest.

Alina pulled light from the darkening sky to illuminate the space around them while Mal led them further into the night. They walked shrouded in a soft golden halo, as if lit by a perpetual sunset, long after the last rays of orange and pink had been washed out of the horizon by dark blue and violet.

Nobody spoke, aside from a few occasional whispers slipped illicitly into the handsbreadth of space between one person and another. Their steps were muffled in the deep snow and the closeness of the trees. The Heartrenders kept their hands held in front of them; the Squallers, too, searching for disruptions in the air currents. Alina made her light as bright as she dared – the last thing she wanted was to attract attention.

The veil that separated dusk from night had long since parted by the time Mal jerked his hand up and everyone came to a slow, stumbling stop. The sudden motionless hung heavy in the air. Mal had a strange expression on his face as he looked between Alina and the trees in front of them, his head canted to one side as if listening to something that only he could hear.

He reached for Alina and she stepped forwards, her steps clumsy in the deep snow, letting him grasp her arm and draw her towards him.

“Don’t ask me how I know,” he said into her ear, his eyes still fixed on the darkness between the tree trunks. “But it’s just through there.”

Alina felt her heartbeat pick up, vibrating urgently in her veins. She shrugged out of Mal’s hold and ploughed onwards, pushing the shadows aside as she wove a path through the pine trees, suddenly able to think of nothing but what lay on the other side.

She emerged into a clearing and Alina stopped dead. It was exactly the same place that she saw in her dreams every night. She felt a few more pieces of the jigsaw puzzle called fate slide neatly into place, could hear the universe laughing softly in amusement at the game it was playing with her. Her breath was white smoke in the air. The trees were laden with snow, hunched over with the weight of it. The alignment of the constellations above her, gleaming silver beads in the black fabric of the night sky, had long ago been seared into her memory. The pale light of the moon, a sliver of a crescent, as fine as porcelain, fell over her skin like water.

Alina had been here before. This was where she had found the stag the first time – in her former life.

He was waiting for her here, as if he somehow knew the significance of this clearing. He stood completely still, his head turned towards her, his eyes dark and patient.

Alina took another few steps forward, her hands out, palms up, in front of her. Something inside of her had split open upon seeing the stag and now she could not deny the irresistible pull, the nameless force that drew her towards him.

Somebody tugged at her elbow, pulling her back towards the treeline. It was Mal, one hand on Alina, the other holding a rifle.

“I’ll line it up,” he said, his eyes still narrowed on the stag with the look of a hunter. “You just have to take the shot.”

“No,” Alina said, wrenching her arm out of his grip. “I’m not going to kill him.”

“Don’t be stupid, Starkov,” Zoya hissed furiously. “That’s just how it works.”

Behind the fierce burn of her words, Alina could hear the sting of guilt. She knew the story of how Zoya had gotten her amplifier, how she had cried afterwards, knew that it was a gift she considered hard-won. But Alina shook her head at her.

“Not this time,” she insisted. “Just – let me try.”

Zoya and Mal shared a sceptical look with one another but did not protest. Alina turned back to the stag and began to walk into the centre of the clearing, her steps slow and deliberate. He dipped his head, inviting her closer, tilting his antlers down towards her.

It took what felt like an eternity to reach him. He was impossibly huge, bigger even than she remembered, moonlight catching on his fur like sunbeams glancing off water. There was something in his eyes, something that reminded her of the way the Darkling occasionally looked at her, something endless and inevitable, something that made her wonder if he might have turned into a kinder creature in a kinder world.

“Do you know what it’s like?” she murmured as she reached out to lay her fingers gently on his muzzle. “To have so many lifetimes thrust upon you?”

She could feel that he did. He snorted gently, his breath warm on her cheek, and as she smoothed her fingers over his fur Alina felt the rush of his power intensifying the connection between them. Light flared out from where they stood: a silver dome, as delicate as lace, as strong as steel, expanding and contracting in time with her breathing.

Her light was a living creature. Not a prize wrested from something dead.

As if he had understood her thoughts, the stag stepped back, her hand falling into empty space, severing their connection. He reared his head up, the twisted tines of his antlers so high above her that she thought they might knock the moon out of the sky. Alina didn’t move, trapped by the kinship she had found in his gaze. Something melancholy tugged at her and she fought the urge to reach out to him again, to feel that surge of light and meaning, to know that there was somewhere she belonged.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” Alina whispered. Her voice was as quiet as the faint sigh of the pine trees with their bowed branches, the murmuring of the tundra as it turned over in its wintry sleep. The stag took one more step back, his front legs splayed, and dipped his nose towards the earth. A shudder ran through his body, then another. Alina watched in fascination as the great wreath of antlers quavered, then, with one final, determined shake of his head, tumbled into the snow between them.

Alina breathed out slowly. She and the stag pulled their eyes from the antlers to look at one another again. Understanding passed between them – bequeathal, gratitude – and then the stag turned and vanished into the mist and the darkness.

Zoya was the first to her side, grabbing her arm with both hands, her beautiful face cracked open in shock. Mal was there a second later, slinging his rifle carelessly over his shoulder. The three of them stared wordlessly at the huge antlers. Their ivory branches glowed faintly, as if they had been carved from the moon itself.

It was Mal who broke the silence first.

“How are you going to get all of that on you?” he asked, puzzled.

Alina glanced at Zoya, saw that she was struggled to cover up a grin, and burst out laughing. Mal frowned at the both of them as they collapsed in a fit of hysterics, grabbing on to one another for support. There were tears, actual tears, rolling down Zoya’s face as Alina pulled her closer, burying her face in the shoulder of her blue kefta in an attempt to muffle her uncontrollable cackling.

By the time they got control of themselves again, the rest of the Grisha had emerged from the trees. Most of them were looking at the stag’s antlers with an awed kind of surprise, or at Alina, with a similar sort of expression – except for Fedyor, who frowned at Zoya and Alina sternly. She instantly straightened up, releasing her hold on her friend’s kefta.

“We need to get back to the camp,” Fedyor said, nodding towards the antlers. “Which means somebody’s going to have to carry these.”

Alina felt a surge of protectiveness. She didn’t want anybody else to lay hands on her antlers, her gift; as she reached down to scoop them up, Fedyor caught hold of her arm and yanked her roughly to her feet. Her fingertips just skimmed the surface of the bone and a bright pulse of light exploded from the point of contact with such speed and strength that the circle of Grisha gasped collectively, shielding their eyes from the sudden glare.

“– not you, Alina,” Fedyor said drily. “Unless your intention is to let every Fjerdan within a hundred miles know of our presence. Oretsev, will you manage them?”

“I think so, sir,” Mal said. “If somebody else would take my rifle.”

Alina almost volunteered for that too, but a sharp glance from Fedyor had her closing her mouth before she could speak. After a moment of indignation, she reasoned that this was probably wise – she was in a funny, jittery mood, and have never been a good shot anyway.

In the end, Fedyor took Mal’s rifle, and the tracker bundled up the antlers in roll of canvas and hoisted them onto his back.

“Saints,” he muttered. “They’re heavy.”

“Time to earn your keep, Oretsev,” Zoya grinned at him, and he rolled his eyes in response.

“As if I didn’t do that by finding the blasted thing in the first place?”

"Enough, you two,” Fedyor said. His hands were raised, his eyes darting around the clearing. His normally upbeat temperament was strained by the knowledge of the danger they could be in. “Let’s get moving.”

Their trek back to the camp passed in something of a daze. Once the exhilaration of the moment had drained out of her, Alina realised she was exhausted. It was all she could do to keep her head up and keep moving, following the path that Mal led through the forest, her eyes fixed on the thorny tangle of white bone that jostled upon his shoulder with every step. It was almost unbearable – to have travelled all this way, battling across the wilderness, and to now have the very thing she had dreamt of dangled in front of her, literally an arm’s length away, and yet still too far from her.

Fedyor sensed her agitation.

“The bond between a Grisha and their amplifier is a powerful thing,” he said, his tone gentle. “Whatever you are feeling right now... I know it can’t be easy. But we will be back at camp soon.”

“It’s not even my amplifier yet,” Alina muttered. Fedyor looked as though he would have given her an encouraging hug if not for the fact that he was holding his arms rigidly in front of him, constantly on alert.

“Just because it isn’t physically attached to your body doesn’t mean it’s not yours,” he consoled. “Nobody else can claim that amplifier now, Alina – the stag chose you.”

The stag chose me. The words sank into her consciousness with a weight that she hadn’t truly appreciated until that moment. The stag was always going to choose her, would always choose her. This was the way it was meant to be; something beautiful that had been perverted and used against her in her previous life. A wrong that had now been set right.

Alina gripped on to that thought as if her life depended on it.

Soon, the soft orange light of a campfire came into view through the trees ahead. The lookouts relaxed when they saw Alina and Mal at the head of the convoy, the Heartrenders lowering their hands with a wearied kind of relief. Taisa came galloping towards them from the other side of the camp.

“You got it?” she asked, breathless with excitement, as she barrelled into Alina’s arms. Alina could only nod and grin so wide that she thought the skin of her cheeks might crack.

Taisa exhaled a shaky breath. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I trust you,” Alina said, squeezing her shoulder gently. They made their way back into the circle of tents, towards the light of the campfire. Mal let the bundle on his back slip from his shoulders and rested it carefully on the ground. They all gazed at it for a moment before Taisa kneeled down, untying the wrappings with trembling hands.

“I, uh,” she began, looking from the jagged tines of the antlers to Alina. “You probably didn’t need to bring me this much.”

Alina smiled again. “Just take what you need.”

The Durast ran her fingers carefully over the bleached bone, her eyes falling closed.

“What is she doing?” Mal asked quietly.

“She’s familiarising herself with the material,” Zoya said as she appeared between Alina and Mal, draping one arm over each of their shoulders. “So that she can reshape it.”

Taisa’s eyes opened and she curled both hands around the branches of the antler.

“It’s easier with metals,” she explained. “Their structures are regular – organised. There are some differences between, say, gold and steel, but they all behave in roughly the same way. Once you know how to work with one metal, you know how to work with them all.”

Alina knew very little about how Fabrikator powers worked, so she listened with interest, watching as Taisa moved her grip a little higher.

“Things like stone, minerals, they have a structure but it’s not so regimented. They often come with impurities, a slightly different mix of materials every time. Matter from living things is even worse – wood, bone,” she said, indicating the antlers. “The structure can vary so much. It takes time to tune into that.”

“Working with bone – isn’t that more Corporalki territory?” Mal wondered aloud. Alina tilted her head; she had never considered this, but he had a point. Taisa nodded.

“Our orders sort of bleed into one another like that. It’s the same with tailoring – taking pigment from one object and transferring it to another. But generally, the Corporalki are better working with things that are living.”

“I’m living,” Alina pointed out. Taisa laughed, shifting her hands again.

“You are,” she agreed. “But I’m not going to heal or harm what’s already part of you – I’m adding something new. Fusing materials together is firmly Durast territory.”

As she finished talking, Alina saw a faint black line appear in the bone where Taisa moved her fingers. Another moment, a twist of her hands, and the fracture deepened. Pieces of antler tumbled to the snow with a soft flump. Taisa got to her feet, carefully, cradling the collar she had sculpted in her palms. It looked exactly as Alina remembered it.

She approached Alina, her eyes betraying her trepidation and her anticipation.

“Are you ready?” she asked. Alina nodded emphatically.

Zoya backed away, hauling Mal with her as she retreated several steps. Alina noticed for the first time the crowd of Grisha that had formed in a loose circle around them. They stood some distance away, their faces alight with a nervous fascination that echoed the feelings writhing in Alina’s belly.

Alina shed her kefta in the snow, shrugging off her outer layers until her throat was bared to the night. She shivered at the sudden hit of cold against her skin. With a deep breath, Taisa placed the antlers at the top of Alina’s sternum, stretching out across her collarbones. She felt the immediate surge of power but did her best to rein it in; she drew the light into her, giving it no escape, concentrating it into a burning hot ball in her lower stomach. Suddenly the chill night air didn’t feel so uncomfortable.

Taisa muttered something to herself – prayer? Reassurance? – then brought her hands together and pushed. The collar sank into Alina’s body like a pebble in a river. It dug through her skin, but there was no pain, only the vivid sensation of her whole self being cracked apart, opening up, an energy she hadn’t been aware of welling up from the rift and filling this new space inside her.

“Alina...” Mal breathed. She looked down and realised that she was glowing, her skin becoming almost translucent, lit up from within like a paper lantern. She breathed out and the light expanded, a faint silver mist that washed over the camp before fading into the darkness again.

Taisa lifted her hands from Alina and stepped back. “That’s as far as I can push it,” she said, her fingers drawing the shape of the antler in the air as Alina reached up to trace its contours. Power was coursing through her, stronger than ever before, but Alina felt – not quite complete. There was still a little space in between her and the stag, the connection not fully formed. Was this the way other Grisha felt with their amplifiers, she wondered – like it was something stacked on top of their own power, or maybe propping it up from beneath? Joined but not whole.

The stag chose me, Alina remembered.

She closed her eyes, plunging herself into darkness, and groped blindly for the edges of her consciousness – the place where she ended and the stag began. With another breath, she began to pull the stag in, closer, closer, until it no longer rested on the surface of her soul but melted into it, and the antlers were at her throat but their power was everywhere.

White light burst behind her closed eyelids. Alina was no longer whole; she had exploded into a thousand tiny pieces of awareness, burning in the air like stars. Her eyes flew open with a gasp and she saw constellations, pinpoints of silver whirling around her, and she was watching them, but she was within them, too, as if her very being had been transferred into the light she summoned. With a delighted laugh, Alina reached out her arms, testing the limits of this newfound ability – the constellations scattered, flying across the snow, between the branches of the trees overhead, and she was mere fragments of herself, falling apart faster and faster with every second.

The rush was overwhelming. Alina quickly pulled the light back in towards her, collecting all the drifting shards of herself, feeling them coalesce again. Her skin was glowing brighter than ever. With a strangled gasp, Alina tipped her head to the sky and light burst out of her, impossible to contain: a shining white column that stretched up to the stars, illuminating the night for miles.

With tremendous effort, she clamped down on the flood of power that was roaring through her, a river thundering towards the sea. The light cut off and they were plunged into blackness. Alina collapsed on the ground, her body twitching violently.

Mal ran to her side.

“Don’t!” Alina managed, shrinking away from his grip, terrified that if he touched her now she would yank the amplifier within him out of the hole he had buried it in. The result of that could be cataclysmic.

Mal halted with his fingers inches from her, a look of surprised hurt flashing across his face. Then Zoya was pulling him away and Fedyor was there, followed quickly by the two Healers. Samuil and Irina examined her quickly, their hands hovering above her body, while Fedyor kept a close watch on her heart.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” Alina said, sitting up, but they continued their work anyway. Her hands went to her throat, reaching for the smooth tines poking through her skin, but they were gone – consumed by her body. The antlers were still there; she could feel them within her, beneath the skin, somehow fitting alongside her bones as if her skeleton had made room for them.

“You’re exhausted,” Samuil corrected gently, a smile in his eyes. “But physically you’re fine. You just need sleep.”

Fedyor seemed to agree. “Can you stand?” he asked.

“I think so,” Alina nodded. As she started to rise to her feet there were hands at her side, supporting her arms, and Alina leant into them gratefully.

Fedyor and Samuil helped her to her tent. Alina glanced over her shoulder to see her friends staring at her, jaws agape, as if they didn’t know whether they should be afraid of her now, and Alina felt her heart break just a little at the realisation there was now one more thing lodged in between her and them, one more thing setting her apart.

You are singular amongst Grisha, Aleksander had told her once before. The truth of it sat heavy in her gut – a cold, hard stone.

The emotion of the day overtook her as she crawled into her corner of the tent, burying herself in the sleeping bag. Fedyor laid her kefta over her with a gentleness that nearly made her weep.

“Rest now, Alina,” he said, turning his hands ever so slightly to slow her heartbeat and send her into blissful unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

When Alina woke up, it was daytime.

She wasn’t sure how she knew this – the tent was completely dark inside, save for a few dim lanterns by the entrance – but she could sense, somehow, that beyond the canopy, the sun was already up.

Her hands went to her chest. She felt the low, comforting hum of the stag’s power, ran her fingertip over the slight raised bump where the antlers pressed close to the surface. In the first hazy moments of waking, the events of the previous night had felt vague, distant, but with the hard ridges of bone singing under her touch, it all came back vividly.

Alina was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the voice calling her name, softly, from the other side of the tent.

“Alina!” Taisa said, forceful enough that Alina jolted upright.

“What?” she exclaimed, head whipping from left to right, hands already coming up to defend herself.

Taisa smiled at her a little. “Sorry to wake you. We need to get moving.”

There was something in her face – not quite fear, but close to it, mingling with a sort of veneration. Alina struggled not to sigh heavily. She had worked so hard to make her fellow Grisha treat her like anyone else; not a myth, not a Saint. But there was a little bit of that in the way Taisa looked at her now.

“Alina...” she began, slowly, as Alina clambered out of her sleeping bag and began pulling on clothes. “How did you do that? With the antlers?”

There was a beat of silence. Alina’s hands went back to her throat.

“I just... I’m not sure. I just pulled from within.”

Taisa looked unconvinced. “I’m not sure you’re meant to be able to do that.”

“Maybe not,” Alina said with an uncomfortable shrug. “But amplifiers aren’t meant to just give their power away. Me, the stag – we’re both one of a kind. Exceptions to a rule.”

The nervousness had gone from Taisa’s expression, but now she was looking at Alina like she was a puzzle that had to be solved.

“Interesting,” she murmured to herself, tapping her fingers thoughtfully against her chin. Alina couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up from her chest.

“Stop that!” she said, flinging one of her socks at Taisa who batted it away with a shriek. “I’m not one of your Fabrikator experiments – I'm your friend.”

Taisa had the dignity to blush, shamefaced. “Sorry, Alina. You are my friend, you know, you’re just – more than a bit perplexing.”

“Believe me, I know,” Alina said with a sigh. She retrieved her sock from the corner it had landed in and struggled into her boots. She already felt ridiculous in all her layers, but she wasn’t even finished yet; she yanked a soft woollen cap over her head, wrapped a thick scarf around the lower half of her face, then there was the quilted hooded vest that went under her kefta. She drew the fur-lined hood up and wriggled her fingers into her leather gloves before stepping outside.

The camp was all motion – everyone preparing to move out, packing up their tents, filling their water skins with melted snow, shovelling hot food down while they still had a chance. Alina did likewise, grabbing the last serving of buckwheat kasha from the pot before Fiadh hauled it away to be cleaned.

She ate quickly then rushed to help her tentmates dismantle their shelter. After weeks of this daily routine, they worked easily and quickly together, barely even needing to speak as they folded the canvas into a compact square. In a few minutes, the whole camp had been packed away; they slipped silently into formation at Fedyor’s cue and vanished into the forest, leaving nothing but footprints and the ashy remains of a fire behind them.

Somehow, it had gotten even colder. There was a brittle layer of hard frost on top of the snow which crunched noisily under their feet as they marched. Alina watched the dogs skim across the frozen ground, happily pulling their laden sled as if it was nothing, while every single one of her footsteps sent her plunging knee-deep into snow, and felt more than a little jealous.

The sky was mottled with thick, storm-grey clouds that seemed to sink lower and lower as the day went on, threatening a snowstorm. Alina glared at them as if she could frighten them into abating. Maybe she wasn’t scary enough for that – but Zoya was. The Squaller wrinkled her nose in dislike at the dark sky and twisted her hands, her fingers rigid, and after a moment Alina could see a small spot of blue just above them.

Alina watched her, impressed. She sometimes forgot just how powerful Zoya was.

“You’re doing well,” Zoya said to her mildly, a few hours later. “All things considered.”

“What do you mean?” Alina asked absently. Her eyes were fixed on Mal, who was walking beside Fedyor just ahead of them. He hadn’t spoken to her all day.

Zoya rolled her eyes. “I mean you’re remarkably controlled for someone who’s had their amplifier for, what, half a day?”

“Controlled?” Alina spluttered a disbelieving laugh. “Are you serious? Did you see what I did last night – I'd have been more subtle if I’d jumped up and down in front of the drüskelle waving my arms and shouting ‘I’m the Sun Summoner’.”

A hint of amusement curled at Zoya’s lips. “I’m not denying that. But when I got my amplifier, it was like my summoning was on a hair-trigger. If I was surprised, or pissed off, hells, even if I sneezed, I would tear a room to pieces.”

The image made Alina smile. “You’re permanently pissed off,” she pointed out.

“I know,” Zoya grumbled. “You can imagine I wasn’t very popular. Briefly.”

Alina’s foot snagged on something hidden underneath the snow and she stumbled. Zoya caught her arm and hauled her upright, shaking her head.

“See?” she said, once Alina had steadied herself and they carried on walking. “That alone should have set you off. I haven’t seen so much self-restraint is anyone who’s not a monk.”

Alina chortled. “It’s a sign – I should give it all up and go live in a convent.”

“Very funny, Starkov,” Zoya said with an exasperated sigh. “I’m being serious. How are you managing this?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Alina said honestly. “Maybe it’s because the stag gifted me the antlers. Maybe there’s not so much of an internal power struggle going on.”

She considered it for a moment longer. When the stag’s energy had sunk into her, it had felt like something returning home. There had been no desperate grappling for command over a stolen fragment of power. Maybe the stag had known, somehow, that this was not the first time she had bound herself to him – maybe he had sensed that they had met before, in another lifetime.

Zoya was watching her thoughtfully. Alina frowned and smacked her in the arm, which was a mistake, because Zoya just hit back – harder.

“I’ve had just about enough of people looking at me like that,” she huffed as she rubbed her shoulder. “Like I’m some sort of walking curiosity.”

“Best get used to it, Starkov,” Zoya said, and she was smiling slightly but Alina could still hear the jealousy that shadowed her words. “Not only are you a literal fairytale, you’re pretty much the most powerful Grisha of our age. You and General Kirigan.”

Alina shot her a glare. “That’s another thing I’m fed up of.”

“What, being compared to the General?” Zoya scoffed. “It’s a compliment.”

“Not to me,” Alina muttered, and they fell into silence for a while.

“Maybe one day they’ll be comparing him to you,” Zoya said under her breath, and the surprise of hearing those words from her mouth was so much that Alina stopped in her tracks, staring, speechless.

Zoya tossed her hair, but there was an uneasiness in the gesture. “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” she warned firmly. There was a gleam of vulnerability in her hard blue eyes.

She turned away and kept walking without another word, but Alina’s legs felt like they wouldn’t work. It had been her intention to win over her cohort, to make friends and allies of as many Grisha as possible, maybe even mould herself into a leader to rival the Darkling – to unseat him or to match him, she wasn’t yet sure – but she hadn’t expected it to come about so quickly. She certainly hadn’t expected that Zoya, who still practically worshipped the Darkling, would be the one to shove her up the steps towards that pedestal.

Alina felt her lips curve into an unexpected smile. Sometimes she doubted the difference she could make in this world, wondered how much impact the tiny changes she had chiselled into the surface of time could truly have. But here was the proof of it – borne in the reluctant respect of a pompous Squaller.

She shook herself and found control of her feet again. Zoya didn’t speak to her again for the rest of the day, but Alina kept catching her eye and grinning as smugly as she possibly could, in answer to which Zoya would roll her eyes and mouth the word ‘insufferable’ which Alina thought was more than a little bit hypocritical.

They marched until the shadows of the trees were long and dark, until the clouds overhead had gone from dull grey to deep purple-blue. Fedyor signalled for them to stop, but he seemed unsettled as he scanned their surroundings.

“We haven’t covered enough distance enough today,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he brushed past Alina and moved down the line allocating everyone their lookout shifts.

They set up their tents again, scattered in amongst the trees. Fiadh melted snow to make bathwater and Alina soaked in the tub for a luxurious half-hour. Afterwards, she combed out her clean, damp hair with her fingers as best she could before tying it back loosely into a braid. Taisa was snoring softly from the corner she had collapsed in immediately after pitching camp – she had been on last watch the previous night and Alina didn’t want to disturb her sleep, so she snuck around the tent as quietly as possible while she struggled into her clothes.

Bundling herself up in her kefta and scarf, Alina headed outside into the cold to join the others round the fire. Everyone was in good spirits, it seemed – the relief of knowing that they were heading home was a tangible thing – but every so often Alina’s eyes strayed to Fedyor, and he always looked too wary for comfort.

She swallowed the feeling down and accepted the bottle of kvas that one of the Heartrenders passed her. Mal sat on the other side of the fire, chatting and laughing with the oprichniki as usual. Alina hunched closer to the flames. The sun, out of sight behind the curtain of snow-heavy clouds, had long since set – Alina had felt the moment the last light of day had died out. Night settled thickly upon them. Tilting her head upwards, Alina tried to make out the moon, the stars, but the sky was still completely obscured.

Zoya returned from her lookout duty, nudging Alina’s side with her foot.

“Shift,” she said. “You’re up, Starkov.”

Groaning, Alina uncurled her body and stood up. Zoya promptly flopped down into the spot she had vacated, stretching out her fingers towards the fire with a grateful sigh. Alina reluctantly left the comfort of the fireside and stomped through the snow in search of Mal.

He was leaning against the trunk of a sturdy pine tree, rifle in hand, head cocked to one side. His posture was relaxed but his eyes were alert.

She knew he could hear her coming, but he didn’t turn around. As Alina reached him, he shifted his gun into his left hand and held out his other arm, tucking her neatly into his side. She rested her head on his chest happily.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. She shrugged.

“Tired, still, but otherwise fine.”

Mal’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “You were a little bit scary last night, you know.”

“I know,” Alina admitted. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anyone. It was just... overwhelming.”

He nodded, rubbing his gloved hand down her arm absentmindedly. “Zoya told me about her amplifier, you know. She said that most Grisha find it hard to control that much of an increase in power.”

Alina made a noncommittal sound of agreement in her throat and Mal glanced down at her.

“Do you not feel more powerful now?” he asked, confused.

“No, no,” Alina hurried to clarify. “I definitely do. I guess I just feel like it’s settled, now. Part of me.”

To demonstrate, she held out one hand and summoned a tiny marble of light, which she rolled around between her fingers. It took so little effort now – like breathing. She closed her hand into a fist, letting the light blink out, then opened her palm again slowly. Mal laughed. There were hundreds of shining golden beads in the branches of the tree in front of them, like the tiny flickering flames of candles in a Yule tree.

Alina waved her hand again and they vanished.

“I thought you were meant to not be drawing more attention to yourself,” Mal chided, squeezing her a little tighter.

“Sure,” Alina said. “Made you smile, though.”

She poked him in the stomach and he laughed again. They were quiet for a while, both keeping their attention trained on the forest around them, looking for the tell-tale signs of movement in the shadows.

“I’m sorry,” Alina whispered. “About Mikhael and Dubrov.”

Mal’s body tensed, then his shoulders slumped.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too. I should have been there.”

She didn’t know why they were talking about this now. It had been eating away at her since they had arrived in Tsibeya, where there was still snow on the ground, but she had no idea how to bring it up. But now, as he held her, as they watched the stillness in between the trees, she suddenly found that she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“I wanted to – I tried to save them,” she muttered, the words clogging in her throat. Mal looked at her more closely.

“Wait –” he said haltingly. “You were there?”

Alina frowned up at him. “Yes. We were put together.”

His eyes were frantic with concern. Mal pulled her towards him, crushing her in a hug.

“Thank the Saints you’re alive,” he mumbled against her forehead.

“The Saints had nothing to do with it,” she said, but she was smiling into his chest. Alina leaned back a little, tilting her head so that she could look at him, and he relaxed his grip ever so slightly.

“I should have been there,” Mal repeated. Alina shook her head.

“Then I might have lost you, too,” she whispered.

The thought was too awful to bear. For Alina, it hadn’t yet been a year since she had said goodbye to her Mal. She wasn’t sure it was something she could do again so soon. She didn’t think she would survive that.

Mal said nothing. They turned back to their watch, his arm still wrapped around her. Under her palm, Alina could feel his heartbeat, sure and steady, always a second out of time with her own.

By the time their shift had ended, Alina was bone-tired. She peeled off all her layers and let them drop in a crumpled heap at the foot of her roll mat before sinking happily into the warmth of her sleeping bag. It was not long before sleep engulfed her.

She was dragged rudely from her dreamless slumber by Taisa shaking her shoulder urgently. As her eyes blinked open groggily, she tried to sit up, to ask what was going on, but Taisa clapped her hand over Alina’s mouth.

“Quiet!” she hissed. Her eyes were huge with terror. “One of the Heartrenders just raised an alarm. There’s someone else in the woods.”

Alina’s stomach lurched. Horror pricked at her skin as she stared at Taisa, hoping that maybe this was a dream, but she knew with dreadful certainty that it was not.

Alina scrambled to get dressed, yanking on her kefta and boots as fast as she could without being noisy. She and Taisa stumbled out into the snow. Somebody had put out the fire and it was nearly pitch black, but Alina could make out the shadows of tents, the figures flitting between trees. She gripped Taisa’s hand and dragged her towards the space where the fire had once been. Silence stretched the air thin.

They arranged themselves in a defensive formation – Heartrenders and oprichniki on the outside, Etherealki making up a smaller inner ring. Alina was meant to be guarded in the centre of the huddle, but she made sure to put Taisa, who had no combat training at all, behind her.

The Heartrenders all had their hands up, listening for heartbeats. Alina watched the movement of their heads, heard faint whispers passed between them, and couldn’t help the small whimper that clawed its way up her throat. Her body trembled violently.

“What is it?” Taisa breathed from behind her. Alina shook her head, mute with fear.

“We’re surrounded,” Zoya said stiffly. She had settled into her summoning stance, her blue eyes blazing, her teeth bared.

Alina didn’t dare blink. She clenched her fists and unclenched them again, pulling her focus to the ambient light in the forest – faint, but present. A weapon. She was not defenceless.

She looked at the faces of the people around her – her comrades, her friends – and could not help but remember the rapid stuttering of the repeating rifle, the sickening noise that bullets made as they tore through flesh. Her fear began to dissipate, replaced by white-hot anger. The collar of bone, buried beneath her skin, began to sing.

She felt for the threads of light and drew them in towards her. Before anybody knew what she was doing, Alina threw up a shield around them: a gleaming dome of sunshine as tough as Grisha steel. From the trees, she heard shouts of alarm in Fjerdan. Then the gunshots started.

The bullets hit the shield but didn’t pass through. Alina’s face was set with grim determination. She could feel every impact, metal crumpling against light, but her barrier held firm. Their invisible attackers seemed to realise quickly that they were going to have to change tactics. The gunfire stopped – there was one moment of stillness, none of the Grisha so much as twitching an eyelid – then the men started to emerge from the forest. As they stepped out from the shadows, most of them holding their firearms, some of them with long knives or axes in their belts, Alina felt a shudder pass through the Grisha. She recognised the uniform these men wore. They were drüskelle.

And they just kept coming. Twenty, thirty, forty; Alina couldn’t keep track. They formed a loose circle around the Grisha, completely still, observing Alina’s shield closely but doing nothing.

Behind her, Taisa had started to shake. Alina couldn’t reach for her, not without breaking the shield, but she shot her a quick, reassuring glance and got a wobbly smile in return.

One of the drüskelle, maybe their leader, raised his pistol and shot directly at Alina’s face. Even from this close range, the bullet bounced off the shield just like all the others before it. Alina grinned at him, taunting, and made the light flare a little brighter. The leader barked a command to his men, but Alina couldn’t understand the muffled Fjerdan.

“Alina,” Fedyor said, somewhere out of sight on the other side of the circle. “Drop the shield. Let them see what a Sun Summoner can really do.”

She didn’t hesitate. Sweeping her arms wide, she pushed the dome outwards, sending light speeding towards the drüskelle. It passed over them, hot and blinding, and cries of pain and confusion erupted from their ranks. In that second, the Grisha moved. Heartrenders twisted their fingers and drüskelle crumpled, spitting blood; oprichniki dove into combat wielding revolvers and breaking noses; Etherealki summoned wind, fire, ice, pummelling the drüskelle with the combined force of the elements. Even Taisa, despite the quaver in her stance, had found a way to fight back. She had both hands out, stopping Fjerdan bullets mid-flight, pulling them off course so that they smashed into trees, or other drüskelle, or bulletproof kefta rather than exposed skin.

Then there was Alina. She whirled across the snow, somehow aware of everything that was happening around her, throwing out light to knock drüskelle off their feet, to scorch their skin and blind them, to block any of their bullets and blades that got too close to her friends. If she was needed, she was there.

She saw Mal grapple with a bearded drüskelle, grimacing with effort as he smashed his forehead into the man’s nose. Then Zoya appeared, wind whipping her hair and kefta, and she pulled the air from the Fjerdan’s lungs until he collapsed, his eyes rolling backwards. She saw Fedyor step into the path of a knife that was meant for Samuil and go down with a cry of pain. The Healer snarled, gripping the wrist of his attacker with one hand, the other reaching for his neck. The drüskelle passed out instantly. She saw Fiadh, standing in a melted pool of snow with water swirling around her feet, sending waves across the ground and freezing drüskelle in place as they ran towards her. They would win this, she was certain, but she couldn’t do anything to stem the dread that crept through her as she realised that they were still heavily outnumbered. They would win this – but not without loss of their own.

Alina felt a prickling at the back of her neck and spun around. Shadows were creeping across the snow.

The sounds of the battle receded and all she could hear was the thumping of her own pulse, almost painful, in her throat. Nobody else had noticed – not the Grisha, not the oprichniki, not the drüskelle – that the darkness had come alive around them. Nobody but Alina. She could feel his presence, his power, thrumming in the night sky, although she could not yet see him.

Like calls to like. She thought she could hear his soft laughter as the phrase echoed in her mind.

The shadows exploded. Their oily tendrils reared off the ground, curling around the drüskelle and holding them aloft, kicking, eyes blown wide with fear. Alina laughed, then, and it was a horrible, vicious laugh, as she saw the Fjerdans realise what kind of demon had come for them.

The Darkling burst from the trees, his face cold, bringing with him a tide of blackness and another wave of Grisha. There was Ivan, his head whipping around, thrusting a hand out in front of him, and the drüskelle with a pistol aimed at Fedyor’s head started to gasp and choke. The gun tumbled to the snow and his ribcage burst outwards, bones splintering through skin and cloth, showering Fedyor with chunks of gore and blood.

Alina’s eyes drifted across the carnage around them. With the Darkling’s arrival, the Grisha force had doubled in size, and they were making short work of the remaining drüskelle. The Darkling alone had about seven of them suspended in the air before him, ropes of shadow tightening slowly around their necks while he smiled cruelly. Alina took a moment to consider whether anybody had any right to look so good in the act of mass murder.

She pulled her gaze away, seeking out her friends, glad to see that they were all still standing. Zoya and Mal were working together to take out a group of four drüskelle, while Taisa stood back-to-back with a Heartrender, yanking the weapons from the grip of any distracted Fjerdan she could see. Fiadh had teamed up with another Tidemaker and they seemed to be using their combined force to drown the drüskelle that the Darkling’s shadows had since dropped to the ground.

Alina was paying too much attention to her friends. It was exactly what the Darkling had told her not to do, but she tended not to listen to him – especially when it came to her friends. She wasn’t aware that she was in danger until she saw Taisa’s eyes widening, her mouth forming the first syllable of Alina’s name, and Alina spun round to find herself face to face with a drüskelle. The Fjerdan warrior looked battered and bruised but he had managed nonetheless to scramble upright, spit out the blood from his mouth, and was now drawing a long hunting knife from his belt and running towards Alina. His expression was twisted and fervent with hatred.

Alina moved without thinking. She brought her hands together and the light came so easily to her palms now; the arch of her fingers, the sweep of her arms, it was purely instinctive. The curve of the blade gleamed like moonlight given form, brighter and sharper than any metal, coalescing under her touch in a single breath. Alina felt a tautness within her – a string pulled tight. She exhaled and found her release.

There was a crack like thunder as the Cut hurtled free from her hold. She saw the blade hit the drüskelle, saw it pass through him as if he was no more solid than water, but his momentum continued to carry him forward. Alina stumbled backwards as he bore down on her. She tripped up over herself and landed on her back in the snow then crawled backwards, horrified, as the Fjerdan’s sprint towards her finally reached a slow, lurching end, and he pitched forward. His top half, from the chest upwards, landed heavily at her feet while his legs collapsed a little bit further away. The two pieces of his arms that had been severed just above the elbow fell into the deep snow with a gentle plop. The knife was still clutched in his disembodied hand.

Alina wasn’t sure if she was going to scream or vomit first.

Then the Darkling was there, kneeling in between Alina and the remains of the drüskelle, blocking her view of the horror she had wrought.

“Look at me,” he instructed. Alina tried to focus on him but her eyes were drawn repeatedly to the snow behind him, the pool of blood seeping slowly through it, dark red and steaming against the cold. “At me, Alina,” he repeated firmly, stripping off his gloves and throwing them to the ground as he reached for her, gripping her chin tightly and tilting her face up towards his.

His palms against her bare skin sent a rush of calm through her. Alina drew in a shuddering breath and found her voice.

“I – I just – oh, Saints, he just came apart,” she stuttered, a sob hitching itself in her throat.

“I know,” he murmured, pushing a few straggles of dark hair back from her face. “I saw.”

He moved his hands to rest at the nape of her neck, running his fingertips in soft, soothing patterns over her skin. She wanted him closer. Alina scrunched her fists into his kefta as she pulled him towards her, letting her forehead fall forward onto his chest. He allowed her to do so, propping his chin on the crown of her head, cradling her in his arms.

Alina squeezed her eyes shut. The feeling of him around her was solidifying – the only thing stopping her from disintegrating entirely. She breathed in slowly, inhaling the scent of pine that clung to his body, feeling the weight of his hand at her neck, letting the steady waves of reassurance that washed through her to block out everything else.

After some time, Alina’s senses came back to her. She could hear movement around them, voices calling out instructions. She pulled back, though she kept her grip on the Darkling’s kefta, and her eyes found his face. For the first time she remembered that she was actually quite angry with him.

“Aleksander,” she said quietly, scowling. “I thought we agreed that I was going to hunt the stag alone.”

He opened his mouth but seemed to hesitate, as if he had been caught out before he had the chance to come up with a good excuse. “Yes,” he admitted. “We did. But, in the days after you left, I found myself thinking about what I would do if anything happened to you up here, and I concluded that it would be better for the whole country if I went with you to stop that happening.”

“Well, as you can see,” she replied. “I’m quite capable of defending myself.”

There was only a slight wobble to her voice. Alina closed her eyes again, saw the moment the drüskelle had fragmented in front of her, his organs spilling onto the snow, and opened them again quickly. Aleksander cupped her cheek and she leaned into his palm gratefully.

He gave her a few more minutes, until her breathing had slowed and her pulse was no longer leaping erratically and painfully in her veins. She looked up at him again and found his dark eyes fixed on her with concern and something else – something exultant, something wanting.

“You got it,” he breathed. It wasn’t a question.

Alina smiled, slowly, gleefully. “I got it.”

Aleksander smiled too, and Alina wasn’t sure if the feeling of victory that swelled in her chest came from him or from her. His eyes flickered to something over her head.

“We need to move, Alina,” he said, his voice still gentle. “Can you walk?”

She nodded shakily. He helped her to her feet, still shielding her from the mutilated body sprawled out before her, his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders as he steered them through the trees towards Fedyor and Ivan. The two Heartrenders were deep in discussion, gesturing around the camp, but they cut off and inclined their heads when the Darkling approached.

“Is everyone okay?” Alina asked anxiously, twisting her neck to try and catch sight of her friends. The Darkling held her firm against him.

“Fedyor?” he prompted. The Heartrender managed a tired smile. He was leaning into Ivan’s side, too, one of his hands pressed against his ribs.

“Moi soverenyi,” he greeted his general before turning to answer Alina’s question. “There are a few injuries – some more serious than others – but no casualties on our side.”

Alina breathed a sigh of relief. Fedyor regarded her with new appraisal. “You had a lot to do with that, Alina. Without you, we wouldn’t have stood a chance against a drüskelle force that size.”

“I’m not the one who saved us,” she mumbled, casting a glance up at Aleksander. He was smirking.

Fedyor nodded in agreement. “Your aid tonight was invaluable, General,” he said, although he was looking at Ivan as he spoke.

“Are you hurt, Fedyor?” Alina asked. Fedyor tore his gaze from his lover and shook his head.

“No – well –”

“He was stabbed,” Ivan interrupted gruffly, glaring at Alina as if this was somehow all her doing until Fedyor elbowed him.

“The blade didn’t pierce my kefta,” he reassured her. “It’s just bruising.”

Aleksander had clearly had enough with their taking stock of injuries. “I’m going to take Alina to Svyatil,” he said bluntly. “Fedyor, Ivan, you will remain here while Samuil and Irina tend to the more seriously wounded. You can have as many fighting men as you feel you need. Everyone else who is fit to travel now will accompany us.”

He spoke calmly, coolly, as if they had not just been fighting for their lives. Fedyor and Ivan both nodded their understanding.

“Anything that we can afford to leave stays here,” Aleksander continued. “Focus on getting mobile as fast as possible – we can see to other injuries at Svyatil.”

“Moi soverenyi,” the Heartrenders bowed and hurried away without waiting to be dismissed.

“I’m not leaving anybody behind!” Alina protested, squirming in Aleksander’s vice-like grip.

“Alina,” he warned.

She frowned up at him, but she could tell from his tone that there was no way she would win this argument. Behind her, Fedyor and Ivan were organising the ranks of Grisha and oprichniki into two groups – those who were staying to pack up camp and those who were leaving immediately with her and the Darkling.

“They’ll be in danger,” she tried feebly. Aleksander shot her a steely glare.

“You will be in danger if you stay,” he said, his voice like ice. “You were nearly killed before my eyes not twenty minutes ago. I’ll not risk that again today.”

“I hate it when you do this,” she hissed. “I hate it when you act like I’m more important than everyone else.”

“You are more important than everyone else.”

He said this as if it should have been obvious. Alina felt something uncomfortable coiling restlessly in the pit of her stomach, but it wasn’t an emotion she could name.

She didn’t need to look to feel the soldiers falling into formation behind her and the Darkling. Dawn was approaching, soft and blue, the clouds of the previous day dissipating from the ever-lightening sky. The moon hung low over the treetops, luminescent. Forgiving.

“Let’s go, Alina,” the Darkling murmured. The shadows came forward to meet them as they walked into the forest.

Chapter Text

It was past nightfall by the time they reached their destination. They had marched all day without stopping, out of the hushed pine forest and into a sparse tundra. The wind howled across the empty landscape, pushing the snow into sharp peaks, whipping at their clothes and skin. By the time the sky had taken on the first lilac cast of evening, Alina was ready to collapse with exhaustion.

“Just a little further,” the Darkling said as he gripped her arm to stop her from slumping into the snow in defeat. His eyes were fixed on the horizon. She wondered what he was looking for.

The answer appeared shortly after. A sprawling manor house – the only real landmark for miles – was tucked into a snowy valley, its dark stone walls quite at odds with the blankness of the space around them. A little river, still mostly frozen over, meandered through the valley. To the south Alina could see the beginnings of a birch forest. It would have been picturesque, Alina thought, if not for the oppressive coldness of the place. She shivered a little as the wind wormed its icy fingers down the collar of her kefta, and the Darkling pulled her towards him again.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“Svyatil,” he replied simply, knowing full well that his answer did not mean anything to Alina. She glared at him and he smiled at her petulant irritation.

The snow became deeper as they began their descent into the valley, and Alina lost her balance several times on the slope. By the third or fourth time she felt her feet slide out from under her, clutching frantically at the sleeve of the Darkling’s kefta with both hands, his patience was at an end. He righted her with a heavy sigh.

“I’m beginning to think this would be easier if I just carried you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Alina said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s not my fault I can’t see my feet.”

“I am managing perfectly well,” he pointed out.

Alina scoffed. “You have long legs. I’m practically up to my waist in snow.”

“A problem which would be easily resolved if you just let me carry you.”

Alina shook her head vehemently. Aleksander shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly and they continued walking in silence.

Part of her knew that he was right, and they would travel a lot faster if he carried her – part of her wanted to give in and let him. But she was too stubborn. She knew what it would look like, the Sun Summoner scooped up in the arms of the Darkling, and it was an image she wanted to avoid. Especially with Mal only a few metres behind her.

They pushed on through the deep snow. Alina was so relieved when the manor house at last loomed before them, warm light spilling out from its windows, that she thought she might cry.

Aleksander did not even knock at the front door. He threw it open and they all stumbled thankfully over the threshold, weary and bedraggled, rime clinging to their kefta and eyebrows. A tall, good-looking man strode across the spacious entrance hall to greet them.

“General Kirigan!” he explained in surprise. The Darkling smiled and clasped the man’s hand in a warm greeting.

“Count Severnyov. Our apologies for dropping by unannounced, but we find ourselves in need of your hospitality.”

The count bowed his head and swept his arms wide. “No apologies necessary, General – as you know, my home is open to all Grisha in need. You are all welcome.”

The Darkling nodded. “I have another unit following – they’re perhaps an hour behind us.”

“I can send out a party of my vardniki to meet them,” Count Severnyov said, after a moment of consideration. The Darkling nodded again.

“I would appreciate that.”

The count gestured to the man in a neat navy-blue uniform at his shoulder, who bowed and promptly vanished through a side door. He turned his gaze away from the Darkling and looked over the group of Grisha who stood, dripping and panting, in his hall. His eyes were kind.

“This is Alina Starkov,” the Darkling said, one hand at the small of her back as he nudged her forward a step. “The Sun Summoner.”

“It is an honour to meet you, Miss Starkov,” Count Severnyov took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I hope you will find my humble home accommodating.”

Alina smiled and dipped her head in thanks. “Your home is beautiful, Count Severnyov.”

“Please, call me Eljas,” he implored her, pressing a palm flat against his heart. “It has been a long time since I was at court – there is no need to stand on ceremony here.”

He released her hand, his eyes flickering between Alina and the Darkling, before he turned his attention back to the Grisha behind them. He smiled at them sympathetically, as if he knew what they had been through to get here.

“You look like you had some trouble out there,” he said lightly. “If any of you have injuries that need tending –”

“Our Healers are with the other party,” the Darkling interrupted. “They’ve done their best to get everyone on their feet.”

Eljas nodded understandingly. “Of course – not to worry, we have plenty of space in the infirmary. Yegor will show you the way. Danil, please fetch the countess,” he caught Alina’s eye and smiled brilliantly. “My wife is a Healer, you see.”

Two young men in the same blue uniforms stepped forward. About half of the Grisha went off with Yegor to the infirmary while Eljas turned to the rest of them and indicated the stairway that the other servant – Danil, she presumed – had just disappeared up.

“The rest of you, come with me – I will show you to your rooms.”

He fell into step beside Alina and the Darkling as they made their way to the staircase. Alina took in her surroundings with a careful eye, trying to make sense of everything she saw and heard. A mansion in the wilderness of Tsibeya, with its own infirmary, its own private guard? It confounded her.

“There should be more than enough space for your soldiers in the East Wing,” Eljas was saying as he led them down a wide, well-lit corridor. He gestured at the doors lining each side of the hallway. “Seeing as you are our only guests at the moment, you will have your pick of rooms. Please, make yourselves at home – once the rest of your party arrives, I will call for dinner.”

At the mention of food, Alina’s knees went weak. She reached for Aleksander again, grasping his arm firmly, and he moved his hand from her back to wrap around her waist, pressing her into his side.

“I suppose I’ll take this room, here,” she murmured, nodding towards the nearest door. Eljas shook his head.

“Oh, no – only the best will do for the Sun Summoner and the general of the Second Army. Follow me.”

Eljas swept past them towards the staircase. Aleksander moved to follow but Alina paused, glancing back over her shoulder. She caught Mal’s eye – he was already halfway into one of the bedrooms, his hand on the doorknob – and shot him an apologetic glance. He gave her a look that she was familiar with from their childhood, from their marriage. It was a look that said I hope you know what you’re doing.

They followed Eljas up another two flights of stairs, then down a long corridor. Alina couldn’t help but stare at the figures standing silently at regular intervals against the wall. They were dressed in the same dark blue as the servants, but they held themselves like soldiers. These must be the guards that Eljas had mentioned earlier, Alina guessed, but she couldn’t quite remember the word he had used for them.

“Who are they?” Alina whispered. The Darkling bent his head and spoke into her ear.

“The vardniki – the Severnyov family’s personal guardsmen. They train alongside the oprichniki.”

Alina raised her eyebrows. A noble family with a personal guard that received the same training as oprichniki? She had never heard of such a thing before. She looked up but could tell from his face that she would get no more information out of him. Alina turned to Eljas instead.

“You said your wife was a Healer,” she said in a conversational tone.

Eljas nodded. “She is.”

“And you? Are you Grisha?”

He smiled. “You are observant, Miss Starkov. I am indeed Grisha.”

Alina took a moment to look at him more closely. If she had to guess, she would say he was around forty – his cropped brown hair was flecked lightly with silver, and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes were deep. He was dressed appropriately for a nobleman, she supposed, but as she looked more closely at his long coat, she could see faint swirls of embroidery that echoed those on her own kefta. His coat was blue, but a few shades lighter than that of the servants and vardniki.

“You’re an Etherealnik,” she guessed.

“Inferni,” Eljas confirmed.

“I didn’t know there were Grisha in the nobility.”

They were coming to the end of the corridor; Eljas paused at the door. The smile on his face was tinged with sadness.

“We have to keep ourselves hidden. That’s why my family has lived here, about as far from Os Alta as possible, for seven hundred years.”

Alina snuck a glance up at Aleksander. His face was impassive as always. She wondered how many Severnyovs had served him, fought beside him, in the past.

“I thought all Grisha were required to serve in the Second Army,” she said, raising an eyebrow thoughtfully.

Eljas’s smile turned sly. “I do serve the Second Army. I trained in the Little Palace, I fought on the front lines – and when my father died, I returned to take up my post here, just as he did, and his father before him.”

Alina thought about this. She could feel Aleksander waiting to hear what she would ask next.

“This is a safehouse,” she said slowly. “For Ravkan spies planted in Fjerda.”

“Very observant,” Eljas repeated. “You are correct, Miss Starkov. But, as I said when you arrived, my home is for any Grisha who need it, not just spies. There are many who come to us from Fjerda, fleeing persecution. We offer shelter, safety, medicine, warm food. Our guests are welcome to stay as long as they need to rest and recover before we send them onwards.”

“So, when a group of exhausted and wounded Grisha who look like they’ve been running for their lives step through your door...”

“It is very much an everyday occurrence for my household,” Eljas completed for her, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “This is what we’re here for, after all.”

He tugged open the door in front of him and gestured for them to enter. A narrow, spiral staircase rose up in front of them.

“Your rooms are just up here,” Eljas said, leading the way up the winding stone steps. “They are the best rooms in the house – reserved only for special guests.”

There were two doors at the top of the stairs, on either side of the landing. Eljas gestured to the right-hand side first.

“General, your rooms are through here. Miss Starkov, you have the suite opposite.”

Aleksander nodded his silent thanks and released Alina, vanishing through the door Eljas had indicated without so much as a goodbye.

“There is a bell by the door – if you need any assistance, you need only ring it and one of the maids will be with you presently,” Eljas continued, unperturbed by Aleksander’s sudden departure. Alina smiled graciously.

“Thank you – thank you for everything, Eljas.”

He inclined his head. “My pleasure, Miss Starkov. I will see you for dinner later this evening. My wife will be very glad to meet you.”

He slipped back down the staircase. Alina pushed open the door to her room. Eljas had not been exaggerating – it was a beautiful space, decorated simply but elegantly. The room was an odd, semi-circular shape, like a half-moon; the curving wall sported three huge windows that looked out towards the distant mountains. The opposite wall was painted sky blue, with delicate gold trim; the furniture was all pale wood, the curtains and the canopy on the bed a rich brocade of midnight blue.

Alina went straight to the bed and began stripping off her clothes. Her boots tumbled to the floor, then her kefta, her many pairs of socks, the fur-lined jerkin and the scratchy woollen jumper. The bed looked extraordinarily comfortable, but Alina knew that if she lay down she would not get back up again until morning.

Freed of her stifling layers, Alina resumed her exploration of the room, relishing the feeling of the thick carpet beneath her bare feet. She ran her fingers along the windowsill as she took in the view – the mountains she could see must be what the Fjerdans called the Elbjen, the northernmost reaches of the Sikurzoi.

There was a second door next to the one she had entered in which led to a narrow bathroom, all white and blue tiles, a huge, clawfoot bathtub occupying a platform against the far wall. The thought of soaking in there was heavenly.

Alina was wondering whether she should ring a maid to fill the bath for her when she spotted another door in the wall opposite the windows. Overcome by curiosity, she lifted the latch and pushed it open.

This door did not, as Alina had sort of expected, lead to a linen closet or a sitting room. Instead, she found herself in the middle of Aleksander’s bedroom. Half of her mind, the part that still functioned, noted that it was a mirror image of her own, wrought in reds and silvers instead of blues and golds. The other half of her mind was far too occupied by the fact that Aleksander was shirtless to pay any attention to her surroundings.

He looked up, startled, his arms raised as he froze in the middle of pulling a clean shirt over his head. It must have been borrowed, Alina noted distractedly, because it was white – the colour looked all wrong on him.

“Sorry!” she blurted out, certain her face was bright red. “I didn’t know it led to your room.”

She tore her eyes away from him, cursing this body with its teenage hormones, and gestured to the wall behind her.

Aleksander recovered quickly. He shrugged into his shirt and walked towards her, completely ignoring her embarrassment as he inspected the secret door with interest.

“Wait a moment,” Alina said, narrowing her eyes as she looked between Aleksander and the door. Her chagrin was very quickly being replaced by anger. “Did you do this? Did you request adjoining rooms?”

“That would be far too obvious,” he said, as if the very thought was ridiculous. “No, Alina, I did no such thing. It seems our host has drawn his own conclusions as to the nature of our relationship.”

He glanced at her from where he stood in the doorway, a wicked glint in his eye. He was enjoying this. Alina huffed, her indignation not entirely abated.

“This wouldn’t happen if you would just keep your hands to yourself, you know.”

“I was worried you were going to collapse halfway up the stairs,” Aleksander said mildly. He leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed, his lips curved in an insufferable smirk.

Alina threw her hands up and turned her back on him, walking to the window. His room faced west, she realised, and the darkening sky was still painted with streaks of fiery golden light at the horizon. Alina leaned on the windowsill heavily, staring out at the landscape below them.

“I never knew something so bleak could be so beautiful,” she murmured.

She heard his footsteps, near silent on the carpeted floor, as he came across the room to join her, but she didn’t look at him. Not even when he was right next to her, when she could feel the intensity of his gaze on her face, when he brushed his fingertips lightly over the skin of her wrist.

“Alina,” his voice was soft, but it was a command nonetheless. Hesitant, she turned towards him. His eyes flickered downwards – the neck of her shirt was open to the top of her sternum, the skin exposed, and he looked at it hungrily. He lifted his hand from the windowsill, reaching for her haltingly.

“May I?” he asked, and Alina nodded. He placed both palms flat on her collarbones, his long fingers curling over her shoulders, his thumbs resting in the hollow at the base of her throat. Alina shuddered as the pull of his amplifier came into contact with the stag. Light welled up inside her, spilling through her skin, and there was nothing she could have done to stamp it out. She could see the dark outline of the antlers, thrown into silhouette by the radiance that lit up her insides. Alina felt paper-thin, in that moment, as insubstantial as air; as if she was held together by nothing more than the jagged pieces of bone at her throat and the hands of the man who, in another lifetime, had forced them upon her.

Aleksander pulled his hands away and the light died. He threaded his fingers through the hair at the back of her neck, tilting her head up, their faces inches apart. There was a wildness in his eyes that she didn’t think she had seen before. Alina’s breath caught in her throat.

“You and I are going to change the world,” he said.

Alina’s eyelids fluttered closed. That promise was a heavy thing, one whose weight she had carried around for so many years. Because, in the end, had it not been true? Had they not changed the world – and paid a terrible price for it?

“What would you give up?” she murmured. “What would you give to make it happen?”

“Everything,” he replied, his breath ghosting across her cheek. Alina could tell that he really believed that.

“Your life?” she suggested. “Mine?”

He went very still. Alina untangled his fingers from her hair, gently, holding his hand in between her own.

“Have you ever thought about it?” she continued, pushing and prodding even as his expression shuttered and he retreated back behind the stony mask.

Aleksander’s voice was flat. “Have you?”

Alina couldn’t meet his eyes. She gazed blankly at their joined hands, Aleksander’s long fingers curled around her own, and remembered the feeling of his blood running down her wrists, mixing with Mal’s, the hilt of the blade that she had used to kill them both cold in her grip.

She was overcome with the urge to pull him closer. Instead, Alina dropped his hand and stepped away. She thought she saw a trace of disappointment in his eyes.

“I’m going to ring for a bath,” she said, summoning just enough bravado to keep her voice calm and even. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He said nothing as she went back to her room, closing the door behind her and leaning against the wall with a deep sigh. She wondered if he might come after her, call her back – but there was only silence and the burning feeling of his absence.

She had the maids fill up the bathtub and slipped into the warm, soapy water gleefully. As much as she appreciated Fiadh and her endless supply of hot water, she was immensely glad for the chance to bathe in water more than a few inches deep, in a tub where she could stretch out her legs.

After her bath, Alina raided the dresser and the wardrobe in her room for appropriate clothing. There were no kefta, but the coats and dresses all bore that same subtle resemblance to the Grisha uniform. Alina picked out a plain white dress and a bright azure frock coat. The maids had offered to help her get ready, but she had waved them off blithely, choosing instead to tighten the laces of her stays herself, to brush and plait her hair as best she could. She pinned the braid up in a crowd on top of her head.

Alina doubted she looked anywhere near as neat as she did when Genya assisted her, but at least she was clean and presentable. She doubted that, up here in the wilderness of Tsibeya, anybody would expect any more than that.

A servant clad in blue appeared at her door to inform her that dinner would be served shortly. Alina left without waiting for Aleksander. She wondered if he had managed to find anything black in his wardrobe.

She was led into a great dining room with a high, vaulted ceiling, and was relieved to see Fedyor and Ivan by the fireplace, talking in low tones. They both looked utterly exhausted. She hurried to greet them.

“You didn’t have any trouble on the way?” she asked as she approached.

Fedyor shook his head. “Thankfully not.”

“And – those who were injured –”

“We’re all okay, Alina,” Fedyor assured her with a smile. “Samuil and Irina have tended to everyone, with the help of Countess Severnyov and her assistant.”

Alina’s shoulders slumped as relief flooded through her. She nodded, and Fedyor placed one gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You walk around as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” he observed. Alina laughed sharply. Sometimes it really did feel like that.

“We came here because of me,” she said. “Because I wanted to search for the stag. I put everyone in danger.”

To Alina’s surprise, it was Ivan who responded.

“We are soldiers,” he said firmly. “We are Grisha. We are always in danger.”

His words weren’t quite a comfort, but she knew that what he said was true. All Grisha knew what it was to fight for your life, to kill, to watch your friends be killed – it was simply a fact of existence. Inescapable.

Alina let go of the breath she had been holding and nodded again. She returned Fedyor’s smile and left the Heartrenders to themselves, scanning the room for her friends. Even though they had been marching together all day, she had barely spoken to Zoya, Taisa, or Mal since the drüskelle attack.

Just then, the huge double doors swung open and Eljas walked in with a beautiful woman in a red dress on his arm. Aleksander followed behind them. He had found something black to wear, Alina noted, but he looked so strange in anything that wasn’t a kefta that she was still taken aback at the sight of him in a dinner jacket.

Eljas dropped a light kiss on the back of his wife’s hand before turning to the congregation of Grisha before him.

“Friends,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall. “Welcome to Svyatil. Please sit down – let’s eat.”

As the Grisha took their seats, Eljas beckoned to Alina. He was standing behind the chair at the head of the table, gesturing to the seat at the corner on his left-hand side.

“For our guests of honour,” he said, a hint of wryness in his smile. “How do you like your room, Miss Starkov?”

Alina sat down slowly, assessing the knowing twinkle in Eljas’s eye as he, too, took his seat.

“It is a very beautiful suite,” she said at last. “The view is breathtaking.”

Silently, Aleksander sat down opposite her. He appeared perfectly composed, impeccably groomed as always, but Alina could tell that he was ill at ease out of his kefta. She almost laughed at him.

“We call them the sunset and sunrise rooms,” Eljas explained, looking between the two of them. “For obvious reasons.”

Alina tore her eyes away from the Darkling and made herself smile at their host.

When the servers brought out the food, Alina thought she might pass out from the pleasure of it before she even had a chance to take so much as a bite. This was not the extravagant feasts of the Grand Palace, far from it, but it was certainly better than herring and rye bread. It was simple food, prepared well – and in abundance. Alina had at least three helpings of roast chicken, pausing every so often to glare at Aleksander in resentment for withholding food like this from them at the Little Palace. He returned her looks with amusement, not a hint of remorse in his eyes. He had stretched out his long legs under the table and now her ankles bumped against his every time she shifted in her seat. She was sure he was doing it on purpose.

By the time the plates had been scraped clean and cleared away, the meagre reserves of energy that Alina had dredged up were well and truly spent. She made her excuses, thanking Eljas and his wife, Svana, again for the food, and began the long journey back to her chambers.

She wanted nothing more than to dump her clothes on the floor and go straight to bed, but Alina made herself fold her borrowed outfit neatly over a chair. A quick rummage in the dresser came up with a nightgown, while in the wardrobe she found a velvet robe and matching slippers, the blue-grey material soft and luxurious under her fingers. After splashing water on her face and unpinning her braid, Alina crawled happily into bed. The sheets were clean and silky, the mattress soft and comfortable, her room quiet and still. After so many nights in the tent, she had almost forgotten what this felt like. Alina closed her eyes and drifted easily into sleep.

Chapter Text

Nightmares stalked her in the darkness – bearded men with axes and knives chasing after her through a snowy forest. She ran and ran, and just when she thought she might be able to escape them, the trees fell away and she found herself in an empty glade. The sky above was clear and strewn with stars. Something metallic clicked behind her and before she could turn, before she could get away, the gunfire began. Bullets ruptured her chest, her stomach. Alina collapsed to her knees, her arms wrapped around herself as though she could hold in the blood that dripped out of her, staining a circle of dark red into the snow.

Dimly, she was aware that she should have been in more pain. She should have been dead. But those thoughts meant nothing when a figure, wreathed in shadow, stepped out from the trees at the opposite side of the clearing. Darkness dripped off him like oil, clinging to his clothes, his skin. His smile was cold, his steps slow. He did not rush as he came towards her.

“Alina,” the Darkling said. His voice rasped like a blade being drawn across stone. Alina searched his eyes for some sign of humanity, but there was nothing there – only blackness and greed.

He knelt before her, his hands going to her throat, and the collar began to sing at his touch. Alina tried to speak but couldn’t. He was almost gentle in how he caressed her, brushing her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. When he leaned in to kiss her, she let him, opening her mouth with a soft sigh, and because it was a dream there was no guilt or shame, no denial.

His grip on her shoulders tightened and Alina realised with a sickening jolt of horror what it was that he wanted. He smiled at her, but it was all malice. His fingers dug into her skin, pushing through the flesh, clawing at her insides.

“No!” Alina cried, trying to pull away, but the shadows had wrapped around her like chains and she couldn’t move. “No, you can’t have it. It’s mine!”

With startling brutality, he ripped the antlers from her.

“No, Alina,” he purred, holding the collar aloft triumphantly. The bone was slick with blood. “It has always been mine. Just like you.”

He wrapped his fingers around the base of her neck, sinking into the ruined skin, and bent his head to kiss her again.

This is supposed to hurt, Alina thought.

She scrambled upright, her hands flailing, clutching at her throat to make sure that the collar was still in place. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was – the room was dark, the bed unfamiliar, and she knew, somehow, that there was somebody else in here with her.

“Alina,” came a voice from the darkness, and she screamed. The voice belonged to the man of her nightmares. Alina felt as if she was suffocating.

Frantically trying to get control of her breathing, Alina summoned light, bathing the walls of the room in a soft golden glow. Aleksander hovered a few metres from the bed, his hands raised as if to summon. The door that connected their rooms was open.

“What are you doing?” she asked shrilly.

Aleksander stopped mid-step, looking at her uncertainly. “You cried out. I was worried – I thought there was somebody in here.”

Alina slumped forward, her head in her hands. “No. Just a nightmare.”

A beat of silence.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Alina muttered. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, to see those dark eyes – the eyes of the creature in her dreams, the eyes that had roved over her body with nothing but empty craving.

With a deep breath, she threw the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. In the middle of the room, Aleksander stood deathly still, seemingly unsure of whether or not he should go to her.

Please don’t, part of her screamed. Another, quieter part whispered, please do.

Alina reached for her robe and slippers. “I need to walk it off. I’m fine, Aleksander,” she said again. He frowned.

“I should come with you.”

“There are guards everywhere in this house. I’ll be perfectly safe,” Alina insisted, then softened her voice slightly. “Go back to sleep.”

She made herself turn around to face him, her heart bumping painfully against her ribs. She looked at him and he looked right back, her Aleksander, sympathy and concern breaking through the mask he wore so carefully, his dark hair tousled, shadows under his eyes. This was the man she had come to know these past few months – but she could see the man of her nightmares, lurking just below the surface. The whole truth of him, she knew, was that he was both.

Before she could think too much, Alina tied the sash of her robe and walked to the door. Aleksander watched her go without speaking.

She wandered through the hallways aimlessly, summoning light as she walked, almost hoping that she would manage to lose herself in the maze of corridors. The dream nipped at her heels the whole way.

On the first floor, just across the landing from the corridor of bedrooms that housed the rest of their party, Alina heard soft voices. Golden light spilled through the crack underneath a closed door, warm and inviting. Aline hesitated for a moment before knocking.

The voices inside died down and she heard footsteps approach the door. It swung open with a quiet creak to reveal Fiadh’s familiar face.

“Alina!” she said happily. “Come in, join us.”

She stepped aside to let Alina in. It was a small parlour, crammed with armchairs and chaise longues, lit by a cheerful fireplace. Most of the seats were already occupied by Etherealki soldiers. They had all shed their kefta for clean clothes borrowed from their hosts, and it took Alina a moment to recognise most of them without their uniforms.

Fiadh appeared to be wearing men’s clothes – the trousers were rolled up at the ankle, her loose white shirt was several sizes too big, and she had thrown a blue velvet smoking jacket over her shoulders – and Alina wondered briefly if she had been forced to make do from a limited selection, but she seemed more at home dressed like this than she ever did in a kefta. The Tidemaker slipped past Alina to take up a seat at the end of a chaise, tucking her legs up underneath her as she reclined casually against a dark-haired Inferni.

Alina took the only other free seat – an armchair by the fireplace – and soon realised why it had been empty. The heat from the flames was scorching. Looking around the room, Alina could see that plenty of the other Summoners were in nightclothes, and those that weren’t didn’t seem the modest type – Fiadh’s shirt was unbuttoned almost all the way down her sternum – so Alina untied her robe and let it slip from her shoulders as she settled into her seat.

“Want a drink?” Fiadh asked, her stormy eyes sparking.

“Saints, yes,” Alina groaned. The Etherealki laughed softly, understanding; a tall glass bottle was quickly passed around the room to her.

“It’s a bit of a tradition for us,” said the Inferni who was running a hand through Fiadh’s hair. Alina thought his name was Ari. “After a battle. Takes the edge off going to sleep.”

Alina looked around the room. These people couldn’t have been more than twenty-five – so young – yet here they were, huddled in a room together seeking the solace of each other’s company, clearly exhausted yet running from sleep as long as they could. It was disturbing how normal things like this had become.

She unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a swig, spluttering as the ice-cold liquid hit the back of her throat with a burn.

“What in the name of the Saints –”

Fiadh laughed. “Brennivín – it’s Fjerdan. Svana is Fjerdan, you know.”

She spoke about the countess with a soft kind of familiarity. Alina wondered if she had passed through here before.

“Do you get used to it?” she asked. Fiadh raised her eyebrows.

“Brennivín?”

Alina smiled and shook her head. “Sleeping after a battle.”

It was a question she already knew the answer to. She had fought, in her previous life, she had killed men in combat, lost people to it. But her time as a soldier – as Grisha – had been short. Now, she was staring down the possibility of years of this. Decades. She wanted to know what that did to a person. She thought about Aleksander, motionless when she had left him in her bedroom, and wondered if that was what she would become, too.

Fiadh just shrugged a shoulder. “You know what to expect.”

Her words didn’t bring much comfort to Alina. She took another slug from the bottle, enjoying it a little more now that she was prepared for the strength of it, and handed it to the Tidemaker in the seat next to her. His fingers closed around the glass and she noticed ice spread across the surface before he, too, took a long sip.

“Not so bad the second time around, is it?” Fiadh laughed at the expression on Alina’s face.

“It grows on you,” she conceded. “You seem to know them – Eljas and Svana. Have you been here before?”

“This was my first posting after I graduated training,” Fiadh said, reaching for the bottle as it made its rounds again. “I was here for a year.”

“You could say that Fiadh knows Svana very well,” Ari teased. A faint blush coloured Fiadh’s cheeks. The Summoners all laughed knowingly.

“I heard a rumour that she knows Eljas pretty well, too,” one of the Squallers confided. Fiadh squeaked and buried her face into Ari’s chest. Alina’s mouth popped open.

“You – both of them?”

“Sometimes simultaneously,” the Tidemaker next to her smirked. Alina could feel her face going red. She had known that Grisha were more cavalier about such matters, but to hear things like this discussed so openly, as something to jest about amicably rather than a source of shame and humiliation, the realisation seemed to strike Alina anew. Her own life suddenly seemed pitiful in comparison – aside from her regrettable tryst with the Darkling, a semi-serious but very brief engagement with Nikolai, it had only ever been Mal.

“But they’re married,” she said, and the words were out of her mouth even as she realised what an old lady she sounded like. The Summoners laughed again. Fiadh had sat up, no longer hiding in Ari’s shirt, and was grinning like the cat who got the cream. She flapped a hand at Alina.

“Yes, they are, and they’re hopelessly in love – it’s disgustingly sweet, actually. But these things happen,” she said with a shrug. “It’s not all that unusual. Not for us.”

Not for Grisha, she meant. Alina considered this for a moment. She supposed it made sense; Grisha formed close-knit friendships and generally lived longer lives than otkazat’sya, providing they weren’t killed in battle.

Alina watched Fiadh, lounging back in her borrowed clothes, glass bottle dangling artfully from her fingers, and couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life she might have lived if not for the endless war that their people were cursed to fight. Grisha were soldiers – that was all they could ever be, in this world, no more and no less. Fiadh was a Tidemaker, yes, but what else might she have become? An artist, a poet, a playwright, a philosopher, a muse? Had she had those dreams once before and buried them? Or did she feel them drain away a little bit more every morning, every time she slipped on her kefta to be defined by the only thing that she was allowed to be defined by?

“Alina? Are you alright, love?” Fiadh was asking, concern in her face. Alina shook herself out of her abstraction.

“When did you know you were Grisha?” she asked.

“I don’t really remember,” she said. “I didn’t know there was a word for what I was – I didn’t know it made me different – but I grew up in a fishing village. Everyone around me spoke of the sea with such reverence, such affection and respect. It never occurred to me that they couldn’t do what I did with water.”

Fiadh paused, her eyes far away, and Alina knew she was lost in her memories.

“I was seven when my folks realised,” she continued after a moment. “I told them I was going down to the shore to talk to the selkies. That wasn’t unusual, mind, but when Mam came out to call me inside for tea, she saw me summoning. She panicked. Put me on the boat to Ravka the next day.”

“They sent you away? Just like that?” Alina frowned.

“Things are tricky, back home. There’s always been some respect for cunning women, white ladies, you know, but we’re a superstitious people,” Fiadh said with a wry grin. “And not all superstitions are kind to Grisha. At least in Ravka I could learn how to use my gift without having to hide it.”

Alina nodded slowly. It seemed such a tragedy that so many shared this story – signing their lives away to serve a country they weren’t even born in for a chance at marginal safety and a community to call their own.

“Have you been back?” Alina asked.

Fiadh shook her head silently.

“Do you miss it?”

She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “Sometimes. I miss my family – from what I remember of home, it was always full. Aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins. Singing and drinking and playing music. I miss the sound of the sea just behind our house. I miss the rain, the feeling of it in the air.”

Alina noticed that her accent became more pronounced when she spoke about home.

“What about you, Alina? Where is home for you?”

An old house full of children. An oak tree coming into bud. A meadow of sweet hay rustling in the hot summer wind. The arms of her husband. Sunlight.

“Keramzin,” Alina murmured softly.

“Do you miss it?” Ari asked.

The Summoners all watched her curiously as she considered how to answer.

“I do,” she said at last. “But it feels... very far away, now.”

They looked as if they understood what she meant.

“I grew up not far from here,” Ari said. “Just the other side of the permafrost, really. In winter it was all snow and ice, winds that nearly took the skin off your face. But in summer, when the heather was in bloom, the land was purple and pink as far as you could see, and you couldn’t go outside without getting the scent of it on you.”

Alina listened as each of the Summoners spoke a little about their home, the people and places they had left behind. They all had the same note of yearning in their voices, the same faraway smile, as they closed their eyes and sank into remembering. Most of them were Ravkan, and very few of them had been back home since they were taken by the testers.

Lulled by their voices, the softness of reminiscing, the warmth from the fireplace, Alina soon drifted off in her armchair. She vaguely remembered Fiadh shaking her awake, some hours later, then stumbling back to her bedroom in the fogginess of half-sleep. The room was dark and empty. The door in the wall was closed. This time, when Alina slept, the dreams left her in peace.

When she rose out of unconsciousness, cold grey daylight was seeping into the room through the gaps in the curtains. Alina sat up slowly. Her body was stiff and achy and there was a painful crick in her neck.

She stood up, stretching out her limbs with a contented sigh, and walked to the window to open the curtains. The Elbjen were barely visible today, shrouded in snow-fog. The scrubby birch trees by the river shivered in the wind.

There was a knock at the door – one of the maids, in her neat blue uniform, holding a bundle of clothes.

“These have been washed and dried for you, Miss Starkov,” she said, nervously avoiding Alina’s eyes. “Where would you like me to leave them?”

“I can just take them, don’t worry,” Alina smiled politely and held out her arms. The maid nodded quickly and deposited the pile in her hands before bobbing a curtsy and rushing off downstairs. Alina snorted to herself. She wondered how she could possibly be intimidating in her crumpled nightgown, her hair a tangled bird’s nest and her eyes bleary with sleep.

She was glad to have her clothes back, though – the servants had brought up her trunk when the second group of Grisha had arrived with the sleds the previous evening, but that was mostly full of warm woollen underlayers; not the kind of clothing she could wear in a manor house, no matter how remote. Alina smoothed her hands over the familiar fabric of her kefta and smiled. How Genya would have laughed to know that those silk stockings might actually have come in useful on this trip.

The thought of Genya made her heart ache. She was pining for the Little Palace, for the comfort of her own bed, the company of her friends, the easy routine of her classes and her training. She wanted to see the gardens, bright with spring flowers, and the trees with their new blossoms.

Before she could lose her nerve, Alina walked to the door that led from her room to Aleksander’s. She knocked once.

“Come in, Alina.”

He was standing at the window with his arms crossed, as if he was locked in a standoff with the sky itself. The servants must have delivered his clothes, too, because he was dressed in his kefta. The sight of him there – all black against the stark white landscape beyond the window – felt so utterly right that Alina took a moment to frame the image in her mind before she crossed the floor to stand at his elbow.

For a long time, he did not look at her. Neither of them mentioned the previous night. They just stood, side by side, watching the wind carve ever-shifting patterns into the snow.

“I want to go home,” she whispered eventually. Now, he turned to face her, the expression in his dark eyes carefully controlled. He uncrossed his arms and reached over to untangle a knot in her hair.

“We will go home,” he promised. “But I want to wait until this snowstorm passes. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

She hummed in her throat, reluctant understanding. The merest hint of a smile appeared on Aleksander’s lips at her impatience. She had pleased him with her admission that the Little Palace was home.

She thought of Keramzin, felt that warm, fluttery feeling deep in her chest that she associated with the memory of it. Home. It still was – it always would be – but the Little Palace had an equally important hold on her heart, now.

The day slipped by easily. Breakfast was served in the dining room, the long table laid out with a feast: more types of bread than she could count, dried fruit, cold meats, whipped butter, jam, and two huge samovars of sweet black tea. Alina ate pastries until she was sure she would burst. She didn’t miss Aleksander sneaking a few extra currant buns into his napkin when he thought nobody was looking.

She spent the rest of the morning in the banya with Zoya and Taisa, lounging on the hard wooden benches while they talked in low, lazy voices of all the things they wanted to do when they finally got back to the Little Palace.

“I’m going for a swim in the lake,” Zoya said. “It’s best in spring, when the air is warm but the water is still freezing cold. It’s heavenly.”

“I can’t wait to get back to the workshops,” Taisa grumbled. Her face was flushed bright pink with the heat of the banya. “All the projects I was working on – I might actually be able to finish them, now.”

“I miss the library,” Alina admitted a little sheepishly. “I miss the quietness of it, the smell of ink and books.”

“You two are incredibly boring,” Zoya muttered, rolling her eyes. “Books and workshops. Somebody needs to teach you how to have fun.”

Alina flicked a spark of light at her. “You’re calling us boring? You’ve never broken a rule in your life, Nazyalensky.”

Zoya sat up, glaring at Alina defensively. “Having fun doesn’t need to involve breaking rules.”

“Are you scared?” Alina taunted. “Scared to get caught – or scared that the General might find out you’re not a perfect soldier?”

Taisa covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her laughter. Zoya’s face contorted, but Alina could see trepidation in her eyes and knew that she had struck a nerve.

“I’m not scared,” she said quickly. “Because I wouldn’t get caught.”

Alina clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Is that another wager?”

“You’re on, Starkov,” Zoya said, her eyes narrowed. Alina grinned and they shook on it.

“I will hold you to this,” she vowed. Zoya just scoffed.

“I hope so.”

They vacated the banya soon after to let in a band of Heartrenders. Alina had lunch with Countess Severnyov – Svana – in her private sitting room. There were joined by a few other soldiers, those who had been posted in Svyatil before, including Fiadh. Svana was very beautiful, Alina thought; she looked to be a similar age as Eljas, but she wore it so graciously. She had the same colouring as the land she lived in, with white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes, but there was such kindness in her that she never appeared cold.

She wore a dress of dark crimson, not the exorbitant court gowns that Alina saw ladies wear at the Grand Palace, but a similar cut to the type of dresses peasants would wear, only made of finer fabrics. It looked sturdy and practical. Alina admired the threads of silver and white that twisted around one another at the cuffs – a nod to Svana’s gift as a Healer.

As afternoon turned to evening and the sky began to darken, Alina looked for Mal. One of the oprichniki told her that he had gone outside, down to the river, so Alina pulled on her boots and buttoned up her kefta before setting out into the snow.

Mal was, indeed, at the river – sheltered in the lee of a boulder in a little copse of birch trees. His head was tipped back to the sky and his eyes were closed, but she knew he would hear her coming.

“I was so worried about you, Alina,” he said when she had sat beside him in the snow. “I got your letter, and you told me you didn’t want to see me, but I was still worried. And then I got stupid, reckless – started throwing myself at everything dangerous, hoping some vain hope that it might get me a medal, an invite to the palace, so that I would be able to say I had an excuse to come for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Alina began falteringly. “I’ve never wanted not to see you. I woke up every day wishing you were there – but I couldn’t bear the thought that you would put yourself in harm’s way trying to find me.”

Mal let his head drop towards her, regarding her warily. “I know that. I do know that, Alina, but it’s not easy to just shrug off all those months of silence. Not knowing what was happening to you.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Alina said, but it was a feeble excuse. She hadn’t asked for it – but she had chosen it. Chosen to come back and be this person again.

“Are you happy?” he asked. His voice was barely louder than the snowflakes that had started to drift from the clouds above.

She thought of Keramzin. She thought of the Little Palace. Her heart hurt.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Mal’s face tightened. “Are you happy with him?”

“Mal – come on. It’s not like that,” Alina protested, but her cheeks were red. Mal snorted derisively.

“Does he know that? The way he looks at you, Alina, I don’t know... like he owns you.”

Alina couldn’t argue with that. She knew very well how Aleksander looked at her. Still, she bristled defensively at Mal’s surly tone of voice – Saints, she had forgotten how immature he could be at this age.

“He’s the general of the Second Army, Mal. He owns us all.”

“Not me,” Mal muttered furiously. Alina was shaking her head.

“And why does the way he looks at me matter to you, anyway? Not that there is anything between me and him, but even if there was, Mal – it would have nothing to do with you. I make my own choices.”

He tensed, his eyes fixed on the surface of the river, the ice that clung to the rocks by the bank.

“As long as it is that,” he said stiffly. “A choice, I mean.”

Alina blew out a long breath. “Nobody is forcing me to do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mal seemed unconvinced. “He’s dangerous, Alina. You know that, don’t you – you can see that?”

She looked at Mal’s worried face and remembered her dream. How the Darkling had waited until she was already wounded to approach; how he had kissed her, ripped her power from her body, then kissed her again. How she had fought him – then succumbed to him.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I know that.”

He sighed a little, nodding to himself as he picked at a loose thread in his cuff. Alina knew from experience that they would get over this, together, with time – but Mal didn’t know that. She tried to be sympathetic.

“So, do Grisha women still scare you?” she asked, poking him in the ribs. He smiled despite himself.

“Zoya does,” he said instantly. “I’ve never met a more intimidating woman.”

Alina laughed. Mal rubbed the back of his head with a rueful grin.

“But, sure, maybe not all Grisha are so terrifying. Taisa’s sweet.”

“What about me?” Alina pressed.

Mal wrinkled his nose. “You can be sweet when you want to.”

Alina laughed again, flicking snow at him. “No, you dolt. Do I scare you?”

“Maybe a little,” Mal admitted.

Her fingers drifted to her neck where, beneath the warmth of her kefta, the antlers hummed pleasantly in recognition.

“I scare myself sometimes,” she told him. Mal lifted his arm, angling his body towards her, and she shuffled towards him, resting her head on his shoulder happily. He prodded her bicep gently.

“Not quite Sticks anymore, are you?”

Alina swatted his hand away with a snort. “I always hated that nickname. You know it was because I was repressing my powers?”

“That’s what made you sick? All that time?” Mal frowned when Alina nodded, his arm tightening a little protectively around her. “Then I guess it’s good they found you. Good you’re using your power now.”

He sounded a little grudging, like he was still somewhat aggrieved by the Grisha taking her as one of their own, but she knew that in his heart he had accepted it – this was who she was, had always been.

A moment passed, something tender and honest in the way they held each other, then Mal scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it into Alina’s hair. She pulled away from him with a shriek, scrambling backwards while she tried to shake it out before it melted and ran down her collar.

“You –” she gasped, indignant, and Mal grinned back at her, cocksure as ever. Alina grabbed a fistful of snow and flung it at him. She missed, but it was enough to get him to leap to his feet. She matched his stance; after a moment of stillness, sizing each other up, they both moved in the same instant. Soon, they were racing up and down the banks of the river, lobbing snowballs haphazardly. Alina’s laughter was frenzied. Mal was a better shot, and she definitely took more hits than he did, but her sheer speed and the chaos of her movements was enough to ensure she almost matched him.

Eventually, their battle subsided. They collapsed into the snow on opposite sides of the river, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with exertion. Alina’s hair and clothes were dripping wet. She didn’t care.

She flopped onto her back, twisting her head to catch Mal’s eye as he lay on the far bank. Alina knew that she should go back to the house and dry off before she caught a chill from her damp clothes, but it was so peaceful out here. The responsibilities that weighed on her chest felt a little lighter. Alina absently skimmed a disc of light across the surface of the river and admired how the light refracted through the water as it sank.

“Alina...” Mal started, but he trailed off before he could finish his thought, his eyes widening as he shot upright. Alina sighed in irritation. Couldn’t she just have twenty minutes where she didn’t have to worry about being the Sun Summoner and fixing the future?

She turned her head but did not sit up. Aleksander had appeared through the clutch of birch trees and loomed above her, frowning.

“I need to speak with the Sun Summoner,” he said, his voice frigid and imperious as he addressed Mal. The shadows curling angrily at his ankles belied his cool exterior.

For a moment, Alina thought Mal might argue. She saw the way his shoulders tensed, his hands curled into fists, his eyes darted to her questioningly, and knew that there was a sharp retort right on the tip of his tongue. She shook her head at him. Alina might be able to speak back to the Darkling, but for anybody else to do so would be certain death.

Mal swallowed back his response and got to his feet, sparing Alina one last glance before he crossed the river and trudged back towards the house. The snow was falling heavier now, fat white flakes whirling from the cloud-clogged sky in a silent, spiralling dance. Alina sat up but kept her back to the Darkling, watching as they landed on the surface of the river and floated for a second, carried by the current, before melting.

“What are you doing?” he asked. Alina gritted her teeth.

“I just wanted to speak to Mal.”

“It’s dangerous to be outside, Alina.”

She dug her fingers into the snow. “There are guards everywhere, Aleksander. I’m fine.”

He bent down and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her to her feet and forcing her to face him. She didn’t bother trying to shake him off.

“What did he want?” Aleksander asked, his voice tight with restrained fury. Alina shot him a baleful look.

“We were only talking. We’ve been in each other’s company for weeks now – it can’t be a surprise to you that we would talk. He’s my family.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I should never have agreed to let you bring him.”

“If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have the stag,” Alina laughed bitterly. “What, are you afraid that we’re going to run off into the sunset together? Or do you just hate that there are people I rely on, confide in, who aren’t you?”

She already knew that both these things were true. Aleksander’s lips curled into a sneer but his eyes flashed warily.

“Do not delude yourself into thinking there is anywhere in this world you and your tracker could run off to where I would not find you.”

Alina snorted. She managed to tug her arm sharply from his grasp, but instead of backing away, she stepped forward, encroaching on his space.

“You always resort to threats when you’re jealous.”

He froze. “I am not jealous,” he said, his voice stilted. Alina pointed an accusing finger in his face.

“Yes, you are.”

He caught hold of her wrist. “Why would I ever be jealous of an otkazats’ya boy whose short life will amount to nothing at all?”

Alina bared her teeth, part smile, part grimace. “Because he and I share something beautiful, and you are scared that even in your long, long life, you will never come close to achieving that.”

Aleksander dropped her hand as if she had burned him. He whirled and took several steps away from her, into the birch trees, then stopped. Alina pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. This wasn’t going to achieve anything.

“I’m sorry,” she called quietly. “That was cruel of me.”

He turned slowly. White snowflakes were strewn in his dark hair, across the shoulders of his black kefta. He was heartbreakingly beautiful, shockingly vulnerable, in that instant.

“It was,” he agreed impassively.

Alina tilted her head to one side. “You deserved it.”

The first hint of a smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth. “I believe the traditional follow-up to ‘I’m sorry’ is ‘please forgive me’.”

“I’m sure you’re no stranger to false apologies. At least this way you know I mean it.”

She crossed the distance he had put between them. The fresh snow squeaked under her boots.

“What would you know about begging for forgiveness, anyway?” she murmured, reaching up to push a curl of black hair back from his forehead. The rest of the smirk appeared.

“As you can imagine, it is something I am subjected to quite often.”

“Are you going to make me beg?” she asked softly. She wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they were out there before she could snatch them back. It was all she could do to hold his gaze steadily and hope that he couldn't hear the thunder of her pulse.

He caught hold of her wrist again, rubbing his thumb slowly over her palm. He examined her closely, his dark eyes empty of expression, as he tried to decipher her intentions.

“Not today,” he said at last. “It’s nearly time for dinner.”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they made their way back towards the house. Neither of them spoke again.

Chapter Text

They left Svyatil the following morning and began the long journey back to Os Alta.

The snowfall that began in the evening had continued long into the night, and now a pristine blanket of sparkling whiteness lay over the ground, making the whole landscape seem brand new, untouched. It seemed almost a shame when they set out from the manor, carving a path through the snow.

Alina never thought she would be relieved to see the First Army camp at Chernast, but when they crested a hill to find its cluster of wooden buildings and grimy canvas pavilions spread out before them, she nearly whooped out loud. The Darkling clearly had no desire to deal with the droopy captain, who Alina suspected might have fainted with fear should the general of the Second Army think to grace his tent, because he sent Fedyor and Alina away to meet with him again. Despite the quake in his voice, Alina thought that the captain did seem a little gratified that they had returned their dogs and sleds intact.

She greeted Artemiy like a long-lost friend, flinging her arms around his neck with glee. The horse nosed her hair gently, huffing a warm, grass-scented breath into her shoulder, and she wondered if he had missed her, too. Once they had all saddled up, they were back on the road again. Alina settled quickly into the familiar rhythm of Artemiy’s brisk trot. The snow here had almost all melted away, only a few grey piles of slush still lingered on the roadside, turning just about everything to mud; Alina’s boots and kefta were quickly spattered.

After a few days of riding, the spires of Os Alta appeared on the horizon. Alina and Taisa shared an excited smile – they were nearly home.

Marie and Nadia were waiting for them, bouncing up and down on their heels with excitement, as the exhausted and road-weary Grisha finally clattered into the stableyard. The addition of the Darkling and his force meant that their party was now so huge that there wasn’t enough space for them all at the same time, so the oprichniki had been ordered to take their horses to the stables of the Grand Palace instead.

Alina slipped from Artemiy’s back and laughed as Marie and Nadia immediately barrelled into her.

“Alina!” Marie squeaked.

“We missed you!” Nadia exclaimed.

For a moment she did nothing but hug them back.

“It’s good to be home,” she mumbled into Marie’s kefta.

As they released her and ran to embrace Taisa, Alina scanned the courtyard. She had the strangest sense that something was missing.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Where’s Mal?”

Zoya appeared at her shoulder, speaking in a low voice. “He was sent with the oprichniki. To the Grand Palace.”

Alina stared at her for a moment. Zoya’s eyes were solemn. She wouldn’t say anything more, not with the Darkling so close by, but the way she looked at Alina told her everything she needed to know. She spun on her heel, easily picking him out amidst the chaos that swarmed around them. His gaze met hers and he must have been able to read everything on her face because he smiled arrogantly and cocked his head. His eyes were cold. Although he stood on the other side of the stableyard, his message was as clear as if he had spoken the words into her ear.

I win.

Alina shoved past her friends, taking off at a sprint in the direction of the Grand Palace. The gardens and buildings flew by in a blur. Fear pounded through her, heightening with every step. What had he done to Mal?

The Grand Palace sprawled before her. The courtiers wandering in the gardens frowned at her as she flew past them, muttering a few breathless apologies as she elbowed a servant out of the way. Her muscles, already aching after days of being on horseback, screamed at her.

She skidded into the huge cobbled stableyard, looking frantically for Mal’s familiar lanky form. Fortunately, he was easy to spot in amongst the charcoal-grey of the oprichniki. He was arguing with somebody in red – Ivan, of course, because who else would the Darkling send to do his dirty work – his face contorted with anger. A fresh wave of panic washed over her.

As Alina ran towards them, she overheard what Mal was shouting about.

“I’m not going until I can see Alina!”

She almost sobbed at the sound of the fervour in his voice. Ivan drew himself up, his shoulders straightening; without thinking, Alina threw out her hand, summoning a coil of light that hooked around Ivan’s waist and pulled him away from Mal. She pushed past him and was flinging herself into Mal’s arms when she felt a cold sensation tightening in her chest. Alina gasped and stopped in her tracks, hunching over in pain. As she turned, she saw Ivan with his hands in fists, glaring at her fiercely.

He released his hold on her almost instantly. A look that might have been horror passed over his face. Alina drew in a sharp, painful breath and sneered at him.

“Go on, then – run back to him.”

Ivan’s lip curled but he said nothing as he spun around and stalked away.

“Are you okay? What did he do to you?” Mal asked, his voice strained with worry. Alina waved him off.

“I’m fine. He reacted on instinct. If the General knew he had used his Heartrending on me... actually, I’m not even sure what he would do.”

Mal harrumphed. He wrapped his arms around Alina, rubbing her back gently. She pressed her face into his chest.

“What was he saying to you?” Alina asked. She felt Mal’s body move as he shrugged.

“They’re sending me back to my unit in Ryevost. Wanted me to leave straightaway. I said I wasn’t going anywhere until I had said goodbye to you.”

Alina heaved a sigh. Mal’s arms tightened around her.

“Will you write to me?” he asked. Alina sighed again, drawing away slowly. He frowned at her guilty expression.

“I’ll try.”

“What does that mean?”

She made a face. “I had to make a deal. I promised him I wouldn’t write you any more letters.”

He stiffened. “You made a deal? What did he promise in exchange?”

“Your safety,” Alina said with an awkward shrug. Mal made a disgusted noise. “But I’ll be finished my training soon, Mal – just a few more months. Then I’ll be a soldier again and it will be just like it was before, when I was in cartography.”

He seemed unconvinced. Alina tugged on the front of his uniform, trying desperately to make him smile.

“We might bump into each other in Kribirsk, or I’ll save your life on the battlefield. We’ve been through this before, Mal, you know how it goes. We’ll always find each other.”

He chuckled a little at that. “The universe just can’t keep us apart.”

Alina grinned, and he couldn’t help but return it. Over his shoulder, somebody cleared their throat; Mal relaxed his hold but kept one arm around Alina as he turned.

“Oretsev,” an oprichnik nodded at him first, then Alina. “Miss Starkov.”

“Krukov,” Mal responded. “Are you here to throw me off palace grounds?”

Krukov smiled a little, his face apologetic. “We have a horse saddled and ready. Your unit in Ryevost is expecting you – best not keep your Lieutenant waiting.”

Mal nodded his understanding. The oprichnik stepped aside to give them a moment.

Alina reached up and held his dear, beloved face between her hands. She struggled for a moment, unsure what to say, unsure how to impart her affection when he wasn’t yet the man she loved. He felt so fragile beneath her fingers. Just a boy.

“Stay safe,” she whispered. “I’ll see you out there, somewhere.”

His answering smile was tired and a little melancholy. Mal removed her hands from his cheeks and placed a light kiss in the centre of her palm.

“See you, Alina.”

Alina couldn’t bear to watch him walk away from her. She turned her back and headed off in the direction of the Little Palace without looking over her shoulder once. By the time she arrived back at her chambers, the despair had almost entirely drained out of her.

She opened the door and barely had time to register a blur of cream and red before Genya had slammed into her with an excited squeal. Alina gripped her friend tight.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Genya said as she pulled back. “Saints, you look awful.”

Laughter bubbled out of Alina, happy and sad at the same time. “I missed you too, Genya.”

A few minutes later, after Genya had positioned Alina at the dressing table with her tailoring kit, Nadia and Marie flung her doors open.

“There you are!” Nadia cried. “Alina, you have to tell us everything about it.”

“Only if you catch me up on the gossip I’ve missed,” Alina said with a sly grin.

Marie looked like she might be about to combust with excitement.

“Of course! Well, there’s Natalia – she's a year younger than us, you know her? You’ll never guess –”

Nadia cut her off. “You’d better go first, Alina.”

Alina laughed as Marie blushed furiously. The two girls sat happily on her bed while Genya tended to the wretched state of Alina’s hair and skin, listening attentively while she told them about her trip into the north. Once she had finished, they, in turn, shared every piece of gossip that had made the rounds while she’d been away – from the trivial to the downright scandalous. Genya occasionally chimed in, filling in some of the blanks where Marie and Nadia didn’t have the full story.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Alina shared a glance with her friends.

“Are you expecting someone?” Genya asked, but Alina shook her head.

“I’d better see what they want.”

It was an oprichnik.

“General Kirigan has requested your presence.”

“I’ll be there in just a moment,” she told him. She turned back to see that the girls were all pretending they hadn’t just been listening in, with varying levels of success. Alina hid her smile. This was what happened when your best friends were two incurable gossips and a spy.

She hurried across the room to kiss Genya quickly on the cheek and give Marie and Nadia a squeeze.

“See you at dinner, Alina,” Marie chirped.

“You’d best not keep him waiting,” Genya said under her breath, poking Alina towards the door.

She marched down the hallway. The short distance between their doors was not enough time to properly mull over what she would say to him, so she would just have to improvise – this was a tactic that did not always go well, especially when she was already furious at him, but in calling her to him Aleksander had essentially wiped out any chance she would have to plan for this discussion.

Alina threw open the doors and stopped in her tracks. She had been prepared to be angry, to give the Darkling hell for trying to send Mal away without a word, but her surprise at the state of the war room quickly overwhelmed her irritation. It was pandemonium – she had never seen it so packed full of people, all running around and having one hundred discussions at the same time, passing bits of paper among one another and crowding round the map table.

It took her a moment to regain her sense and look for the Darkling. He was at his desk, flicking through a huge stack of files and dividing them into two bundles. She skirted the map table and made her way over to him, utterly baffled.

“Alina,” he greeted her without looking up from his reports.

“You called for me?” she prompted. He let out a long breath and put the file down on the desk in front of him.

“Yes,” he said, running a hand over his jaw. “The King is... displeased.”

“Displeased?”

“Furious might be more apt.”

Alina raised her brows. “Why?”

“Because I let you go off in search of the stag, without his permission, then I went off after you. Also without his permission.”

His voice was tired but Alina could sense his anger, seething and roiling beneath the surface – a vast ocean she had yet to plumb the depths of. She wondered if the King knew that every time he looked at the Darkling with so much as a hint of contempt, a few more years were removed from his life.

Aleksander clenched his jaw and continued. “And so, as punishment, he is sending me back to the Shu border. Immediately.”

That went some way to explain the disorder in the war room.

“Oh,” Alina said. She wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I will be away for longer, this time,” he explained, his voice rough. “I don’t know when the King will see fit to let me return.”

Alina’s emotions were a tumult inside of her, but she couldn’t make any sense of them. She nodded numbly.

“I just...” Aleksander broke off, frowning, his gaze falling back to the files in front of him. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the desk. Alina remained silent, waiting for him to speak again.

Eventually he raised his head and met her eyes.

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

The irony of the situation did not escape her. On the very same day that he had tried to separate her and Mal without giving them a chance to say goodbye, he had called her here to say a farewell of his own. But, at the same time, Alina recognised the significance of his words. He had been called to the front lines many times before, but he had always maintained his cool, dispassionate front when they parted, wishing her well as if it was any other day. When she had left on her own expedition, she had seen a whisper of the emotion he worked so hard to keep in check. Now, that emotion had emerged in force. She was taken aback by the storm of feeling that raged in his eyes when he looked at her.

For a moment, she forgot about the army of people whirling around the room. For a moment, it was only the two of them. Alina reached across the desk and touched the back of his hand.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” she said wryly. He smiled at her, as if he couldn’t help it, and then one of his officers was clamouring for his attention and he looked away.

Alina slipped out of the room easily in all the confusion. Barely an hour later, the Darkling was gone from the palace.

There was something different this time, but Alina couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was that had changed. She thought about the wretched look in his eyes as he’d said goodbye, the tautness of his jaw and the tendons in his arm, the way he knew he had let something slip loose and hated it but couldn’t do anything to change it.

It made her feel something. But Alina had neither the time nor the inclination to begin untangling exactly what that something was. She had far too much on her mind as it was. First and foremost – the mountain of reading she now had to catch up on due to her extended absence from classes. Then there was the Shu exam that she and Taisa had missed, the extra training sessions that Botkin demanded they attend, and, of course, Baghra.

Alina pushed open the door to Baghra’s hut the day after she returned, a little tentatively. Her teacher sat by the fire, as always, but rose when Alina entered the main chamber, a hard glint in her black eyes. The two of them observed each other in silence for a long time – long enough that Alina’s palms began to sweat, and she had to resist the urge to hop from one foot to another.

“Let’s see it, then,” Baghra said, not even bothering to hide the disgust in her voice. Alina knew full well what she thought of amplifiers.

Alina loosened the top few buttons of her kefta and exposed her throat. Even though the collar was invisible, Baghra wrinkled her nose as if she could see it through her skin.

“Hmmph,” she muttered. “Barbaric practice. At least you had the sense not to kill it.”

“How did you know?” Alina asked, unable to hide her surprise.

Baghra gestured to Alina’s neck with the head of her cane. “To have the antlers take to your body so completely would only be possible if the stag willed it so. When most Grisha take an amplifier, it is just that – taking. It is a corruption of what amplification should be. An exchange. You give a little of yourself in the process and the amplifier becomes a part of you rather than merely a stolen trinket.”

Alina stared. That was exactly what it had felt like, when she had drawn the collar into herself – an exchange. Then she frowned, irritation seeping in through her sense of wonder.

“This would all have been useful to know before I went looking for the stag, Baghra.”

The old woman flapped her hand with a scoff. “You worked it out yourself, didn’t you?”

“I thought you were meant to be a teacher,” Alina grumbled, hopping back a step when Baghra flicked her cane out.

“Don’t talk back, girl. Now, are you going to show me what it can do or not?”

Alina grinned and nodded. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t summoned since she’d taken the amplifier, but she had yet to push her new powers to their limits. A little thrill ran through her at the thought. She brought her hands up, feeling the light that pooled around her, pushing her consciousness out into it before she started to draw back into herself.

Baghra’s cane smashed into Alina’s wrist and she cried out in pain. She glared at the old woman resentfully.

“Not in here, foolish girl, unless you want to blow my hut to oblivion, and me along with it?”

“Don’t tempt me!” Alina snapped, rubbing her wrist. But something cold and hungry stirred in the blackest parts of her soul, something that rather liked the fact she might actually present a threat to Baghra. Alina hesitated, unsure if she wanted Baghra to see that part of her, but she couldn’t hold back from voicing her curiosity. “You really think I could?”

Baghra harrumphed again. “I don’t know what you can do now, girl, but I’d rather not risk it. I’ve trained you well – even before the amplifier, you were a strong Summoner.”

Alina narrowed her eyes. That sounded suspiciously close to praise. Baghra tutted and ushered Alina towards the door without another word.

They ended up down at the lakeside. Alina pressed her lips together in displeasure; out in the open, she would be noticed the second she started summoning and an audience was the last thing she wanted while she was testing the full force of her abilities.

Baghra seemed to sense her trepidation. “They’re going to see you one day, girl, so you might as well get it over with.”

Alina took a deep breath and tried to force down her exasperation. She settled into her summoning stance, bringing her hands together. She focused on the light filtering through the clouds, the faint heat from the sun on her skin, and then Alina was no longer bound to her body. She could feel for miles, stretched out over the whole city, somehow aware of every tile on every rooftop and every leaf on every tree. She was limitless.

“Focus, girl.”

Baghra’s voice brought her back to the ground. She began to move her hands, feeling how the sunbeams were interrupted by her physical form, how they bounced and shifted in response. There was so much light around her – it was everywhere. It belonged to her.

Alina twisted her fingers, pulling it in closer, suffusing the air around her with a golden glow. Baghra’s mouth twisted into a vicious, satisfied smile.

“More,” she commanded. Alina happily obliged. She reached out her hands, calling the light, and it came to her outstretched fingers so easily. The radiance that surrounded her brightened and hardened.

When the glare became blinding, Alina threw the light above her in a shimmering sphere. She began to push it outwards, over herself and Baghra, over the lake, over the domes of the Little Palace, the spires of the Grand Palace, out towards the city walls.

She could hear cries of adulation, could see figures on the paths outside the palaces looking up at the sky. The globe continued to expand as Alina summoned more and more light, drawing it into her core before sending it out into the rippling, shining fabric she wove around them.

For a time, Alina was sure she would be able to do this forever, but suddenly she felt herself hit a wall. The boundaries of her dome would move no further. Alina frowned. Just a moment ago, she had been practically unstoppable, but now the limitations of her abilities were painfully sharp and clear. She rolled her head back, gritted her teeth, and prepared to push past this latest obstacle – but Baghra poked her in the shoulder with the end of her cane.

“Stop, girl,” she snapped. “We are not all-powerful and nor should we be. Accept your limits. To overstep them would require merzost.”

The word cut through Alina’s haze of euphoria, chilling her to the bone. Alina stopped pushing outwards and held her light steady. Baghra nodded in satisfaction.

“Good. Try another shape.”

Alina moved her hands again. The walls of light flexed and contorted, folding in on themselves, and the vast dome fluttered and rolled like a wave, then took on the jagged edges of a sunburst, and then –

“That’s enough,” Baghra said drily. “You’ve made your point. Let it go.”

Alina didn’t want to let it go, but she dropped her hands and the light dissipated. As she had predicted, a gaggle of Grisha had appeared at the shore of the lake and were staring at her, open-mouthed. Baghra ignored them all completely.

“Well, at least you’ve shown power doesn’t make you lose your head,” the old woman muttered grudgingly. “But there’s work to be done, still.”

Alina gaped at her. “Work to be done? Baghra, did you see what I did?”

“I saw,” Baghra said. She jabbed her cane into the gravel at her feet. “There is something holding you back, girl. Something you haven’t let go of yet.”

“What is it?” Alina asked, furrowing her brow. Baghra clucked in irritation.

“You expect me to know your mind, girl? That’s something you have to figure out for yourself, if you want to reach your true potential.”

Without another word, she turned and stalked off along the shoreline, back to her hut. Alina felt as though somebody had swept a rug out from under her feet. She stood, gaping like a fish, for several more minutes as she processed what Baghra had said.

Alina decided not to dwell too much on the words of her most irascible teacher and hope that, with enough time and practise, whatever it was that was suppressing the full extent of her power would lift away on its own. She was surprised how easy that was. Baghra never brought it up again; their sessions from that point on became concerned with control rather than brute force.

Her Shu exam went relatively well, Alina thought, given that she had barely practised the whole time she was away. After a week of gruelling daily sessions with Botkin, he released Alina, Taisa and Zoya back into the regular classes with a grunt of approval. Alina still had several essays to write and an intimidatingly high stack of books to read, but she felt like she was mostly on top of her workload.

This was probably a good thing, she reflected, since she had so much more on her agenda than merely passing her classes. Alina lay awake in bed one night, tracing glowing patterns on the canopy as she ran over the list of the things she wanted to change. She couldn’t write anything down for fear that one of the servants would come across it and pass it on to the Darkling – instead, she had to do all her planning in her head.

Get the stag for herself? Check. Earn the friendship and respect of her fellow Grisha? Check. So far, so good.

Next on her list: stop the wars with Fjerda and Shu Han from escalating before it was too late, tear down the Fold, find a way to get rid of the Lantsov monarchy before Aleksander grew impatient and did it his own way.

She had a feeling that these aims were somewhat tangled up in one another, but she had yet to figure out the best path to resolving them.

Alina played with the problem for several days, dredging her memory for details of the conflicts with Shu Han and Fjerda which were due to kick off in just a few years. Ravka had been oscillating between tense aggression and all-out war with both these nations for the past several centuries – to say it would be difficult to break that cycle was an understatement. Sometimes Alina wondered if she had set her expectations too high, set too heavy a burden upon her own shoulders, but she always shook herself out of that thought just before it tipped her over into the maelstrom of despair.

As she mulled over the pieces of the story that Genya and Zoya had told her at the time, one part seemed to leap out at her as particularly crucial: jurda parem. The drug that amplified Grisha abilities a thousandfold, far more even than the stag amplified her own. At the time, it had frightened her – now, the thought of power like that made Alina’s heart race in desire. What could she achieve, she pondered, with jurda parem?

But the drug was addictive – deadly. It not only presented a direct threat to Ravka’s Grisha, but it was a fantastically destructive weapon in their enemies’ arsenals. If she could stop it from falling into their hands, or even existing in the first place, then at least any coming wars would be fought on a level playing ground.

Her memory of the specifics was hazy at best. The scientist – or had there been two of them? – who invented the drug was in Shu Han now, she knew this much. But once he created the drug he would defect to Fjerda, then be captured by the Kerch, and by the time he ended up in Ravka it was far too late to stop any of the catastrophes to come.

And so the beginnings of a plan took shape in Alina’s mind.

One evening, perhaps a week after Aleksander had been sent from the palace in disgrace, Alina pushed open the door to the war room. The oprichniki at the door – always present, even when the inhabitant of these chambers was half a country away – had looked at her oddly when she approached, but the Darkling had given orders that she was always welcome in the war room, so they let her in without a word.

She had been worried that Ivan might still be lurking, but the room was blessedly empty, the fire in the grate burnt down to mere embers. Alina padded over to the Darkling’s desk. She smiled slightly to see that it was considerably neater now than any time Aleksander had sat there – a perfectionist in all parts of his life, but unable to keep the scatterings of his busy mind from spilling over onto his workspace.

She rifled through the papers stacked on the desk. Unsurprisingly, Ivan had a meticulous filing system – this made it all the easier for Alina to find what she was looking for. She sat down in Aleksander’s chair, tucking her legs under her as she carefully unpicked the tightly-bound bundle of letters.

Summoning a little light to help her read, Alina hunched over the missives – reports from Ravkan agents in Shu Han – and tried to make sense of the calligraphy. Her Shu was good enough that she could translate the words easily enough, but, as she had feared, they were all written in some kind of code.

Alina dropped her face into her hands, the light blinking out over her head, and allowed herself exactly six seconds of despondent sighing. Once those six seconds were up, she reached into Aleksander’s desk and drew out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. If she had to stay up all night to crack this code, she would.

In the end, it didn’t take all night – she had enough of an insight into Aleksander’s mind to put the different pieces of the puzzle together without too much trouble. True, she did crumple up no less than four sheets of paper in frustration, and she wasted at least twenty-five minutes exploring the possibility that the Shu word for ‘rice’ was being used as a codeword for ‘mice’ before it struck her as unlikely than their spies were writing to the Darkling to tell him about the prevalence of rodents in Shu Han.

Alina didn’t quite manage to break the whole code, but she made out enough of it to form the message she wanted to write. After some further rummaging in the Darkling’s desk drawers, Alina found an old-fashioned ink pen – not quite the same as the slender calligraphy brushes she had been taught to use, but close enough.

She couldn’t help but hold her breath as she penned her missive, as if to exhale would mean breaking her concentration. When at last she set the pen down, Alina sucked in a lungful of air, sitting back in the chair with something of a self-satisfied smile.

After letting the ink dry, Alina crumpled the edges of the letter slightly to make them appear road-worn, then folded it up to match the spies’ notes and slipped it into the bundle. She fed her many abandoned sheets of codebreaking attempts to the fireplace and was rewarded with a small but fierce blaze which she could use to re-melt the wax that had sealed the bindings. It took Alina a lot of time and care to arrange the twine, sticky with hot wax, in exactly the same position as before, and the job left her with scalded fingertips – but then it was done. She scrutinised her work closely, checking for any sign of tampering, but she had been diligent; it appeared to her eye exactly as it had when she had slipped it from the pile on the desk earlier that evening.

Alina returned the bundle to its rightful place in the stack of papers, careful not to disturb Ivan’s system as she did so. This would work, she was sure – it had to work.

Casting one final glance around the room for any signs of her presence that she hadn’t cleared away, Alina turned and made for the door. The oprichniki nodded at her as she emerged. She returned the gesture with a calm assuredness that did not match the speed at which her terrified heart was beating. If anybody found out...

She managed to stroll back down the hallway at a leisurely pace, keeping her face locked in an expression so passive it was almost a match for the Darkling himself. They won’t find out, she told herself, repeating it with every step until she had made it back to her own rooms.

Alina closed the doors behind her and exhaled a long, shaky breath. Then she allowed herself to smile. If her plan was successful, she was one step closer to ending Ravka’s conflict with both Fjerda and Shu Han. There were many other parts still in play, many other moves to be made, but this would make a difference. This would save so many lives.

With untried hope fluttering in her chest, Alina kicked off her slippers and climbed into bed. There were more moves to be made, yes – but they could wait until tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Months passed, and Aleksander didn’t return.

Eventually, Alina stopped passing by the window that overlooked the stableyard every morning in hope of seeing a black coach there. She stopped listening for his footsteps in the corridor outside her bedroom. She stopped counting how many days it had been since he left.

She wrote him letters – or, she started to, several times, before inevitably consigning her ramblings to the fireplace. She spent several nights in the war room, curled in her favourite chair by the fire, almost tricking herself into believing that if she turned around, he would be sat at his desk as usual. She practised her summoning every day, trying to emulate the exact way he held his hands, the casual confidence with which he moved.

Alina had never felt so powerful. Light came to her with barely a thought, as involuntary as the beats of her heart, the rush of air in her lungs. Rooms brightened with a warm glow when she laughed, nearby lamps flickered and flared dangerously when she was frustrated. She mastered control of the Cut and perfected the art of invisibility. It felt like there was nothing that she couldn’t do – but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough because Aleksander wasn’t there.

If her friends noticed her perpetual state of dissatisfaction, they didn’t say anything. Alina tried as much as possible to gossip and laugh along with them, to focus on her training, to quietly keep her plans moving along. She had so many things to think about that sometimes she could completely forget about Aleksander’s absence for a few hours at a time.

The damp days of spring gave way to the heat of early summer. By the summer solstice, Alina and her friends would have completed their training – they would be full-fledged soldiers of the Second Army. As they sat in the common room one evening, lounging at their favourite table, Alina looked at the group of girls around her and felt a twinge of something bittersweet. Once they graduated there was no saying where they would all end up. She would miss moments like these: hours spent with their heads bent over their books in a companionable silence that melted away to chatter as they grew bored of studying.

Alina wiggled her fingers in the beams of late evening light that streamed through the huge window – burnished gold, thick like honey – and sat back in her chair with a contented sigh, only partially listening to her friends as they spoke in hushed, excited voices. The gossip was nothing new; always some variation of who was sleeping with who, news of dubious reliability from the front lines, and what the Fabrikators had managed to accidentally blow up this time.

But her ears pricked up when Nadia leaned forward over the table and whispered furtively.

“I heard that General Kirigan is coming back to the Little Palace.”

Alina had been leaning back in her chair, its front legs suspended in mid-air, and very nearly fell out of her seat. After gracelessly flailing around to regain her balance, she gripped the table and righted herself.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked, too casually. Nadia shrugged but there was a knowing spark in her eye.

“I know a girl who knows a guy who knows one of the oprichniki.”

“Did you know anything about this, Alina?” Taisa asked, doodling in the margins of her book.

Alina shook her head. “No.”

“I thought you might have heard from him while he was away,” Marie said. Her eyes were wide, innocent, expectant.

“Why – why would I have heard anything from him?” Alina asked suspiciously. There was a long pause, charged with something she was not certain she liked, as her friends looked between each other. Marie had pressed her lips together like she was trying to hold in a giggle.

Eventually, Nadia spoke. She waved a hand in the air flippantly.

“Just because, you know, you’re close.”

Alina narrowed her eyes further. “Well, I wouldn’t say close. But I guess I see more of him than you do. When he’s here.”

Her friends all nodded quickly, talking over one another as they agreed. Alina frowned, but the conversation moved on before she could say anything more, so she let it be.

Once she had returned to her rooms, Alina settled in her armchair and paged idly through the textbook she had abandoned in the middle of their earlier study session. She was just getting comfortable, preparing to finish the chapter she had intended to read in the common room, when her concentration was broken by sudden noise in the hallway – raucous voices and the stomping of many pairs of boots.

Revision forgotten, Alina practically threw her book to one side as she clambered out of the armchair. The corridor was crowded with servants and oprichniki; the doors to the war room were thrown wide open and there was a constant stream of charcoal-grey uniforms going in and out. Alina shouldered her way down the hall. Aleksander stood in the middle of the war room, still clad in his dusty travelling cloak and a mud-spattered kefta, directing the army of people that swarmed around him carrying trunks, chests, and cases.

He caught sight of Alina, who was being jostled around in the doorway, and grew very still. The oprichnik that had been speaking to him trailed off. Aleksander lifted one hand and everyone in the room fell silent.

“That will be all for now,” he said, without even needing to raise his voice. A chorus of “Moi soverenyi,” swept through the room as the servants deposited what they had been carrying, bowed, and left. The oprichniki followed behind them, closing the doors softly on their way out. Alina and Aleksander were alone.

The childish urge to run into his arms swept over her, startlingly fierce. She could see it, in her mind’s eye; how she would fly across the room, how his arms would go around her, how she would press her face into his chest and breathe in the smell of him, how his fingers would run through her hair.

The muscles in her legs twitched, and for a second Alina thought they might move without her permission. She held herself back.

“Welcome home,” she said.

Something like devastation crept into his eyes. Aleksander passed a hand over his face. “Home,” he repeated dully.

He exhaled unsteadily. Alina’s legs could no longer be still; she went to him, placing her palms flat against his kefta. She could feel the faint but reassuring shudder of his heartbeat.

“What happened?” she asked quietly, reaching up to undo the ties of his cloak. She drew the heavy material slowly back from his shoulders, folding it over her arms, making her movements as gentle as she could.

Aleksander opened his eyes. There was no sign of the emotion that had been there moments before.

“Raids. Battles. Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said evenly.

Alina wondered how many men he had killed this time. How many of his soldiers had died in front of him. She raged against this careless, casual demeanour he put on, wishing she could pull it away just as easily as she had his cloak.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she murmured. He smiled and touched her cheek lightly.

“You know nothing could keep me from you for long.”

“Even the King?” Alina asked carefully. Pure hatred flared in Aleksander's eyes at the mention of the man who had sent him away.

“Especially not the King. Not for very much longer.”

“You’re going to kill him,” she hedged. He shot her a disappointed look, like he hadn’t expected he would have to spell it out for her.

“Yes.”

Alina let out a quiet breath. She had to convince him to change his mind, to abandon his schemes for the destruction of the monarchy in favour of her own. Unfortunately, at the moment, she didn’t really have a scheme, or any sort of plan – just the vague scratchings of an idea.

“And then what?” she said. “Vasily becomes king instead – is that really any better?”

Aleksander curled his lip. “The tsarevich will not be allowed anywhere near the crown. He will be lucky if I let him live.”

She nodded her understanding, continuing to coax answers from him. Answers she already knew but needed him to say out loud.

“And his younger brother – Prince Nikolai?"

“Sobachka has not been seen in court for years,” he said, scoffing a little. “If he knows what’s good for him, he will stay away.”

“He might make a good king,” Alina tried, but Aleksander waved her protests aside.

“He may not be a Lantsov by blood, but he is a Lantsov by upbringing. He will be no better than any of those who came before him.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Get rid of the Lantsovs. Who would rule then, Aleksander? You?”

He didn’t reply right away. In the silence that followed, he reached out and traced his fingertips down the contours of Alina’s face, from her hairline to her chin.

“Do you think I would make a bad king?”

Alina decided to tactfully dodge that question. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked to the desk, pulled back his chair, and sank into it. Aleksander’s expression grew sharp as he saw this for what it was – the opening move in a confrontation.

“What do you want, Alina?” he asked, his voice burning low and dangerous. In response, Alina simply held out her arm. She had thrown her kefta over her bed when she returned to her room earlier, and there it remained, for she had been in such a rush to see Aleksander again that she had left it behind. Her arms were bare: she was dressed for the warmth of the encroaching summer in a loose, sleeveless white blouse and wide-legged linen trousers. Aleksander’s gaze roved hungrily over the exposed skin that she offered up to him. After a moment, he gave in, leaning against the edge of his desk as he took hold of Alina’s outstretched wrist.

“Your question?”

Alina considered him, her head tilted to one side, her fingers pressed into the blue of his veins.

“Aleksander,” she said, and it was almost a sigh. “Aren’t you tired?”

His face remained blank but he wasn’t quick enough to smother the feeling of surprise that darted through him. A smile curved across Alina’s face. There was nothing more satisfying than catching Aleksander off guard.

“Tired?” he repeated.

“Tired of spending your whole life fighting, of bearing the burden of responsibility for all of us. How many years have you been doing this, now?” Alina continued gently. Another tremor of alarm shot through the connection between them as she indicated that she knew he was older than he let on. “It must be exhausting. Why would you consign yourself to more? How many lifetimes would you give to this – this duty you have foisted on your own shoulders?”

Aleksander stared at her. When he spoke, his voice was strained.

“As many lifetimes as it takes. I would give myself to the protection of our people for eternity if that would keep them safe.”

Alina’s forehead creased into a concerned frown. “But you don’t have to, Aleksander.”

“If I don’t, then who will? Who would you suggest, Alina, to lead this country out of ruination?” he sneered, distaste cutting through every word. “What otkazat’sya would you trust with the safety of our people?”

“I don’t know,” she replied calmly. “But what if they were Grisha?”

He stilled at that, narrowing his eyes at her. Alina pressed on before he could say anything.

“I do not claim to have all the answers yet. But whatever it is you have planned – there is another way. A better way.”

She felt his anger, raging through him like wildfire. Shadows snaked over Alina’s skin and she wondered if she had pushed him too far, this time, with such a blatant display of insubordination. She fought to push down her fear so that he wouldn’t feel it. His fingers were like a vice around the fine bones of her wrist.

As fast as his rage had flared up, it subsided. Aleksander took a breath to calm himself; when he looked at her again, his eyes were cool and scornful.

“And if, for argument’s sake, I agree to your ‘better way’ – what then? What would you have me do, Alina, in service to yet another king?”

She smiled at him and shook her head. “I would have you rest, Aleksander. Haven’t you suffered enough for Ravka’s sake? We could leave. I’ve always wanted to travel, but I’ve never had the chance. We could go to Shu Han, Kerch, the Wandering Isle, places where so many of our people still live in hiding. We could find them. We are the two most powerful Grisha alive – think of the good we could do, not just in Ravka, but everywhere.”

Alina let herself turn the picture over in her imagination a little longer.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” she murmured wistfully, her eyes fluttering closed. “To serve only ourselves, for once?”

When she opened her eyes, Aleksander was watching her. His face gave nothing away.

“That’s enough,” he said flatly. “I have answered your question, and I have played along with this ridiculous scenario long enough. I won’t humour you any further.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Do you have a question for me, then?”

Aleksander tapped his long fingers against the soft skin of the inside of her wrist.

“In your plans for the future – this ‘better way’ you speak of – you picture us as spending it together.”

Alina nearly choked on her own breath. “You – what?”

Aleksander smirked. “You said that we could travel to Shu Han, to Kerch – not you alone, Alina, but we, together. That is how you imagine your perfect future, is it not?”

Horrified, Alina felt her cheeks flush red. She hadn’t even been aware that’s what she had said, that’s what she had thought – but, infuriatingly, as always, he was right. Her eyes widened as Aleksander continued speaking.

“Oh, Alina,” he sighed. “Have you grown sentimental?”

Alina couldn’t meet his eyes. She stared fixedly at his shoulder instead and made her voice as firm as possible.

“Of course not. It was just a slip of the tongue.”

His smile went from smug to predatory. Without warning, he tugged on her arm, pulling her out of her seat so that she stumbled towards him. Alina spluttered in protest. Her free hand shot out to steady herself but that only resulted in her having to tilt even closer to him. Aleksander, leaning against the edge of the desk, was now straddling her with his legs. The hand that didn’t have a hold of her wrist pressed into the small of her back to stop her from recoiling. Her breathing became erratic. He laughed softly at her obvious discomfort.

Aleksander lowered his head towards her and spoke into her ear. His breath fanned out over her neck, raising gooseflesh on the bare curve of skin.

“Liar,” he whispered.

Drawn by some force she couldn’t name, Alina turned her head slightly towards him. They were so close together now it made her dizzy. He was going to kiss her – his intent hummed through the contact of their skin, and she knew that he was letting her feel it. He was going to kiss her, and she wanted him to.

The realisation had the same effect as a bucket of icy water being emptied over her head. Alina gasped and yanked herself backwards.

She stared at him from a safe distance. If she had expected him to react in some way, be it satisfaction that she had let him get under her skin or displeasure that she had pulled away from him, she would be disappointed; his face remained just as expressionless as it always was. Alina, on the other hand, was pretty sure that her emotions were written all over her. He didn’t need to have a hold on her wrist to know what she was feeling now.

I’m not supposed to want you.

Without a word, Alina turned on her heel and ran from the room. In the back of her mind, she knew that fleeing from her problems was foolish, but she simply didn’t have the mental wherewithal to face up to them right now.

She shut the door to her bedroom with a slam, pressing her back hard against the wood and sliding down to the floor with a sob. This felt like it must be a terrible dream. Or perhaps the Saints were playing a foul trick on her, a punishment for her hubris in having come back here to change the course of history.

When confronted with the reality of feelings that she really did not want to have, Alina did what any sensible person would do: she went to bed. Her dreams were cramped and unpleasant things, but she didn’t remember any of them when she woke up in the morning.

As she left her room to go down to breakfast, she glanced reflexively down the corridor just in time to see Aleksander coming out of the war room. Their eyes locked; Alina’s breath caught painfully in her throat and she rushed off down the hall. She scolded herself for running away from him yet again, for acting like a little girl, but nothing could make her turn back and face him.

Fortunately, her friends provided the perfect distraction from her woes.

“Are you excited?” Taisa asked her, catching Alina by the arm as they left the dining hall after breakfast, her face alight with anticipation. Alina froze, wondering if they had some kind of exam that she had forgotten about.

“Excited for what?”

Marie and Nadia, two steps ahead as they took the path towards the gardens, glanced over their shoulder simultaneously. They wore twin expressions of disbelief.

“You don’t know?” Marie gasped.

“Somebody, please, tell me what’s going on,” Alina pleaded, tugging on Taisa’s arm imploringly. The Durast just laughed and would say no more about it until they had reached their destination.

Kefta strewn on the soft grass, the girls stretched out beneath the apple tree. The air was sweet and warm, the sunlight on their skin softly dappled by the jewel-green leaves on the branches overhead. They had brought their textbooks, but nobody really had any intention of studying on a day like this, and they were left unopened.

Taisa leaned in to tell Alina what the big secret was, glancing around as if somebody might be listening.

“Tonight, we’re all going to sneak out and go into the city. We’ll drink, dance, have fun – our last hurrah before we get our ranks. It’s a long-standing tradition. You’ll come, won’t you?”

For a split second, Alina nearly gasped in horror at the thought of these children breaking their curfew and sneaking out unaccompanied. But the instinctive motherly reaction of Amma Alina was quickly overpowered by the desire to get drunk with her friends, to do something without overthinking it, to feel happy and carefree for once in her life. It had taken some time to get used to, but Alina had grown to realise that being in her eighteen-year-old body had begun to affect how she thought and felt as well; now, she sank gratefully into the wild abandon of teenagerhood.

“Saints, yes,” Alina said emphatically, and her friends grinned.

“Well, I won’t,” Zoya said. Her eyes were closed, her head and throat tipped back to the sky as she basked in the morning light. “It sounds stupid and dangerous.”

“Scared to have a bit of fun, Zoya?” Nadia teased.

Zoya scoffed. “Having fun doesn’t need to involve being so reckless.”

The words were familiar – Alina remembered Zoya saying them once before, and the bet they had made back in Svyatil. She started laughing.

“What is it, Starkov?” Zoya snapped, opening her eyes to glare.

Alina grinned. “You and I made a bet, do you remember?”

Zoya’s face went pale, and Alina knew that she did indeed remember. She recovered quickly, though, tossing her hair and rolling her eyes with her typical haughtiness.

“Fine. I’ll come with you tonight, and I’ll win your stupid bet.”

The girls cheered their victory. Zoya rolled her eyes again, but her cheeks were pink.

And so, several hours later, Alina found herself climbing out of her window and wondering if this was really a good idea. They were all meeting at nine bells, Taisa had whispered to her in Ravkan History that afternoon, and did Alina need any help in sneaking out? Alina had assured her that she would manage on her own. But that was before Genya had showed up at her door, her forehead wrinkled in a slightly concerned frown, with new summer kefta in her arms.

“I was told to bring you this,” she said cautiously. Alina unfolded the kefta and found, wrapped up inside it, a bundle of clothes – a dress, a blouse, and stays, all of them slightly faded and a little shabby. The type of clothes that the common folk in Os Alta would wear.

Alina tried to come up with some excuse, but Genya held up a hand to stop her before she could speak.

“I don’t want to know,” she said, then hugged Alina close and whispered into her ear. “Have fun, but be careful.”

The climb down the side of the building had been a lot easier when she was wearing trousers, sturdy boots, and her kefta. Alina swore as she nearly trod on her skirt again while reaching for the next foothold. Her hands were shaking. Worst of all – it wasn’t yet fully dark, which meant she was plainly visible up here, clinging to the wall, and she knew she had to hurry before the next patrol came past.

She made it – just. As she hopped down the final step, grateful for the feeling of solid ground underneath her feet again, Alina heard a few quiet whoops. She looked around, wondering where her audience was, before she spotted Taisa and Stefaniya a little way down the path, grinning and miming applause. Alina ran to them.

“I thought you said to meet in the lower courtyard?” she hissed. Taisa shrugged.

“We wanted to make sure you’d made it out okay.”

Behind them, the bells began to chime, making Alina jump. “The patrol will be here any second. We should go.”

They snuck down the path, joining up with the rest of their cohort in the courtyard by the gardens. Taisa took the lead as they all filed through the hedge maze, past the lake, and towards the palace walls. She stopped by a fallen tree, its trunk lying parallel to the wall, a thick tangle of roots sticking up into the air. Their way out.

Zoya, clearly worried that she had something to prove, stepped forward first. She clambered up the roots as if they were a ladder, then reached out and caught hold of the top of the wall, hauling herself up and disappearing over the edge.

“How do you know about this place?” Alina asked. Taisa smiled slyly.

“It’s a well-kept secret,” she said. “I told you that this is a tradition – it’s been going on for years, passed down from one graduating class to the next.”

With only one route up and over the wall, it was a while before they were all on the other side. It wouldn’t be long before a guard patrol came this way, so they didn’t loiter, just dashed off towards the lights of the city. Alina fell into step beside Nadia and Marie, who were chatting with Sergei and another Corporalnik whose name Alina could not bring to mind.

“Where are we going?” she asked. The others looked between one another and then shrugged.

“I’m just following Taisa,” said the Corporalnik she didn’t know. “She seems to know the way.”

Alina nodded slightly, unsure how much she would trust her easily distractable friend to navigate, and he grinned at her.

“I don’t think we’ve actually met,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Cailean.”

“Alina,” she replied, shaking his hand. Cailean’s smile deepened.

“Well, I sort of already know who you are.”

The streets around them gradually changed from the wide, well-lit boulevards of the wealthier city into narrow, twisting alleyways with uneven cobblestones. In the dim light, Alina couldn’t really see where she was putting her feet; once, she tripped, and Cailean grabbed her by the waist just in time to stop her from face-planting into a grimy puddle.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, a little flustered, as he set her on her feet again. He shrugged as if it was nothing.

Alina could tell when they reached their destination: a dilapidated old townhouse, several stories high, light, music, and people spilling out from the front door which hung open on crooked hinges.

“Saints,” Zoya muttered from behind her. “This place looks shady.”

Alina couldn’t help but agree. Still, she shook off her misgivings and bolstered her courage, clinging on to the part of herself that felt the thrill of irresponsibility. She looped her arm through Zoya’s and tugged her towards the doorway.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” she said, smirking, and Zoya laughed.

The night became something of a blur after that. She and Zoya downed their shots of vodka and joined their friends along the long wooden table in the middle of the room, squeezing far too many people onto the wobbly bench for comfort. Somebody produced a deck of cards and they played several good-spirited games before the alcohol really kicked in – then people started getting competitive, and it wasn’t long before they were all gambling their next drink on a roll of the dice or a turn of the cards. Alina, having never been any good at cards, was almost constantly traipsing back and forth between the bar and the table.

“Thanks, Alina!” Taisa crowed, as Alina pressed yet another shot glass into her hands. “Did you get one for yourself, too?”

Alina wiggled her own glass in front of Taisa’s face. She had long ago decided that if she had to buy people drinks, the least she could do would be to buy one for herself at the same time. They tapped them together, giggling at the tiny clink, then swallowed the contents in one.

Soon after, she decided it would be wise to stop gambling; if she wasn’t going to win the game sober, she had no chance while she was drunk.

Alina left the table and followed Nadia and Marie up the rickety wooden stairs. As they climbed, the sound of music got stronger, and they emerged into a big open room crammed with people. In one corner, a band played rowdy, upbeat folk music. Alina laughed and let herself be pulled onto the dancefloor, whirling and swaying alongside her friends. Then there was yet more drinking, and at some point Alina ended up back downstairs, where she and Zoya took it upon themselves to recreate their triumphant winter fête reel.

They climbed up onto the table and started to dance, their skirts whipping around their ankles as they spun each other around, laughing hysterically. Their friends, still sitting on the benches, began to stamp the beat as Alina and Zoya galloped up and down the long table, until the bartender shouted at them to get down and go upstairs if they wanted to dance.

The Grisha all booed and jeered, shouting encouragement to Alina and Zoya, but then Alina felt one of the wooden planks in the table begin to bend and creak under her weight and leapt down with an undignified squeal.

“Come on, Starkov – you’re really going to leave me here?” Zoya bellowed.

Then one of the bouncers appeared at the table, scowling, and told Zoya that if she didn’t get down, he would throw her out. Zoya’s face went bright red and for a moment Alina wondered if she would summon a gust of wind to throw him out. She knew that most of the other Grisha were thinking exactly the same thing, because the whole table froze, their eyes wide – but Zoya just held out her hand and primly demanded that the bouncer help her down. The look on the man’s face sent Alina into another uncontrollable fit of laughter.

There were more drinks, several games of darts that bordered on dangerous, and more dancing. She had no idea how long they had been there, no idea what time of the night it was. But it felt so good, to throw off her inhibitions, to laugh and dance and sweat and just be.

On her way back downstairs, she bumped into Cailean at the bottom step. His lopsided grin was no less warm than it had been earlier, but his eyes were glazed, his movement clumsy. Alina suspected she looked just the same.

“Drink?” she asked him, and he nodded.

After they’d thrown back their shots, Alina leaned on the bar and looked at Cailean more closely. He was good-looking, naturally, although he wasn’t really her type – broad-shouldered, not particularly tall, floppy light brown curls. But his smile was sweet and genuine, and he seemed, well, kind. In that moment, Alina needed kind.

“I’m pretty warm in here,” she said. “Get some air?”

Cailean didn’t reply for a moment, and Alina realised he was trying to figure out where she was going with this. When he nodded, she nearly asked him what conclusion he had reached, because she honestly wasn’t entirely sure herself where she was going with this.

They clattered into the alleyway, arm in arm, chattering loudly without really saying anything. The night air was blessedly cool after the sweltering humidity inside. It wasn’t raining, but the air was damp with mist. Alina leaned her back against the brickwork and let the moisture bead on her hair and skin. Cailean stood next to her, their shoulders so close but not quite touching.

The following day, Alina wouldn’t remember much about it. She wouldn’t remember which one of them moved first, she wouldn’t remember how they ended up much further down the alley than where they started, she wouldn’t remember when he pulled the ribbon out of her hair and laced his fingers through the dark waves. She would remember the way the blurry streetlights burned against her closed eyelids. She would remember the feeling of rough brick digging into her shoulders. She would remember that he was soft, and warm, and inviting, and that kissing him was sweet and uncomplicated.

“This is only tonight,” Alina said at one point, as she pulled away from him with a gasp. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Cailean smiled. “I figured that.”

“And... maybe don’t tell anybody about this. I don’t want people to talk.”

What she meant, although she didn’t say it out loud, was that she didn’t want this to get back to Aleksander. Saints only knew what he would do if he found out. Cailean looked as if he understood exactly what she meant.

“So it stays between us.”

And he bent his head to kiss her again.

When the sky began to lighten with the first suggestions of dawn, the Grisha began to gather again, pulling those slumped at the bar upright and shaking those who had passed out in the corner awake. They made their way back through the streets towards the Little Palace, stumbling in the half-light, singing bawdily and laughing whenever somebody threw open a window to shush them. Alina and Cailean had their arms wrapped tightly around one another, and logically she knew that this was a bad way to keep what had passed between them a secret, but she was slightly worried that she wouldn’t be able to stand otherwise.

In what might have counted as a minor miracle, they all made it back over the palace wall without anybody injuring themselves too seriously. From there on, it was easy – they snuck back through the trees, the gardens, the courtyard, and then everybody was slipping off to their barracks, blowing kisses and waving goodbyes.

Stefaniya skipped to Alina’s side and took hold of the arm that wasn’t wrapped around Cailean.

“We’ll see you back to your room, Alina,” she whispered, then looked to Cailean with a grin. “You’ll want to see this.”

A few minutes later, they stood on the path below Alina’s bedroom window. She swore viciously.

“It’s closed.”

There was a sick feeling in her stomach that she didn’t think she could blame on the alcohol. Not only did this mean she had no way to sneak back in, but it also meant somebody had been in her room and found it empty. It meant he knew.

Cailean let out a low whistle. “You really climbed down there? I’m impressed.”

“It was impressive,” Taisa agreed. “I’m surprised you don’t sneak out more often, Alina.”

“You’re looking at why,” Alina groaned, gesturing at her locked bedroom window. She sighed and squared her shoulders. There was nothing else for it. “I guess I’ll just have to go in through the front door and deal with the consequences. Probably just as well – I’m not sure I could have made that climb in this state.”

Stefaniya tugged her arm gently in sympathy. “Do you want us to come with you?”

Alina shook her head. “No way. This won’t be fun for me, but he might actually kill you if he knew you were involved.”

There was a moment of silence. Nobody tried to disagree with what Alina had said. She sighed again.

“You’d better go. I’ll see you at breakfast, I guess, if I’ve not been thrown in the dungeons.”

She tried to make her tone light but from the looks on their faces, they all knew she was only half joking. Stefaniya and Taisa hugged her goodbye, Cailean kissed her quickly on the cheek, and then they were gone, slipping soundlessly into the gloom. Alina took a moment to steel her nerves before she walked into the Little Palace.

It might have been her imagination, but Alina could have sworn that every oprichnik she passed as she made her way through the corridors looked at her with something close to pity. She felt as though she was walking herself to the firing squad.

All too soon, she reached the Darkling’s wing. The pair of oprichniki at the door to her room stopped her before she could enter.

“General Kirigan wants to see you,” one of them said. Alina held up a hand and shook her head.

“I’ll see him in the morning,” she muttered. She was exhausted, and drunk, and there was no way she had the patience to deal with whatever Aleksander was going to throw at her right now. The oprichnik stepped aside and let her through.

Her room was completely dark. Alina sighed in relief at the sight of her bed and went straight to it, kicking off her shoes and beginning to unlace her stays as she walked, her steps uneven.

“Did you really think it would be that easy to avoid me?”

Alina froze at the sound of his voice. She spun around and saw, with a sinking heart, that he occupied one of the chairs by the unlit fire. He waved a hand and the darkness receded from the room, allowing the warm glow of the gas lamps to diffuse up the walls. In the light, Alina could see his face properly. His eyes fixed on her, cold and hard, his jaw clenched tight. He was furious.

“Where were you?” Aleksander asked, practically spitting out the words.

“With friends,” Alina replied stubbornly.

His eyes traced slowly down her body, taking in the clothes she was wearing. Alina balled her hands into the fabric of her skirts.

“You went into the city.”

She shook her head. Aleksander lifted one eyebrow.

“Do not lie to me, Alina. Why else would you be dressed like a simple peasant?”

His words were cool, derisive. Alina began to shake with fury.

“Why bother asking if you already know all the answers?” she snapped. Aleksander’s face twitched imperceptibly. He pushed himself up from his seat and stalked across the room until he was inches away from her.

“Because,” he said calmly. “I wanted to see just how quickly you would choose to lie to me. Immediately, as it turns out. So here is how this is going to go, Alina.”

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, tearing her hand from where it had bunched up in her skirt, brandishing his hold on her in front of her face.

“We can do it like this,” he continued. “Or I can have my men drag your tracker here and I can cut off one of his fingers every time I doubt the truth of your words. What would you prefer?”

Alina gasped in pain as his fingers tightened on her wrist. She said nothing, but she didn’t try to pull away from him. He nodded as if this was an acceptable answer.

“Now, tell me. Where were you?”

“In the city,” she said sullenly.

“Who was with you?”

Alina bit her lip. Aleksander ran his finger along her jaw.

“Answer me,” he said, his voice soft and smooth and enticing. “Or my previous offer still stands, if you’d rather I bring Malyen here.”

“I won’t tell you,” she burst out, her eyes pricking with tears. “You’ll punish them. It’s not fair.”

He tutted. “You know I will find out anyway.”

Alina stared at him as suspicion crept over her. “You already know, don’t you?”

“What makes you say that?” Aleksander asked with a frown.

“I’m not sure – but I’m right, aren’t I? You already know who was with me.”

There was a stony silence. Eventually, Aleksander spoke again.

“I have a list of every bed in the barracks that was empty tonight.”

Alina let out a groan of irritation. “Then why do you need me to tell you? What kind of sick pleasure do you get out of threatening Mal and forcing me to confess all my sins?”

Aleksander laughed. It was harsh and brittle. “We have not even scraped the surface of your sins, my little Saint.”

Her face coloured at the use of the nickname. “Whatever punishment you have planned for them, let me take it instead. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Are you so keen to make a martyr of yourself?” he mocked. “Your friends broke their curfew and left palace grounds, disregarding several direct orders in the act. They knew what would happen if they were caught doing so.”

“But you don’t care about that,” Alina ground out. “None of this is about them. This is about me. I did something for myself, for once, without asking for your permission, and you hate that. Their actions matter little to you – so if you’re going to punish anyone, make it me.”

Aleksander gripped hold of her chin and forced her face towards his. “I fully intend to,” he breathed, his eyes fierce. “What were you thinking, Alina?”

“I was thinking that this might be my last chance to do something fun with my friends, before we’re all soldiers, before our lives are nothing but obeying orders, before they are shipped off to some hellhole to fight and die while you keep me here!”

She was breathing heavily, meeting Aleksander’s gaze with just as much ferocity.

“I wanted to feel free. I wanted to forget all my responsibilities, all the expectations people have of me. I wanted to forget –”

You, she almost said, but snapped her mouth shut just in time. Aleksander looked like he knew anyway.

“I took you for many things, Alina, but never immature.”

Alina scowled at him and pulled her head back, out of his grasp. “Wanting one night of freedom is not immature.”

“Immature,” Aleksander repeated. “Reckless, thoughtless, and dangerous. You could have been hurt – you could have been killed.”

“Please,” Alina scoffed. “A group of Grisha fresh out of training? If anybody tried anything we could have killed them one hundred ways between us.”

“You’re drunk,” he observed flatly. Alina shrugged.

“And in all likelihood, anybody who tried to start a fight with us would also be drunk. Nobody knew we’re Grisha. Nobody knew who I am.”

Aleksander growled in frustration. “You couldn’t have been sure of that. You knowingly put yourself in harm’s way, and for what – to drink yourself into a stupor, to be ogled and fondled by stupid otkazat’sya men who cannot even begin to comprehend your power?”

Alina laughed in his face. She saw how it angered him, how his hackles rose, and it only made her laugh harder.

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” she said gleefully. “Because you can’t stand the thought of somebody else seeing me, having me, in any way that you don’t.”

She spat the last word at him and he flinched. Alina felt a barbed spike of triumph, hot and sickening, at having drawn the reaction from him.

“How many times do I need to tell you, Aleksander – I am not your possession.”

Finally, he released her. Alina rubbed her wrist with a grimace and waited for him to speak.

“I only want you to be safe,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I know,” Alina sighed. “But that shouldn’t mean locking me up in a tower, surrounding me with a perpetual army of guards, and refusing me any contact with the outside world. To seek connection, new experience, spontaneous joy... that’s all part of being alive.”

She should have stopped talking then, but the alcohol had made her bold.

“When was the last time you gave in to an impulse, did something rash just for the thrill of it?” she taunted. “You should try it, you know. Go dancing, gambling, get drunk on cheap vodka, have a steamy but regrettable kiss with Ivan in the back room of some shady club or a grimy alleyway, then have a big cry – maybe you’ll feel better.”

This was too much for Aleksander. He lunged forward again, something murderous in his eyes, but Alina danced out of his reach with a spiteful laugh. Impressed by her own insolence, she thought she might finally have a one-up on him; it was that exact moment that her body failed her and the drunkenness caught up with her limbs again. Alina tripped up over her feet and went tumbling to the floor, landing on her backside at the foot of her bed with a painful thump.

Aleksander towered above her. Alina tried to look defiant, but she knew that from her position down here she was probably not very successful. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly and she couldn’t help the fear that rushed through her at the sight of his enraged glower.

Saints, Alina thought. He really is going to kill me this time.

His face twisted into a sneer of disgust.

“Go to bed, Alina. We will speak on this further in the morning.”

He didn’t move as she struggled to her feet and teetered to her bed, sinking onto the mattress as she began to search through the bedside cabinet for the little bottle Genya had gifted her all those months ago. She was pawing through the drawer, swearing to herself, when Aleksander spoke again.

“If you are looking for this,” he said smoothly, dipping one hand into his pocket and drawing out the tiny glass bottle. “I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

Alina gaped. “You –”

There was no expletive that would do him justice. She snarled wordlessly and pounced at him, trying to snatch the bottle from his grip, but he had already curled his long fingers around it and hidden it away in his pocket.

He caught hold of Alina’s arm before she could topple over yet again. She glared up at him, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. His expression was smooth and merciless.

“If you are going to drink like a sailor, at the very least you will feel the consequences of that decision tomorrow morning,” he said, and again there was a touch of distaste in his voice, as if hangovers were somehow beneath him.

Aleksander marched her to the bed, yanking at her arm so that she sat down.

“If you even think about running off again –”

“I won’t,” she muttered petulantly. “Not tonight, at least.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Goodnight, Alina.”

She harrumphed and tucked her legs up onto the bed, turning over so that her back was to him. With a slight motion of his hand, Aleksander doused the lamps with a smothering cloud of shadows and swept out of the room, leaving Alina alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

Alina woke up the following morning certain that the world was ending.

Oh well, she thought. I gave it my best shot.

Everything just felt wrong – her sheets were too scratchy, her room was too cold, the daylight was too bright. There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears, and her heart was pounding like a kettle drum. Alina lay on her back, waiting for it all to disintegrate, when the breakfast bell rang. It felt as though somebody was driving an iron stake into her forehead.

The world was not ending, after all. It was just her.

Stomach rolling, Alina forced herself out of bed and into her clothes. She splashed water on her face, hoping that would do something for her deathly pallor, and brushed her hair until it was moderately neat. A glance in the mirror told her that she still looked like she had recently risen from the grave, but it would just have to do.

The dining hall was almost deserted. Alina hesitated at the entrance, wondering if she had imagined the bell earlier, but then she caught sight of Nadia and Marie in their usual seats.

“Alina!” Nadia yelled, hastily pushing back her chair and running to her. Marie followed more slowly. Her face was slightly green.

Alina smiled wanly as her friends approached.

“Thank the Saints you’re here. I thought I would throw up for sure if I had to spend one more minute with that plate of pickled herring in front of me,” Marie groaned. Alina felt nauseous at the thought of it.

“Everybody’s gone out to the gardens,” Nadia explained as she linked her arm with Alina’s. “But we waited for you to come down. Nobody is in any mood for breakfast today.”

Alina let them lead her outside, into the warm summer sunshine. The fresh breeze settled Alina’s stomach ever so slightly.

“So...” Marie began, glancing at Alina sideways. “You had a good night?”

For a moment, all Alina could remember was her argument with Aleksander, and grimaced. But then the rest of the evening came back to her in bits and pieces: card games, dancing on the tabletop, singing filthy drinking songs at the top of her lungs.

Alina smiled. “It was amazing.”

Nadia and Marie both giggled. “I bet Cailean had a good time, too.”

She’d forgotten all about that.

“Oh, Saints,” she grumbled. “How many people know about that?”

“Almost everyone,” Nadia said. “You were not very subtle.”

“What do you mean? We left the building!” Alina huffed.

Marie laughed. “You were right next to the door.”

Alina’s cheeks coloured. “Oh.”

Nadia elbowed her gently in the side. “He’s cute, though. Do you think it will go anywhere?”

“Oh, no,” Alina said, shaking her head. “I mean, he’s very nice, but it was a one-time thing.”

Another memory emerged from the vodka-fuelled haze of her mind, and she glanced sharply at Nadia. “Hang on – is it my imagination or were you and Zoya holding hands at the end of the night?”

It was Nadia’s turn to blush. “Well...”

“They slept together,” Marie cut in gleefully. Alina gaped.

“Marie!” Nadia hissed, but she was beaming.

“So does this mean...” Alina trailed off. Nadia understood what she was asking anyway and sighed a little forlornly.

“It means nothing,” she said firmly. “I know what Zoya is like. She doesn’t do second times.”

Alina gave her friend a consolatory squeeze, but she wasn’t really sure what to say. 

Don’t worry about Zoya, perhaps. You’ll get over her. Maybe keep an eye out for a feisty Shu woman with a fondness for axes – you never know.

Maybe not.

It occurred to Alina suddenly that, wherever the Volkvolny might be right now, the future partner of not one but two of her friends were on board. She was going to have to find some way to bring them here.

Alina heaved a sigh. Avoiding wars, saving her people, and overthrowing a monarchy was already enough to contend with – now she had to play matchmaker as well.

Marie was chattering on, trying to cheer Nadia up.

“Maybe it will be different this time, you know. Zoya’s always been so caught up with the General that she’s never given any time to anyone else, but maybe now that –”

She broke off in the middle of the sentence. Nadia and Marie both slid their eyes to Alina, who stared straight ahead silently, fighting the way her heart leapt. Marie coughed quietly, blushing.

“Well,” she continued. “You know what I mean.”

Alina knew what she meant. She knew what the Little Palace suspected about her and Aleksander. Just last night, when she had been hanging over the bar trying to order more drinks, a pair of Squallers had approached her. Their smiles were loaded with meaning.

“So, is it true you’re tumbling the General?”

“No!” she had exclaimed, trying awkwardly to laugh it off, but she was sure her face had been beet red.

A few days before that, she had overheard her name in the corridors and stopped to stare at a group of young Grisha as they openly gossiped about her.

“I don’t believe it,” a girl in an Alkemi kefta was saying. “Have you seen how close she is with Zoya Nazyalensky? I just don’t see how they could be friends if Alina really has replaced her.”

“Maybe he’s taking them both to bed,” pitched in a Heartrender.

“Do you think they both know?” the Alkemi asked.

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” said another girl, whose kefta marked her as an Inferni.

“But why would they be friends?” the Heartrender wondered. The Inferni, whose posture and tone indicated that she was the leader of this little group, tossed her hair with a sly smile.

“Do you think General Kirigan would be satisfied with one woman? I think he has them both at the same time.”

While she was talking, the girl in the Alkemi kefta noticed Alina standing a few metres away and furtively tugged on the Inferni’s sleeve, but she took no notice.

“What is it, Elena?” she snapped. Elena nodded towards Alina. The Inferni and Heartrender turned to look, their jaws dropping in horror as they caught sight of Alina’s crossed arms and disapproving scowl, and all three quickly hurried on down the corridor.

So it was no surprise to her that these rumours had reached the ears of Nadia and Marie as well. Alina didn’t try to deny them. Even if they weren’t true – which they weren’t, she reminded herself furiously – it would do nothing to quell the gossip. Alina would just have to wait until the next topic of interest emerged and everyone lost interest.

Zoya, Taisa and Stefaniya were already spread out under the apple tree. Alina smiled when she saw that Genya had joined them, too, sitting on Zoya’s kefta like a blanket so as not to get grass stains on her own.

“How are you feeling this morning, sunshine?” Genya asked with a smile as Alina plopped down next to her.

“Like I might actually have died and been brought back to life,” Alina groaned, laying her head in Genya’s lap.

Genya laughed and drew her fingers through Alina’s hair, returning some shine to the damp and dull tangles. “Did you forget about the cure I went to such efforts to track down for you?”

Alina bit her lip. “I didn’t forget.”

Genya’s hands stilled for a moment. Her eyes dropped to meet Alina’s.

“Did he take it?” she said quietly. Alina nodded once and a pained expression flitted over Genya’s face.

“What did you say to him, Alina?” she murmured, and Alina felt her cheeks colour as she remembered all the heated words that had passed between them the previous night.

Their friends, oblivious to the whole exchange, saved Alina from having to answer.

“Have you been filled in on all the action, Genya?” Nadia asked as she settled down on the grass.

“Well, so far we’ve covered Alina and Zoya nearly getting thrown out the bar for dancing on the tables, Alina sneaking off with a handsome Healer, and Sergei throwing up on Marie’s shoes,” Genya listed, ticking off each item on her fingers.

“Sergei threw up on your shoes?” Alina asked Marie. She sighed disparagingly.

“Yes! And they were my favourite shoes.”

The girls all laughed at Marie’s miserable expression. After this incident, Alina guessed their off-and-on relationship was probably back at ‘off’.

“As much as I admire your attempts to shift the conversation elsewhere,” Taisa said as she plucked a daisy from the grass and flicked it at Alina’s head. “Are we going to talk about you and Cailean?”

Alina covered her face with her hands. “It would be better if we didn’t.”

“Too bad!” Taisa crowed. “Tell us everything.”

“There’s really nothing to tell,” Alina insisted. “He’s nice, he’s good-looking, we kissed. That’s it!”

“Calling it ‘kissing’ is underselling it,” Nadia chipped in. “You two were all over each other.”

Alina gave a squeak of embarrassment while the girls hooted with laughter. Genya poked her in the sides.

“A drunken canoodle? I didn’t think you had it in you, Alina.”

She batted Genya’s hands away with a good-natured huff.

“It wasn’t just one,” Zoya said. She occupied her usual position in the sunniest spot, while the rest of the girls kept to the shade offered by the arms of the apple tree.

Alina stared at her. “What do you mean?”

Zoya opened one eye and frowned. “You kissed me too, Starkov.”

“I didn’t!” she gasped.

“Oh, you did,” Zoya smirked. “Not that I’m surprised. I’m irresistible.”

“You kissed me, too,” Stefaniya said. Everyone swivelled to look at her, and she shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t going to mention it, but...”

“Oh, hells,” Alina whined. She sank her head into her hands again. Genya patted her back.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she said softly. “These things happen.”

“They do? You mean to say you have also gotten blackout drunk and made out with Zoya?” Alina said, lifting her head to glare accusingly at Genya.

“Not yet,” Zoya said with a wicked grin. Genya struggled not to laugh, flapping her hands at Zoya to shush her.

“Are you all going to make fun of me for this?” Alina asked weakly.

“Of course!” Taisa said, her voice bright and cheerful. “That’s what friends are for.”

They spent most of the day there – soaking up the sunshine and laughing off the worst of their hangovers. Genya was called away just before lunch to tend to the Queen. She dropped a kiss on Alina’s forehead as she got to her feet, promising to visit again as soon as she had time.

Alina watched her weave through the gardens towards the Grand Palace. It soothed the painful bump in her heart a little when she remembered Aleksander’s vehement resolve to depose the Lantsov line sooner rather than later. Genya would have her freedom; she would have her vengeance.

As an evening chill began to creep into the edges of the air, the girls picked themselves up and made their way back to the Little Palace. The dinner bell would ring soon – none of them had eaten all that much, and Alina was hungry enough that even pickled herring sounded appetising. But as they filed into the dining hall, Alina was stopped by a familiar figure in a red kefta.

“He wants to see you,” Ivan said tonelessly.

“Can’t it wait until after dinner?” she groused. Ivan frowned at her disapprovingly.

“No.”

Alina made a face but waved goodbye to her friends, who were already taking their seats, ignoring their confused expressions as she followed Ivan up the stairs. As much as she would like to, Alina knew she could not ignore a summons from the general of the Second Army.

He was leaning back against the map table, his arms crossed over his chest, when Alina was shown in. Waiting for her. Ivan bowed and left the room without a word, closing the double doors softly behind him. Aleksander raised one eyebrow as she stood there silently.

“Well?” he said expectantly.

“Well, what?” she replied, careful to keep her tone even.

“I’m waiting for you to apologise.”

A strangled laugh escaped Alina’s mouth. “You must be joking.”

“I can assure you, I am not,” Aleksander said, and there was a vicious bite to his words. “I have not yet decided on how best to discipline your classmates for their misbehaviour. If you are sincere enough, Alina, perhaps I will be lenient.”

She tried not to let her shoulders slump in defeat, but Aleksander smirked as if he could see the resignation in her. He had learned, then, that the surest way to manipulate Alina was through her friends.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“I said sincere, Alina.”

Alina took a steadying breath and closed her eyes, focusing on the faces of the people she would do anything for.

“I’m sorry, Aleksander,” she tried again. “For breaking Second Army regulations. I’m sorry for putting myself in danger and encouraging others to do the same. It won’t happen again.”

He said nothing in response, pursing his lips slightly as he inspected her. Alina’s hands were vibrating with anger, so she clasped them behind her back, digging her nails into her palm.

“Come here,” he said, so softly that Alina almost didn’t hear. She hesitated to do as he commanded; she wanted to keep as much space as possible between the two of them right now.

When she didn’t move, he quirked an eyebrow again.

“Will you disobey your general?” he asked, a note of scorn in his voice.

Reluctantly, Alina walked a few steps towards him before stopping. With a sigh, he stood up fully and pushed himself away from the map table, crossing the remaining distance in two long strides. One of his hands went to the back of her neck, tilting her head gently so that she looked up at him.

“I don’t think you’re finished, Alina,” he murmured. Alina wanted more than anything to look away, but the magnetic pull of his gaze was too strong.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I said things I shouldn’t have. I was drunk and I wasn’t thinking.”

If he was going to kiss her now, she knew without a doubt that she would let him. She shouldn’t – not with him holding her like this, his fingers in her hair, dangling his power over her friends in front of her – but she would, anyway.

His palm was pressed against the nape of her neck. The connection between them was wide open, her jumble of writhing emotions laid bare before him. Alina watched as the icy anger in his eyes was replaced by something darker, more intense, something that sent licks of heat through her insides.

“Beg,” he said simply. Alina swallowed hard; her mouth suddenly dry. This was her fault.

“Beg me, Alina. Beg me not to hurt them.”

She tore her gaze from his. Saints, how could she still want him? Even as he threatened the people she cared about, even as he flaunted his control over her for his own enjoyment, the longing was there, pooling in her stomach like oil.

Alina forced herself to meet his eyes again.

“I’m begging you, Aleksander. Let them be.”

He smiled, satisfied. “Very well.”

Desperately, Alina broke free from his hold on her, knowing that if she spent another second in his arms she would be lost forever. She pushed past him and stormed to the map table, resting her palms flat on its carved surface. Her throat was tight; she struggled to breathe. She couldn’t give in to him. She would make herself strong enough to resist, to stamp down on the wants of her own body, to shut out the ache of pining in her heart.

In the silence that followed, she heard him move, walking slowly towards her.

“My Alina,” he breathed, his body inches behind hers. “Why won’t you yield to me?”

One hundred possible answers ran through Alina’s mind.

Because you have betrayed me over and over again.

Because then I’d have to stop pretending that this isn’t real.

Because I can’t believe I’d be foolish enough to fall for you twice.

Because you broke my heart once before and it nearly killed me.

One hand was on her waist, the other moved to sweep her hair away, resting on the curve of her neck. Alina spun, anger and desire pulsing through her equally, grabbed two fistfuls of his kefta, and shoved him backwards until he slammed into the wall by the door.

“Why should I yield to you when you will not yield to me?” she hissed, furious.

Slowly, he removed his hands from her body, lifting them in a gesture of submission. It was a match thrown into the ever-spreading oil slick in her belly, setting her ablaze.

Alina lifted herself onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. He started slightly, as if he hadn’t really expected her to do it, and for one glorious moment Alina basked in the knowledge that she was the one in charge. She tightened her grip on his kefta, forcing him to duck his head to meet her as she deepened the kiss. Aleksander’s hands went to her waist and he pulled her closer, their hips clashing together, responding to her ardour with a hungriness that left her breathless.

Alina broke off to gasp in air. Aleksander needed no such respite; he laid a trail of kisses from her cheekbone, down her jaw, tracing the lines of her neck with his lips. Alina curled her fingers in his hair and dragged his head back up until their mouths met again. He made a small noise in his throat, wrapping his arms around her and flattening his palms against her back, and she pulled his hair harder to see if she could get him to make it again. What had started out as a kind of fearful urgency, as if they were both afraid the other might suddenly vanish, quickly became desperate, fervent, overwhelming need.

With a growl, Aleksander pushed himself away from the wall and propelled them both forward, thrusting Alina up against the map table. She barely even noticed the pain as it dug into the small of her back. The feel of his lips on hers, the taste of his mouth on her tongue, it was enough to have Alina falling apart at the seams. He caught her lower lip in his teeth and she gasped, arching her body so that it pressed into him even closer. Aleksander pulled away just long enough to grab her by the hips and lift her onto the table, stepping in between her legs, one hand on the back of her head, one at her waist, bringing their bodies together again. Alina let her hands run down his chest, pressing her fingertips lightly into his abdomen. She could feel every one of his frantic breaths.

“Alina,” he panted, in between kisses. “Can I –”

“Yes,” she said quickly.

Aleksander lifted his head, smoothing the hair back from her face with both hands. His eyes were somehow even blacker than normal, blown wide with lust, but he ran them over her carefully.

“I – I don’t want to –” he began, breaking off with a snarl of frustration. He sighed, leaning forward until his forehead rested against Alina’s, gripping her by the shoulders. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

Alina could feel how much he hated to admit it – that there was something between the two of them that mattered to him – and even more, how much he hated that it was true. Alina smiled and planted a kiss on the curve of his jaw.

“Then don’t,” she said.

She cupped his cheek with her hand and drew their lips together again. Aleksander succumbed with a tortured groan, allowing her to wrap her legs around his waist and pull him forcibly towards her. He hooked one arm around her body and planted the other on the tabletop to support their combined bodyweight.

Suddenly, he stood up and scooped her into his arms. Alina squeaked in surprise as he lifted her from the table before she realised that – obviously – he was carrying her towards his bedroom. Aleksander paused momentarily, glancing at her in amusement.

“Alina,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Did you really think I was going to defile you there on the table?”

She blushed fiercely and thwacked him in the chest. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t enjoy that.”

He chuckled, his eyes growing darker at the thought. “Maybe another day.”

Aleksander shouldered open the door to the adjoining bedroom then kicked it closed behind him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, shifting Alina’s weight effortlessly so that she straddled his lap. Her hands were at his shoulders, her fingers playing with the soft strands of hair that curled at the back of his neck, while he held her face in his hands.

Alina tried not to shrink away from the way he looked at her: like a drowning man seeing land but knowing that it was too far to swim to, that he was going to sink anyway. She bent her head to kiss him again, gentler this time. Slowly, they began to explore all the layers of desire that had built up and been buried inside them, teasing out the hidden parts of their capacity to want, bringing them into the light. Alina felt that if the flames in her body burned any hotter, she would turn to ash.

When he had pushed her to the very edge of her longing, when she thought she might burst with desperation, Aleksander started to unbutton her kefta. It slipped off easily and landed on the floor with barely a whisper. His long fingers trailed over her shoulders, down the length of her bare arms, drawing lines of golden light upon her skin as she lit up everywhere he touched.

Eager to even out the playing field, Alina leaned back and began working the top button of his kefta free.

“Why are there so many?” she grunted in frustration, about halfway down, and Aleksander laughed softly in her ear.

“I could help you,” he offered, but his fingers were currently busy tracing spirals on the back of her shoulder blades in a way that made Alina shiver and she didn’t want him to stop, so she shook her head.

Having loosened the final button, she shoved the kefta off his shoulders and immediately grabbed hold of his shirt. Her patience was well and truly at an end, so she nudged his arms into the air and tugged the black fabric up over his head, flinging it down on the floor somewhere behind her.

Aleksander reached for her, burying his hands in her hair and bringing her head towards his. Alina held him back with a palm on his chest. She ran her fingers over the contours of his body: from his broad shoulders, over the length of his torso, down to his navel. His eyes fluttered closed; the muscles in his throat went tight. Alina smiled to see that she could bring him so close to undoing with something as simple as a brush of her fingertips against his skin.

She drifted lower, towards his waistband, and he snapped his eyes open, seizing her wrists. Alina grinned, although her stomach wobbled at the ferocity in his gaze, and leaned in to kiss him again. He let go of her arms and pulled at the front of her blouse, untucking it from her trousers and dragging it over her head. Alina’s breath caught as she sat before him in only her stays, but any self-consciousness she might have felt was banished by the look in his eyes as they swept over her exposed body: a low, simmering heat that nearly turned her to liquid.

They came together again, a furious clash of teeth and skin. The bond that ran between them quaked with the intensity of their emotions – their desire tangled up together until Alina was no longer sure where hers ended and his began.

Aleksander’s fingers moved from her throat to the laces of her stays, slowly enough to give her the chance to pull back if she wanted to. She didn’t want to. He deftly untied and loosened the silk cords enough that she could shrug it off.

Alina had never felt anything so intoxicating as this. Aleksander looked like he wanted to swallow her whole, pressing hard kisses against her neck, over her collarbones, his hands gliding over the curve of her breasts. Alina tipped her head back, her breaths coming out harsh and ragged.

Aleksander shifted their position, lying Alina down on her back atop his black sheets. She tried to prop herself up on her elbows, reaching for him eagerly, but he smiled languidly and pushed her back down.

“Patience, Alina,” he murmured, turning his attention to undressing her.

In one instant, the rest of her clothes were gone; in the next, so were his. Alina gasped and gripped the bedsheets as he moved slowly up her body, planting kisses along the length of her legs, across her stomach, up her sternum, before finally reaching her mouth again. She kissed him back greedily. His hands were constantly moving, intent on exploring every inch of her skin, discovering how she would respond to his touch.

He nudged her legs apart with his knees and a cold thrill raced through her body.

“Yield, little Saint,” Aleksander ordered, his voice soft, as he dipped his head. She could feel his smile against her skin. “Yield to me.”

Alina yielded. She wondered briefly if she had given in too easily, but when he began to draw her pleasure out of her, first with his hands, then with his mouth, Alina realised she would have given him this surrender regardless, and would happily do so again.

But not before she had pried a surrender from him, first.

She fell apart around him, her fingernails raking red lines along his shoulder blades, a desperate, ecstatic moan ripping itself from her throat. Oh, she had tried to be quiet, but when he lifted his head to tell her to stop holding back, when his fingertips had pressed into her thighs, when he groaned as she grabbed a fistful of his hair – Alina just hadn’t been able to stop herself. The light that had curled softly around them both sputtered and flared violently. Aleksander sat back as she lay before him, panting, limbs trembling, running his eyes over her with a wild, wolfish smile. He brushed the back of his hand up her calf and Alina shuddered.

Like a predator hunting his prey, Aleksander stalked his way up the bed towards her. Alina grinned, all teeth, and welcomed him in with a devouring kiss.

Her hands drifted lower, down his chest, over the ridge of his hipbones, but before she could go any further he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the bed. Alina saw a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, something she might like to exploit, as he loomed over her.

“My Alina,” he breathed, and she glared at him even as the warmth low inside her began to unspool again.

He let her struggle there for a few moments before he released her, hooking her legs up around his thighs, shifting the angle of her hips, and then their bodies came together again. Alina pressed her face into his chest to muffle a strangled sob of pleasure. Aleksander’s breath hissed through his teeth; when she looked up again, his eyes were closed, a kind of rapture written on his face.

She let him set the pace, matching his every move, every sharp heave of his chest. It was only when she could feel him sinking into the rhythm of it that Alina tugged the control out from under him. She surged upwards, her hands pushing down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees as she straddled his lap. The choked sound of surprise that emerged from his throat did unspeakable things to Alina. She could feel the way his body tensed, desperate to wrestle back his power over her, saw him open his mouth to protest, but she wouldn't allow it. His eyes widened as she covered his mouth with her hand.

“Yield, Aleksander,” she whispered in his ear, her teeth skimming along the sensitive skin of his neck. He shuddered at the sound of his own name, digging his fingers into her hips, hard enough to hurt. The pain was exquisite.

Alina lost her grasp on reality after that. There was nothing beyond the two of them, entwined in Aleksander’s bed, her hands caught in his hair, his face buried in the crook of her neck, surrendering to the movements of her body. She drove him to the brink of his self-restraint, feeling him teeter there for several moments, unwilling to let himself tip over like this. His eyes were screwed shut. Alina took his face between the palms of her hands.

“Aleksander,” she admonished softly. “Let go of your control. Yield.”

He did not respond except to let out a long, shaky breath and pull her towards him again, crushing his mouth against hers. For a moment, they were almost still – then, Alina wrapped one hand around his throat and shifted her hips again, more insistent than before, and his eyes flew open.

“Alina –” he gasped, and way he said her name as he lost the ability to keep himself in one piece had Alina shattering, too. Light – wild and ferocious – burst from her skin in the same instant that the room was flooded with impenetrable darkness. Alina contorted, folding over his shoulder with a cry, and they collapsed as one onto the rumpled bedsheets.

They lay in silence, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on their skin, limbs still entangled. Every time Alina closed her eyes she saw white stars explode against the blackness. Her body tingled with so much spent energy.

Aleksander let loose a low groan which morphed into a sigh and tightened his hold on her, drawing her further towards him. He clumsily brushed her damp, dishevelled hair out of her face, combing through the knots with unexpected tenderness, before pressing a light kiss to her forehead. Alina snuggled into his embrace. The bond between them was relaxed, overflowing with quiet contentment. She wished she could stay like this forever.

She tipped her head back and found him studying her carefully.

“That...” he began, clearing his throat. “That was not the first time you’ve done this.”

She wasn’t sure if it was meant to sound considerate, but it came out more like accusation. Alina hesitated before answering. It was a complicated thing; this body that she was in was painfully inexperienced, but she herself had been married for the better part of sixty years – evidently, she did not hold herself like a blushing virgin.

“No,” she said at last. “But it’s been a while.”

It felt like the most truthful thing she could say under the circumstances. Aleksander narrowed his eyes at her, but Alina poked him in the chest before he could pry any further.

“Not your possession,” she reminded him, and he harrumphed and gathered her into his arms again.

They stayed like that for a while. Alina wasn’t sure when she had last felt so peaceful. She was certain she would have just dozed off, wrapped up in the warmth of his body and the comfortingly familiar ebb and flow of rightness that came from all the places their skin touched, if she hadn’t been interrupted by an embarrassingly loud rumble emanating from her stomach.

Aleksander raised an eyebrow. “Are you hungry?”

She fought the urge to smack him. “You dragged me away before dinner!” she exclaimed, covering her belly with both hands to drown out the unholy noises it was making.

“So I did,” he smiled ruefully. “I would apologise, but I feel no remorse.”

“No, I didn’t think you would,” Alina muttered.

Aleksander laughed quietly, and she was pressed so close against him that she could feel it rumbling in his core. “I’ll go and order two plates brought up,” he said, kissing the top of her head again.

“Oh, no!” Alina gasped, mortified, pulling him back towards her as he tried to get up. “Don’t do that – then they’ll know I’m in here.”

He shot her a glance. “Alina, they already know you’re in here.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t want them to know about –” she waved her hand between them. “This.”

“As far as they know, I called you here, we argued, and I punished you accordingly for your disobedience,” he replied, his lips curving into a wicked smile as he pressed them into the crook of her neck, his fingers drawing the shape of the antlers across her collarbones. “Which is exactly what I have done.”

Alina shivered. Light bloomed under her skin at every touch. “And now that I am suitably chastised, we’re eating dinner together?”

“Exactly.”

She sighed, and maybe she would have argued more, but she really was very hungry. “Well, I suppose that’s fine then.”

He hummed in agreement and slid away from her, picking up his clothes from where they had been discarded on the floor. Alina watched him as he moved around the room. He really was exceptionally beautiful – she had known it before, of course, but now she allowed herself to gaze at his lithe body, admire how the outlines of his muscles shifted beneath his skin as he bent over to retrieve his shirt.

She liked seeing him like this, without all his armour; pale and exposed, his dark hair mussed, his lips still swollen, the marks she had left on his shoulders not yet faded.

Aleksander looked up and caught her staring. Smirking, he deliberately made his movements lazy and unhurried, giving her more time to appreciate every aspect of his form. Alina rolled her eyes at him. Beautiful and vain, of course.

Fully dressed, he disappeared from the room. Alina heaved herself into a sitting position, stretching out her limbs with a deep sigh before she swung her legs off the bed and began locating her own clothes.

She heard the faint creak of the door and then he was behind her, his hands on her waist as she stepped back into her linen trousers.

“You don’t have to, you know,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. Alina pulled her shirt on, tucking it in haphazardly, and turned to face him with a smile.

“Aleksander,” she chided. “I’m not going to be sprawled naked on your bed when the servants come in with our dinner.”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t go putting ideas in my head.”

Alina laughed and playfully elbowed him away. He followed her as she padded through to the war room, carrying her boots in one hand and with her kefta draped over the other.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” he asked. “Why do you care who knows?”

He sounded more curious than reproachful. Alina sank into one of the armchairs with a weary sigh and began lacing up her boots.

“Since the moment I set foot in the Little Palace, people have been speculating about us. Placing bets on how long it would take for me to end up in your bed.”

Aleksander leaned back against the map table, his arms crossed, listening impassively as she spoke.

“It’s just gossip, Alina. It means nothing.”

“Of course it means something,” she shot back. “In six days, when I am officially conscripted into the Second Army, when you inevitably hasten my ascent through the ranks – I don’t want everyone to think I’m getting special treatment just because I’m sleeping with their general. I want my accomplishments to be my own.”

“I would sincerely hope,” he said darkly. “That my soldiers know I would never promote anyone to a rank they did not deserve.”

When Alina said nothing more, he pushed himself away from the table and knelt before her. His tone was firm.

“Alina. You undersell yourself. You are a natural leader, and our people love you. Nobody will even entertain the notion that you’ve earned your rank based on anything other than your own capability.”

Something fluttered in Alina’s belly. She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had believed in her like that. In her previous life, people had worshipped her – the Soldat Sol, Tamar and Tolya, even Mal, in his own way. But this was different. Their faith lay in the Sun Summoner, not in Alina herself. She wouldn’t mislead herself; she knew that Aleksander would have no interest in her were she not the Sun Summoner, but here he was, looking her in the eye and telling her that she was capable of more.

A little flustered, her chest swelling with a warmth she refused to put a name to, Alina reached forward and smoothed an errant curl back from his forehead.

“I’d still prefer not to broadcast the details of my sex life to the whole Little Palace,” she said with a small smile. “Can we keep it between us? For now?”

He caught hold of her fingers and placed a light kiss on the back of her knuckles. “If that’s what you want.”

There was a knock at the door. Aleksander straightened up and went to answer it, while Alina did the best she could to make her hair and clothes look less noticeably dishevelled.

Suddenly, he was back at her side, offering her his arm. She tried not to glare at him too much as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her across the room. There was a door in the far wall, behind his desk, that she had never noticed before – it was pushed open, now, and they stepped into a small but elegant dining room.

“You have your own dining room?” she asked, surprised by this discovery for some reason. Aleksander raised an eyebrow.

“Of course. Did you think I spend my entire life behind a desk?”

Alina felt a blush creep into her cheeks. “Well...”

The servants laid the table, moving with practised efficiency, before bowing to them both and hurrying from the room. Alina let go of Aleksander’s arm and took a seat before he had a chance to choose one for her.

Despite the stateliness of their surroundings, the food appeared to be exactly the same as what was served downstairs. Alina made a face at her pickled herring.

“Is this another part of my punishment?” she asked with a pout. Aleksander looked mildly amused.

“If you would like it to be,” he said, picking up his fork. “Do you have something against herring?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Alina grumbled, and he laughed.

She was hungry enough that she scoffed every crumb of the food on her plate without any further complaints. In between bites, she snuck glances at Aleksander, strangely fascinated. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen him eat before – something about the act stripped away some of the unearthliness to him, made him seem just a little more human.

Once their plates were cleared, wine glasses drained, Aleksander motioned towards the door.

“Have a drink?” he suggested. Alina sighed.

“As much as I would like to, I should really go.”

He tilted his head a little. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

His tone was light, joking, but Alina could hear the insecurity under his words. She pushed her chair back and walked around the table towards him, allowing him to tug her into his lap.

“My combat trial is tomorrow morning,” she said. “And if you want me to be your general someday, I need to do well. So tonight, at least, I’d like to get some rest.”

“I can be good,” he breathed, nudging at her jaw with his nose as he placed a slow kiss on her neck where her pulse throbbed. Alina smiled to herself.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she admitted, running her fingers down his throat. She gripped the neck of his kefta as he kissed her, hard enough to almost break her resolve, pulling away just in time for Alina to regain control of her sense.

“You taste of fish,” she observed, and he almost laughed. She clambered awkwardly out of his lap, smoothing down her kefta, and made for the door. Aleksander followed just behind her. They walked through the war room in silence.

“Alina,” he said, just as she reached the main door. She turned back towards him, forcing a smile on her face even as she wondered how he might compel her to stay, even knowing that he wouldn’t have to push very hard before she relented.

“Are you going to wish me luck?” she asked.

“I sincerely doubt you will need it,” he said, stepping towards her and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But good luck.”

She couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him again – standing up on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips against his, soft and fleeting.

“Goodnight, Aleksander,” she whispered. Then she swung open the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the hallway.

There was another reason she had to leave, although it wasn’t one she wanted to discuss with Aleksander yet. It came a little too close to something personal, something still raw, something she couldn’t bring herself to think about too closely.

One visit to the infirmary and one slightly uncomfortable discussion with a kind-faced Healer later, Alina walked back to her dormitory with two glass bottles in her kefta pocket: a tiny one to take tonight, and a bigger one which would last her the next few months.

“Come back when you need a refill,” the Healer had said as she pressed the bottle into Alina’s hand with a gentle smile.

“What if I’m not at the Little Palace?” Alina wondered nervously.

“Oh, don’t worry about that – this tonic is stocked in every Second Army base and outpost. Wherever you are, you just need to find the Healers’ tent and they’ll sort you out.”

And so Alina had nodded, and thanked the Healer profusely, and wandered back to her room feeling better for having made a decision that was purely hers.

She called on the maids to draw her a bath and, while she was waiting, tipped the contents of the little bottle down her throat. The liquid was sweet and aromatic and made her cough slightly. She soaked in the hot water until her eyelids began to droop, then roughly towel-dried her hair – it was only going to get messed up again in her combat trial the following morning – and tugged on a nightgown, leaving her clothes in a crumpled pile on the floor.

Alina was exhausted. Still, she couldn’t help but smile as she let her own fingers dance across her skin, remembering all the ways Aleksander had touched her earlier that day. Maybe it was foolish, and maybe she should have regretted it – but Alina was too old for shame. Penitence was reserved for Saints.

Tomorrow night, she promised herself, tomorrow night I’ll stay with him.

The mere thought kindled a feeling of pure, unspoiled joy inside her – the kind she didn’t think she had felt in a long time.

But that joy was swiftly dispelled when Alina realised that she was not alone in her room anymore.

“You and I need to talk, girl.”

Baghra.

Chapter Text

The room was darker than it had been just a moment ago. Instinctively, Alina reached for the light, casting brightness around her. It illuminated Baghra, her frown of irritation, and a section of the wall panel which had been pushed open, revealing a narrow corridor beyond. Alina didn’t have the energy to be surprised that there was a secret passage in her room.

“What do you want, Baghra?” she asked tiredly, although she already had her suspicions.

“Stupid girl!” Baghra snapped. “You should have listened to me when I warned you about him. He’s got his claws in you now, doesn’t he? Don’t look at me like that – I know what you’ve done.”

Alina felt her cheeks grow warm. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she said hotly.

Baghra tutted loudly. “Come with me, girl. No time to dawdle.”

She reached forward and took hold of Alina’s wrist. Alina tried to pull away, but Baghra’s grip was strong.

“I’m not going anywhere!” Alina insisted. Baghra scowled at her.

“I should have done this a long time ago. I should have taken you away from this place before you formed any sort of attachment to him. But what’s done is done. Before this goes any further – there are some things you need to know.”

Baghra pulled her towards the passageway and this time Alina relented. She had hoped that, this time, Aleksander would tell her the truth himself, but if Baghra was determined to share her son’s secrets then Alina would happily use that as leverage against him.

They wound through the corridor in pitch blackness. Alina could have summoned light, but she trusted that Baghra knew where she was going without it.

“Where are we going?” she asked impatiently. Baghra gave a sharp tug on her wrist.

“Quiet.”

Alina heaved a sigh but didn’t say anything more. It would be easier to wait in silence until Baghra deigned, at last, to say what she had come here to say.

They reached another hidden door; at a wave of Baghra’s hand, it slid open, and they stepped into a small chamber. The walls and floor were crowded with battered old trunks, bookcases, and canvas parcels. Alina knew what this place was. It was the evidence of all Aleksander’s past lives, all his terrible secrets, tucked away behind the walls of the Little Palace.

Baghra finally let go of her wrist and turned to look at her. She studied Alina, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, until she forgot all about her resolution to be silent.

“Well?” Alina prompted, gesturing around them. “You brought me here for a reason. If you don’t start talking soon, I’m going back to bed.”

“You told me once that you would use him, just as he used you.”

Alina nodded slowly. “I remember.”

“And is that what you are doing?” Baghra asked, although from the tone of her voice she already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Alina began. “But... it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Baghra scoffed. “It’s simple. You let your feelings get involved.”

Alina glared at the old woman, but she couldn’t deny the truth of her words. She was still trying to manipulate Aleksander, to nudge him down a different path, to save his own life and the lives of so many others – but somewhere along the way, the feelings she had fought so hard to defy had reawakened. Alina cursed her treacherous, self-sabotaging heart.

“That doesn’t change anything,” she insisted.

Baghra looked at her pityingly. “I have no doubt that you believe that. But you should know the truth about him, child. You should know who it is that you would contend with.”

Alina scanned the room, already wondering how she could use its contents in her war of attrition against the Darkling.

“Look at me, girl.”

Alina had to fight back a shiver when she looked back at Baghra – even though she had always known that the old woman was a Shadow Summoner, to see her command the darkness, inky blackness dripping from her palms, was still something of a shock after so long.

“You’re his mother,” Alina said, trying to sound at least a little bit surprised.

“My son,” she sighed. “Is a creature of my own making. I gave him his ambition, his pride. I should have been the one to stop him.”

“Stop him from what?” Alina whispered.

“There has only ever been him, do you understand? He’s had many names, served many kings, faked countless deaths, bided his time, waiting for you. With a Sun Summoner at his side, he will be able to enter the Fold and weaponise it as he always planned.”

“He’s the Black Heretic,” Alina said. Even now, detached as she was from this revelation, the betrayal of it still stung. “He created the Fold.”

Baghra nodded. “He tried to create his own army with merzost. I warned him there would be a price, but he has long outgrown listening to me. Instead, he created the Fold – and the volcra. They are his punishment, a living testimony to his arrogance, the cost of meddling with a power he could not control.”

Alina did not need to be reminded about the cost of merzost. She flinched at the memory: grief, white and blinding. Ruination.

“He’s always been obsessed with power,” Baghra continued. “If he can use you, he will have control of everything. He will spread destruction before him. He will lay waste to the world, and he will never have to kneel to another king again. He will become unstoppable.”

“And do you truly think I would let him use me?” Alina said scornfully.

“You will live as long as he has, child. Who can say what you will become in one hundred years, two hundred, when all the people you love have withered and perished.”

Baghra did not speak cruelly, but her words brought tears to Alina’s eyes anyway. She blinked them back, furious, and fixed the old woman with a cold glare.

“Why are you telling me this? Why betray your son’s secrets?”

She hesitated, then, and for the first time Alina could see something like uncertainty in the way she stood.

“I am not sure,” she admitted at last. “When you first arrived here, I knew what he would seek to use you for. I had planned to train you for as long as I could, then to take you away, out of his grasp, before it was too late. But now...”

Baghra lapsed into silence, staring at Alina’s clavicle, the skin which lay taut over the ridges and tines of her collar.

“He could have used the stag against you,” she murmured. “If he had slain the beast himself and placed the collar on you, he would have tethered your power to his will. He would not have needed to manipulate you, to talk you round to his way of thinking – he would have had complete control over you, over the Fold. That is what he should have done. That is what I expected he would do.”

Alina’s hands went to her throat. The antlers resonated under her touch, humming happily. The stag’s power was hers alone. “But he didn’t.”

“No,” Baghra said. “He didn’t.”

The two women regarded one another in the dim light, bound together by nothing but the man that they both cared for.

“Do you think –” Alina broke off as her voice cracked. She pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath, and forced herself to keep going. “Do you really believe that he is redeemable?”

Alina wanted so desperately to believe that.

“I love my son,” Baghra said, unexpectedly straightforward. “I am telling you this because I love him. Because I will not let him put himself beyond redemption. But I know what he is, Alina. I know he will resist me every step of the way. He is nothing if not stubborn.”

Her lips curled then, and Alina could see a grudging sort of pride in her eyes.

“In staying with him, you may be the only hope he has of emerging from this self-inflicted darkness. Or you may be the very thing which ensures his undoing.”

Alina’s heart lurched painfully.

Baghra gestured around them. “The truth of him is here, girl, in this room. Take your time. Look around. You must decide for yourself whether you want to stay or not.”

“Thank you, Baghra,” Alina said quietly.

The old woman nodded curtly and vanished in a swirl of shadows without another word. Alina was left alone in the room full of Aleksander’s history wondering where to begin.

She spent longer there than she had intended, paging through old books, digging into chests of old-fashioned clothes, uncovering cracked oil paintings – portraits, all of them unmistakably Aleksander, spanning hundreds of years. In the back of her mind, she knew she should just take what she could carry and go back to her room, but once she started, she just couldn’t stop. Alina was there for hours, examining all the fragments of his past, slowly piecing them together into the outline of the man she knew.

Dimly, she recalled something he had said to her once.

I’ve seen what you truly are, and I’ve never turned away. I never will.

She wouldn’t turn away from him. She wouldn’t leave him.

Eventually, with one cracked, leather-bound journal clutched in her hand, Alina made her way back through the passages that led to her room. Her eyes were bleary with tiredness, her knees scuffed, her nightgown grimy and dusty – but she knew enough, now. She would force the truth from Aleksander tomorrow.

Alina collapsed into bed. It wasn’t long before her restless mind slowed, and she tipped quite happily into sleep.

She was roused from her slumber by the breakfast bell. Alina stumbled out of bed, cursing, arms flailing, throwing on her clothes as fast as she could before sprinting down to the dining hall.

The rest of her cohort were already seated by the time Alina shot through the doorway. After pausing a moment to catch her breath, she took her usual seat with Nadia and Marie. She knew that she must look an absolute state, but, thankfully, neither of them commented on it.

“Are you ready for the trials today?” Nadia asked, and Alina froze with a spoonful of kasha in her mouth. In all the heightened emotion of the previous night, she had somehow managed to completely forget about her combat examination.

“Uh,” she mumbled, swallowing her breakfast slowly. “I guess...”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, Alina,” Marie said encouragingly. “You’re almost as good as Zoya – that makes you better than pretty much everyone else.”

“And you know the trial isn’t about winning or losing,” Nadia chipped in. “It’s just about demonstrating your skills. So even if you do get put up against Zoya, you don’t even have to beat her. You just have to put up a good fight.”

Alina laughed. “Thank you, but I’m not really that worried about it. I’d just completely forgotten it was today.”

The girls made noises of understanding, then Marie frowned at Alina’s head.

“Is there a cobweb in your hair?”

Alina’s eyes widened and she started trying to frantically pick it out. Her friends giggled but leaned in to help her.

“Have you been sneaking around the palace at night?” Nadia asked in a low voice, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Have you been going to see Cailean? Is that why you were late?”

“No!” Alina whispered. “I swear.”

They both looked unconvinced. Alina groaned.

“Be honest,” she said. “Do I look like I rolled out of somebody else’s bed and came straight here?”

Nadia and Marie glanced at each other, then at Alina, then nodded. Alina swore and tried to smooth out the creases in her kefta, comb the tangles from her hair. The irony that she had, in fact, been sensible enough to spend the night in her own bed was not lost on her.

Marie produced a short length of ribbon from one of her pockets and Alina threw her hair back into a hasty braid, hoping that would go some way to disguise the worst of her untidiness.

They made their way to the training grounds after breakfast. Botkin was waiting, his huge arms crossed, and greeted them all with a nod as they entered. They all began their warmup exercises, chatting to one another as they stretched, and Alina tried to ignore the nervous tension in the air, the knowledge that this would be the last time they all did this together.

“Summoners,” Botkin bellowed. They straightened up, slowly, turning towards their teacher. “It is time for the first trial.”

Her friends had explained how the trials worked: Botkin would draw two names from a jar, that pair would fight one another, and an assembled jury of older, experienced Grisha would watch and assess each fighter’s capability.

Alina glanced at the examiners, in their mix of red and blue kefta. She didn’t recognise any of their faces, which she suspected was the point – there would be no bias here.

Just as she turned her attention back to the ring, where the first pair of fighters were going toe-to-toe, Alina caught a glimpse of black lurking behind the examiners.

“Oh, Saints,” she breathed. “What is he doing here?”

Nadia and Marie turned, their jaws dropping as they saw who she was looking at. Aleksander stood as far back as was possible, his arms clasped behind his back, his dark eyes surveying the training ground coolly.

“He never attends the trials!” Nadia gasped.

“He must be here to see you, Alina,” Marie said, nudging Alina gently. There was a mischievous smile on her face.

Alina did not doubt that he was. She slumped against Marie’s shoulder, hiding her face in the red embroidery of her friend’s kefta. He was infuriating.

She decided that the best way to deal with this was simply to pretend he wasn’t there. So Alina didn’t look towards him again; she imagined he had already left, been called away to an important meeting, and instead focused on the fights in front of her. Marie was pitted against Valentin and managed to stay on her feet for an impressive length of time before the huge Squaller’s sheer strength won out. Nadia seemed almost baffled when she knocked Ylva, the Fjerdan girl Alina would spar with any time Zoya was away, to the ground. Zoya strutted into the ring with a confident toss of her hair, winking at Alina, and naturally won her bout in a matter of seconds.

Then Botkin called Alina’s name, and she pushed all thoughts of Aleksander out of her mind as she stood opposite an Inferni, Stepan, who at least had the foresight to look nervous. She shot him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Once the fight began, it was easy not to think of Aleksander. It was easy not to think of anything at all. Her head emptied; her body took control. When the fight was over, a few minutes later, Alina blinked down at Stepan, pinned beneath her grip, and could barely remember how she ended up there.

She released him and helped him to his feet.

“You fought well,” she said, not knowing if it was true. He grinned a little sheepishly.

“Thanks. You too.”

She made her way back to her friends, somewhat dazed, and let them hug her and congratulate her quietly. Unable to resist any longer, she glanced towards where Aleksander stood. He met her eyes and smiled, radiating the type of smugness that he normally reserved for himself, then he uncrossed his arms and turned on his heel, stalking out of the training grounds.

Alina could barely stand still through the rest of the trials. She twitched with agitation – her leg was bouncing uncontrollably, and she had to clench her fists to stop her hands from shaking. Even when Botkin stood in the centre of the ring to announce that they were no longer his students, his normally gruff voice a little uneven with emotion, Alina felt distant, distracted. Her mind was running ahead, already calculating which combination of words she would use to take Aleksander apart.

They filed out of the training grounds, tearful and pleased at the same time, and Alina waved goodbye to Nadia and Marie. Marie frowned

“Alina? We’re going down to the lake to celebrate, don’t you remember?”

“I’ll catch up with you,” Alina said vaguely, already making a beeline for the entry to the Little Palace.

As she walked, she let herself stew in her anger. This, at least, she did not have to fake – Baghra had not told Alina anything she did not already know, but that didn’t change the fact that Aleksander had lied to her, concealed the truth about himself from her, again. But she wasn’t going to give him the chance to lie any longer. She would force a confession out of him, by any means available to her.

Alina stormed into her bedroom and snatched up the book that she had left by her bedside: the only piece of proof she required. The oprichniki posted outside the war room saw her coming and tried to hold her off.

“General Kirigan is in a meeting –” one of them blurted, panicked, but Alina just swept past him with a snarl, crashing through the double doors. Aleksander stood at the map table, flanked by Fedyor and Ivan, deep in conversation with a group of Grisha in various coloured kefta. They all looked up when she entered the room, their discussion fading into silence.

“Get out,” Alina snapped. She gripped the journal so hard her knuckles turned white. Warily, the Grisha around the map table looked to Aleksander for confirmation, and he nodded wordlessly, never once taking his eyes off Alina.

The other Grisha hurried out. Fedyor shot her a worried look as he passed by, while Ivan just scowled at her, and they closed the doors behind them.

“Alina.”

She knew that he could see how furious she was, so the placidity of his greeting only enraged her further. Alina stalked across the room and threw the journal down on the map table. Aleksander eyed it guardedly.

“What is this?” he asked, still maddeningly calm. He reached over, his fingers skimming the leather bindings, and then she saw recognition in his eyes – just a flash, wiped away in an instant, but unmistakeable nonetheless.

“This is yours,” Alina said, flipping the book open to the first page. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Aleksander Morozova.”

She drew the syllables out, letting herself enjoy the way he stiffened when she said his full name. Alina smiled grimly at his silence. She turned the page, gesturing to the faded ink.

“The date here – that’s nearly five hundred years ago.”

Aleksander looked between the journal and Alina. His face was blank, his demeanour perfectly composed, but she could see his mind racing as he weighed up the risks of lying to her. Alina raised her eyebrows at him, as if daring him to try it.

They both stood very still for a moment, locked in a kind of standoff, until Aleksander exhaled slowly. He unbuttoned his kefta and tossed it onto the map table, then rolled up his sleeve and beckoned to Alina.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, wearily.

Alina skirted around the table until she was close enough to entwine her fingers through his, pressing their palms together. Her body ached to lean in, to embrace him, but she made sure to keep some space between them. Still, she couldn’t help but lift her free hand to his forearm, trailing her fingers over the blue lines of his veins, so prominent against the pale translucence of his skin.

“The journal,” she said quietly. “It’s yours?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you, Aleksander?” Alina asked. Her brow crinkled with curiosity – even knowing everything that she did, she still only had a vague idea of his true age.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he admitted. “It’s easy to lose track of the years when you spend so many of them running for your life.”

Alina wasn’t going to let him avoid the question quite so easily. “Your best guess?”

His chest hitched in an abrupt sigh. “Around five hundred and twenty.”

Alina tried to imagine living for another four hundred and forty years, but the concept was just too enormous for her brain to comprehend. She shook herself and ploughed on.

“You’re the Black Heretic.”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

“You created the Fold.”

“Yes.”

Alina squeezed his hand a little tighter, watching his reaction closely as she asked her next question.

“And do you actually want me to destroy it?”

Another hesitation. “No.”

She wanted nothing more than to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. Instead, Alina gritted her teeth and swallowed her frustration.

“Why not, Aleksander?” she asked, as gently as she could manage.

“Security,” he explained. There was fire in his voice, burning low but intently, as he spoke. “The Fold has made Grisha indispensable – necessary, even – to Ravka. As long as we are necessary, we are protected.”

“Is that all?” Alina prompted. His jaw tightened and he frowned at her, reticent.

“I’m going to give you one chance to tell me the whole truth,” she said, enunciating each word carefully. “Or I will take that book to the King, and you will never see me again.”

Aleksander’s dour expression broke into a smile. “You’ve grown ruthless, little Saint. But you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Alina felt a jolt of irritation. “I’m deadly serious, Aleksander.”

He hummed a vague acquiescence and ran his thumb over her jaw. “The Fold could not only protect Grisha within Ravka, but everywhere. It could be a weapon to use against our enemies – those who would see us tied to a pyre or strapped on an operating table to be prodded and dissected. With the Fold at our command, we could liberate Grisha throughout the continent, Alina.”

His voice had become fervent, almost pleading, but Alina was unmoved. She nodded at him to continue.

“I would expand the Fold, drive it over the border into Fjerda and Shu Han. All these years, the solution to all our problems has been staring me in the face, taunting me, every time I look out of a window to the west, every time I look at a map. The volcra are drawn to me. I cannot step foot into the Fold, I cannot harness its full potential, not without –”

“A Sun Summoner,” Alina finished for him coldly. “Me. Is that all I am to you? Is that what you want me for?”

The words tore themselves from her mouth, unbidden, and Alina winced. This is a fear she did not want to speak out loud, an insecurity she didn’t want to let him see. Aleksander inhaled sharply and she felt a pang of wretched self-loathing sweep through the connection between them. He cast his eyes skyward, his face twisted in pain, unable to meet her gaze.

“Alina,” he said, his voice raspy. “You know that’s not the case.”

“Do I?” she snapped. There were tears in her eyes; one spilled over, running down her cheek, and she allowed him to reach up with his free hand to brush it away, but swatted him away when he tried to cup her face. She wouldn’t let him distract her.

“I’m not finished,” she said, and she meant it as a reprimand, but it came out too soft, subdued. Aleksander stilled, wiping the emotion from his face again, and nodded. Alina blew out a breath before she spoke, willing her voice to be strong and even.

“Baghra’s your mother?”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “I thought I detected her hand in this.”

Alina prodded him gently in the chest. “Answer the question, Aleksander.”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “My endless bad fortune.”

“And your name – Morozova?”

Alina was growing close to the end of her inquisition, and he seemed to sense it. He drew her a little closer to him, lowering his voice, rubbing his thumb in circles over the back of her hand.

“Ilya Morozova – the Bonesmith – was my grandfather. He died long before I was born.”

There is one more thing, something that picked and pulled at the seams of her mind, something that she had been aching to know ever since she ran away from him on the night of the winter fête, in her previous life.

“Would you have told me?” she asked weakly, knowing that his answer might break her heart.

He stared at her, motionless, his face hard and inexpressive, but his eyes were dark with sorrow.

“I... I hope so,” he said at last, and it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was the truth. “Someday.”

Against her will, Alina put her palm against his chest, sliding it up to curve around the back of his neck. Aleksander’s eyelids drooped and he smiled. He bent his head, brushing his lips very gently across her cheek, and spoke into her ear.

“Do you have any more questions?”

She shivered at the feel of his breath on her neck. “No.”

He had been honest with her – she may have had to drag it out of him, but he had been honest with her. So when he gripped her jaw with his fingers and crushed his mouth against hers, she let him. When he unbuttoned her kefta with nimble, impatient fingers, throwing it to the ground in a crumpled heap, she let him. When he dragged her by the waist towards his bedroom, she let him. When he pulled the rest of her clothes off, in between frantic, savage kisses, she let him. When he pushed her onto his bed, when he buried himself inside of her, deep enough to make her vision blur at the edges and white light explode around them like a galaxy of stars dying, all at once, Alina stopped pretending she was letting him do it.

This was the nature of them, she knew now; neither could take anything from the other without giving something up afterwards. He had given her something true, and now she would give him these few moments of command over her, submitting to him without resistance or defiance.

It was glorious. She loved the way he looked at her, pinned beneath him against his black silk sheets; the way he could wrench the most obscene whimpers and moans from her; the way his movements grew erratic as she hooked her legs around his waist, drawing him towards her, and whispered his name over and over.

Perhaps she should not have enjoyed it so much – but she did. There was no use in pretending otherwise.

Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, her head on his chest, she asked him why he had come to watch her combat trial that morning. He cast her a sideways glance, smiling.

“I wanted to see for myself how my future general handles herself in a fight.”

She blushed. “And?”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You impressed me, my Alina. You always do.”

“Do you think I could beat you, old man?” she teased, and he laughed, the sound low and warm.

“No,” he assured her. “But I would very much like to see you try.”

Alina let her fingers skate over his stomach, drawing circles above his navel. He sighed happily, and they slipped into a comfortable silence, listening to the pace of their breathing slowly return to normal.

“I won’t let you use the Fold to kill innocent people,” she said, eventually.

“Hmm.”

Alina’s sat up and glared at him. “Don’t be so condescending. It’s a horrendous idea, and I’m never going to agree to it.”

He played idly with a strand of her hair. “Okay, Alina.”

“You don’t believe me?”

His fingers stilled and he met her gaze. There was a weight in his eyes that betrayed his age. “I believe that you think that now. But time can change a person, Alina, and you are very young.”

Alina wrinkled her nose and huffed a sigh. “That’s exactly what Baghra said.”

At the mention of his mother, Aleksander made a face. It was so childish that Alina couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“There are few people in this world who are more familiar with eternity than my mother,” he said, grudgingly. “As much as you may want her to be wrong, she knows what she’s talking about.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t see myself waking up one day with an urge to slaughter some innocent civilians just because they live on the wrong side of the border.”

Aleksander smiled slightly at her obstinate pout, running his thumb along her bottom lip.

“You know what they do to our people.”

“Yes, but –” she broke off to remove his hand from her mouth. “But hatred like that isn’t something you’re born with, Aleksander, it’s taught – learned. It can be unlearned. Why do you insist on jumping straight into world-levelling destruction, instead of trying to change the way they think about us?”

“Otkazat’sya cannot be changed,” Aleksander said scornfully.

“Have you given them a chance?” she asked, her voice quiet. He raised his brows.

“I have been around for a long time, Alina,” he reminded her. “They are all the same, always.”

Alina shook her head. “I think you’re wrong.”

He took her face in his hands, pushing her hair back with his fingertips. His thumbs rested on her cheekbones, sweeping back and forth in a slow, repetitive arc. There was so much affection in the way he looked at her; so much pity.

“I know you do.”

“I’m going to prove it,” she said firmly. “I know you want to create a world in which Grisha can be safe, wherever they are – I want the same thing. You need me for your plans, but I’m not going to agree to them. Not yet. We’re going to try it my way first.”

He tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “And what is your way?”

Alina clicked her tongue and slumped back into his arms. “I’m not sure yet. But I’m working on it.”

Aleksander’s hand skimmed down to her thigh, tucking her even closer against his body. “Well, let me know when you do. We will do as you wish, then, once you have seen how hopeless it is to expect the otkazat’sya to change their ways, you and I will walk into the Fold together and change the face of the world.”

Alina was quiet, admiring the lines of his face in profile, working up the courage to give voice to a question that she had been dancing around since she stepped foot into the war room earlier.

“Why bother?” she blurted out. “Why bother waiting for me to exhaust my naivety, my foolish hope? You could have put the antlers on me yourself. You needn’t have required my consent, then; you could have dragged my compliance from me and fulfilled all your plans instantly. Why didn’t you?”

Aleksander didn’t reply right away. He turned his head so that he was looking at her directly, his gaze lowered to her throat, staring at the place where the collar lay with something that may have been regret.

“A moment of weakness,” he said ruefully.

Wanting makes you weak.

Dismayed into silence, Alina leaned into him and let him kiss her until she forgot that, sometimes, she agreed with the sentiment.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Alina was interrupted in the middle of brushing her hair by a knock at the door.

She laid the brush on her dressing table and went to see who it was. An oprichnik stood on the other side of the door, placid as always.

“The General has invited you to join him for breakfast.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” she said, and he nodded as she closed the door softly.

Alina resumed brushing the knots out of her hair – a little more hastily than before – with a warmth blooming in her belly. Despite her best intentions, she had slept in her own bed yet again the previous night; after interrupting his meeting in the morning and throwing off his whole day’s schedule, Aleksander had been busy catching up on briefings and paperwork until late at night. He had kissed her hair and promised that he would see her in the morning. Alina hadn’t realised that meant immediately after waking up, but she supposed now that she shouldn’t have expected any differently – he was not patient at the best of times.

She peeked quickly at her reflection in the mirror, smoothing down her hair and making sure there was no dried drool on her chin, before she left her chambers. The oprichniki outside his door let her in, gesturing towards the dining room.

He lounged at the head of the table. Although he had invited her for breakfast, there was no food in sight – practically the whole tabletop was taken up by various pieces of paper, envelopes, and files.

“Good morning,” he said, without looking up from the newspaper he was perusing.

Alina took a seat next to him. “Breakfast, Aleksander? Really?”

He glanced at her then, one eyebrow raised. “What’s wrong with breakfast?”

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” she said, and her voice was scathing but there was a soft smile on her face that she couldn’t wipe away. “When I don’t show up in the dining hall this morning – well, people are going to talk.”

Aleksander shrugged one shoulder. “As you’ve said, people already have their suspicions about us. That will remain the case whether you have breakfast with me or not.”

“I would prefer not to add any fuel to that particular fire,” Alina grumbled.

“You are welcome to leave,” he said mildly.

Alina pouted. “No.”

He laughed and tossed the newspaper aside, tugging her out of her seat and into his lap. “Good.”

She kissed him indulgently, lazily, winding her fingers through his hair as he encircled her waist with his arms, until she heard the tell-tale click and creak of the war room doors being opened. Deciding that she’d rather not be discovered here when the servants came in with breakfast, Alina pulled back and made to climb down from Aleksander’s thighs. In response to her movement, he only gripped her waist tighter, eliciting a panicked squeak from Alina. She shoved desperately against his shoulders and he grinned, pressing one last kiss under her jaw before releasing her. Alina scrambled up from his lap and straightened out her rumpled kefta just in time for a maid carrying a large tray to appear in the doorway. The poor woman pointedly ignored the lack of distance between Alina and Aleksander, setting the tray down on the table and laying out the dishes among the stacks of papers. Alina automatically moved to help her, shifting some of the files out of the way, but Aleksander caught her wrist and nodded at her to sit down in the chair he had removed her from earlier. She glared at him and he tilted his head, one eyebrow raised – an entire argument passed between them in a few seconds of silence – until Alina slumped into her seat. The maid finished setting the table and bobbed a curtsy to each of them.

“Moi soverenyi,” she said, hurriedly, before rushing out of the room with the tray clutched under her arm.

“I thought after all this time at the Little Palace, you’d be used to people waiting on you,” Aleksander mused, as he poured himself a cup of tea and reached for the silver dish of jam.

“Old habits die hard,” was all Alina said in response. She eyed the spread in front of them. It was the same kind of food served at breakfast downstairs – kasha, toasted rye bread, and, of course, the dreaded pickled herring – but Aleksander’s table was graced with the addition of not one but two types of jam, a jar of honey, and a dish of hot, stewed berries.

“What are you reading the –” Alina paused in the middle of scooping berries into her kasha to squint at the newspaper Aleksander had resumed reading. “Os Alta Times for?”

“I read the newspapers every morning,” he replied. “It’s important to stay up to date on the happenings of the world.”

“Don’t you have an extensive spy network for that very reason?”

“Yes,” he said, setting the newspaper aside and picking up the next one from his pile – the Ravkan Herald. “And my spies are very good at what they do. But I like to know how the otkazat’sya report on the same events.”

Aleksander pushed a small stack of envelopes towards her.

“These are reports from my agents in Shu Han. I’ve been told your Shu is excellent – translate them for me.”

Alina stared at the bundle of letters questioningly. “This is why you invited me to breakfast?”

His lips quirked into a smile. “Call it training.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say my Shu is excellent,” she said with a sigh, but pushed her half-finished bowl of kasha aside and reached for a pen and blank paper, nonetheless.

“Most of the messages will be written in code,” Aleksander said absently, his eyes trained on the page in front of him. “But don’t worry about that. I’ll deal with it later.”

Alina unwound the waxed string that secured the bundle and pried open the first letter. “Don’t you speak Shu?”

He smirked. “Yes.”

“Why are you getting me to do this, then?” she huffed. He looked up at her again, a keen glint in his dark eyes.

“I told you,” he said. “Training. An introduction to life as general of the Second Army.”

Alina took a sip of tea and turned her attention to the letter in front of her. It took her a moment to adjust to the hurried, scrawled calligraphy, but then it was only a matter of minutes to translate the message. She folded up the letter and moved on to the next one, continuing to eat her breakfast slowly as she worked. It was easy to get absorbed in the translations, and Alina didn’t even notice when Aleksander pushed back his chair and came to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder to read what she had written. She jumped when his hand appeared in her line of vision, shuffling through the heap of letters she had already finished with.

“You work fast,” he observed. Alina just shrugged, twiddling the pen in her fingers.

Aleksander leaned further forward, draping one arm over her shoulder, pulling the pages of her translations closer so that he could read them.

“What do you think?” he asked her. Alina frowned.

“About what?”

He nodded towards the lines she had written. “The messages.”

“They’re all in code,” Alina couldn’t help but state the obvious.

She could feel him smile. “I know. I’m asking if you’ve been able to decipher any of it – it’s not overly complex. Trained codebreakers would make short work of it, I’m sure, but it’s only meant to hold up against nosy couriers.”

“Well...” Alina said slowly. She couldn’t tell him that she had already worked out most of his code months ago, when she planted a fake report about jurda parem in his office. “I noticed a few repeated phrases.”

She reached for one of the letters, indicating a pair of characters with her pen. “Here. These two characters – ‘hunting’ and ‘bird’ – they appear together like this quite frequently. I would translate it as bird of prey, but that’s a completely different combination of characters. This is very literal.”

Aleksander nodded, pleased. “Any guesses?”

“Something to do with the falcon – the symbol of the Shu royal family.”

“That’s where we got the idea, but it’s a more generic phrase used to refer to any Shu military units. I like to keep tabs on the movements of their troops as much as I can. If I can get advance notice of massive mobilisation, I might be able to tell where and when they’re planning to strike at us and respond accordingly.”

Alina pursed her lips. “That’s why most of your spies are telling you about which direction the hunting birds are travelling.”

Aleksander shot her a glance. “You figured out the codewords for the cardinal directions?”

“Of course,” Alina scoffed. “I was a mapmaker, remember? I mean, ‘towards the mountains’, well, that’s fairly obviously north. Then ‘at dawn’ for east and ‘at dusk’ for west – again, not a huge leap. That only leaves south – which must be ‘across the plains’. Right?”

“Correct on all counts,” Aleksander said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing the top of her head. “You would make a good spy.”

He straightened up and went back to his own seat, pouring himself another cup of tea and adding a large spoonful of honey. Alina’s body ached for him the second he stepped away from her. She picked up her pen to continue with her translations but paused as she unfolded the next missive, her eyes sliding towards Aleksander again.

A question sat on the tip of her tongue – something she had been wondering how to bring into conversation for a few days – but Alina knew that to ask it would be to open a can of worms. She wanted to choose the right moment to ask it, but she was never sure what that moment would look like.

He must have felt her staring at him because he glanced up from the file he had been flicking through, meeting her gaze before she could look away. Her cheeks flushed.

“Go on, Alina,” he said.

Alina tapped the end of her pen against the table. “Say I wanted to find the sea whip...”

Aleksander’s eyebrows shot up; clearly, whatever he had expected her to say, it wasn’t this. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” Alina said. “Maybe. But if I did – how would we do that?”

She did not want to hunt the sea whip. The stag on its own, combined with her rigorous training, was more than enough – besides which, she knew from past experience that once she combined two of Morozova’s amplifiers, her body would crave and itch for the third. She couldn’t even comprehend putting herself in that position willingly.

Aleksander considered her question for a moment. “We’d need to cross to West Ravka and sail up the coast. The stories say that the sea whip guards the Bone Road.”

There was another brief silence, during which Alina willed him to continue. She couldn’t ask what she wanted to ask – it might make her motives too obvious.

“Those are treacherous waters,” he mused. “We would do well to hire a captain who knows them well."

Alina jumped at the opportunity he had unknowingly given her. “I would like to meet them, first. I want to know who we’d be travelling with. If I go through with it – it’s too important to entrust to somebody who is a complete stranger.”

He nodded, his eyes calculating. “I agree. I’ll have my people in West Ravka look into it.”

The bells in the clock tower rang, signalling the end of breakfast, and Alina swallowed the last of her tea before standing.

“I need to go – it’s my last Ravkan History lecture before the written exam.”

Aleksander caught her wrist as she went to leave, tilting his head up towards her expectantly. Alina smiled wryly.

“You’d make me late for a few more minutes of attention?” she teased, bending her head to kiss him. She’d meant to make it brief – chaste, even – but once their lips touched, she sank into it blissfully. His other hand reached up to hold her face, his fingertips lacing through her hair, and Alina kissed him until she felt drunk and dizzy on the taste of him.

Eventually, he pulled away, his mouth curled in an utterly sinful smirk. “I would.”

Alina laughed and freed her wrist from his grasp, turning away with renewed determination to make it through the door this time.

“Come to me later,” he called after her as she hurried through his war room. He needn’t have bothered; they both knew she couldn’t stay away.

She caught up with her friends in the corridor outside their classroom, breathless and dishevelled, clutching her books to her chest. Taisa shot her a funny look.

“You weren’t at breakfast?”

Alina didn’t believe in the Saints, but she might have prayed silently in that moment for the ability to speak these words without blushing.

“No,” she said, as evenly as possible. “The General wanted to see me.”

Taisa and Stefaniya raised their eyebrows and shot one another a significant look.

“Oh – are you still in trouble after he caught you sneaking out?” Stefaniya asked.

Alina frowned. “It’s kind of hard to tell.”

They filed into the classroom and found their usual seats. Taisa pursed her lips as she opened her book in front of her, deep in thought.

“Do you think –” she began, then broke off with a sideways glance at Alina. “Never mind.”

Alina poked her in the arm. “Don’t do that! What were you going to say?”

She made a face but continued, speaking in a low voice. “Do you think General Kirigan ever went on a wild bender when he was younger? I mean, he had to go through basic training like all the rest of us, right?”

Stefaniya clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her snorts of laughter. Alina tried to picture Aleksander climbing over the palace walls to go dancing in some shady back-alley bar and couldn’t. But he had lived a long time – he must have done things like that at some point.

“It would be kind of sad if he hadn’t,” Taisa said thoughtfully.

“Maybe that explains why he’s so...” Stefaniya didn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes darted towards Alina again and two spots of colour appeared in her cheeks. Alina only smiled.

“Uptight?” she suggested. “Miserable? Bad-tempered?”

Her friends giggled.

“At this rate, Alina, you’ll earn yourself another punishment for disregard of authority,” Taisa grinned.

This time, Alina failed to hold back the blush at the thought of what such a punishment might entail. She was saved from having to come up with a coherent response when Nilima cleared her throat and began the lecture.

The conversation stayed with her throughout the day. She vaguely remembered, through a slight haze of inebriation, telling Aleksander that he could do with getting blind drunk and making terrible decisions. Perhaps she had been too blunt, but Alina didn’t think she was necessarily wrong.

Which is what led her to sneak down into the kitchens that evening to raid the storerooms. It was easy enough, now that she could turn herself invisible without too much trouble, to avoid being noticed by any of the staff and abscond back to her room with a bottle of vodka tucked into her kefta. Once she was back in her chambers, though, she felt a little foolish; there was no way he would agree to this.

She sighed and wandered to her mirror, wishing Genya were here – she always seemed to know how to soothe away Alina’s insecurities, with a delicate brush of her fingers and the right combination of words.

Alina ran her fingers over the blue fabric of her kefta. Almost unwillingly, she turned around, her gaze landing solidly on her huge wardrobe.

A minute passed in which Alina did nothing but breathe, unable to chase away the mental image of herself in black. Aleksander had told her before that she would one day step into the colour willingly, and she hated, hated the thought that he might be right – but Saints, she wanted so badly to feel powerful right now. She wanted to have the confidence to waltz into his war room and give him no choice but to drink with her tonight.

Groaning through gritted teeth, Alina stomped across the room, shedding her clothes as she did so. She stood before her armoire in nothing but her underthings and stockings, rummaging through the drawers for the black shirt and trousers she knew she had buried in there many months ago.

There were two black kefta in the very back of her wardrobe – the one she had worn to the winter fête and the one Aleksander had strong-armed her into the day they went to the fountain. Alina chose the latter; she had been wearing it the very first time she drew a confession out of him, and she felt she might need that good luck again tonight. It was thicker than her summer kefta, so she didn’t button it up fully, leaving the base of her throat exposed. She brushed her hair and left it loose around her shoulders.

Alina stood in front of her mirror again. Her heart sped up a little at the sight of herself in his colour. It made her look strong; like a general. She sighed resentfully. Aleksander was going to be insufferable about this.

Before she could think about it too much, Alina snatched up her stolen vodka and stalked to the door.

The oprichniki made no move to stop her as she strode into the war room. Aleksander, unsurprisingly, was sitting at his desk, a frown creasing his forehead as he pored over a stack of correspondence.

“Alina,” he murmured distractedly. He glanced up as she drew closer and did a double take at the sight of the bottle in her hand.

“Aleksander,” she said, flashing him a demure smile as she set the vodka on the desk in front of him with a flourish.

He raised one eyebrow slowly. “What is this?”

Alina wrapped an arm around his shoulder and leaned into his side. “You work too hard, you know.”

He pulled her closer, running his hand down her thigh, then froze. His eyes darted up and down her body.

“You’re wearing black,” he said. His voice was strained.

Alina pressed her lips to the crown of his head and smiled. Power hummed in her veins. “I am.”

Slowly, he tilted his face upwards, gazing at her distrustfully. “What do you want, Alina?”

She nodded towards the bottle on the desk. “No more working tonight. Let’s have a little fun.”

Aleksander tucked a wave of her dark hair behind her ear. His fingers skimmed the edge of her face.

“Tell me why.”

Alina frowned. “Why what?”

“Why you wore black tonight.”

She grimaced at the thought of having to admit his prediction had come true. Her gaze skittered away from him, over the desk, the bottle of vodka, the opposite wall, anywhere to avoid looking into his eyes as she told him what he wanted to hear. He caught hold of her jaw and dragged her face towards his.

“Look at me, Alina,” he commanded, his voice low and gentle. She sighed. She could already feel heat crawling up her neck and into her cheeks.

“It makes me feel powerful,” she mumbled.

His eyes flashed exultantly and a triumphant smirk spread across his face. Alina scowled at him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said firmly. “Or I’m taking my alcohol and leaving. I’m sure I can find better company than you.”

“My Alina,” he gloated. “Don’t you think I know an empty threat when I hear one?”

He kissed her once, hard, and released his grip on her. Alina harrumphed.

“I’ll get some glasses,” he said, but she shook her head.

“No need. We’re going to play a game.”

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “A drinking game?”

Alina left his side and pulled out the seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Something I learned in First Army. It’s easy.”

She bundled up his papers unceremoniously and pushed them to one side, then unscrewed the bottle and let it sit in between them.

“You just say, ‘I’ve never’, and then something that you haven’t done, and the other person drinks if they have done it.”

Aleksander almost smiled. “Another ploy to uncover all my secrets? Haven’t you had enough yet?”

“Certainly not,” she grinned, and gestured towards the bottle. “I’ll start. I’ve never secretly been the centuries-old villain who tore the whole country in two.”

He rolled his eyes, and the childishness of the gesture made him look so young, just for a moment. He reached for the bottle without complaint and took a gulp.

“This is truly awful vodka,” he said, his face screwed up in disgust, as he put the bottle back down between them. “Where did you get it?”

“I may have taken a detour via the storerooms on my way back from dinner.”

He shook his head in mock disapproval. “Thievery? You are racking up quite a list of offences. I could have you court-martialled.”

Alina grinned at him. “Don’t you think I know an empty threat when I hear one?”

He tutted and leaned back in his chair. “My turn. I’ve never hidden the fact that I’m Grisha.”

“You already knew that,” Alina accused as she swallowed a mouthful of vodka with a wince.

“You already knew that I created the Fold,” he pointed out archly.

She waved a hand at him. “That was just to demonstrate the rules of the game. I think it will be more fun if we avoid things we’ve already discussed.”

Aleksander seemed unconvinced. “More fun?”

“Yes,” Alina said. “For example: I’ve never instructed one of my spies to befriend the Sun Summoner so that I can keep her under surveillance without it being obvious.”

Aleksander went very still, staring at Alina without blinking while she smiled innocently back at him. He heaved a noisy sigh and reached for the vodka.

“How long have you known?”

“Please,” she scoffed. “You told me yourself that she’s your spy in the royal household. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

He leaned forward against the desk and slid the bottle back towards her. “I’ve never slept with my childhood best friend.”

Alina blushed bright pink. For a moment, she considered lying and refusing to drink, but he had doubtlessly already seen the truth on her face. She fumbled for the bottle and took a swig of vodka, allowing the burn of it to soothe some of her embarrassment.

Aleksander sat back again with a satisfied smile. “I knew it,” he muttered.

Flustered and indignant, Alina retaliated. “I’ve never slept with a person of the same sex.”

His smile widened and he took a drink. Alina’s mouth popped open. “Really?”

“I’m over five hundred years old, Alina,” he reminded her. He took another drink, for good measure, before he set the bottle back down with a dull thunk. “I’ve never taught myself how to turn things invisible without telling anyone.”

Alina gaped. “How in the hells did you know that?”

He smirked and pointed to the bottle. “Drink.”

She did as he bade, tipping another stream of vodka down her throat. The strength of it made her eyes water.

“I’ve never killed a king,” she said slowly.

He raised his eyebrows but did not move. Alina frowned, and he laughed at her confusion.

“Not yet, anyway. Do I drink if I have fantasised about it?”

“No,” Alina said grudgingly. “You get away with it, this time. It’s your turn.”

“Hmm,” Aleksander hummed contemplatively. “I’ve never been so drunk that I kissed two of my friends and forgot about it.”

She glared at him as she picked up the bottle again. “I’ve never lied about not paying attention to Little Palace gossip.”

He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t need to rely on gossip to get my information, Alina.”

Of course – Genya. Alina groaned and let her head fall forward onto the table. She should have seen that coming. In the back of her mind, she realised with a surge of relief that he had only mentioned two friends. Genya had not told him about Cailean.

“Please, stop asking Genya to spy on me,” Alina said, raising her head. “She’s my friend. She would feel awful if she found out I knew she’d told you all this.”

“Okay,” Aleksander said, unexpectedly. “So long as you tell me the truth.”

Alina nodded rapidly. “I will. I already do,” she said, then grinned sheepishly at the sight of his reproving frown. “Most of the time.”

“Very well,” he accepted, then seemed to hesitate before adding: “I tell you the truth, most of the time.”

She smiled. “I know. It’s your turn, Aleksander.”

“I’ve never been so in denial that I ran away from the person I almost kissed,” he said pointedly.

Alina made a sour face. He must be getting drunk if he was feeling petty enough to bring that up.

“That’s very specific,” she muttered, but she took another slug of vodka anyway. “I wouldn’t have suggested this game if I knew I’d be drinking this much more frequently than you.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Aleksander said softly, almost apologetically, as if he knew that this was a fear that kept Alina awake at night. She stared at him, chewing on her bottom lip. A chasm opened up somewhere in her chest.

“I’ve never had children,” she blurted. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly needed to know this, but she felt the words pour out of her before she had a chance to stop them. Aleksander’s jaw tensed, ever so slightly, and his hands stayed resolutely still on the desk in front of him.

“Alina –” he started, but she held up one finger to stop him.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she said firmly.

Her head was swimming; the effects of the vodka were starting to sink in. Aleksander had a look in his eye that she didn’t like – as if he knew he might regret what he was about to say. Alina knew that he would say it anyway.

“I’ve never killed someone I loved.”

She sucked in a breath and tore her gaze away from him, her vision blurring with tears.

Blue sky.

Blindly, she reached for the vodka, took two long gulps and would have had a third had Aleksander not plucked the bottle from her grasp.

“That’s enough,” he said.

“How did you know?” Alina asked flatly, scrubbing at her wet cheeks with the heel of her hand. The sympathy in Aleksander’s gaze was unbearable.

“I’ve seen what that does to a person enough times before,” he explained gently. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Alina screwed her eyes shut.

Someone to mourn me.

She shook her head, and he didn’t press the matter. The smooth wood of the desk was blessedly cool against the fiery heat of her palms. With his eyes still trained on her, Aleksander tipped the bottle back and took several generous swigs. Alina watched the way the muscles and tendons in his throat shifted as he swallowed. She felt suddenly as if she had been stripped down to the bone, her falsehoods torn away and discarded, all her secrets exposed. It should have made her feel vulnerable, but it only made her feel light; it made her feel free.

Alina stood up from her chair and snatched the bottle from between Aleksander’s fingers.

“No hogging the vodka,” she chastised. “I’m the one who stole it – I get to drink as much as I want.”

He watched her without moving from his seat as she wandered to the window and stared out at the sky beyond. The bright blue was beginning to fade, washed out by pale evening light, gold and pink hues soaking into the fluffy white clouds.

“You might regret it tomorrow morning,” he said, drumming his fingers absently against the desk.

“No, no – none of that,” Alina insisted. “No thinking about tomorrow. There is no tomorrow. It’s just us, right now, in this moment, and nothing else exists beyond that.”

She took another sip and held the bottle towards him, waggling it temptingly. Alina was sure she could have gotten drunk on nothing more than the way he smiled at her then, slow and sharp, as he pushed himself to his feet and stalked across the room towards her. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he pulled her towards him so that her back was flush against his chest.

“To no tomorrow,” he murmured in her ear, relieving her of the bottle and throwing his head back to drink.

Alina leaned back happily, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. He dropped a kiss against her hair.

“What are you thinking, Alina?”

She shook her head ever so slightly. “Nothing important. Just watching the sunset.”

In her mind’s eye, she could see another sunset, another window, feel the impossible weight of the wishbone in her fingers. A moment that had altered the course of her life, and the lives of so many others.

Aleksander hummed quietly. “A time of change.”

She held out her hand, a wordless demand, and he pressed the bottle into her open palm. They stood just like that, passing the vodka back and forth between them, until the sky had flared with colour – soft peach and apricot and gleaming burnished bronze – and the sun had long since receded below the horizon, until the gloom of twilight dropped over the world, casting everything in inky blues and purples.

“Alina,” Aleksander spoke softly, as if unwilling to break the stillness that had descended. “It will be tomorrow soon.”

She smiled. “There is no tomorrow, remember?”

“There will be,” he breathed, dipping his head to kiss her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. “But we can hold it off for a while longer.”

His fingers dug into her hips and he spun her to face him, catching her lips with his. The bottle – now almost empty – fell from Alina’s fingers and rolled across the floor with a hollow rattle. She leaned upwards eagerly, gripping the collar of his kefta for support, tipping her head back as he bore down on her. His breath tasted of alcohol. She could feel every line of his body pressed up against hers.

She ran her tongue over the sharp edge of his teeth and whimpered. Saints. She had never needed anything like this, never so violently, so wholly. It was all-consuming.

Aleksander started to push her towards his bedroom. They didn’t break apart, laughing breathlessly as they stumbled over uneven floorboards and bashed into furniture with every staggering step. He was already working on the buttons of her kefta; Alina realised that her hands were busy with the same task, a decision she didn’t remember consciously making.

They made it to the bedroom, crashing through the door, stalling halfway to the bed as they struggled out of their clothes, casting them to the floor in a pile of black and gold and black. Alina took Aleksander by the wrists as she led him backwards across the room. Later, she would blame the alcohol for the way she turned them around, giddy and uninhibited, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed, sliding herself down to her knees in between his legs.

Some small part of her couldn’t help but scream out in protest, rebelling against the idea that she should ever kneel before him, supplicant, but the strangled noise he made as she did so was easily enough to silence that voice.

“Alina –” he gasped and swore in Old Ravkan, his voice ragged, his hands fisted in the sheets, his composure in tatters on the floor. This was power, heady and intoxicating; Alina savoured the taste of it, losing herself in every juddering breath that he took, every bitten-back groan, every muttered curse.

She ratcheted up the tension in his body until he growled, diving forwards to wind his fingers through her hair and haul her head back. He held her like that, his black eyes blazing as they raked down the exposed skin of her neck, her breasts, her stomach. His chest was heaving, a flush high in his cheekbones. Pinned by his gaze, held still by his grip on her hair, Alina grinned widely, defiant.

“You’re a wicked thing,” he grumbled, tugging her off her knees and onto the bed next to him. Her delighted laugh was cut off as he flipped her onto her back, the movement so fast it left Alina dizzy, and suddenly she was the one gasping his name. Heat spread through her so fast that she whined, and Alina was too caught up in her desire to even register the indignity of it. The pattern on the canopy above her came in and out of focus as she bucked and squirmed, her legs wrapped around Aleksander’s shoulders, his hands on her hips to hold her in place. He was meticulous, even with half a bottle of vodka inside him – drawing out her pleasure in waves of intensity, guiding her through the crests and troughs, until she lay before him, shaking and panting, bright little sparks of light dancing across her skin. Aleksander caught one on his fingertips, watching it burn there for a second before sputtering out. His hair was damp and dishevelled where Alina had raked her fingers through it. She didn’t think he had ever looked more divine, or more diabolical, than he did in this moment.

Alina pushed herself into a sitting position and his gaze snapped back towards her.

“Little Saint,” he scolded. “I don’t think I’m finished with you yet.”

She only laughed and pounced at him, knocking him onto his back and clambering over his hips. He glowered at her, utterly indignant, but there was a feverish sort of lust in his eyes that Alina very much liked the look of. His hands went to her waist and he shifted under her weight, trying to sit up again. Alina put her palm on his chest and pushed him back down.

“Stay still,” she ordered. “Darkling.”

His eyes flashed but he lay back down while Alina settled herself on top of him, drawing a stuttering gasp from them both. She tipped her head back with a groan, her fingernails trailing over his chest, and he wrapped his hands around her thighs to keep her movements steady.

When Alina tilted forwards, he seized her wrists, pulling her towards him. His smile was as beautiful as it was cruel.

“Sun Summoner,” he breathed, and he said it like a taunt. Alina snarled.

“Heretic.”

“Sankta.”

They were both breathing hard. Alina’s hair was falling in her eyes. Aleksander let go of her wrists to push it back from her face, tangling his fingers through the dark strands. He was moving underneath her now, meeting her, challenging her, running his hands over her breasts, her waist, while she stretched and arched above him, gripping the headboard for support. Alina could feel her release building inside her, a spring coiled tight, a heat in her belly that only kept getting hotter.

His hips jerked, and it was enough to send Alina careening over the edge. Her senses imploded. A rush of light, with all the warmth and brilliance of the midday sun, burned through the room, only to be swallowed moments later by a wave of shadows that extinguished all the lamps and blacked out the windows. Aleksander looked at her with something that could have been agony or ecstasy, his eyes widening and his lips parting, then dragged her body down against his, pressing his face into the curve of her neck to muffle his cry. He gripped her shoulders so tightly Alina wondered if there might be bruises there tomorrow.

Her strength completely gone, she slumped into his chest and rolled halfway off him, one leg still hitched up over his thighs. Neither of them moved for a long time after that. A full moon dangled in the sky beyond the delicate glass of the window, and Alina drew its silvery light into the room, banishing the last traces of darkness which still clung stickily to the walls.

Eventually, she pushed herself up with a groan and waddled to the adjoining bathroom. The floor seemed to tip and sway under her feet with every step; it took her longer than she cared to admit to make the journey there and back. By the time she collapsed back into bed, Aleksander still hadn’t moved.

“Aleksander?” she whispered, nudging his arm. “Are you awake?”

He stirred, then, rolling onto his side and reaching towards her.

“Come here,” he mumbled, blinking at her sleepily.

Something unspeakably tender stole up and took Alina’s breath from her throat. She crawled into his arms, doing her best to tug the sheets up over them, nestling her head under his chin.

“Stay with me,” he said, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear it.

“I will, Aleksander,” she promised.

He sighed happily, kissing her forehead, and rubbed his hand up and down her back in slow, soothing motions. Alina let herself drift towards sleep.

Just as she was on the verge of unconsciousness, she heard him murmur something in Old Ravkan – a phrase she recognised. I love you.

It swam in her head for a few moments while she wondered what to make of it.

He won’t remember this in the morning, Alina thought to herself, and neither will you.

And she didn’t.

Chapter Text

Alina woke up feeling like somebody was taking a hammer and nail to her skull.

She opened her eyes and immediately wished that she hadn’t. They hadn’t closed the curtains the previous night, and the sunshine that streamed through the window was painfully bright. Groaning, she buried her face in Aleksander’s chest, hoping that she could go back to sleep.

The pounding in her head only got louder. Alina pressed her hands into her eyes, wishing she could tear them out to relieve the spikes of heat that jagged into them every time she blinked.

“Aleksander?” she moaned. He grunted in response.

“I’m awake,” he said, sounding very much like he wished not to be.

“The hangover cure you stole from me. I need it.”

There was a moment of silence as his brain struggled to catch up with what she had said, then he groaned, covering his face with both hands.

“I had Genya return it to your room already.”

Alina could have sobbed. Her mouth tasted like something had died in it and the thumping in her head just wouldn’t stop.

“Moi soverenyi – General?”

Fedyor’s voice sounded faintly through the door. Alina realised suddenly that the sharp hammering in her skull wasn’t a headache – it was knocking. Her eyes went wide and she grabbed Aleksander’s arm, panicked.

“A moment, Fedyor,” he called back. The banging on the door stopped.

Alina threw back the sheets and scrambled out of bed, Aleksander shortly behind her. Their clothes, tossed aside so hastily the previous night, lay in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. Alina picked through them hurriedly, snatching up her black shirt and tugging it on.

It wasn’t until she had fastened the final button that she realised it reached almost to her knees. Her arms were drowning in the sleeves. A small bleat of alarm slipped past her lips as she glanced frantically at Aleksander. He had managed to locate his trousers easily enough and they hung loosely from his hips, the top button still undone. He was holding an identical but much smaller black shirt in front of him, staring at it in abject confusion, his brow furrowed, as if trying to work out how it had managed to shrink several sizes overnight.

At this exact moment, Fedyor decided to open the door.

“Moi soverenyi –”

All three of them froze. Fedyor’s eyes, the size of planets, went between Alina and Aleksander. His grip on the door handle tightened until his knuckles went white. Alina opened her mouth to say something that might break the spell which had them all bound, but nothing came out.

Ivan appeared in the doorframe behind Fedyor, a frown etched on his face as he came to see what could possibly have happened to cause his partner’s sudden lack of function. With one glance, he took everything in, nodded brusquely to Aleksander, and gently pulled Fedyor back into the war room. The door closed behind them. Aleksander blinked slowly.

The whole situation was so awful and so ridiculous that Alina could do nothing other than find it outrageously funny. She doubled over, clapping a hand over her mouth to smother the choked, heaving, hiccupping laughter that spilled out of her, uncontrollably. Her hysteria was her downfall; mid-laugh, her stomach clenched, rolled over, and Alina made a horrified noise in her throat. She raced to the bathroom, her hand still clamped over her mouth, and made it just in time to empty the contents of her stomach into Aleksander’s toilet.

He was a few steps behind her, looking faintly green himself, but he held her hair out of her face and rubbed her back gently until her body had stopped convulsing.

Alina sank to her knees on the cold porcelain tiles. She was shivering even though her skin blazed with heat.

“Why did you let me talk you into this?” she lamented. He smiled slightly as he sat next to her, pulling her into his lap so that he could continue rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades.

“You seduced me,” he said, pressing a kiss against her temple. “You showed up in black, knowing full well that I would agree to just about anything after that.”

She glared at him but couldn’t disagree. “In that case, I’d better go back to blue.”

He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t you dare.”

Alina laughed and leaned into him. His body was solid and comforting, the steady beat of his heart an anchor to which she tethered her own racing pulse.

“I’m fine, now,” she said after a moment. “I just need to tidy myself up a bit before we face them.”

“No, you stay here, Alina,” Aleksander’s expression darkened. “I’ll deal with them.”

She poked him reproachfully in the chest. “They know now, anyway, so I might as well. Besides, Fedyor is my friend – I want to make sure you don’t actually kill him.”

Aleksander relented with a humph. He helped Alina to her feet, smoothing her hair back from her face, then tugged at the hem of her shirt – his shirt – with a smirk.

“I’ll need this back, you know.”

“You have a wardrobe full of nothing but black shirts,” Alina pointed out, swatting his hand away. “Bring me the rest of my clothes and leave me in peace, you brute.”

He dragged her towards him, ignoring her gasps of protest, and set upon her with a devouring kiss.

“Call me that again and I might prove you right,” he said in her ear when she at last managed to fight him off, cheeks flushed and panting.

With one final kiss on her forehead, he vanished back into the bedroom. Alina went to the small basin, wincing at her reflection in the mirror – her skin was pallid, damp with sweat, her hair lank and tangled, the bruise-like shadows under her eyes making her face appear sunken. She splashed cold water on her face, rinsed her mouth, and tried to comb the knots out of her hair with her fingers.

Aleksander nudged the door open. He was fully dressed and at first glance, with his perfectly neat hair and fresh shirt, seemed to be entirely collected – only Alina knew him well enough to notice that his skin was even paler than normal, his face was drawn, and there was an uncomfortable stiffness in the way he held himself.

“Go on, then,” Alina said as she took the bundle of clothes he offered and peeled off her borrowed shirt. “How many years has it been since your last hangover?”

He looked grim. “Too long, apparently. Is it always like this?”

Alina laughed. “I think this is good for you. You could do with being humbled every once in a while.”

She finished buttoning up her kefta and turned back to the mirror. The sight was not quite so horrifying as before, but she was still only a short step above corpse-like. She sighed.

“It will do. Let’s go.”

Fedyor and Ivan were waiting in the war room, deep in a frantic, hushed conversation. They both fell silent when Alina and Aleksander walked in. Fedyor looked almost as unwell as Alina felt.

Aleksander crossed his arms and regarded them both coldly.

“Please, tell me what was so urgent that you felt the need to enter my chambers after I specifically told you to wait.”

Fedyor blanched. “Moi soverenyi, I can only apologise for the intrusion. However, it was an emergency, and I thought, under the circumstances...”

He trailed off. Aleksander raised one eyebrow.

“I see. And the nature of this emergency?”

“Well –” Fedyor began, but then his gaze slid to Alina, and he seemed lost for words again. Ivan stepped in.

“The Sun Summoner was missing,” he said calmly. Alina pressed her lips together in a flat line and refused to look at Aleksander.

“Pardon?”

“We were alerted that Miss Starkov did not show up to her Small Science theory lecture this morning. She was not at breakfast, the oprichniki on duty in this wing had not seen her, and her maid informed us that she was not in her room.”

With every word that Ivan spoke, Alina’s mortification grew. Neither she nor Aleksander said anything, but Ivan carried on, stoic and unperturbed as always.

“I took a small party of oprichniki and searched the Little Palace – the library, common rooms, training ground, and the barracks – and when that turned up nothing, the only conclusion left to be drawn was that she had either fled on her own or been taken by our enemies, in light of which we felt it best to inform you of the situation.”

There were several moments of silence. Finally, Aleksander spoke again.

“Who else knows of this?”

Ivan shrugged. “Only us and a few of your oprichniki. Miss Starkov’s classmates will likely have pieced together that something is amiss by now.”

Alina wished she could sink through the floorboards and disappear.

Aleksander cleared his throat and uncrossed his arms. “Very well. In that case, I appreciate your swift response. However, as you can see, the Sun Summoner is not missing. All of this could have been avoided if you had come to me earlier.”

He glanced at Alina, who still had not moved, not opened her mouth. Aleksander sighed and waved his hand towards the two Heartrenders.

“You’re dismissed,” he said. Fedyor and Ivan nodded, relief flickering across their faces, and turned to leave. Aleksander crossed his arms again and watched them go, his eyes narrowed. “I hope I do not have to tell you that what you have seen this morning does not leave this room.”

“Yes, moi soverenyi,” they both said, bowing respectfully. Poor Fedyor practically ran for the door.

When they were gone, Aleksander turned to Alina. The façade of the Black General slipped away before her eyes, dissipating like smoke, as he took hold of her wrists and gently spun her to face him.

“Alina,” he said quietly, his voice concerned. “Are you okay? Are you going to be sick again?”

“No,” she scrunched up her face. “But that was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.”

He huffed a laugh and some of the tension left his shoulders as he pulled her into his arms. “They won’t tell anyone.”

“I know.”

She leaned forward, letting her forehead thump against his chest, breathing in his winter’s day smell – pine needles, cold air, woodsmoke and spice. He cradled her head protectively.

“You can stay here, you know,” he murmured against her hair. “I can call for a bath, some food...”

Alina sighed and shook her head. “I’d better not. I should go and catch up with my friends – find some excuse for why I’ve been missing all day. And I’ll need to see Professor Olkhovsky to catch up on what I missed. It was our last lecture, and the exam is in a few days.”

“Okay,” Aleksander kissed her forehead. “Later, then?”

She smiled up at him. “Later.”

Standing up on her tiptoes, Alina kissed him gently and briefly on the mouth, then hurried towards the door.

“I’ll have my Fabrikators make you a whole wardrobe of black kefta,” he called after her smugly. She made a rude gesture in his direction as she left the room, and he laughed.

As she rushed into her room, Alina glanced at the clock on the mantel – Saints, it was almost noon already – and decided to give herself five minutes to change and do her best to make her hair look presentable. The black kefta, shirt, and trousers were dumped onto the floor once again.

Five minutes later, now dressed in her usual blue summer kefta with her hair brushed and braided, Alina went in search of her Small Science theory professor. She wouldn’t have to fake her shamefaced apologies – she liked Professor Olkhovsky and she normally enjoyed her Small Science classes.

In the end, Professor Olkhovsky waved off her remorseful excuses – I’ve not been sleeping very well lately and I just slept right through the breakfast bell – with a smile.

“You have always excelled in my lessons – you have nothing to worry about, Miss Starkov,” he assured her. “I will give you a copy of the lesson notes to look over before the exam.”

She thanked him fervently and went in search of her friends.

They were in the library, getting in some last-minute revision before the Ravkan History exam the following morning. Nadia was the first to spot Alina as she wove through the bookshelves towards them; her eyes bugged out and she waved frantically.

“Alina!” she hissed as Alina flopped into a seat at their table. “Where the hells were you this morning?”

Alina tried to look a little sheepish, which wasn’t too difficult. “I slept in.” Not entirely untrue.

Marie prodded her with the end of her pen. “You missed the last Small Sciences class.”

“I know, I know,” Alina sighed. “I just went to get the notes from Professor Olkhovsky. I’m lucky that he likes me.”

“Everybody was wondering where you were,” Nadia said, leaning across the table in her enthusiasm. “Taisa said that yesterday you had breakfast with General Kirigan, so we thought maybe he had called on you again, but then when you didn’t show up to class...”

Alina cringed inwardly. “Approximately how many rumours are circulating the Little Palace right now?”

Nadia and Marie exchanged a contemplative glance. Then, Marie started counting them out on her fingers.

“Well, the main one is that you were sleeping with the General – that’s been around for a while now, as you know.”

“Wait,” Alina interrupted. “You don’t believe that?”

She shrugged. “At first. Now, not so much.”

Alina blinked in surprise. “Okay. Go on.”

“Then some people thought it wasn’t General Kirigan you were tumbling, it was –”

“Cailean,” Nadia completed for her, and Marie nodded.

“But that’s stupid because he was at breakfast, so we all know you weren’t with him.”

“Then there were a few mentions of your First Army tracker,” Nadia grinned. “And somebody suggested you’d gone off to find him.”

“And quite a few people were convinced you’d been kidnapped by drüskelle,” Marie said, with an air of finality. “There were more, but those were the only ones that really took off.”

Alina nodded slowly. “Nobody thought I might just have overslept?”

“Of course not,” Nadia scoffed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Despite herself, Alina laughed. “You’re all awful!”

Somebody a few tables over shushed them loudly. The three girls snorted and giggled, heads bent over their books so as not to make eye contact with one another, their shoulders shaking as they tried to contain their laughter.

The rest of the afternoon passed by easily. Alina read over her Small Science theory notes while Nadia and Marie quizzed one another quietly. She was almost surprised when the dinner bell rang, and she realised she’d been sitting there for hours.

They wandered down to the dining hall, discussing all the ways they wanted to celebrate finishing their training. Their planning was cut short by the sight of a familiar red kefta loitering outside the hall.

“Alina,” Fedyor said, apologetically. He looked like he was still embarrassed about the incident that morning. “General Kirigan –”

“Has requested my presence?” Alina interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “What a surprise.”

Fedyor coughed and shuffled his feet. Alina couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him – it wasn’t his fault she was romancing the most terrifying man in the country. She sighed and turned to her friends.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go. I swear, though – I'll see you tomorrow. Let’s go swimming in the lake after the exam.”

Marie shook her head with a smile. “It’s fine, Alina, really. We all knew this would happen. You’re the Sun Summoner – of course the General is going to take a personal interest, especially now that you’re finishing your training.”

Alina made a face, and Nadia laughed, springing forward to hug her. “Swimming sounds great, though. We deserve a break.”

They waved goodbye and vanished into the dining hall. Alina followed Fedyor upstairs, thinking to herself that she really shouldn’t need to be escorted around the palace anymore.

“Does he know that I know how to get to his chambers by myself?” she grumbled. A smile twitched briefly on Fedyor’s lips.

“He’s a cautious man,” he said, then paused, his face creasing. “Alina, I am –”

“Stop, Fedyor, please,” Alina pleaded. “Don’t say sorry. You’re forgiven – and I never want to talk about it again.”

He nodded, exhaling forcefully. “Okay. I can do that. Although, I don’t think Ivan will ever tire of making fun of me for this.”

Alina laughed, and then groaned, covering her face with one hand. “If it had to be anyone... I guess I’m glad it was you.”

They reached the war room. Fedyor stopped, a smile on his face again.

“Thanks, I think?”

Alina blew him a kiss as she pushed open the door. Aleksander was standing by the far wall, too casually, clearly pretending not to be waiting for her. The light spilling through the window behind him threw him into silhouette, catching on the curling tips of his hair like quicksilver. The door had barely clicked closed before he was crossing the room, burying his hands in her hair, and drawing her lips to his in a fervent kiss.

“Aleksander,” Alina said as she pulled away with a giggle. “It’s been just over six hours since you last saw me, not six months.”

“That’s still five hours and forty-five minutes too long,” he sighed.

Alina laced her fingers through his. “How old are you, again? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were acting like a lovesick teenager,” she teased, and he scowled at her.

“You sound like my mother.”

It was a sobering comparison. Alina’s face went slack with horror, and he laughed, sweeping her off her feet and gathering her up in his arms. Alina squawked in a most undignified manner.

“I thought you might like a bath before dinner,” he said, his voice low, eyes smouldering. “To help you relax.”

“It has been a stressful few days...” Alina mused. “A bath sounds nice. Will you join me?”

He smirked. “You can count on it.”

Alina’s breath caught when he carried her into the bathroom – there were candles on almost every surface, the light from their little flames making the shiny black and white porcelain tiles gleam. In the far corner of the room, on a raised dais, was a huge sunken tub, filled nearly to the brim. Delicate curls of steam rose from the water, which smelled heavenly.

Aleksander set her gently on her feet and she immediately started to unbutton her kefta, but he pulled her hands away with a tut.

“Wait,” he said, eyeing the blue fabric resentfully. “Don’t move.”

He undressed her completely, starting with her kefta, shirt, and stays; then, kneeling down in front of her, he removed her boots, stockings, trousers, and finally her underthings. When he stood before her again, raking his eyes up and down her naked body, Alina raised her eyebrows.

“Happy now?”

“I will be even happier when the Fabrikators finish your new kefta and I never have to see you in blue again,” he said menacingly, taking her by the shoulder and pointing her in the direction of the tub. “I’ll join you in just a moment.”

Alina climbed the few steps up to the tub and sank into the water with a grateful sigh. It was the perfect temperature. She turned so that she could watch Aleksander undress, admiring the way his body looked in the warm light and flickering shadows cast by the candles. He dropped his clothes on the floor next to hers and strode towards her, taking the steps in a single stride, before climbing into the tub. Alina was glad for the size of the thing – even with his long legs stretched out next to her, there was plenty of room for the both of them.

He dunked his head under the water and when he resurfaced, pushing his wet hair back with one hand, tiny droplets clinging to the ivory of his skin, something in Alina’s chest tightened painfully. His knees nudged hers; he regarded her from the other end of the tub with a smile in his eyes that was not yet showing on his lips.

“What are you thinking?”

Instead of answering his question, Alina chose this instant to plunge her own head into the water. For one blissful moment there was nothing but white noise and the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. Then she came back up, water streaming from her hair, the air of the bathroom cool against her flushed skin. Purposefully avoiding his gaze, she looked around for a bar of soap.

“Come here,” Aleksander said, his smile now fully on show. She shuffled awkwardly towards him, her movements clumsy and slow, and yelped when he took hold of her hips under the water and pulled her bodily in between his legs, her back to his chest. Alina sighed happily when he started to work the soap into her hair, patiently untangling the snarled strands with his fingertips. Neither of them spoke for a while.

“I was thinking about Fjerda,” Alina said eventually. Aleksander’s hands stilled momentarily before returning to their task.

“What about it?” he asked slowly.

“Well,” Alina began. “There are some people in Fjerda who worship the Saints, aren’t there?”

“Few,” Aleksander said. “And those that do have to do so in secret. But, yes.”

“You believe that the Saints were just powerful Grisha.”

He leaned forward to kiss her shoulder. “Yes. Like you.”

“Well... what if we could use that, somehow?” Alina said carefully, still trying to piece together all the disparate fragments of this half-formed idea.

“What do you mean?”

Alina took a long breath. Aleksander’s hands ran across the damp skin of her back, keeping her centred.

“What if I were to perform a... a miracle,” she winced even as she said it, hating the word, hating the implication of it. “Something huge. Something that would have even the people in Fjerda talking about the Sun Saint.”

He was quiet. Alina twisted her head around; his expression was deeply sceptical.

“I thought you hated being revered as Sankta Alina.”

“I do, but,” Alina threw up her hands in exasperation. “People will do it whether I like it or not. Why not turn that to our advantage?”

“Hmm.”

He sounded unconvinced. Alina pushed on anyway.

“You have agents in Fjerda, don’t you? Grisha?”

Aleksander nodded once. Alina shuffled round to face him fully, pushing her fingers slowly into his damp hair. She loved the way he reacted to her touch – his head tilting back, his Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly as he swallowed.

“What if we have them perform some miracles, too – little things, all over the country. Use people’s faith against them.”

Her hand moved further down, skating over the slick skin of his temple, the stubble of his beard, tracing the hard line of his jaw.

“I understand what you’re getting at,” he said, his voice a little rough. “It might even work. But it would be years before we saw any widespread change. The drüskelle aren’t going to stop in the meantime. What of all the Grisha who will be captured and taken to the Ice Court, while you go after hearts and minds? What of all those who will be burned at the stake?”

“I know,” Alina acceded. Her fingertips continued to walk down his body, trailing over his neck and the broad plane of his shoulders. “Which is why we need a miracle that is not just a miracle, but a show of strength, a reminder of our power. Ours, Aleksander.”

Aleksander’s gaze was inscrutable. “And what would you suggest?”

She smiled. Her hands dipped below the water, flat against the skin of his chest, his stomach. “Let’s see. You want to move the Fold into Fjerda; I want to destroy the whole thing. For now, let’s compromise.”

His breathing became sharp as Alina’s hand went lower again. “Compromise?” he asked, and now his voice was hitched slightly higher than normal. It unlocked something wild and primal in Alina’s body. She shifted her weight so that she was on her knees, her head just above his.

“What if the Fold did move into Fjerda?” she murmured. His eyes widened. “What if it got very close to swallowing up a small town on the border, and then Sankta Alina stopped it?”

“A reminder of our power,” Aleksander said, slowly. His grip tightened on her thighs as Alina leaned forward further, made the movement of her hand faster, and his eyes rolled back in his head. She pressed a kiss to the skin underneath his jaw.

“Throw the threat of the Fold in their face – then show them that we are strong enough to be merciful, too.”

“It would only work –” he ground out through gritted teeth, still haggling with her even now. “If you agreed not to destroy the Fold. We need it to remain if the threat is to have any weight.”

Alina clucked her tongue in disapproval. “You are short-sighted, Aleksander, and your obsession with the Fold would be your undoing. We are the two most powerful Grisha who have ever lived. What is the Fold compared to us? It is not the true threat – we are.”

He held her gaze, obstinate. Alina knew she wouldn’t talk him around – but that was just fine, because she had no intentions to. Talking wouldn’t be necessary.

She smiled sweetly and drew away from him. He choked out a wordless noise of protest, grabbing her wrists as she leant back to get out of the tub, a look of pure indignation sweeping across his face, followed closely by resignation.

“Alina,” he groaned. “Don’t make me do this.”

“I would never make you do anything, Aleksander. But you promised me we would do it my way first.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly. Alina shifted her hips a little against his thighs and he clenched his jaw again, shooting her a baleful glare. His eyes were dark with desire and something else, something malicious that hated to be controlled like this, by her.

“You’re detestable,” he said bitterly, yanking her wrists so that she tumbled forward against his chest, her arms crushed in between them. He lowered his head towards her but she jerked back, her lips just out of his reach.

“Say yes,” she breathed, her eyes sparking mischievously. “Say yes and I’ll finish what I started.”

The last of his resistance crumbled.

“Fine,” he growled, releasing Alina’s wrists so that he could grab her face and force her to kiss him. She smiled against his mouth, triumphant in her victory, and this only served to enrage him more; he pushed her off his lap and started to get to his feet, then, just as Alina thought he was actually storming off in a sulk, he lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

“Hey!” Alina cried. “I am not a sack of flour!”

Her face bumped into his back with every step down from the tub.

“You brought this on yourself, Little Saint.”

He carried her through to the bedroom and let her fall heavily onto the bed, climbing over her, caging her in with his limbs.

Alina, true to her word, did finish what she started; Aleksander started and finished a whole lot more.

When he laid her out on the bed before him, limbs splayed, skin still wet and glistening from the bath water, when a curl of shadow hooked around her wrists and drew taut, Alina gasped, willing her objections to be greater than the hot stain of need that spread through the core of her body.

She shouldn’t let him have her like this.

She opened her mouth to say as such, but he shot her a withering look and bent his head to kiss her, swallowing every word.

“Don’t try to pretend,” he said softly, threateningly, against her lips. “You knew what you were doing.”

It was true. She did know.

His hand wrapped around her throat. Alina strained against the shadows that held her, feeling them dig into her wrist, a delicious sharp bite of pain, and she whimpered. At his touch, the connection between them cracked wide open. He could feel every inch of her desire, a dark and heady thing, and he refused to let her deny it.

Aleksander’s smile was dangerous as he lowered his head towards hers.

“Remember, Alina – I know what you like.”

He kissed her cheek, a gentleness at odds with the whole scenario, and Alina knew then she was lost to him.

Once they had worn each other out, they lay together for a few moments, enjoying a temporary quietude. The bedsheets were rumpled and tangled up around them, thoroughly disarrayed. Alina was not in a much better state.

Aleksander got up to call for dinner, and Alina slipped from the bed to retrieve her clothes from the bathroom. He found her in front of the mirror, staring dejectedly at her hair, which was once again a dishevelled bird’s nest.

“My life would be much easier if you were a Tailor,” Alina complained. He smiled slightly at that, placing both hands on her shoulders and leading her back into his bedroom.

“Alas, I am no Tailor – but I can offer the next best thing.”

He sat her down on the stool before his little dressing table, produced a long-handled comb from one of the drawers, and began to brush her hair.

They fell into silence while he worked, attentive to each and every knot. Alina let her eyes fall closed, lulled by the sensation of the wide wooden teeth scraping lightly against her scalp.

“This is not the first time you’ve done this,” she murmured, echoing his words from a few days earlier. The motion of the comb through her hair slowed but did not stop.

“No,” he conceded, but did not elucidate any further.

Alina opened her eyes to watch him in the mirror. He was studiously avoiding her gaze, focused intently on the back of her head.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked quietly.

He did not answer right away. His fingers ran through a particularly bedraggled section of her hair, gently teasing out the matted clumps at the nape of her neck.

“Once.”

Alina’s heart broke a little bit for him then.

“In five hundred years?” she whispered.

He nodded curtly. “She died. After that...”

The rest of the sentence went unspoken. Alina had seen for herself the walls he had built up, the way he kept the rest of the world at arm’s length. Working tirelessly for the protection of his people without allowing himself to feel anything for them. Wanting makes us weak.

“Tell me about her?”

It took another few pulls of the comb through her hair before he spoke again.

“Her name was Luda,” he said, his voice measured. “She was a Healer.”

“When...” Alina’s voice broke, and she cleared her throat before continuing. “When was this?”

“A little more than four hundred years ago.”

Alina did not say anything, but he must have been able to sense her putting the pieces together as he spoke.

“I struck a deal with the King – Anastas. In exchange for our safety, I would build him an army of Grisha. It wasn’t easy, though; at this time Grisha had been persecuted for centuries. Most lived in hiding. They were deeply suspicious of the King’s soldiers. I travelled the country myself, seeking them out, and after a while, as word spread, they began to come to me. That was how I met Luda. She saved my life, actually,” he smiled fondly. “She did that a lot.”

He moved around a little, and now she could see him in her peripheral vision. He was nothing more than a blur of black and white, barely there, like a ghost.

“I built up quite a following. We were hardly an army – just an untrained, ragtag bunch of former fugitives – but I had struck a bargain and I intended to deliver on it. I kept my word to Anastas and I won him his wars. He named me his military advisor. My own success was the cause of our downfall.”

He brushed through the last segments of her hair and put the comb down on the table – dark wood upon dark wood.

“The royal court were furious that a Grisha, and a Shadow Summoner at that, would have so much sway with the King. His other advisors spoke out against me. The Apparat at the time, a man not dissimilar to our own, started preaching that Grisha were unnatural, inhuman. He named me the Black Heretic. The whispers that I was planning to overthrow the King and seize power for myself only got louder, until he acted on them.”

“And were you?” Alina asked carefully. “Planning to seize power, I mean?”

He smiled and tucked a lock of her still-damp hair behind her ear. “It may seem hard to believe, but no. I was different back then, Alina. I was hopeful. Power was not my goal – all I wanted was for my people to be safe. Accepted. I thought I had achieved that already. I didn’t see the betrayal coming until it was too late.”

Alina wished, not for the first time, that she’d had a chance to know Aleksander in his younger years. She tried to picture it: a passionate leader of an oppressed people, full of righteous fury and hope for a better future. Fighting for a noble cause. She reached forward, winding her fingers through his.

“Word got out that the King had turned on us. I didn’t really believe it at first. There was no Little Palace, then; most Grisha just lived in Os Alta, or Balakirev, or Ryevost. We were trying to integrate,” he said, his nose wrinkling with distaste as he said the word. “I didn’t believe it until I saw the soldiers – they were everywhere. Dragging my people from their homes and killing them in the streets. I gathered as many of us as I could, got them out before the soldiers could reach them, and we fled west, to a safehouse my mother and I had used before all this began.”

Aleksander sighed heavily. His thumb moved in circles against Alina’s palm.

“Luda and I lived just north of Kribirsk. I went to find her, to get her out, but I was followed. I knew that the King would want me taken alive and I thought I could use that to protect her. It wasn’t enough. They killed her in front of me – not because they needed to, just because they could.”

Alina felt the gaping black void of his grief rise up and swallow him. Something so huge and uncontrollable, it became its own living thing.

“And then you made the Fold,” she breathed.

He nodded a confirmation. “And then I made the Fold.”

There was a moment of silence before he continued. His eyes were on her, but so far away.

“I killed the soldiers and retreated back to the safehouse, where I knew my mother had stowed Morozova’s journals. His research on merzost gave me the power I needed to strike back at the King,” he took a shuddering breath, his grip on Alina’s hand tightening. “Only I didn’t know what I wanted – not really. To turn his army into my own, to slaughter them all where they stood, to raze the entire saintsforsaken country to the ground. The merzost took hold of something inside me, anger, loss, desperation, and grew.”

His shoulders slumped a little and he stopped talking. There was not much else to say. Alina stared, overwhelmed by the feeling of desolation that crept through the connection between them; a mere trickle, she knew, just a crack in the dam that held back the fathomless reservoir beyond.

“What was she like?” Alina asked. “Luda.”

She spoke the word carefully, the name a little strange in her mouth. Aleksander sighed again, softer this time, and pulled Alina up from the stool she was perched on, gathering her into his arms.

“She was –” he broke off, considering. “Kind. She cared for everyone around her, people she barely knew, with a ferocity I don’t think I’ve seen in any other person, before or since. She was stubborn, too. You would never be able to tell Luda that something was a lost cause.”

“She sounds nice,” Alina murmured. It felt like an insufficient way to describe this long-dead woman, the lost love of the man who held her now, but Aleksander nodded in agreement.

“Yes. She was. Even when everything was awful – when the world felt like it was falling apart around us – she always found a way to see the best in things. She saw the best in me. She knew the truth of me, and she loved me all the same.”

Unexpectedly, Alina felt the stinging pressure of tears in her eyes. I’ve seen what you truly are, and I’ve never turned away. She was glad, she supposed, that he had found that for himself, once.

There was a knock at the war room door. Aleksander pulled her closer for just a second, his lips on the crown of her head, before he unwound his arms and went to answer it.

Alina followed after him, slowly, through the war room and into the dining room where the servants were laying out the dinner plates. Did this change anything? Knowing what had happened in the run up to the Fold’s creation – what had caused it?

Maybe. But it didn’t change the fact that, even now, even four hundred years later, he still refused to see it destroyed. Regardless of why it had come into being, it had claimed so many lives – and he would not let go of it.

Almost involuntarily, Alina remembered what Aleksander had said about Luda and lost causes. Alina smiled to herself. They may have lived four hundred years apart, but she felt an odd sort of kinship with this woman.

You’re not a lost cause, Aleksander Morozova. I’m going to prove it.

Chapter Text

Alina had always known that, eventually, people would find out about her and Aleksander – but she had hoped she would manage to keep the secret a little bit longer.

The following morning, after her Ravkan History exam, Alina was making her way back to her room to change before going down to the lake with her friends. It had gone well, she thought, and there was a little spring in her step knowing that she only had one more written examination and two more lectures to attend before she completed her training and became a full-fledged member of the Second Army.

She bounded up the stairs and pushed open the double doors that led to their wing. Just as she was nearing her bedroom, Aleksander came out of the war room. Their eyes locked. Alina paused, one hand on her door handle, and tilted her head in a silent question. Without waiting to see his response, she opened the door and stepped inside. He was there a moment later, growling her name, pulling her hips against his, kissing her with open-mouthed fervour.

They didn’t even make it to the bed. Alina didn’t see where most of her clothes landed as they stripped themselves and one another, urgent and impatient, in the middle of her room before sinking down onto the rug in front of the fireplace. It was unlit, being the middle of summer, but Alina couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to do this again in wintertime, their bodies flushed with the heat of the flames...

That train of thought was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. The rhythmic tapping of knuckles on wood was so familiar that Alina knew who those knuckles belonged to even before Genya’s voice came through the door.

“Alina? Are you in there?”

Alina’s eyes widened. Above her, Aleksander’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Yes!” she squeaked. “Just – wait there, Genya –”

She broke off in the middle of the sentence as Aleksander drew a loud moan from her with a particularly sharp grind of his hips.

“Alina?” Genya said slowly.

Alina gasped and glared at Aleksander. He grinned back at her, entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’ll be out in two minutes!” she managed.

He leaned forward, bringing their bodies closer together. Alina curled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You’ll be out when I’m done with you,” he murmured.

“Two minutes,” she repeated, clenching her back teeth, and began to rock her hips against him harder and faster until his breathing became strained.

A few moments later and he collapsed on top of her. Alina wriggled out from under his weight, casting around for her clothes, very conscious of the fact that there was nothing more than a wooden door between Genya and her very naked commanding officer.

Aleksander propped himself up on one elbow to watch as she dressed, but made no such moves of his own.

“Are you planning on hiding me in the wardrobe or under the bed? If you think I’m climbing out of your window, Alina, you’re wrong.”

She huffed at him as she threw on her kefta. “You don’t need to go anywhere. Remember?”

With a slight motion of her hands, the pile of clothes on the floor – now all his – vanished. Aleksander raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Don’t say a word,” she warned him, and he smirked.

Dropping the invisibility for a second, Alina scooped up his clothes and tossed them at him, then twisted her hands again until he flickered out of sight, taking the rumpled black fabric with him. Fastening up the final buttons on her kefta, Alina raced to the door and got there just as Genya, having finally grown impatient, opened it herself.

“Alina,” she breathed, her eyes wide as she pushed past her friend and cast her eyes around the room. “Do you have a man in here?”

“Don’t be silly, Genya,” Alina said breezily. “I was just, uh, trying some new summoning forms that Baghra taught me. It can be a little dangerous, so, I didn’t want to hurt you...”

It was a pitiful excuse, and from the way Genya looked at her, Alina knew she didn’t believe it one bit.

“Alina, darling, I know what I heard. Where did you put him – the wardrobe?” Genya’s eyes twinkled. “Oh! Did he climb out of the window?”

She rushed to peer out, pressing her nose against the glass, and hummed in disappointment when there was no half-dressed man hanging from the sill. Alina tried very hard not to look towards the spot by the fireplace where she knew Aleksander lay. She could feel him watching her.

“Genya –” she tried, but the Tailor was having none of it.

“Who is it?” Genya bounded back across the room. Alina’s shoulders slumped; once this girl got a whiff of scandal, she just would not let up. “Come on, Alina, you can tell me!”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Alina said tightly. “Now, come on, we should go –”

But Genya was having too much fun. “Don’t be a spoilsport. Was it your Healer? What’s his name again –”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Alina interrupted hastily as panic shot through her. Hells.

Genya’s face fell and she pouted, but she perked up again quickly. “Wait until the others hear about this!”

Alina groaned and passed a hand over her face. “Oh, Saints. Okay, I need to change – I’ll see you down there.”

Genya frowned at her, but Alina just flapped her hands in the direction of the door. “Go, Genya. I'll be right behind you, I promise.”

She cast Alina one more suspicious glance before leaving the room. The door fell closed and Alina turned back to the fireplace, letting go of the light she had been bending. Aleksander stood there, fully dressed, his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“‘Your Healer’?” he asked. His voice was calm. Alina knew he was anything but.

She tried to shrug it off. “It’s nothing. Just a joke among my class.”

“Alina.”

She glared at him, recalcitrant. “What do you want me to say, Aleksander?”

He scoffed. “The truth would be nice.”

“The truth,” Alina muttered, stalking across the room to push him in the chest. “Is that I am my own person, and I make my own decisions, and you don’t own me or my body.”

“Who is he?” Aleksander snapped, rage flaring in his eyes, the last shred of his placidity falling away at last. Alina rocked back on her heels, satisfied.

“He’s –” Alina stopped to make a noise of frustration, throwing her hands in the air. “He’s nobody, Aleksander, it was nothing at all – just a drunken fling. You have nothing to be jealous of.”

“I’m not –” he stopped himself, curling his lip. “His name, Alina.”

“No.”

The room suddenly got darker. “I could order you to tell me.”

Alina laughed shortly. “I still wouldn’t! You are being ridiculous. This happened before there was anything between the two of us. If I tell you that it meant nothing, I expect you to believe me, and that’s the end of it.”

“If it meant nothing,” Aleksander said, unmoved. “Then you should have no problem telling me.”

“And watch you make his life a living hell? No, thank you.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but Alina held up a hand. “You know what? I’m done with this conversation. If nothing else, it’s hypocritical of you to be this upset with me. How many women have you had, Aleksander? Would you like to count them out for me?”

Aleksander shook his head. “I’ve lived for more than five hundred years, Alina. It’s not the same.”

“No?” she raised her brows at him. “And since I arrived here?”

His jaw tightened and he said nothing, and Alina knew she had caught him. She smiled smugly; it was the wrong thing to do.

Though he spoke softly, fury coursed through his words. “If you don’t tell me, Alina, there are other ways I can find out. How many of your classmates would I have to go through until one of them broke?”

Alina’s anger hit new, seething heights. “If you do anything to hurt them, I swear, Aleksander –”

“What, Alina?” he goaded her with a sneer. “What will you do?”

She was at the end of her tether. Stepping forward, screaming through clenched teeth, she lashed out with her light, a jagged golden bolt flashing from her palms towards Aleksander’s face. Shadows rose up from behind him to smother it before it got close. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, forcing her to turn around so that her back was to him, his arm stretching across her chest.

“I could have you thrown in a cell for that,” he said quietly, his lips by her ear. “I could have you flogged.”

Alina made a small noise of disdain in the back of her throat. “Go on, then.”

He chuckled, pressed a light kiss on the ridge of her cheekbone, and released her. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, trailing one finger down her neck, stalling just below the collar of her kefta. “The look on your friends’ faces ought to be punishment enough.”

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. With a gasp, she shrugged him off and ran to her dressing table, wrenching the neck of her kefta to one side and glaring into the mirror. Two perfect bruises, just beginning to bloom. Low enough to be hidden by her kefta – but they were going swimming, and he knew that.

“Aleksander...” Alina said, a tortured whine. He laughed, low and dangerous, and a fresh wave of indignation surged through her. Pushing away from the dressing table, Alina whirled and stalked into the corridor. Aleksander was hot on her heels. She slammed open the door to the war room to find Fedyor and Ivan were leaning over the map table, pointing to various markers, frowning as they considered one strategy or another. Both men went very still when Alina appeared in the threshold. Fedyor’s expression quickly morphed into one of apprehension as he took in the looks on her and Aleksander’s faces.

She tugged down on her collar and pointed at the marks on her neck. “Please tell me you can get rid of these.”

Fedyor coughed slightly, his cheeks going red, but he nodded. Alina breathed a sigh of relief.

“Neither of you are to touch the Sun Summoner,” Aleksander said coldly.

Alina spun to glare at him, but his face was stony. Merciless.

She turned back to the map table. “Fedyor, please...” she begged.

“That’s an order, Fedyor.”

Fedyor’s eyes flickered to Aleksander, then back to Alina. “I’m sorry, Alina,” he whispered.

She slumped forward, leaning her palms against the table. Aleksander must have motioned to the Heartrenders, because they left the room without saying anything else, closing the door behind them.

“I hate you,” she said weakly.

He remained several steps behind her. She could feel his smile.

“I don’t believe you.”

She didn’t believe herself. Alina sighed. This would all be so much easier if she did.

“I can call them back,” he said. “Have Fedyor wipe the marks from your skin in an instant. If you tell me his name.”

Alina screwed her face up. She turned around, leaning back against the edge of the table.

“Aleksander,” she sighed. “Why does it matter?”

Either he didn’t have an answer for that, or it was one he didn’t want to share.

“Isn’t it enough for me to say –” she stopped and glanced away, swallowing hard. This was dancing on the edge of territory they had not yet stepped foot in. “That right now, there is only you, and that’s all I want?”

As anticipated, he looked vaguely uncomfortable. She could see him shrinking away, reflexively, from the prospect of confronting something emotional. Alina’s cheeks flamed.

“Something to think about, anyway,” she muttered. “I should go, before Genya comes back again.”

She brushed past him on her way to the door, half expecting him to come after her, to tell her to stay, but he let her go.

Still furious and with a heavy ache in her chest, Alina stormed back into her room. She snatched her bathing suit from the bottom drawer of her dresser – a sturdy one-piece of thick white cotton – and pulled it on, abandoning the clothes she had been wearing on the floor. Alina took a moment to calm her breathing and tie her hair back in a loose braid before she tugged a long white linen shift over her head, not even bothering with stays, and threw her kefta on over it.

She knew that if she didn’t leave this room immediately, the thought of having to face her friends and all their questions would send her crawling under the bedsheets in shame, so Alina forced herself to march out of the door with her head held high before she could overthink it.

Her friends had laid out their towels on the little crescent of sand on the far side of the lake.

“Alina!” they all cried, jubilant, as she appeared down the path. She couldn’t help but smile as they waved exuberantly.

“What took you so long?” Taisa asked, as Alina threw down her towel and flopped onto it with a groan.

“I got distracted,” she said. They all tittered knowingly.

“Are you going to tell us about your mystery man?” Nadia asked, nudging Alina’s leg with her toes. Alina rolled over to glare at Genya, who shrugged.

“You knew I was going to tell them.”

Alina harrumphed. “First of all, you don’t know for sure that it’s a man.”

Zoya raised one disbelieving eyebrow. “I would bet good money that it is.”

“Hang on,” Genya interrupted. “Ten minutes ago, you were still adamant that you had been practising new summoning forms.”

Zoya snorted loudly. “That’s a good one, Starkov. I might use that.”

Genya shushed her with a wave of her hand, turning her attention back to Alina. “I was all prepared to have to drag the details out of you. What changed?”

Alina sighed and slipped her kefta from her shoulders, revealing the twin bruises at the base of her throat. Genya shrieked and scrambled up from her towel to inspect them.

“All Saints, Alina,” Marie gasped. “You’re a dark horse.”

A vibrant blush crept into Alina’s skin. Genya smacked her on the arm.

“Ow!”

“You little liar!” she accused, but she was struggling to hide her smile.

“Can you get rid of them?” Alina pleaded. Genya pretended to think about it for a moment, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, until Alina gripped her hands entreatingly.

“Fine, fine,” she acquiesced, shuffling forwards and running her thumb over Alina’s neck. She shook her head as she worked. “I still don’t understand how you got him out of there so fast. Were you hiding him in the wardrobe after all?”

Zoya smirked. “Genya, did you know that Alina has recently mastered the ability to turn objects – or people – invisible?”

Genya looked at Alina with wide eyes while Alina gaped at Zoya.

“How did you know that?” she spluttered. Zoya’s smirk, impossibly, grew even wider.

“You told me yourself, Starkov. When you were drunk.”

“Oh.”

“Wait, hold on –” Genya said. “Do you meant to tell me your mystery man was in the room when I was there earlier?”

Alina opened her mouth to lie, but nothing came out. Genya shrieked again, even louder than before, and pressed her hands against her mouth.

“You are a dark horse,” she breathed.

The other girls fell about laughing. Alina couldn’t help but smile, just a little, along with them.

“Come on, Alina,” Marie wheedled. “You have to tell us who it was.”

“I definitely do not,” Alina said. “I’ve already told you more than I wanted to.”

“Do we know him?” Taisa asked. Alina sighed and nodded.

Zoya narrowed her eyes. “Is he Grisha?”

Alina hesitated before nodding again. The girls hummed to themselves thoughtfully.

“Is it –”

“It’s not Cailean,” Alina interrupted. “Before you ask. But that’s all I’m saying. I’m getting in the lake now.”

There were a few disappointed grumbles, but when Alina kicked off her boots and wriggled out of her shift, the rest of her friends followed suit. They all ran down to the water, squealing and laughing as they splashed into the shallows.

The water was cool, but the air was hot enough that it didn’t really matter. They swam out to the little island and hauled themselves onto the banks, dripping wet, then lay out in the sun until their skin had almost dried. Alina and Stefaniya amused themselves by trying to find shapes in the clouds overhead.

“That one’s kind of like a harp – hey!”

Alina sat up on her elbows to glower at Nadia and Zoya, who had whipped up a wind and scattered the fluffy white clouds into fine, silky wisps which quickly dissipated into the blue.

“Spoilsports,” Stefaniya muttered, and they laughed delightedly.

They swam back to the shore and lounged on their towels for a while longer. The air was tinged with the heavy gold of evening, and Alina knew that they would be called inside by the dinner bell before long. She sat up and let her eyes roam, slowly, fondly, over each of her friends, wondering where they would all end up once they had been assigned their first posts. Alina had found a comfort in this little group of women that she had never really expected when she came back here. The knowledge that, in just a few days’ time, it would all be blown apart sat heavy in her heart.

The distant clanging of the dinner bell drew them all to their feet, struggling to pull their clothes on over their mostly-dry bathing costumes, and the girls ran up the path towards the Little Palace, giggling all the way. Alina caught Genya in a brief but fervent embrace before they had to part ways, and she vanished in the direction of the Grand Palace with a wave.

Alina sat at dinner with the rest of her friends, glad that they seemed to have forgotten their earlier interest in uncovering the identity of her so-called ‘mystery man’. She tried not to seem too smug as she tucked into her pickled herring, thinking that she might be able to keep the secret, after all.

Luck was not on her side. The very next day, Genya appeared at Alina’s door yet again, this time with a pot of tea in one hand and a tray laden with cakes and pastries in the other.

“The Queen was meant to be having tea with some duchess or other, but she’s taken offence at the particular shade of blue of the duchess’s gown and sent her away, then ordered me to throw out all the food,” Genya explained, setting the tray down on Alina’s little desk. “Of course, I wasn’t going to let it go to waste – I made sure to share it out among the kitchen staff, since they went to all the effort of preparing it, but I managed to nab some for us, too!”

Alina’s stomach rumbled just looking at the assortment on display.

“Genya, you’re a marvel.”

They ate with gusto, chatting about Alina’s Small Science theory exam, all the latest gossip from the Grand Palace, and where Alina thought she would be posted for her first assignment.

“I think I’ll be staying here,” she said carefully.

Genya beamed, delighted. “I’m not surprised. You’re the Sun Summoner, after all – I’m sure General Kirigan has big plans for you.”

Alina passed right over that comment. “Well, I’m glad,” she said with a smile. “I would miss you too much if I had to go away.”

“Oh, Alina,” Genya leaned forward and grabbed Alina’s hands in her own. “I’m glad too. You have no idea what it means to have a friend in this place.”

Alina gave her hand a squeeze and reached for another pastry, but only got it halfway to her mouth when there was a knock at the door. She huffed a disgruntled sigh but replaced her pastry on the tray and went to answer it.

“This had better be important,” she muttered to herself as she opened the door.

Three servants stood on the other side of the door, each struggling under the weight of several black garment bags.

“Miss Starkov,” one of the maids dipped a wobbly curtsy. “We’ve brought you your new kefta.”

That piqued Genya’s curiosity.

“New kefta?” she said, getting up from her own chair. The servants had breezed past Alina and laid the garment bags neatly on her bed before bowing and leaving without another word. Alina stood at a distance, staring at the bags with distrust, as if they might spontaneously combust and set her whole room on fire.

“What do you need new kefta for?” Genya mused. “Is the General planning something I should know about...”

She trailed off as she opened the first bag and froze. A moment passed before she moved again, reaching for the next bag and tearing it open.

“They’re black. They’re all black.”

Alina could see the puzzle pieces in Genya’s mind click together. She turned, slowly, to stare at Alina, looking for any other plausible explanation but finding none.

“Oh, Alina,” she breathed, her forehead crumpling. “No.”

Swallowing hard, Alina tried to shrug it off. “Are you really so surprised?”

Genya seemed momentarily lost for words. “Am I – yes!”

She made a frustrated noise and threw up her hands. After another few seconds of silence, she sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh. Alina came to sit next to her.

“Of course, I had heard the rumours, but I thought they were just idle talk.”

“They were,” Alina assured her. “Until quite recently.”

Genya shook her head slowly, her eyes wide and unbelieving. “I never paid them any mind. I didn’t think you would do something quite so, uh...”

“Foolish?”

“I was going to say impetuous,” Genya said with a faint smile. “But that works too.”

She reached for Alina’s hands, holding them tightly. “I was worried for you, with all the attention he was giving you, but I could see you have more common sense than some of the other girls. I didn’t think I had to warn you about powerful men.”

Her voice was soft, laced with guilt. Alina shook her head urgently. “You didn’t, Genya. I know who he is – what he is. I got myself into this, and I knew what I was doing.”

Genya seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I –” Alina sighed. “I can’t explain it, Genya. Saints know I never expected or even wanted this to happen. But it’s just... right.”

There it was: the truth that she had been sidestepping for days. That nothing else in either of her lives ever felt quite like this – all at once consuming and completing.

Genya took Alina’s face gently between both her hands. “Are you happy, Alina?”

Alina thought about it. Aleksander was a difficult man – there was no way she could deny that. He could be overbearingly possessive, infuriatingly stubborn, and on his worse days their relationship was more like a battleground. But was she happy?

She thought of how they had opened themselves up to one another, how he let her hold all his secrets in her hands, how she never had to pretend to be something she wasn’t when she was with him. They were both still learning how to do this – but she was trying, and so was he. Something in the way he looked at her, in those quiet moments when it was just the two of them, made her feel understood in a way she never thought she would be.

Alina nodded, sniffling back tears. “Yes. I don’t know if I should be, but yes.”

The admission broke some dam inside her. Because how could she know Aleksander as well as she did, know what he was, know what he would do, and still feel this way about him? What kind of person did that make her?

Genya pulled Alina into her arms, and she wept against her shoulder. Once her tears had run dry, she sat back up again, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her kefta.

“If you’re happy, then that’s all that matters,” Genya assured her gently. She ran her fingers lightly over Alina’s skin, tailoring away the blotchiness and the bags under her eyes. Alina smiled shakily.

“I didn’t want people to know about it just yet, but I guess when I start wearing these...” she cast her gaze over the garment bags that surrounded them.

“Do you want to wear black, Alina?”

Alina nodded and sighed. “Yes.”

“Then wear black,” Genya said, dropping a light kiss on Alina’s cheek. “And to hells with what people say about it.”

Alina laughed. She made it sound so easy.

“Now,” Genya stood up from the edge of the bed and held out her hand. “We have a lot of cake to finish eating, hmm?”

Later, once Genya had left, Alina changed into one of her new black kefta and went down the hall with a small plate of pastries she had kept aside for Aleksander. She paused outside his door, glancing at the oprichniki.

“Is he busy?”

They smiled slightly and shook their heads. “No, Miss Starkov.”

She nodded once and took a long breath in, straightening her shoulders, then opened the door. He was sitting at his desk with his chin propped in his hand, several files spread open in front of him. There was a small crease of concentration in the skin between his eyebrows that Alina longed to smooth out with her fingers. He looked up when she entered; something in his face shifted, almost imperceptible, as he saw her coming across the room towards him.

“Alina,” he said, running his eyes down her body. “You got your new kefta.”

She stopped a few steps away from the desk to twirl on the spot. This kefta was designed for summer – the corecloth fabric was light, breathable, and, despite its dark colour, was cool and airy. Gold threads wove their way across the shoulders, down the length of the sleeves, and along the bottom hem.

“I did,” she said with a smile. “They’re beautiful.”

He sat back in his chair to admire her further. “You look wonderful in black.”

She perched on the edge of his desk and set the plate down beside his jumble of papers. He raised one eyebrow questioningly.

“Genya and I had tea this afternoon,” she explained. “I saved you some cake.”

“You saved me some cake.” he repeated slowly.

Alina hesitated. “A peace offering, of sorts.”

They hadn’t really spoken since their argument the previous day. Even though she knew that he was in the wrong, he had overreacted, had let his jealousy and paranoia run away with him, it was eating her up inside to be at odds with him again.

She nudged the plate towards him. Aleksander smiled.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Alina shrugged. “I wanted to.”

He reached forward, taking hold of her wrists and pulling her from her seat on the desk into his lap. Alina let herself fold into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck as she kissed him.

“I thought about what you said,” he told her once they had broken apart again. “About – what you want. What I want.”

Oh. Alina swallowed down the lump in her throat. Aleksander untangled her fingers from his hair and took her hand in his own. His eyes were unusually sincere, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady.

“You were right. It is enough – to have one another and nobody else. You – this – it’s all I want.”

Alina knew this was as close to an apology as she would ever get. She nodded, biting her lip, as her face grew warm.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” she mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

“Call it a peace offering, then,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Overwhelmed by an emotion she couldn’t name, Alina leaned forward and kissed him again – longer, softer, and sweeter than before. If she gave in to this feeling, Alina knew she would tip forward into something bottomless. She would fall and fall and never see the surface again. She would drown in the infinity of this man.

She pulled back with a gasp, resting her forehead against his while her chest hitched in uneven breaths.

“Have you grown sentimental?” she asked with a wry smile, and he laughed.

“Perhaps a little,” he said, kissing her nose. He shifted her weight in his arms a little, angling her towards the desk. “I’m glad you’re here – I wanted to talk to you.”

“That sounds intimidating.”

Aleksander reached forward and flipped open one of the files on the desk. “My agents in West Ravka sent this over. Some names to consider for your search for the sea whip.”

Alina flipped open the file and ran her eyes down the list, trying not to start with excitement when she saw the name she was looking for. Sturmhond.

“I’ve invited them here. I haven’t given them any information about the job – but I expect that most of them will come anyway, out of curiosity more than anything else. A summons from the Little Palace is not exactly an everyday occurrence for pirates and smugglers.”

Privateers, Alina corrected mentally. She smiled and closed the file. “Well, I look forward to meeting them.”

He tightened his hold on her and tipped her head towards his, kissing her swiftly on the mouth.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. Alina’s heart hammered in her chest.

“Okay,” she said, twirling the soft ends of his hair in her fingers. He smiled, reaching up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his palm.

She knew that things would change, now. Her friends would leave the Little Palace and she would stay. She would be a soldier, a living weapon. She would wear a black kefta and there would be no more pretending that she was not different from those around her. More powerful.

There were so few things in her life that were certain, now. But Alina was sure of one thing: if Aleksander asked her to stay, she would stay.

Chapter Text

Everything happened very fast after that.

Most of her friends were assigned posts far from Os Alta – Nadia and Marie were both sent to Kribirsk, to the sand skiffs, and Alina was glad that they were together even though she worried for them both horrendously. Zoya, who was one of the only other members of her cohort to be appointed straight to an officer’s rank, was posted at the Fjerdan frontlines. Stefaniya was sent south, to the Shu border.

Genya was still at the Grand Palace, of course, and Taisa had a permanent spot in the Materialki workshops at the Little Palace, but Alina still mourned the loss of their little gang.

She wore her black kefta every day, now, and stood at Aleksander’s right shoulder through all his meetings, briefings, and reports. Most of the time she was silent – listening and learning – and later he would ask for her opinion; then, later still, with a bottle of something perched on the map table between them, they would strategise together, just the two of them. Planning their trip to Fjerda, plotting their inevitable deposition of the Lantsov dynasty, arguing over how best to deal with Shu Han.

Most nights were spent in his bed. Sometimes, primarily with the intention of irritating him, Alina would go back to her own room, but it was never long before he came after her. Aleksander was an early riser, and when he slept in her bed, she woke up most mornings to find him already gone. On the rare occasions that she was the first of them to waken, Alina would spend a good ten minutes just watching him sleep. He looked so young, so vulnerable – his hair rumpled, his expression peaceful, his arms outstretched, always reaching for her even in unconsciousness.

On one morning in the depths of midsummer, Alina woke up in her bed in the Vezda suite. She rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty, the sheets pushed back, the room quiet.

Alina dressed slowly, pulling open the curtains to be greeted with another day of blue skies and sunshine. The door to the war room was propped open when she reached it. Aleksander was waiting for her in his dining room, already sipping a cup of tea, halfway through his daily pile of newspapers.

“Anything interesting?” Alina asked as she sat down and poured her tea. He made a face.

“No. Just more on the tensions with West Ravka. If we don’t make a move soon, they will strike first. Zlatan has a huge amount of support behind him for this ridiculous notion of seceding.”

He looked at Alina pointedly and she shook her head. “We’ve talked about this. There’s no way I’m agreeing to let you use the Fold.”

“What else do you suggest? We can’t let this lie much longer.”

“Let me destroy the Fold. Without it, support for secession would dwindle – you know that.”

Aleksander sighed. “It’s too useful to us to get rid of.”

“Useful?” Alina snorted. “How many of our people die in your precious monstrosity every year?”

His face soured. “Fewer than the number that would die in an open war with West Ravka.”

Alina dragged the plate of currant buns across the table towards her and sliced one down the middle. “So don’t let it get that far,” she said, as she began to spoon jam onto one half. “We destroy the Fold, get rid of the King and Zlatan. Remove all the incentives for secession. Can you really blame them, anyway, for wanting to get away from the Lantsov rule? I’d probably support the movement myself, if I was West Ravkan.”

Aleksander narrowed his eyes at her as she took a bite of the jam-covered bun. He said nothing more on the subject, just tossed her a bundle of letters.

“More spy reports for you to translate,” he said. Alina unravelled the length of twine and spread the letters out in front of her, frowning.

“You gave me the wrong parcel. These are in Fjerdan.”

He opened his next newspaper. “Yes.”

Alina sighed. “Aleksander, my Fjerdan is terrible.”

“All the more reason to practise, then,” he said, without taking his eyes from the printed text in front of him. “You’ll find a dictionary in my room, if you need it.”

Grumbling to herself, Alina got up and wandered through to Aleksander’s bedroom, scanning the bookshelf next to his desk for a Ravkan-Fjerdan dictionary.

She was struggling through the first missive when he spoke again.

“Your captains will arrive at the Little Palace later today.”

Alina looked up. “Oh?”

He took another slow sip of tea. “They crossed the Fold a few days ago. We can begin the interviews right away, if you like.”

She nodded quickly, and he smiled.

“Good.”

The rest of the morning passed similarly. Aleksander lurked by the map table, frowning to himself as he moved pieces around, while Alina sat at his desk working on her Fjerdan translations. After a few hours, he came to check on her progress.

“This is horrible,” she told him, but he just smiled, running his slender index finger across the lines she had translated as he read.

“You’ll improve.”

He withdrew his hand with a satisfied nod. Alina leaned into him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, absentmindedly drawing small circles on her upper arm.

“We should really get you your own desk in here,” he said. She looked up at him in surprise.

“Really?”

Aleksander smiled again. Alina was sure he did it more often, these days. It suited him.

“Well, you seem to be spending more and more time at mine, and I’d quite like it back.”

She laughed and turned towards him, tilting her head up until he bent forward to brush a kiss over her lips.

“Are you trying to distract me, Lieutenant Starkov?”

Her stomach flipped over when he addressed her by rank.

“Perhaps I’ve had enough of Fjerdan translations,” she retorted with a grin. “General.”

To her disappointment, he chuckled and straightened up.

“Unfortunately, I need those translations finished today, and your captains will be arriving shortly. If you want to have any free time later tonight –” he leaned across her to tap the paper on the desk. “– I suggest you keep working.”

Alina grimaced but returned her attention to the letters in front of her. Aleksander ran a hand gently through her hair before stepping away, back towards the map table.

Her frustrations were immediately forgotten when one of the oprichniki opened the door to show in the first captain.

Aleksander let her lead the conversation, leaning against the wall by the window with folded arms and observing in silence as Alina questioned Captain Gregorzsky – a large man with tattoos curling down both arms – about his life and his occupation. He was a smuggler, he said, and Alina was surprised to hear him admit it so cheerfully, who supplied the First and Second Armies with goods from Novyi Zem and Kerch while sidestepping the exorbitant import tariffs that West Ravkan merchants charged.

Alina was not particularly interested in Captain Gregorzsky, but she smiled and nodded and played along all the same. Nor was she interested in the man who followed him – Captain O’Connell, a Kaelish man with a Ravkan mother who ferried Grisha between the Wandering Isle and Os Kervo. She asked him all the same questions, then thanked him for his time.

When Nikolai walked into the room after Captain O’Connell had left, Alina had to hold herself back from running across the room and throwing herself into his arms. He was in his Sturmhond guise – ruddy hair, murky green eyes, broken nose, and that ridiculous teal coat – but there was no mistaking that cocky, too-clever grin. Alina’s heart sang at the sight of him. She reached for the bottle of kvas on the map table and busied herself pouring two glasses.

“General Kirigan,” Nikolai greeted Aleksander with a nod before turning his full attention to Alina. “You must be the Sun Summoner.”

“And you must be Captain Sturmhond,” Alina responded, handing him the kvas. “The pirate.”

“Privateer,” he said instantly, and she hid her smile behind her glass.

“You work for Ravka?”

“I work for the fattest purse,” he corrected. “But I must confess to being something of a patriot. This is one of those wonderful but lamentably rare situations where my personal interests align with Ravka’s interests.”

Alina took another sip of the kvas and set her glass back on the table. “And that’s why we should trust you?”

Nikolai shrugged. “You can call it trust, if you like.”

“What would you call it?”

There was that smile again – self-assured and sly. Alina hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it. “A mutually beneficial agreement.”

Alina pursed her lips. “You mean to say that if we pay you enough...”

“Then we will have no problems at all,” Nikolai spread his hands in front of him as his smile grew wider.

“How many ships do you have, Sturmhond?”

“Several. But if there is any particular ship that you need, rest assured I can get it for you.”

Alina’s lips twitched in amusement. “You mean steal it.”

He tilted his head. “Please, Lieutenant Starkov. Acquire it.”

“Hmm,” Alina crossed her arms and leaned back against the table behind her. “How well do you know the Bone Road?”

“I can’t say it’s an area I traverse terribly frequently, but I’ve gone north a few times before and – well, I’m still here.”

She nodded slowly. “And you would have no problems with providing passage to a battalion of Grisha?”

Alina knew that a good portion of Sturmhond’s crew were Grisha, but he couldn't very well admit to the general of the Second Army that he was harbouring draft-dodgers.

Nikolai raised his eyebrows. “Certainly not. The Second Army serves Ravka, just as I do.”

“You just said you work for whoever pays you the most,” Alina pointed out.

“Which, in this case, happens to be you,” he smiled graciously. “Isn’t that fortuitous?”

“I’m quite sure Fjerda and Shu Han would pay handsomely for the Sun Summoner, not to mention the Black General,” Alina mused. “I’m not convinced you wouldn’t just take our money then hand us over for an even bigger bounty.”

Alina saw surprise flit over Nikolai’s face. For the first time since she had started talking, he looked over at Aleksander, still lurking in the shadows. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us, General.”

Aleksander tipped his head to one side but said nothing. Nikolai’s eyebrows quirked upwards and he turned back to Alina.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “However, it’s safe to say that I have made life... difficult for both Fjerda and Shu Han in recent months. If I thought I could get away with passing you over to them, I might just consider it – as it stands, though, I can’t be sure they wouldn’t simply take you off my hands before killing me and my crew. Then, not only would I be out of a bounty, I’d also be dead. Those are both situations I’d prefer to avoid.”

Alina couldn’t help it; she smiled. Nikolai seemed genuinely delighted to get such a response out of her. He tipped the remainder of his kvas down his throat then paused as he handed her the glass.

“Should I have toasted our promising new partnership?” he asked with a smirk. This time, Alina laughed aloud.

“Not yet,” she said. “But thank you for your time, Captain. You’ll hear from us shortly.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you at last, Sun Summoner,” he said. His fingers brushed hers as she plucked the glass from his grip, and his smirk softened marginally. Alina prayed that Aleksander hadn’t noticed.

Nikolai nodded to Aleksander, who narrowed his eyes but nodded back, and swept out of the room. Another man came in just after him, but Alina was paying even less attention than she had been before. Nikolai was here. Her plot to bring him to the Little Palace had been successful – but, before she got too invested in congratulating herself, she had to figure out how to make him stay. And how to make sure that Aleksander didn’t kill him, either for the crime of being a Lantsov, or out of sheer irritation.

She sat in his bed that evening, slowly sipping a glass of red wine while she flipped through Sturmhond’s file, curious to know how much information Aleksander had gathered on him. Not much, as it turned out – clearly, he had been keeping tabs on the privateer since he first started making waves, so to speak, but there was nothing about who he really was or where he had come from.

Alina looked up as the bedroom door opened. Aleksander walked across the room towards her, bending to kiss her head as he started to unbutton his kefta. He’d been waylaid after dinner by the sudden arrival of Ivan and Fedyor – a meeting Alina probably should have stayed for, but Aleksander had taken one look at the way her shoulders drooped and nudged her towards his bedroom, telling her he would catch her up later.

Now, he dropped his kefta on top of the trunk at the foot of his bed and sprawled out in the bed next to her, reaching for the glass of wine Alina cradled. She passed it to him wordlessly.

“Bad news?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“Just a complication. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

Alina nodded. Once, she would have prodded him for more details, but she trusted him, now, to tell her without too much prompting. Aleksander pushed himself into a sitting position and Alina curled into his side.

“What are you reading?” he asked, after taking another gulp of the wine and handing it back to her. Alina flipped the file closed so he could read the title and he groaned.

“You didn’t take a shine to Captain Sturmhond, then?” she teased, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

“I noticed how he took a shine to you,” Aleksander growled, and Alina rolled her eyes. She should have known that it would not have escaped his notice.

“I like him,” she said simply.

Aleksander’s voice was disparaging. “I have never met a more unserious man.”

“Maybe that’s why I like him,” Alina smiled. “You’re too serious for your own good.”

She made to poke him in the shoulder, but he caught hold of her hand, uncurling her fingers and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“Is that your only complaint?” he murmured. Alina’s stomach went a bit wobbly at the look in his eyes.

“Well,” she said, pretending to think about it. “I would prefer it if you spent a little less time trying to talk me into mass murder.”

Aleksander scoffed but there was no real heat in it. His eyes returned to the file in front of them. “Is that your decision, then? Will you force me to endure the posturing of this arrogant fool?”

“I’ll force you to do nothing – you could always stay here.”

He chuckled and kissed the side of her head. “We both know I could never let you sail away from me, Alina.”

She leaned into his embrace, but something icy-cold and sorrowful uncurled in her chest. Fear that she had tied herself to a man who would never let her go – fear that she had done so both willingly and knowingly.

Alina traced her fingers over one of pieces of paper in Sturmhond’s file – an illustration from a Fjerdan poster, naming him as a pirate and an enemy of Fjerda. Whoever had drawn the portrait had done a decent job of capturing his likeness.

“There’s something about him,” Alina said slowly, choosing her words with care. “Something familiar.”

Aleksander frowned slightly. “You can’t have met him before.”

“No, I know,” Alina sighed. “I can’t say exactly what it is. I just feel like I know him from somewhere. And his whole demeanour – arrogance, sure, but it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Alina shot him a sideways glance. “You didn’t see it? He walked around like he owns the place.”

The crease in Aleksander’s forehead deepened, and Alina tried not to feel too pleased with herself. She shrugged and closed the file, tossing it to one side, then snuggled further into his arms.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. We can make our decision tomorrow.”

She swallowed the last of her wine and held up the glass. Aleksander took it from her and placed it on the bedside table, clearly still lost in thought.

“Okay. Good night, Alina.”

He ran his fingers distractedly through her hair as she got comfortable, her head resting against his side.

Despite her pounding heart and racing thoughts, Alina must have managed to drift off, because the next thing she knew Aleksander was sitting bolt upright and swearing furiously. Alina blinked a few times as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. The candles on his desk had burned low, and the sky outside was black.

“Aleksander?”

He turned to her, his eyes alight, and grabbed her face with both hands.

“You –” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. “Are very good.”

Alina’s mouth hung open loosely. She closed it quickly, shaking herself. “Thank you?”

He laughed and threw the covers aside, striding across the room towards the door. “‘Like he owns the place’. I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself.”

Once he was gone, Alina allowed her self-satisfaction to show on her face. She was impressed with how easily she was able to manipulate Aleksander these days – her tiny little nudges in the right direction turned so quickly into strides that he took of his own accord.

Alina climbed out of bed, stretching out the crick in her neck, then reached for her robe. She padded through to the war room as she tied the sash. Aleksander, in his favoured spot at the map table, had struck up his most threatening pose – leaning forward, both hands planted firmly on the table, glaring up from under his brows. This was the Darkling on full display.

She slipped past him and stood on his right side, a few steps back from the table. Alina had led the questioning earlier, but she knew that, this time, Aleksander would take charge.

A few minutes passed in silence, then the door opened and the oprichniki showed a bleary and sleep-rumpled Nikolai in. He took in the scene before him with one raised eyebrow and a yawn.

“I’m sure whatever this is,” he said, waving a hand at them. “It could have waited until the morning.”

“I disagree,” Aleksander said, his voice silky smooth. “Sobachka. How many years has it been since you last graced us with your presence? Six? Seven?”

Nikolai, to his credit, did not try to keep up the ruse once he knew he had been discovered.

“Seven,” he confirmed, dragging one of the armchairs so that it faced the map table and slouching into it with admirable grace. He stretched out his legs and lounged back as if he had been doing it every day for years. Alina and Aleksander shared a glance. Like he owns the place. Alina had chosen her words very well.

Nikolai observed this interaction with interest.

“The rumours are true, then,” he said. “You are bedding the Sun Summoner.”

Aleksander’s expression darkened. Shadows whipped and twisted in the air behind him. Alina sank her face into her hands with a sigh.

“Please,” she groaned. “If you want to leave this room alive – do not say another word.”

Nikolai smiled but seemed to take Alina’s advice. He sat back further in his chair, crossing his legs casually, and gestured at Aleksander to begin.

“This is what you’ve been doing since you left court?” Aleksander asked.

“Among other things,” Nikolai said with a shrug. “Military service, of course. I apprenticed with a Fjerdan shipbuilder, and a Zemeni gunsmith, and a civil engineer from the Han Province of Bohl. Even tried my hand at poetry for a while, though the less said about that, the better. These days, being Sturmhond requires most of my attention.”

Alina could practically hear Aleksander grinding his teeth. “Why?

“I told you – I serve Ravka. I don’t think my parents would approve of my picking off Zemeni pirates and breaking Fjerdan blockades, but they’re rather fond of Sturmhond.”

Aleksander waved a hand. “Yes, very noble. But I don’t understand why you would come here, where you’re so well known. Why respond to the summons at all?”

Nikolai tilted his head thoughtfully. “Curiosity. What could the general of the Second Army, one of the King’s closest advisors, possibly want from a bunch of lowlife seafarers? Because that’s who your invitation went out to – smugglers, pirates, and thieves.”

“And privateers,” Alina added, and Nikolai pointed to her approvingly.

“Exactly. I knew I liked you, Starkov.”

Aleksander twitched; the darkness that had been pooling at his ankles began to rise around him, and Alina put a restraining hand on his forearm. He cast her a long-suffering look but didn’t shake her off. Nikolai, unperturbed, continued talking.

“You hadn’t seen me since I was fourteen, but it wasn’t something I wanted to chance. Hence the face,” he explained, gesturing to himself.

Alina decided to go ahead and state the obvious. “You have a Tailor.”

Nikolai winced. “Alas, no. I simply had to make do. That probably explains why you saw through it.”

“Do you make a habit of concealing Grisha, who should be serving in the Second Army, from me?” Aleksander asked icily. Nikolai grinned in response.

“Only those who ask nicely.”

Alina was regretting more and more her decision to bring these two into a room together.

Aleksander’s jaw tightened, then he sighed and shook his head. “Your Corporalnik did an adequate job, Sobachka. I wouldn’t have recognised you. It was Alina who saw through your disguise.”

Nikolai did seem a little surprised at this. He sat up in his chair and looked to Alina, assessing her carefully.

“Really? What gave me away? I’ve worked hard to suppress my natural princely charms.”

Alina rolled her eyes. “I only said that there was something familiar about you. The General put the pieces together.”

“Well,” Nikolai said, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Don’t you make a wonderful team.”

Aleksander turned to Alina with an expression that said I am going to kill him. She frowned at him sternly.

It was Nikolai who broke the silence.

“So,” he clapped his hands together and uncrossed his legs. “Now that you have discovered me, what do you plan to do?”

He was enjoying this far too much. Alina watched Aleksander closely, ready to leap in if he decided it would be easier to just rid himself of this nuisance once and for all, but he just sighed again.

“That is a very good question,” he said, irritation clear in his voice.

He and Alina shared another significant look. If they both had their way, the King would not live until the end of the year; ideally, their treason would be known only to a select few of their most trusted Grisha, but if they were discovered, Nikolai would serve as quite a bargaining chip.

That’s what Aleksander would be thinking right now: keep the prince here for insurance later. Alina would rather make Nikolai a friend and ally, if she could find a way to make him look past the fact that she was planning to kill his father and oust his family – which, admittedly, might be easier said than done.

At least they could agree that Nikolai had to stay in the Little Palace for the time being. Neither of them were going to let something so valuable slip through their grasp, not now.

“Do you really believe you could do it?” Aleksander asked eventually. “Navigate the Bone Road?”

“Do you really believe you could find the sea whip?” Nikolai responded with a loose shrug.

Alina raised her eyebrows. “We didn’t say anything about the sea whip.”

“You didn’t, but it wasn’t all that hard to deduce,” he said. There was an unmistakable air of smugness in the set of his shoulders.

Aleksander passed a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We will employ the services of Sturmhond. There are certain matters Alina and I must tend to before we set out – in the meantime, you will remain here.”

Nikolai cocked an eyebrow and looked as though he was about to object to this, but Alina beat him to it.

“Perhaps the tsarevich should accompany us to the Fjerdan border,” she suggested sweetly. Aleksander shot her a disapproving glare, which she tried to quell with a light touch on the back of his hand. “He could be useful.”

He tilted his head and turned back to Nikolai, contemplating the prince for a long moment before nodding once.

“Very well. Are you prepared to play the role of military officer again, moi tsarevich?”

Nikolai gallantly ignored the note of ridicule in Aleksander’s voice. He stood up and wandered to the map table, his eyes roving across the coloured pieces. “Certainly, but I’d prefer to know what I’m signing up for.”

Aleksander hesitated, reluctant to share the details of his strategy with a man he still viewed as untrustworthy, if not an outright enemy. But Alina knew Nikolai well, even if he didn’t know her yet. She trusted him, and she would make Aleksander trust him too – or at the very least, make him less openly suspicious.

“We’re planning to strike against Fjerda – something big,” she said in explanation.

“Alina,” Aleksander warned sharply. She waved him off and stepped closer to Nikolai.

“They’ve been attacking villages on the border for months, not to mention all the drüskelle raids. We’ve lost too many people to Fjerdan superstition. It’s time to retaliate.”

She ran her finger over the map, traversing the border between Ravka and Fjerda. Nikolai watched intently.

Alina took a slow breath and continued. “This was meant to be a Second Army operation. But, since you’re here now...”

Nikolai was quick to catch on. “You think your message would be all the more emphatic with the backing of the royal family?”

She nodded once, looking him in the eyes. “How many Grisha do you have working for Sturmhond?”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t share the details with you,” he smiled, glancing briefly at Aleksander. “But I can tell you it is a not insignificant proportion of my crew.”

“Do you think it’s possible, then,” Alina asked. “For Grisha and otkazat’sya to work together?”

Nikolai nodded, serious for the first time all evening. “I know it is, Lieutenant Starkov.”

She looked back at Aleksander, who stood with his arms crossed, fuming silently, and gave him a triumphant, I-told-you-so smile.

“Then it’s time we make sure Fjerda know it, too,” Alina said, brushing past Aleksander on her way to the cabinet behind him. She drew out a bottle of kvas – the same she had been drinking from earlier – and three small glasses.

Nikolai and Aleksander both eyed one another with no small amount of guardedness as Alina set the glasses on the map table and poured out the kvas. Under Alina’s watchful eye, they both stepped forward to take a glass.

“To our promising new partnership,” Alina said, raising her glass, and Nikolai cracked a smile as he did likewise. Aleksander continued to look displeased, but he tossed back his kvas along with the others nevertheless.

Nikolai cleared his throat as he set his glass back on the table. “As far as my mother and father know, I am currently in Ketterdam, at university. I would really rather keep it that way.”

Aleksander smiled darkly. “You have nothing to fear, Sobachka – I would prefer that the King remain unaware of your presence here, too.”

“Wonderful,” Alina said. “Something you two can agree on at last.”

Nikolai looked somewhat uncomfortable. Aleksander just snorted and turned in the direction of his bedroom, touching Alina lightly on the shoulder as he moved away.

“You can show yourself out, moi tsarevich,” he said, without looking in Nikolai’s direction. The bedroom door opened and closed again. Nikolai raised his eyebrows.

“Cheerful fellow.”

Alina smiled and held up the kvas in invitation. Nikolai made a face.

“Awful stuff,” he said, but nodded towards his glass anyway. “Never could stomach it.”

“I would offer you something else, but I fear you have tested his patience enough for tonight,” Alina said mildly as she poured their drinks. “No need to make things worse by stealing his liquor.”

Nikolai took a small sip, watching her closely over the rim of his glass. “I am aware that I have just met you, and I don’t wish to be rude, but are you really sleeping with him?”

Alina frowned at him. “One of the first things you did this evening was to gleefully point out that the rumours are true.”

He grimaced. “That was crass of me. I apologise. You knew who I was, you see, which put me on the back foot – and I very much dislike being on the back foot.”

“I’m not offended,” Alina said, even as she narrowed her eyes reproachfully. “But if you do something like that again, I will be.”

Nikolai chuckled. “You’re too gracious, Lieutenant Starkov.”

“You can just call me Alina,” she smiled softly. Nikolai inclined his head.

“Alina, then.”

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Alina thought she could see a bit more of his own face peering through the Sturmhond guise – something in the bone structure had begun to shift as Tolya’s efforts at tailoring wore off slowly.

With a loud sigh, Nikolai swallowed the rest of his kvas in one go and shuddered. “I believe I shall follow in the footsteps of your ill-tempered general and retire. It has been an unexpectedly eventful day.”

Alina hummed in agreement and took his glass from him. There were so many things she wanted to say to him – ‘I’m so happy you’re here’, ‘I missed you so much’, ‘please, please don’t be an ass’ – but she couldn’t.

Nikolai sauntered to the door, shooting Alina one last rakish grin before he left the room.

“I’m glad to finally get a chance to meet you,” he said. “Sleep well, Alina.”

“You too, Nikolai,” she replied with a smile and a roll of her eyes. His grin widened a little, then he was gone.

Alina watched the door fall closed, shaking her head a little. What had she gotten herself into?

But she couldn’t regret it. It just felt too good to have Nikolai around her again, with the promise of their precious friendship humming vibrantly in the air.

Alina returned the bottle of kvas to the cabinet before tiptoeing into the bedroom. She had hoped that Aleksander was already asleep, but he was reaching for her the second she slid under the covers, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her backwards towards him.

She settled into the familiar curve of his arms, resting her head against the crook of his neck. His breath was soft and steady on the bare skin of her shoulder.

“He’s going to be a problem,” Aleksander said, and Alina sighed. She had naively thought this argument might wait until morning.

“No, he’s not. I trust him.”

“I can’t believe you told him our plans,” he admonished gently.

“I barely told him anything,” Alina scoffed. “And you know I’m right. It will do us good, having him there.”

“And then what? How do you think he’ll react afterwards, when we tell him we’re going back to Os Alta to kill his family? Somehow I doubt Sobachka will roll over obligingly while we seize power.”

“Maybe we won’t need to,” she said, wincing even as she spoke the words, in preparation for his heated response.

“I will not serve another Lantsov,” Aleksander hissed fervently. Alina let out another sigh.

“Fine. But I think you underestimate him. And if we can get him on our side, he would be a huge asset.”

“Hmm.”

Alina scrunched up her nose and twisted until she could see his face. His look of disgruntlement melted away in an instant and he smiled as he dropped a light kiss on the skin between her eyebrows.

“My Alina,” he sighed. “You want so desperately to see the good in people.”

“Maybe,” she said, kissing him quickly on the chin. “But you want so desperately to see the bad.”

His lips twitched but he did not try to refute it. “Perhaps we will learn to compromise.”

“We have a long time to practise,” Alina murmured as turned her head away, wriggling a little as she got comfortable. Aleksander pressed a long kiss against the back of her neck.

“We have forever.”

Chapter Text

Alina lay on her back on the map table with her skirts hiked up around her waist and Aleksander’s head between her legs.

They had been in the middle of an important meeting, planning their impending journey to the Fjerdan border. There were so many discussions to be had before an expedition like this, Alina was learning: how many soldiers, which units, when to depart, which route to take, what to do if anything went wrong – and, Saints, there were so many things that could wrong. So many moving pieces to take into consideration. It was never-ending. It was exhausting.

Since Nikolai had arrived at the Little Palace, Alina and Aleksander had started working overtime to hammer out the details of their little plan. Every day, there were more people to meet, more decisions to be made. Alina felt like she had been going full tilt since the moment Sturmhond had walked into the war room, several weeks ago. She was running on fumes, and she knew that Aleksander was, too.

They had been standing around the map table with Fedyor, Ivan, several other Grisha lieutenants, and the captain of the oprichniki, trying to agree on the best way to divide the battalion of soldiers that would be accompanying them.

“There are more than enough Second Army stationed at Ulensk,” one of the lieutenants, an Inferni called Darya, was saying. “You could set out from Os Alta with a small force of oprichniki and make up the numbers when you get there. You’ll move faster as a smaller group.”

“Is it wise to pull soldiers away from the border?” Fedyor asked. “Given what we’re about to do, it’s not unimaginable that Fjerda may strike back at us. If anything, I’d consider sending more of our forces to bolster the defences near Ulensk.”

“Then there’s the First Army to consider,” said Konstantin, the captain of the oprichniki. “Do you want to travel from Os Alta with them? Fedyor is right – if we reassign a portion of both First and Second Army from the base at Ulensk to your party, it would make our position weaker should Fjerda decide to retaliate.”

Alina’s eyes drifted across the map.

“What about –” she began, leaning forward to lift one of the pieces representing the Second Army from Kribirsk. Aleksander had clearly had the same thought, though, because he reached over at exactly the same time. Their fingers brushed, just above Kribirsk. Their eyes locked and time slowed down to a complete stop. Alina forgot how to breathe.

“Everyone out,” Aleksander growled, without taking his gaze off Alina.

Fedyor and Ivan did not wait to be told twice. They scuttled away immediately and the rest of the group followed, shooting slightly bemused glances at Alina and Aleksander, who remained completely still.

As soon as the door closed, Aleksander descended on Alina. His hands went to her face, hers to his chest, and he kissed her ravenously. He pushed his fingers through her hair, tangling harshly in the dark strands, pulling slightly, teasing a moan from between her lips. She jutted her hips up against his and felt him suck in air. There was nothing gentle in this.

He released her hair and moved his hands down her body, over the swell of her chest, the dip of her back, the curve of her hips. She bit down on his lip and he curled his hands around the back of her thighs, lifting her with ease onto the edge of the table. He had done exactly the same thing right after she kissed him for the first time. From the way Aleksander smiled against her mouth, she knew he was remembering it, too.

Alina wrapped her legs around him, her heels digging into the base of his spine, her hips pressed up against his waist. The speed of his breathing increased. He unbuttoned the collar of her kefta and ran his fingers along the outline of the antlers in a way that made Alina gasp and shudder, smiling up at her from beneath his lashes as he kissed the skin of her clavicle. Her grip on his shoulders tightened and she threw her head back. Aleksander moved higher, biting down on her neck, hard enough to bruise, running his tongue over her skin like he truly wanted to consume her. Alina grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back roughly. There was a flush in his cheeks, his unfathomable black eyes were wide with desire, and she could see his pulse throbbing in his throat. His smile was utterly sinful; the white gleam of his teeth all too enticing. Alina leaned forward to let herself be devoured.

She was glad that she had worn a dress under her kefta today, she reflected, as Aleksander pushed her down until she was lying flat on her back and forced her knees further apart. His hands skated up the inside of her thighs, a feather-light touch that made her writhe and squirm until he clamped down on her hips.

“Aleksander,” Alina said, breathless already. “Do you think they know?”

He laughed softly. Alina shivered.

“If they don’t already, they will now.”

When he brought his mouth down on her, a ragged noise clawed its way up Alina’s throat. He shifted seamlessly between gentle and rough, never too much of either, always seeming to know exactly what she needed. Gleefully, cruelly, he brought her to the edge again and again, until she was sobbing his name. When he curled his fingers inside of her she nearly hit the ceiling. The world dissolved around her in a burst of light and heat.

As she came down from her high, skin burning with every touch, Alina tried to wriggle away from his grasp, but he offered no respite. She trembled and moaned; everything was so much, the hand pressed flat against her stomach, the scrape of his stubble against the inside of her legs, the bumps and ridges of the map jutting into her back. Alina was well aware of the exquisite blur between pleasure and pain but this was something else – excruciating, stomach-twisting, transcendent. She was so full of sensation she thought she might burst with it all. Aleksander teased and soothed her, letting her inch slowly, so slowly, towards the oblivion she craved.

Alina tipped over the edge and then she was hurtling into it, headlong, no longer aware of anything beyond her body, and even her grasp on that was a tenuous thing. Sunshine pulsed through the room, blistering and bright, making the daylight beyond the windows seem dull in comparison.

Moments later, as Alina lay there, boneless and panting, Aleksander grasped her bare calves and dragged her towards the edge of the table. She pushed herself up onto her elbows to watch as he unbuckled his belt, a snarl of impatience on his lips. His hair was tousled and he was breathing hard. Alina sat up fully and shuffled further forward, reaching out to help him, even though his movements were swift and sure. It seemed nothing could get in the way of Aleksander’s natural gracefulness. He let her tug his trousers down while he gripped her waist, fingertips pressing indentations in the softness of her flesh, angling his hips upwards and thrusting into her.

His head fell forward onto her shoulder and he groaned loudly, spitting out her name. Alina ran her hand gently up the curve of his neck and smiled against the crown of his head.

She couldn’t move very much in this position, so she let Aleksander do most of the work, winding her fingers in his hair and whispering in his ear, enjoying the way he shuddered against her chest every time she spoke his name. His palms were flat against her back, his mouth open on her neck. Alina’s breath caught violently when his teeth grazed her skin and the movement of his hips became harsher, more jagged, and she tried to hide it, but when he lifted his head to nip at her lower lip, she knew she had failed.

He pressed her closer against him, no longer tolerant of any space at all between their bodies, and Alina fractured. It happened so suddenly, an explosion of pleasure which tore apart the very fibre of her being. She tipped her head back, spine arching, mouth open in a silent scream, unable to breathe, unable to see. A flare of light, a rainbow of colours, erupted from within her with enough force to rattle the furniture. Aleksander followed her seconds later, slumping forward as a heavy cloak of darkness fell over them both.

For a long time after that, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the feeling of their heartbeats hammering in synchrony where their wrists were pressed together. Eventually, Aleksander dragged himself off her with a long groan. The shadows, which had coated her skin like oil, began to recede; Alina summoned a little light to help burn them away. She hopped down from the table, staggering slightly as she landed, weak at the knees, and Aleksander reached out automatically to steady her.

Their eyes met and Alina realised that, somehow, without even noticing it happen, she had become used to it – to Aleksander being there for her when she needed him, reaching for her without thinking, grounding her when she felt afloat. That his support was something she didn’t even look for anymore, something he gave entirely unconsciously.

She pulled out of his grip and wheeled around. He didn’t follow her as she pushed open the bedroom door and clattered her way into his bathroom. It took her a few moments to gather herself together, to take deep breaths and splash water on her face, to rebutton her kefta and fix her hair so that she didn’t look quite so obviously debauched. When she emerged again, Aleksander was standing exactly where she had left him. He looked down at the map table with a frown, his clothes neat, not a hair out of place. She sighed slightly, cursing his unerring ability to look so flawless so effortlessly.

Alina came to stand next to him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. They wordlessly observed the map and its coloured pieces – which he had taken care to return to their places – for several minutes.

“We should go via Kribirsk,” Alina said eventually. “Assemble a force there. That way we avoid thinning the numbers at Ulensk.”

“I agree,” Aleksander said, moving a few of the pieces from Kribirsk to the border. “We won’t need to go to Kribirsk, though.”

“We won’t?”

He smiled at her. “Do you forget that I am the general of the Second Army? It’s a simple thing for me to reassign troops from Kribirsk to Ulensk. We needn’t accompany them on the journey.”

“Oh. Of course,” Alina said bashfully. “What about First Army, though?”

Aleksander tapped his fingers thoughtfully against her arm. “Perhaps our Puppy Prince can finally prove his worth to us, there.”

Alina elbowed him in the chest. “Don’t call him that.”

He huffed a laugh and kissed the top of her head. “Do you want to bring him his orders, then, since you’re such good friends now?”

“What about the meeting?” Alina asked, completely ignoring the jibe. “Has it been... adjourned?”

“That is certainly one way of putting it,” Aleksander said with a smirk. “But we should reconvene. I can handle it.”

He said it so casually, but Alina saw it for what it was: an exchange of trust. If she could trust him to take charge of their plans, he would trust her to keep Nikolai from making too much trouble.

“Okay,” Alina agreed, and he nodded.

“Make sure Sobachka knows exactly what is expected of him,” Aleksander said sternly, shooting her a look that said he’s your problem now. Alina rolled her eyes and lifted herself onto her tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the lips.

“Yes, sir,” she teased, and he narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on her shoulder to hold her in place while he dipped his head to kiss her again.

When he finally released her, she scooted past him and headed for the door, pausing with one hand on the handle to take a few calming breaths. Then she breezed into the corridor, smiling amiably at the group of people waiting outside. Fedyor couldn’t meet her eyes; Ivan looked distinctly unimpressed by the whole scenario.

“You can go in, now,” she said without slowing her pace. Konstantin coughed as if he was trying to cover up a laugh.

She already knew exactly where she would find Nikolai. The day after he had arrived, Alina had shown him around the Little Palace, making certain to include the Fabrikator workshop in their route. As expected, he had fallen in love with the place and the people there immediately.

Being so close to the Grand Palace meant they were running the risk that somebody would recognise Nikolai, so, the morning after their midnight meeting, Aleksander had sent Genya over to him. She had raised one disparaging eyebrow at Tolya’s rapidly disintegrating attempt at tailoring, and with a quick brush of her hands the Sturmhond guise had sprung back into place.

Genya was already in the workshop when Alina arrived. She gave her friend a quick squeeze on the shoulder as she came to a halt by her side, and Genya threw her a radiant smile in return. Both women stood in silence as they watched Nikolai and David, heads bent over the work bench, deep in an animated discussion about some sort of prototype. Genya sighed. Her perfect face was furrowed in confusion.

“I’ve never seen him talk so much,” she said morosely, and Alina stifled a giggle.

Nikolai had been quick to befriend all the Fabrikators in the workshop but had formed an especially strong bond with David. These days, the two were inseparable.

“Don’t take it personally, Genya,” Alina said comfortingly. “David adores you.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Genya mumbled, her cheeks pink. “I just wish he knew that I would happily listen to him talk about all this stuff – even if I can’t contribute anything.”

“Maybe you should tell him that, then,” Alina said gently. She hooked her arm through Genya’s and tugged her over to the table. The boys looked up as they arrived, their conversation dying away.

“Oh – Alina,” Nikolai said, running his hand through his hair as he nodded a greeting to each of the girls. “Genya.”

David gave them both a tiny, awkward wave, which Genya returned.

“Do you have a minute, Captain?” Alina raised her eyebrows significantly at Nikolai. Other than Alina and Aleksander, Genya was the only person to know the truth of Nikolai’s identity – to the rest of the Little Palace, he was still Sturmhond.

Nikolai smiled easily. “Certainly.”

As they left, Alina heard Genya shyly asking David what he was working on. Alina smiled to herself.

They strolled through the gardens for a while. Since his arrival, Alina had made an effort to spend time with Nikolai whenever she could, and now the beginnings of a close friendship could be felt in the space between them.

“I take it you’re here on behalf of General Kirigan?” he said, breaking the silence. Alina scowled at him.

“I’m here on behalf of myself.”

Nikolai quirked an eyebrow. “You mean you sought me out for the pleasure of my company?”

Alina elbowed him in the side and he laughed.

“We want you to go to Kribirsk,” she said without further preamble. Nikolai nodded slowly.

“When you say ‘we’...”

“Oh, shut up,” Alina snapped, rolling her eyes, but she was smiling. “The General and I want you to go to Kribirsk. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Nikolai said. “May I ask what’s so important in Kribirsk?”

“We’ll need quite a sizeable force when we cross into Fjerda, but we don’t want to weaken the defences on the border, so we’re reassigning certain units from Kribirsk,” Alina explained.

“Ah,” Nikolai nodded to himself. “I see. Your general can send orders for the Grisha at Kribirsk to relocate to Ulensk, but has no such sway over First Army.”

Alina shrugged. “That’s about the long and short of it.”

“How many men do you need?”

She hesitated only for a moment. They hadn’t actually discussed this yet, and she didn’t want to say the wrong thing, but surely if it was important Aleksander would have told her before she met with Nikolai?

“We’ll leave it up to your discretion,” she said carefully.

Nikolai nodded again. His expression was thoughtful. “I take it you won’t be accompanying me to Kribirsk?”

Alina shook her head. “We’ll all congregate at the base at Ulensk.”

“And you trust me enough to let me go to Kribirsk, on my own, to assemble a force of unknown size?”

He sounded faintly disbelieving, and Alina couldn’t blame him.

“You know I trust you enough,” she said quietly.

“And you know that’s not what I was asking,” he responded.

They had wandered all the way through the gardens of the Little Palace and now stood at the edge of a small courtyard, bordered by neat hedges and blossom trees, with a huge marble fountain in the middle. On the other side of the courtyard, the Grand Palace loomed; just a few grassy lawns in between them. Nikolai looked up at it with a slightly wistful expression and Alina wondered how much he missed his life here.

“He doesn’t trust you at all,” Alina said, drawing Nikolai’s attention back to her. “But he trusts me – at least enough to put this decision in my hands.”

“I don’t know how much I trust him,” Nikolai admitted. “And I know there’s something more going on here, something that neither of you will tell me. But I trust you, Alina – I trust that, if nothing else, you have the country’s best interests at heart. I like to think that I do, too.”

Alina managed a half-smile. “Does this mean you’ll go to Kribirsk?”

He laughed. “I believe I’ve already been given my marching orders.”

“Technically, I can’t order you to do anything. You outrank me.”

Nikolai shrugged. “Ah, give it time. You’ll be ordering us all around before long, I expect.”

Alina examined his face closely, searching for any indication that he might suspect she and Aleksander planned to topple the Lantsov reign. But his smile was genuine, laid-back, and there was a gentle teasing spark in his eyes. Alina forced herself to return the smile.

She turned towards the elaborate domes and spires of the Grand Palace again.

“Do you miss them?” she asked.

“I suppose,” Nikolai said evenly. “But I don’t know if they ever really knew me. I had to be somebody else – play the part they expected of me. I was never allowed to pursue the things that actually interested me. I practically had to run away to do my military service. Being Sturmhond is liberating. Even though he’s a character, in many ways it feels less like pretending, less like hiding, than what I have to do to fit in here.”

There was a moment of silence. They had grown close in the short space of time that Nikolai had spent at the Little Palace, but Alina got the sense that this was the most honest he had been with her so far. Although his face was placid, she could see a faint, troubled crease in his brow as he stared across the courtyard at his former home.

“You’re a good man, Nikolai,” she whispered. “I hope one day you’ll be able to live without putting on an act all the time.”

He smiled at her. “Well, that would be nice, but I won’t hold my breath.”

Alina bit her lip. “Don’t ask me to explain this, okay, but if you stick with us – if you trust me – I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

Nikolai said nothing, his eyes fixed intently on Alina’s face as he tried to determine whether or not she was being serious. Eventually, he nodded, and Alina cracked a half-hearted smile. They turned around and walked back to the Little Palace together.

She left him outside the Materialki workshop – he was already talking about some fantastic new technology he and David were working on – and took the stairs up to Aleksander’s wing. Her stomach was rumbling; she hadn’t eaten since a rushed breakfast, more than six hours ago now, so she stopped at the door just long enough to ask for some food to be sent up. Knowing Aleksander, they would be working until well past the dinner bell, and she didn’t think she could last that long without something to tide her over.

He must have concluded his meeting already because the war room was completely empty. Alina wandered through to his bedroom. As she had expected, he was standing over the desk in the corner, his back hunched, paging through the documents which had been piling up over the past few weeks.

It was rare for her to find Aleksander so lost in thought that he didn’t notice her arrival. Unable to resist the opportunity, Alina snuck across the room and grabbed his waist. He spun around, whipping his arm out so fast that Alina didn’t even have time to blink before she was ducking underneath it, narrowly avoiding a slim dart of shadow which had been aimed directly between her eyes. His other arm shot out and grabbed her by the throat.

A second passed, then he relaxed his grip on her, his eyes widening in horror.

“Saints, Aleksander,” she coughed, rubbing her neck and glaring at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit jumpy?”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Sorry. Just a reflex. Did I hurt you?”

She snorted. “You wish you could.”

“I’m serious, Alina,” he said, pulling her hand away from her throat to inspect the damage, a concerned frown etched on his face. She placed one finger under his chin and tilted his head up until their gazes met.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him. “You’ve done much worse to me in far more compromising situations.”

He smiled at that and kissed her forehead.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, leaning in as he curved his arm around her.

“Just going back over some of these reports, making sure there’s nothing urgent I need to attend to before we leave.”

“And?” Alina prompted.

Aleksander shook his head. “Nothing that Fedyor and Ivan can’t handle.”

“How was the rest of the meeting?”

He smirked. “Much less interesting than the first half. But a success. And your meeting with the prince?”

Alina waved a hand. “No problems there, either.”

Aleksander sniffed a little disdainfully. “He would say yes to just about anything you ask of him.”

“Well, it makes a nice change,” she grinned, and Aleksander narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t think he would say yes to anything I ask, but even if he would, I fail to see how that’s a bad thing. He’s a useful man to have on side.”

“As long as he remembers his place,” Aleksander muttered.

“If Nikolai makes any advances on me, I can assure that I’ll be the first person to shut them down,” Alina said dryly. “Yes, I like him – but it’s nothing beyond that. You don’t have to feel threatened.”

He scoffed at the very notion that Nikolai could be a threat to him, but Alina didn’t miss the way his arms tightened around her ever so slightly. She leaned happily into his embrace.

“Everything’s coming together now, isn’t it?” she murmured, and Aleksander nodded.

“It’s getting there.”

“When do you think we can leave?”

She tilted her head to look up at him as he contemplated the question.

“A few more days, I would say.”

Alina’s body hummed with anticipation.

“It’s going to work,” she insisted. He smiled at her and her optimism, a little bit sad, a little bit envious.

“We’ll see,” was all he said in response.

Three days later, Alina sat next to Nikolai as Genya opened up her tailoring kit on the table in front of them.

“Are you ready to be Nikolai Lantsov again?” she asked. Nikolai glanced quickly at Alina and nodded.

“The world has been denied the pleasure of my face long enough.”

Alina rolled her eyes, but Genya merely smiled and got to work. Alina watched, fascinated, as Sturmhond melted away and Nikolai’s features reemerged. Every so often, Genya would step back, tilt her head this way and that, muttering quietly to herself, before she resumed her task. She changed the colour of his hair and eyes, the set of his nose, the point of his chin.

“Okay,” she said eventually, stepping back and passing Nikolai a small, hand-held mirror. “Tell me if you think there’s anything not quite right.”

Nikolai scrutinised his reflection closely. When he put down the mirror and turned to Alina, she gasped, delighted: this was the face of her dear friend, perfect in every detail. Nikolai winked at her.

“My, my! Let it be known that the Sun Summoner likes my face.”

She punched him lightly in the arm. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Nikolai laughed and turned to Genya. “I have no notes. Thank you for your help – Tolya tried his best, but his gifts really do not lie in tailoring.”

He handed her the mirror and stood up, straightening his neatly pressed, brand new First Army uniform. She could see the last remnants of Sturmhond fall away, flowing off him like water, replaced by somebody else – a prince, a soldier, a commanding officer.

“I’d better set off for Kribirsk before somebody recognises me,” he said, and there was no longer any jesting in the way he looked at Alina. “When do you and General Kirigan plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Nikolai nodded. “We’ll meet in Ulensk, then.”

Alina reached up and wrapped her arms around him. He made a surprised noise in his throat but returned her hug, clasping her tightly against his chest, before untangling himself and stepping back.

“Lieutenant Starkov,” he said with a curt nod. Alina grinned and gave him a mock salute.

“Major Lantsov.”

Genya came to stand by Alina’s side as they watched Nikolai walk away.

“I wish you could come with us,” Alina said forlornly. Genya smiled slightly and slipped her arm around Alina’s waist.

“I know, darling. I do too.”

Alina leaned her head to rest on Genya’s shoulder. “Will you be okay here?”

“I’ll be just fine,” Genya assured her. “I have my own orders to carry out.”

There was an edge of something in her voice, razor-sharp and restless, that made Alina lift her head to look more closely at her friend.

“You mean...”

Genya’s smile turned vicious. She squeezed Alina’s arm.

“Yes.”

Alina’s mind was whirling. She knew this day would come – she and Aleksander might argue about almost everything, but the necessity of removing Ravka’s useless king from the throne was one of the things they wholeheartedly agreed on – but she hadn’t realised he would advance his plans quite so soon. They hadn’t discussed this at all.

She held Genya against her, unsure what to say. When they pulled back from the embrace, Alina cradled her friend’s face in her palms, brushing aside a few stray red curls.

“If it had been up to me, you would never have been in this position in the first place,” she murmured. She was a confused knot of emotions – grief, anger, satisfaction. Genya took Alina’s hands in her own and pulled them gently away from her face.

“There’s no use in thinking like that, Alina,” she said.

Alina sighed. “I know. I just wish there was more I could do.”

“There is,” Genya said solemnly. “Promise me something, Alina – promise me that when this is all over, nothing like this will happen again.”

When you take control, she meant, but it went unsaid. Alina nodded.

“Promise me something in return?”

Genya’s eyes were wide and serious as she clutched Alina’s hands. “Anything, darling.”

Alina leaned forward. “Make him suffer,” she hissed.

Genya smiled again, slow and merciless. “You know I will.”

They stepped away from one another and Genya let go of Alina’s hands. Something unspoken passed between the two women, then; a vow that, although they were each going off to fight very different battles, they would both make it back here.

Alina lunged forward to hug Genya one last time, forcing a startled laugh from her impossibly beautiful, impossibly strong friend. Then they parted, walking away in opposite directions, backs straight, eyes forward. Soldiers.

She found Aleksander in the war room, slumped in his chair and nursing a glass of brandy as his eyes roved slowly over the papers in front of him. Alina came to stand behind him, draping her arms loosely around his neck, leaning forward to see what he was reading.

“I’m just reviewing some of our planned mobilisations on the Shu border,” he explained, sensing her curiosity. “This is the last chance I’ll have to make any changes before we go.”

“Then it will be in Ivan’s hands?”

He nodded, leaning his head against the crook of her elbow. “I trust him, of course, but –”

“But you’re a control freak?” Alina suggested with a smile, and he shot her a withering look.

“Did you come here simply to mock me, Alina?”

“Yes,” she said, bending her head to kiss him. He set his glass carefully on the desk and brought his hands up to her face, sliding around to grip the back of her neck, deepening the kiss even further. Alina ran her tongue over his lips, prising them open. She could taste the brandy on his breath – dark and sweet, heavy and warm.

Eventually, she pulled away; he resisted only for a moment.

“So, were you planning to let me know that you’re having Genya kill the King while we’re away?”

Aleksander’s expression didn’t change. “The King will still be alive when we return, Alina.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you certain?”

He sighed, the first sign of his irritation. “The King will come down with a sudden illness. Nothing serious, but enough for his doctors to advise a period of bed rest. He will recover.”

Alina narrowed her eyes at him. “And then?”

He lifted one shoulder in a graceful half-shrug. “He will fall ill again. The second bout will be much worse than the first – the doctors will start to worry about the possibility of contagion, and the royal family will be confined to their respective chambers for their own safety. We will seize power, with little to no resistance, and at the end of it all the King will die a very slow, painful death.”

“Aleksander,” Alina sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this until now?”

“These plans have been in place for longer than you have been at the Little Palace, Alina.”

She clicked her tongue loudly. “That’s no reason to keep it from me, and you know it. This doesn’t give me very much time to convince Nikolai to back us.”

“We don’t need him,” Aleksander said dismissively. Alina ground her teeth together.

“It would help us a lot, though, you can’t deny it.”

He said nothing, and Alina pinched the brow of her nose. “Why now? You’ve waited this long – could you not stand a few more months?”

“The first bout of illness will keep the King bedbound while we are in Fjerda,” Aleksander said, as if it was obvious. “It will give us time to do what we need to do without his involvement.”

“Surely you could get him to sign off on this? We needn’t share all the details – as far as anyone in the royal court needs to know, this is a strike against Fjerda like all the others.”

He shook his head. “You’ve never had to deal with the King, Alina. Any time I present a new strategy, propose we go on the offensive, lay out the details of a weak spot we could attack, he refuses to even consider it. Many weeks will pass, during which time his advisors will try to talk him round, then he will call me before him and order me to do exactly what I had suggested – acting as if it was all his idea in the first place. So, yes, I could get him to sign off on it, but it would take far too long. It will be much easier to just remove him from the equation for as long as we need to carry out your plan.”

Alina scowled. When he put it like that, it all sounded very logical.

“You still should have told me,” she complained. He smiled, ever so slightly patronising in that awful way of his.

“Okay, Alina. I’m sorry.”

“You’re intolerable,” she snapped. He twisted round further in his seat, grabbing her by the waist and swinging her bodily onto his lap, leaving her legs dangling over the arm of his chair.

“Am I?” he breathed, the tip of his nose nudging at her jaw, tilting her head upwards to bare her throat. He nipped at the skin there and she yelped.

“Yes,” Alina managed. Her voice was pitched significantly higher than normal. “An intolerable control freak.”

He pressed his lips against her pulse point and chuckled. Alina knew then she had made a mistake, but it wasn’t one she could bring herself to regret.

After he had carried her through to his bedroom and wrung pleasure from her until she shook and wailed, until she had filled the room with so much frenzied, pulsating light that she saw white even when she closed her eyes, Alina climbed out from his arms on wobbly legs and shrugged into one of his shirts. This tiny act of defiance seemed barely adequate when, minutes earlier, he had held her in a state of delirium, unable to do anything but say his name; nonetheless, it made Alina feel slightly more dignified, especially when she cast a glance over her shoulder and saw Aleksander’s gaze darken lustfully at the sight of her in his clothes. She made sure to leave the shirt unbuttoned to the middle of her sternum and rolled up the too-long sleeves, then headed for the door.

“Shall I call for dinner?” she asked innocently.

Aleksander was out of bed and by her side in an instant. He glared at her.

“Not dressed like that, Alina. I’ll go.”

Alina shrugged nonchalantly. An arch smile spread slowly across his face, and he reached forward to tug at the hem of her shirt, pulling her towards him. Alina knocked his hands away.

“Hands off. You have plenty of shirts, Aleksander. There’s no need to undress me yet again.”

“There is every need,” he said lightly, but he released her nonetheless, brushing his lips across her cheekbone before walking to the dresser and pulling out a clean set of clothes.

They ate in his dining room; Aleksander flicked through his seemingly endless pile of reports, a faint frown creasing his forehead, absentmindedly scraping food into his mouth as he read, until Alina pushed her plate towards him and hopped into his lap. She snatched the file he had been perusing from his grasp and tossed it aside.

“No more of that,” she chided, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“Who’s desperate for attention now?”

“I am,” Alina said cheerfully as she wriggled around on his thighs in an attempt to get comfortable. He sighed but did not complain, keeping one arm around her middle while he used the other to spear some herring on his fork. Once they were finished, Alina pushed her plate away and leaned back into his chest, nestling her head against the crook of his neck.

“You’re not planning on running away from me once we leave Os Alta, are you?” Aleksander asked as he ran his hands lightly up and down her arms.

Alina frowned. “No, of course not. Why would you say that?”

“You’re just acting as if this is the last night we’re going to see one another for a long time.”

She was silent, remembering the first time she had run away from him – left him wanting her, worrying for her, on a cold winter’s night.

Shaking her head, Alina buried herself further into his embrace. “Even though we’ll be together, it will be different. And when we come back, it will be different again. And I suppose... part of me doesn’t want to give this up just yet.”

He had nothing to say to that. She tilted her head upwards, her mouth meeting his, and he let her kiss him until it was the only thing either of them could think about.

She spent the night in his bed, legs entwined. The following morning, they left the Little Palace, bound for the Fjerdan border, knowing that they were about to change the world.

Chapter Text

Alina stared down at the bustling expanse of Ulensk. It was an odd, ramshackle settlement that had sprung up around the old fort – a jumble of canvas tents, wooden huts, and a few old stone buildings. As far as she could see, there was no real boundary between the military encampment and the town itself; everything was jammed in seemingly at random in narrow, twisting streets.

To her left, the Fold rose up, startlingly close. Your days are numbered, she told it silently.

Aleksander brought his horse up next to hers.

“What’s that look for?” he asked.

Alina tore her gaze away from the roiling wall of shadow. “Just sizing up my next opponent,” she said drily.

He tutted loudly. “And you say I’m obsessed with the Fold.”

Before she could come up with a sharp retort, he had spurred his horse into movement and was cantering down the hill towards Ulensk. Alina sighed and followed after him.

The fort which formed the heart of the settlement was occupied by a full First Army regiment and served as a command centre of sorts. Most of the troops stationed along the border received their orders from Ulensk.

In a large, paved courtyard behind the fort, the Grisha had set up their own sprawling pavilion. Alina felt her heart lift at the sight of its tri-coloured banners fluttering in the breeze. Artemiy’s hooves clopped loudly on the cobbled ground as she trotted into the pavilion behind Aleksander. A familiar figure, clad in a blue kefta, stood in the entryway to the main command tent, her arms crossed and toe tapping impatiently. Alina grinned, hopped out of the saddle, and ran across the pavilion towards Zoya. As she approached, the irritation plastered on Zoya’s face was replaced by a grudging smile.

“Lieutenant Nazyalensky,” Alina greeted her with a brusque nod.

“Lieutenant Starkov,” Zoya replied sniffily.

A moment passed, then they laughed and fell into one another’s arms. Alina would never admit how much she had missed Zoya, would never say that the halls of the Little Palace were always duller without her glorious, acerbic, snooty presence. From the way Zoya hugged her back, Alina knew that the feeling was mutual.

They drew back and Zoya ran a critical eye up and down Alina’s body.

“Summoners’ blue not good enough for you now that you’re tumbling our general?” she asked, flicking the shoulder of Alina’s black kefta. Alina nearly choked in surprise, her face flushing bright red.

“I’m not – where did you hear that?”

Zoya arched an eyebrow. “Don’t even bother trying to lie to me, Starkov,” she said coldly. “You’ll never pull it off.”

Recovering a little bit of her composure, Alina crossed her arms defensively. “Don’t tell me you believe all the rumours you hear.”

“I believe this one,” she bit back. “You two have been making eyes at one another since the winter fête.”

There was an unmistakable undercurrent of jealousy in her words. Alina worried at her lower lip.

“I’m sorry, Zoya,” she said quietly. Zoya glanced at her sharply.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Well, I know... uh, never mind,” Alina mumbled, her cheeks warming even more under Zoya’s glare.

“Surely you don’t believe all the rumours you hear?” she asked, a glint in her eyes. Alina snorted. If Zoya was going to goad her like this, she would happily respond.

“Definitely not,” she said. “But I also know you did nothing to dispute those rumours – maybe you even had a hand in spreading them yourself.”

It was Zoya’s turn to blush. Her eyes flickered over Alina’s shoulder to where Aleksander stood in discussion with the oprichniki who had accompanied them on their journey north. She sighed.

“If you were anyone else, Starkov, I’d beat your ass for this.”

Alina grinned. “You’d be welcome to try.”

Zoya rolled her eyes. “How did you ever make me like you?”

“Persistence.”

They both laughed, then Zoya wrapped her arm around Alina’s waist and dragged her into the tent. Inside, two men stood beside a round table, similar to the map table in Aleksander’s war room; as she got closer, Alina realised that it was a detailed view of the area around the border.

The men looked up as they entered. Alina could see from the way their expressions shifted at the sight of her that they immediately knew who she was.

“Colonel, Captain,” Zoya bowed her head respectfully. “This is Lieutenant Alina Starkov. The Sun Summoner.”

The man on the right, the younger of the two, nodded at her. “Lieutenant Starkov. I am Captain Markov. This is Colonel Petrovsky, the commander of the Second Army at Ulensk.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Alina said with a smile.

“Have the troops that I requisitioned from Kribirsk arrived?” Aleksander asked, sweeping into the tent without a greeting. Zoya, Captain Markov, and Colonel Petrovsky all bowed to him, but Alina kept her back perfectly straight.

“Yes, moi soverenyi – just last night,” Colonel Petrovsky said. Aleksander stepped past Alina, letting one hand rest briefly on her waist as he moved towards the map table. A small gesture, but one that was loaded with implication; she watched as Markov and Petrovsky noted it, saw the way they glanced at one another as they realised that the rumours about the Black General and the Sun Summoner might hold more weight than they had believed.

“We’re waiting on additional First Army support, also coming from Kribirsk. They should reach Ulensk within a few days.”

The colonel nodded at this, but Captain Markov was clearly not so practised at keeping his surprise from showing on his face. Alina glanced quickly at Aleksander to see if he had noticed – of course, he had.

“I must congratulate you, Captain, on your recent promotion. I still remember the day you graduated basic training,” Aleksander said casually. He ran one finger over the surface of the map, his gaze roving between the various coloured pieces, not even looking at Markov as he spoke. The words were unremarkable, but Alina could sense that they disguised a challenge; a threat. Captain Markov coloured slightly.

“Thank you, General.”

Colonel Petrovsky cleared his throat slightly. “That gives us more than enough time to plan our move. If you don’t mind, General, I was wondering if you could share more detail of the strategy here. Your message mentioned a strike against Fjerda – am I to assume that these First Army units will play into this, somehow?”

Aleksander planted both hands on the map table and leaned forward. In the dim interior of the tent, lit only by the liquid glow of paraffin lamps, his smile was ghoulish.

“We’re going to lay siege to Halmhend.”

Petrovsky tilted his head to one side thoughtfully, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

“Halmhend? It’s risky – a much bigger settlement than those we normally try to take, and further into Fjerda. There’s an army camp nearby, too. It will be well defended.”

“I know this,” Aleksander said patiently, gesturing to the location of Halmhend on the map before him, the cluster of pieces representing the Fjerdan infantry just a little further north than the town itself. “But you forget, Colonel, that this is no ordinary campaign. The attack will be spearheaded by myself and the Sun Summoner, with support from both First and Second Army. I intend to show the Grimjers what the full strength of Ravka looks like.”

Alina stayed quiet. They had argued about this, back in the Little Palace – Alina had pushed for Halmhend to be the scene of their little performance, while Aleksander had been firmly against it.

“There’s an army encampment not three miles north of Halmhend, Alina. It’s far too dangerous. There are plenty of other settlements on the border that would do just as well,” he had asserted furiously. But Alina wouldn’t change her mind.

“Those other settlements barely classify as villages, Aleksander. If this is going to work, we need a proper audience – enough people that the story will spread.”

She had crossed her arms and lifted her chin, glowering at him fiercely. He clenched his hands into fists.

“I won’t risk it, Alina,” he growled. “We will be attacked.”

“Good! Let them try,” she muttered darkly. “Let them see that my mercy is not limitless.”

Aleksander had relaxed a little bit at that, sweeping his eyes slowly down her body.

“My Alina,” he chuckled. “Have you always been such a bloodthirsty little thing?”

She had smiled and stepped closer to him. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

He had bent his head to kiss her, had practically torn her brand new black kefta off, and afterwards there had been no more discussion about it. As much as he might hate the notion of dangling his Sun Summoner under the noses of the Fjerdan military, Aleksander was a practical man – he knew that she was right, and that targeting Halmhend would give them the best chance of success.

So, now, Alina stood quietly by Aleksander’s side and watched as he laid out her plan. She kept her focus trained on the colonel and the captain, trying to gauge their reactions; she could see that, despite their initial wariness of such a bold strategy, they quickly came around. Alina couldn’t help but be impressed with the way Aleksander explained everything so easily, so simply, addressing their every concern before they were even spoken aloud. He really was a master of manipulation. As they delved further into the minutiae of the strategy – the division of First and Second Army, which units they would send, how and when they would attack – he directed the conversation in such a way that the other men believed they were making their own suggestions, coming up with their own tactics, when, in fact, they were simply saying exactly what Aleksander wanted them to say.

She supposed it made him a good general, in a way. As their commanding officer, he could have just ordered them to do as he said – instead, he set out all the details that he and Alina had already agreed on, long ago, in a way that made the colonel and the captain feel that they had contributed something significant.

“Does it make you feel good?” Alina asked later, lying naked in his bed. “Manipulating people.”

He gave her one of those looks that he reserved for when he thought she was being especially naïve. “It’s not about feeling good, Alina. I have found, in my many years of experience, that this is simply the most efficient way to get people on side.”

She pursed her lips a little but didn’t press the matter. They had spent several hours in the command tent earlier, going over strategy until long after the sun had set. When, at last, they had emerged, Alina realised two new tents had been erected in the Grisha pavilion – one in black and silver, the other in black and gold. She had rolled her eyes a little bit as she and Aleksander crossed the open space in the middle of the pavilion.

“I’m surprised you even went to the bother of getting me my own tent.”

His lips curved in a half-smile. “I knew you would want one.”

Alina looked up at him, surprised. Aleksander didn’t normally give in to her requests without a great deal of persuasion, first; they hadn’t even discussed this.

“Oh,” was all she said. He glanced at her, amused.

“I can always have it taken away.”

“No!” she said hurriedly. “No, I just didn’t really expect it. That’s all.”

She sighed a little as they drew nearer to the black canvas. “Not that it really matters. Everyone seems to know, anyway.”

“Does that bother you?” he asked. Alina shot him a scornful look.

“You know it does.”

Aleksander stopped, just outside the entrance to his tent, and turned to face her. “You care too much what other people think of you.”

“I disagree,” Alina retorted. “Because the strongest kind of loyalty is earned, not taken by force. If I can only get people to respect me by repeatedly reminding them that I am stronger than them – well, I don’t think I’d be worthy of that respect.”

“You are worthy of their respect – and their loyalty – for so many reasons, Alina,” Aleksander said reproachfully. “But it is an inescapable truth that you are more powerful than them. You wear my colour, you stand at my side, you tell me when you think I am wrong. You are special – everyone can see it, and it has nothing to do with whether or not you spend the night in my bed.”

Alina said nothing. Aleksander smiled briefly, softly, then turned without another word and strode into his tent.

They ate in the mess tent that evening, alongside all the other Second Army soldiers stationed in Ulensk. Alina sat next to Zoya in a clean kefta, having slipped into her tent on her way to dinner for just long enough to peel off her dusty travelling clothes and brush her hair out of its scraggly braid. Now, with food in her belly, the grime wiped from her skin, Alina sighed in happiness and laid her head on Zoya’s shoulder.

“Have you gone soft, Starkov?” Zoya asked, raising one eyebrow. “A few days on the road and suddenly you’re swooning like a lady.”

Alina prodded her sharply in the ribs. “It’s just nice to know we don’t have to pack up and move on first thing tomorrow.”

Zoya snickered. “You’ve been spoiled – your black kefta and all that fine food has given you airs.”

“I can promise you there has been no fine food,” Alina said with a groan. “Just pickled herring, as far as the eye can see.”

Zoya scrunched up her face in disgust and the two women dissolved into uncontrollable giggles, drawing a stern frown from Aleksander, seated a little further down the table, which only served to make them laugh even harder.

Alina made herself invisible and snuck into his tent later that night. As she had expected, he was waiting for her, stretched out on his cot with a book in his hand, two glasses of kvas already poured and set out on the desk. Alina picked them up and brought them over to where he lay. They both drank without saying anything, then Aleksander pulled her into his lap, and there was a different kind of silence in the way they came together.

The following morning, Alina slipped from his tent just before the sun rose. She curled up in her own cot and managed to snatch an extra few minutes of sleep before the first muster bell rang.

She spent the first half of the day on patrol with Zoya, then in the afternoon Aleksander introduced her to some of the soldiers who had come from Kribirsk and would be accompanying them on the mission to Halmhend. Alina made an effort to remember all their names, but in vain – Aleksander, for all his antisocial tendencies, was innately good with people in a way that she was not. When she told him as much, later, he just smiled and kissed her head.

“You will learn,” he said.

Nikolai arrived that evening, accompanied by a battalion of First Army soldiers. Alina was in her tent, just seconds away from sinking into a hot bath, when Aleksander appeared in the entryway.

“Message from Major General Antonov,” he said, holding a slip of paper between his long fingers. “Sobachka is here. He’s reported to the First Army command centre at the old fort.”

With a deep sigh and a regretful look at the steam coiling from her tin bathtub, Alina dashed across the tent, slipping out of her robe and into the clothes she had discarded on her cot a few minutes earlier.

“He really chooses his moments,” she grumbled as she buttoned up her kefta.

“Shall I send him away until after your bath?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Alina said with a smile. She had to hurry to keep up with his long strides as they walked through the Grisha pavilion together. People stopped and stepped out of their way, watching the two black-clad Summoners with wide eyes as they passed. It wasn’t something Alina thought she would ever get used to.

They approached the fort and the soldiers guarding the entrance let them through with a nod. Aleksander wound his way through the corridors as if he had been here hundreds of times before – and maybe he had, maybe he had graced these halls when the fort was newly-built, long before the wooden floors were worn by the constant footfall of soldiers, before the doors creaked on their hinges and the windows rattled in their panes. The command room was in the centre of the building, behind a heavy wooden door guarded by another pair of soldiers. A throng of men in the olive uniforms of First Army stood around a huge map table, even bigger than Aleksander’s but flat rather than carved in relief; they all looked up when the door opened. Nikolai caught her eye and grinned widely.

Her body twitched with the urge to run to him, to greet him with an embrace as she was so used to doing in her previous life, but a slight motion of Aleksander’s hand reminded her where she was.

One of the other men stepped forward, looking between Alina and Aleksander.

“Major General Antonov, I presume,” Aleksander said conversationally. He did not have to raise his voice to command the room.

The man nodded once in confirmation. “General Kirigan, Lieutenant Starkov – your reputations precede you.”

Aleksander looked unimpressed. She supposed he was used to hearing things like this. He turned his gaze to Nikolai and nodded once in deference.

“Moi tsarevich,” he said. He spoke with a polished sort of politeness – a demeanour honed over years of serving the King – which would never betray the disdain he truly felt for the young prince. “I trust your journey was without incident?”

“Almost to the point of boredom, General,” Nikolai responded, smiling easily. The other men in the room looked between them both, wondering who was holding court to whom.

Major General Antonov cleared his throat. “Forgive me my forthrightness, but if somebody would care to explain what is going on here, I would be most grateful. We have been holding the border here for months with little more than the occasional missive from Os Alta – now, the general of the Second Army and the prince who hasn’t been heard from for years both show up out of the blue.”

Nikolai gestured for Aleksander to explain. All eyes fell on him, once again, and he smiled placidly – always happy to take control when it was handed to him.

As Aleksander sketched out the barest details of the planned assault on Halmhend, Alina let her attention drift; she had heard this all before, many times, and was far more interested in the reactions of the men in front of them. Her gaze wandered over the officers, taking in their apprehensive expressions. A few nodded along as Aleksander spoke, a calculated kind of bloodlust in their eyes, while others seemed less immediately convinced. Nikolai leaned against the map table, his arms crossed, cocky grin still in place. Major General Antonov listened intently, but his face gave nothing away.

“How many First Army soldiers do you count on having?” he asked, once Aleksander was finished.

“Only those who have travelled with the Prince from Kribirsk,” Aleksander explained calmly. “I would not diminish either First or Second Army’s presence on the border. All we require of you are the supplies for the journey.”

Major General Antonov pursed his lips but acquiesced to this with a nod. “That can be arranged. Shall we reconvene in the morning to discuss this further? The tsarevich has travelled some distance today.”

“Wonderful,” Nikolai said, shooting Alina a dazzling smile. “I can hardly wait.”

Alina and Aleksander walked in silence as they left the fort. It was only once they were back in the Grisha pavilion that he spoke again.

“What did you think of him?”

“Antonov?” Alina asked, glancing at him, and he nodded. “I don’t think he likes you.”

Aleksander huffed a laugh. “I think he has grown used to being in charge. As he said, the King’s input on matters in the north has been woefully lacking in recent months and in that time command of First Army movements on the border has fallen entirely to Antonov. I’ve never met the man before, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a capable commander.”

“You sound as if you don’t understand why he would take umbrage against you.”

He smiled. “On the contrary, if I was in his position, I believe I, too, would be a little disgruntled by the whole thing.”

The following day was taken up by yet more meetings, this time with the First Army commanding officers. They stood around the map table discussing what supplies they would need, when they planned to leave Ulensk, and how best to reinforce their border defences against a potential counterattack from Fjerda. This was the first time Nikolai heard any of the details of the strategy, and to Alina’s surprise, he seemed to take it very seriously; he kept his gaze trained on the map as Aleksander pointed out their planned routes of attack, a furrow of concentration between his brows.

After that, it took another day to gather all the supplies they needed and organise the troops – then, the following morning, they set off for Halmhend.

Alina lay with her head in Aleksander’s lap the night before they left Ulensk watching him read. It was rare to see him with a book in his hands instead of some files or letters or reports, and the way he mouthed the words silently to himself delighted Alina to no end.

“What were you reading?” she’d asked him as they lay curled in his cot that first night, nodding towards the battered-looking volume he had set aside when she came in.

“Poetry,” he had responded, and Alina had snorted in disbelief as she sat up, letting the sheets fall away from her naked body, and reached for the book to find out whether he was being serious. Aleksander smirked at the look of surprise on her face when she flipped it open to find the pages full of Old Ravkan verse.

“Do you think I’m a liar, Alina?” he had murmured against her skin, and she laughed.

“I know you are,” she had teased as she thumbed through the book. “Which one is your favourite?”

Aleksander had hummed to himself thoughtfully then plucked the book from her hands, flicked forward a few pages, and passed it back to her. Settling into his arms, Alina had cleared her throat and begun to read it aloud. Occasionally, she would steal glances up at his face – his eyes were closed, his expression one of bliss – but the poem itself demanded most of her attention.

When she finished, he had pressed a long, soft kiss to her mouth.

“How did I do?” she asked.

“Your accent could use a little work,” he had said, laughing at the outraged face she made in response. “But otherwise, perfect.”

He was reading to himself, now, and Alina was quite content to watch him do so.

“I feel bad,” she said suddenly, breaking the quietude. “Not telling everyone what our real plan is. They’re all trusting us, and we’re lying to them.”

Aleksander put his book down and tilted his head. “We’re not lying.”

“We may as well be,” Alina grumbled. He sighed and shook his head.

“Sometimes, in war, we have to be tactical about when and to whom we reveal certain strategies. We’ve discussed this – it will be better if nobody knows what we’re about to do until we do it.”

She made a face. “I know, I know.”

Aleksander smiled and ran his fingers gently through her hair. “Try and get some sleep, Alina. You’ll need your rest.”

They left at dawn. Alina and Aleksander rode in the middle of the convoy, with the oprichniki; ahead of them, Captain Markov had been assigned command of a company of Grisha, while Nikolai led his First Army battalion just behind them.

Though it was still summer, the air here was cold. There wasn’t yet snow on the ground, but Alina could see it coating the slopes of the hills to the north-east, and when they stopped to fill their canteens at a small brook, she almost shrieked at the frigidity of the water.

The landscape was eerily familiar; they were not far from where Alina had almost been killed in the ambush, nearly a year ago. The border was much more heavily fortified now, and she tried to take some comfort in that.

They stopped in the afternoon and pitched a small, makeshift camp. They would rest here for a while, long enough for everyone to get a few hours of sleep, then carry on after nightfall. It would be safer for them to move this many soldiers through enemy territory in the dark – if all went according to plan, they would reach Halmhend in time with the rising sun. Something about this appealed to Alina’s more theatrical side.

Alina curled up on a roll mat beneath a hastily strung canvas and closed her eyes. She had been so sure that she wouldn’t sleep, but, to her surprise, it wasn’t long before she drifted off. Her dreams were nervous, agitated things that scratched at her brain – a jittery patchwork of drüskelle holding long knives, huge wolves with their teeth bared, the black storm of the Fold swallowing her up. She woke up, gasping, to Zoya shaking her shoulder. The two women exchanged a look.

“Nervous?” Zoya asked quietly. Alina glanced instinctively at the sky to the north.

“A little,” she admitted.

Zoya nodded in understanding, her eyes following Alina’s. She squared her shoulders.

“It’s a good plan, Alina. We’re going to be fine,” she said firmly, and Alina smiled slightly.

“Get some sleep, Zoya.”

She traded places with her friend. Zoya started snoring softly almost as soon as she was horizontal.

Alina stretched out the stiffness in her limbs and rolled her head back. It had grown colder since the sun had gone down; Alina shivered and buried herself deeper into her kefta. She surveyed the camp slowly until her eyes lighted on Aleksander. He stood alone, almost invisible in the shadows between the trees, staring fixedly out into the night.

The grass was crisp with frost, crunching quietly under her feet as she came to stand by his side. He did not look at her.

“Aleksander,” she said under her breath. “You need to sleep.”

He kept his gaze trained on the still forest in front of them. “I can assure you, Alina, I am well-versed in battle. I do not need to sleep tonight.”

She took a breath in, ready to argue, and now he looked down at her. “I would rather spend these hours with you.”

Despite the chill of the night air, warmth bloomed in Alina’s heart. She laid a light touch on Aleksander’s arm, suddenly uncaring of who might see, her fingers curling in the thick fabric of his kefta.

“So the Black General does get scared, after all,” she mused softly. He tilted her head towards her, taking hold of her hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the inside of her wrist.

“Only since meeting you.”

She sighed. “I can take care of myself, Aleksander. Don’t worry.”

He frowned and turned back to the forest. “You have never so much as seen a battlefield since joining the Second Army, and now I am walking you right into the wolf’s den.”

She squeezed his hand in reassurance. When he glanced down at her again, his expression was tortured.

“Alina, if anything happens to you, I... I don’t know what I will do. But I suspect it would make the Fold look like a child’s picnic.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” she consoled him. “What we’re going to hit Fjerda with – they have no preparation for it. No defence.”

“An army is still an army,” Aleksander muttered. “We are hard to kill, yes – but not impossible.”

“I promise I’ll protect you,” Alina teased, and he laughed, very softly.

“My knight in shining armour,” he said wryly. She leaned towards him, and he pulled her against his chest, encircling her body with his arms. They stared out into the dark woodland in silence. Alina could feel the solid thump of Aleksander’s heart against her back, steady and reassuring.

A few hours before the first silvery tinges of daylight would creep into the sky in the east, they were on the move again. Nobody spoke as they crept through the blue shadows, Squallers working to muffle the sounds of their passage while Heartrenders held their hands up in front of them, listening for heartbeats.

Ahead of them, Captain Markov raised a fist and the convoy came to a halt. Although she couldn’t see past the trees, Alina knew that they must have reached their destination, that Halmhend lay just beyond the edge of the woods.

A moment passed, then, in complete silence, the convoy split into three groups. Captain Markov led the majority of the Second Army force out of the forest, accompanied by a small unit of First Army. Meanwhile, Nikolai and the rest of the First Army battalion headed west, following the treeline, keeping to the cover of the forest.

Aleksander glanced towards Zoya and nodded. She had been given command of a unit of Etherealki – all Squallers and Tidemakers – and would follow Nikolai to come at Halmhend from the west; but first, they had another job to do. At Aleksander’s signal, the Summoners gathered into a small circle, their faces tipped up to the sky, and raised their palms. Their arms moved in a coordinated, dance-like movement, and Alina felt the air around them suddenly become damper and colder – heavy, like there was a storm approaching. Thick clouds descended over the treetops, easily blocking out the weak, early-morning sunlight.

With a final push of their hands, the Etherealki sent the clouds rolling northwards. Alina and Zoya made eye contact, exchanging silent wishes of good luck, then Zoya turned and led her unit in the same direction Nikolai and the First Army troops had gone.

Alina and Aleksander were alone with their oprichniki. They walked slowly to the edge of the forest. Across a flat stretch of scrubby ground lay the outskirts of Halmhend. Alina could see the coloured kefta of the Grisha darting over the rocks and the heather; the First Army soldiers, in their drab khaki, were much harder to pick out.

The plan was that Captain Markov’s group would infiltrate the town first, quietly, if possible. Aleksander’s agents in Fjerda had heard whispers of a spy ring which operated out of Halmhend; the first objective of their mission was to find their base, gather as much information about Fjerdan agents embedded in Ravka as they could, and crush the spy network at its source. Nikolai and the bulk of his First Army battalion, concealed in the forest to the west, would keep watch and only make their move when the Fjerdan soldiers entered the town. They hoped that, by sending in a small force of primarily Grisha first, they would be able to catch the Fjerdans off guard with the arrival of a second, much larger wave of First Army infantry.

Alina watched as the Grisha reached the edge of the town, their colourful figures vanishing into the streets. She knew that Nikolai and Zoya had a much better vantage point from the west – they would be able to see the approaching Fjerdan soldiers with more than enough time to respond.

The clouds continued to roll in overhead. Alina was immensely grateful that Zoya was such a strong Squaller – the success of her whole plan hinged on the Fold being completely obscured.

That had been the source of yet another argument between her and Aleksander.

“You know, we won’t be able to travel to Halmhend with the rest of the troops,” he had said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I need to be inside the Fold to move it. And I can’t step foot inside the Fold without you.”

Alina frowned at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not actually going to move the Fold.”

Aleksander laughed sharply in disbelief. “Alina, that’s the whole point of this entire operation, is it not?”

She had sighed, as if it was obvious, and shook her head. “We only need to make people think the Fold is moving.”

“Alina...”

“No,” she had cut him off, rounding on him furiously. “If you think there’s any chance that I’d agree to something which involves you using merzost, you’re dead wrong.”

Aleksander just stared back at her, unmoved.

“I won’t risk losing you to it,” she had whispered, blinking back tears. And so he had acquiesced, gathering her into his arms with a sigh, his face softening ever so slightly.

“What do you suggest instead, then?” he’d asked, and Alina had smiled against his chest.

In the forest south of Halmhend, Alina felt the undeniable spark of hope in her chest. They had spent so long planning this, going over every single detail, and now it was coming to fruition. It would work – it had to work. She would make the Fjerdans see that Grisha were not monsters to be feared.

The stillness was almost unbearable; the sound of their breathing unnaturally loud in the quiet dawn. Aleksander reached for Alina’s hand, and she wove her fingers through his, allowing the wave of surety he sent through their connection to wash over her. She could feel the sun rising higher above the trees, although its light was still blotted out by the white fog of cloud cover.

It felt as though they stood there for an eternity, hand in hand, without moving. Then – just as Alina was starting to worry that something had gone wrong – the faint noise of commotion reached them, drifting across the scrubland, the peace of the early morning broken. Alina’s heart jumped into her throat.

In the distance, she saw figures emerge from the forest, streaming down the hill towards the town. Nikolai was leading his troops into battle. It had begun.

Alina turned to Aleksander, unsure of what to say, unsure even if there was anything to be said – then he grabbed her by the shoulders and crushed his mouth against hers. Her fingers fisted in the front of his kefta and they pressed their bodies together desperately. They parted slowly, their foreheads still touching, breathing hard. Aleksander’s eyes found her own and time seemed to slow, one second stretching out into an eternity as she fell into the oblivion of his gaze.

Then, the moment passed. They slipped between the trees and ran across the flat expanse of moorland towards Halmhend, their oprichniki close behind, entirely invisible to anybody who would be watching.

They entered the town and Alina let their invisibility drop. For what came next, she wanted to be seen.

Aleksander had memorised the plan of the town, so he led them through the streets towards the main square. As they walked, the sounds of battle grew louder, and fear tightened its cold fingers around her heart. This was happening because of her. Nikolai and Zoya, all the soldiers of the First and Second Armies who fought, fell, died today – it was because of her. How could she live with that?

Then, suddenly, they stepped out of a side street and into the town square, and Alina was too caught up in the chaos around her to give any further thought to her worries. It was clearly a market day in Halmhend, because the square was littered with upturned carts, shattered bits of wood, and fresh produce. She could see a few handfuls of their soldiers – mostly First Army, and there were some kefta in amongst the fray – but most of the bodies in the square looked to be ordinary civilians, running to and fro in a panic.

Fjerdan soldiers spewed into the square. Before any of the Ravkan troops could react, Aleksander lifted his hands, and a wave of shadows crashed into them, knocking them flat on their backs on the cobblestones. The First Army soldiers were immediately upon them, pistols drawn.

More gunfire sounded, startlingly close, and Alina saw the Grisha in the square rush off towards the noise. Alina scanned her surroundings, looking for any other immediate threat, but, for the moment, there was none to be found. She looked to Aleksander, her eyes wide. This was it. He smiled coldly and the sight of it sent a thrill through her body.

He turned, facing south, and brought his palms together. A look of intense concertation passed over his face and he reached out, his long fingers curling inwards. There was a distant rumbling; for a moment, everyone went still. Then, a wall of darkness, roiling like black storm clouds, emerged – cutting through the fog, the forest, surging towards them at impossible speed.

Alina blew out a long breath. Even though she knew this was not the Fold, merely Aleksander’s summoning used on a scale she had never seen before, the sight of it still nearly paralysed her with terror. He had managed to make his shadows look almost exactly like the Fold, down to the way they shifted and grated against one another. She shot him a glance, impressed, and he smirked in response.

As the shadows got closer, Alina decided to help him out a bit. She flexed her fingers slightly, trying out the new trick she had been practising – something she had figured out from staring at herself in the mirror, moving her head back and forth, feeling how the light bounced off its shiny surface to create a reflection. Now, as the clouds Zoya had whipped up earlier began to dissipate, the darkness towered over them, seemingly just as high as the real thing. Nobody else would know that the top half was nothing more than an illusion – a mirror image of the shadows Aleksander had summoned, held in place by Alina’s control of light.

The moment of stillness that had swept over the town broke. The panic in the air was palpable, along with a stuttering sense of disbelief. The Fold wasn’t meant to move. In four hundred years, it had not budged an inch – yet here it was, barrelling over the countryside towards them.

People screamed and ran. Soldiers on both sides flailed frantically, no longer sure of their orders, caught between the obedience that had been drilled into them and an urgent sense of self-preservation that wiped their minds clean. Aleksander surveyed the carnage with a grim look of delight.

Alina’s attention was snagged by the sound of a child crying. She whirled around, her gaze landing instantly on the little girl standing by the fountain in the centre of the square, eyes wide and fearful, calling out for her mother. She took a wobbly step backwards and would have run straight into the path of stampeding Fjerdan soldiers had Alina not rushed over and scooped her up in her arms, calling upon a barrier of scorching light which she shoved outwards. The soldiers were sent hurtling across the square, landing in a heap at the stairs to the church with a sickening crunching sound.

The little girl was still babbling away. Alina tried to shush her, grasping for the few phrases of Fjerdan that she could remember.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” she said, as soothingly as possible. At this, the little girl quietened, staring at Alina with wide eyes.

“My name is Alina,” she continued, thanking Nilima silently as the words came back to her. “What’s your name?”

The little girl sniffled. “Frida.”

“Can you hold on to me, Frida?” Alina asked. Summoning was going to be harder with her arms full, but she didn’t want to let her go – not until she knew she was safe.

Frida wriggled a little bit, clinging on to Alina’s shoulders and wrapping her little legs around her waist until Alina could support her with just one arm. The Fold was bearing down on them now – the outskirts of the town had already been swallowed up by the encroaching wave of darkness. Frida sniffled again as she stared up at it, clutching Alina tighter, but she didn’t cry this time.

Alina took a deep breath. Still cradling Frida, she touched her hands together, drawing on the light around them, then thrust her free arm forward. A dazzling ray of sunlight erupted from her palm. Frida gasped.

Aleksander turned a little and met her eyes. She twisted her palm and the beam grew wider, brighter, separating into a thousand golden threads which meshed themselves together into a brilliant shield, physically holding back the darkness. Aleksander made a subtle motion with his fingers and the Fold shuddered to a halt.

Behind her, people stopped running in panic and stopped, staring up at the sky. Alina could hear mutterings in Fjerdan. It wasn’t a phrase she had learned, but it was easy enough to translate: Sól Sënje. Sun Saint.

She could feel Aleksander pushing back a little, testing her abilities. Alina gritted her teeth and, with one almighty heave, shoved her shield forward. He loosened his grasp on the shadows just enough to allow them to crawl backwards, inch by inch, giving back the streets at the southernmost edge of the town which had been consumed.

Alina dropped her hand with a gasp and the golden shield disintegrated. The Fold continued its retreat, a little slower now, giving Alina a moment of respite to make sure that her conjured reflection was holding up even without her undivided attention.

Satisfied, she rolled her shoulders back a little, shifting Frida’s weight in her arms. The little girl was staring at her in amazement.

“Look, Frida,” Alina said, nodding towards the Fold. “Don’t be scared.”

Again, she touched her free hand against the one holding Frida. This time, when she pulled on the light, she dug deep, collecting it into herself until she could feel the heat of it in her lower stomach. Alina let go of the breath she had been holding and threw out her hand.

This time, the beam of light was bright enough it was almost painful to look at. It shot out towards the Fold and pierced through the wall of shadows. Alina pushed her consciousness outward, feeling her way to the very centre of the darkness. It was more comforting than it was frightening – this was not, after all, truly the Fold, not an entity born of grief and merzost – this was Aleksander. His essence could be felt all around her, a soft caress, a proud smile.

Once more, he resisted her, and they struggled against one another for a moment – light and dark – until he relented. She could feel his reluctance, feel that he wanted to keep fighting, to find out which of them would come out on top as they both pushed their abilities to their absolute limits. But, in the end, he had no choice but to give in. This demonstration was not for their benefit.

Alina’s light unfurled, an exploding star in the heart of the void, and the darkness lit up from within. Hot, bright licks of sunshine burst through the rapidly crumbling walls of the Fold, tearing them asunder, casting a flickering golden glow over the entire town. Aleksander loosened his grip even further – without him to hold it together, the blackness began to collapse in on itself. Shadows burned away into nothingness.

Alina could feel herself reaching the edge of her power. Aleksander was helping her, now, actively pulling the shadows apart, letting them dissolve into mist under the ever-brightening flares of sunlight. Scraping up the last reserves of her strength, Alina curled her fingers into claws and jerked her wrist to one side. The sky erupted in a roaring blaze of light.

When the raging white fire died away again, the huge wall of darkness was gone. All that remained was a slowly dispersing bank of clouds, tinted pink in the burgeoning dawn, and the very distant shadow of the true Fold, apparently returned to the same place it had always been.

Halmhend was deathly silent. Aleksander had vanished, slinking away into a side street, leaving only Alina, with Frida still hefted in her arms, and the oprichniki gathered around her. She turned around slowly. The square was full of townspeople, staring at her, staring at the sky where the Fold had been, their faces slack with shock.

A young woman pushed through the crowd frantically.

“Frida mín!” she cried. The little girl gasped and squirmed in Alina’s hold.

“Mamma!”

The woman ran across the square, her pale brown hair flying out behind her, her arms outstretched, her expression wild with worry. She caught hold of Frida and pulled her against her chest, murmuring comfortingly as the little girl wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck.

Alina smiled. The woman looked at her with huge eyes, partly afraid, partly awed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and Alina started because she spoke, not in Fjerdan, but heavily accented Ravkan.

Alina nodded at her, laying one hand lightly on the back of Frida’s head, bidding her a silent farewell. Then, a little unsure of what came next, she turned to the nearest oprichnik; he seemed to know what her request was without needing to hear her say it, because he dipped his head towards one of the streets that led south. Alina glanced quickly back at Frida and her mother and gave them one more smile before slipping into the narrow lane that the oprichnik had indicated.

She could sense it when they drew near to him. Aleksander waited at the edge of town, staring out at the smudge of black on the horizon, wind ruffling his hair and kefta. He turned when they approached, his face unreadable. Alina ran to him, choking back a sob of relief as she flew into his arms, pressing her face into his chest and clutching at his shoulders as if he would be ripped away from her if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

He held her until she stopped shaking. As she leaned back, looking shyly up at him, she saw that he was smiling.

“The child was a nice touch,” he said approvingly. “You crafted quite the image. Sankta Alina the merciful, saviour of Halmhend.”

She thumped him in the chest, and he chuckled. “I wasn’t thinking about the image.”

His face softened. “I know, Alina.”

Aleksander glanced up at the oprichniki, a wordless command in the tilt of his head, and they silently moved into formation and started out across the blustery moor, back towards the forest.

“Did you see any of the others?” she couldn’t help but ask. Now that they had slipped away from the action, worries about her friends had begun crowding into her head again. But Aleksander only shook his head.

“Most of the fighting took place in the west of the town,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down her arms comfortingly. Alina couldn’t help but shiver. She was bone-tired, hollowed out, and she could see that Aleksander was, too – jittery with the invigorating effects of using their power to such extremes, yet completely drained by it.

Alina stepped backwards with a sigh, nodding her understanding. The oprichniki were nearing the edge of the woodland – once they signalled that it was all clear, she and Aleksander would follow them, and they would reconvene with the rest of their party at the nearest border outpost.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alina saw something move just behind Aleksander. Without stopping to think, she shoved him out of the way with a gasp, bringing her hands up and bringing the light to her palms. Before the Fjerdan even had time to raise his gun, she had formed the gleaming blade of the Cut and let it fly.

With a soft, wet noise, the soldier split in half and collapsed. Behind him stood another soldier, frozen in place, mouth ajar, staring down at what remained of his comrade.

Aleksander snarled in anger. Shadows came roaring across the scrubby ground, darkening the little street, and Alina could already see the curve of the Cut taking shape in the air before him.

Her gaze snapped to the second soldier, who still seemed completely unable to move. He hadn’t even reached for his weapon. Alina suddenly realised how young he was – perhaps sixteen years old, still a boy, still with that slightly stretched look of a recent growth spurt, still with spots on his chin. When he looked at Aleksander, saw what the end of his life would look like, he didn’t look at him with hatred. Only fear.

In the same second that Aleksander unleashed the Cut, Alina stepped forward and summoned a wall of light in between them and the soldier. The blade slammed into it with such force that Alina felt the impact in her body, knocking the breath from her, and ricocheted, shearing through some shrubbery in a nearby garden and cutting a gash in the wall of a house.

Aleksander rounded on her, his eyes dark and furious. Alina didn’t even look at him – she caught the gaze of the young soldier, whose knees were trembling violently, and nodded once. He continued to stare at for a few more seconds before his brain caught up, then turned on his heel and sprinted away. Aleksander grabbed her jaw and forced her to face him.

“What was that?” he snapped. She yanked his hand away but kept hold of his wrist, meeting his ire with her own.

“That was proof that we can be ruthless and compassionate in equal parts. He saw how easily I struck down his partner. Let him run off and tell his friends – we will fight back when provoked, but we are not cruel without cause.”

Aleksander sneered at her. “You just didn’t want to kill the boy.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Alina cried, exasperated. “He has been taught to hate us since birth – taught that we are demons, that we are unnatural, that we are savage and murderous. By sparing him, maybe he will start to question the things he is told.”

Aleksander’s nostrils flared as he glowered at her. Alina sighed in frustration. She was utterly exhausted, nearly out of her mind with anxiety for her friends, and she just did not have the energy to argue with him.

“You promised me, Aleksander, that we would do this my way first. This is my way. That’s the end of it.”

She dropped his wrist and turned away, scanning the treeline for their oprichniki. In their dark grey uniforms, it was difficult to make them out amongst the dense, shadowy woodland, but the strip of yellow cloth fluttering in the breeze was apparent even from this distance.

“Yellow,” Aleksander muttered. “All clear. Let’s go.”

They set off across the heath.

Chapter Text

When Alina saw Nikolai and Zoya, already waiting at their agreed rendezvous point on the border, her immediate rection was relief – a surge of it, so strong that her knees nearly buckled.

Her relief was quickly followed by trepidation as she drew near enough to take in the livid expression on Zoya’s face. Alina drew up short, and Zoya stalked towards her, hands clenched by her side.

“Does anybody want to explain to me what in the hells just happened?” she snarled.

Nikolai, right behind her, caught at her arm. “Zoya –” he tried, but she shook him off furiously.

“No!” she exclaimed. “If anybody tells me to calm down, I swear to the Saints, I will send you back to Halmhend without touching the ground.”

Zoya took a deep breath and turned the full force of her rage on Alina again. “Tell me you didn’t plan that. Tell me that this whole expedition wasn’t just a farce – a set up for you to stoke your ego.”

Alina swallowed. “It has nothing to do with anyone’s ego. It is exactly as we said it would be – we were sending a message.”

Zoya’s lip curled. “And you didn’t think to tell any of us about this in advance?”

“We needed your reactions to be genuine,” Alina explained. “We needed the Fjerdans to truly believe that it wasn’t planned.”

She did feel guilty about what she had put her friends through – she could only imagine their fear and panic in the moment, not knowing if this was meant to be happening, not knowing whether they should retreat or stick to their mission.

Zoya scoffed. “And you,” she spat at Aleksander, and Alina stiffened. She really must be angry, to treat the man she revered, the man she had been in love with for years, with such contempt and no care for the consequences. “Have you always been able to move the Fold?”

“Zoya,” Nikolai warned again, sharper this time.

To Alina’s surprise, Aleksander barely batted an eye in the face of Zoya’s blatant impudence.

“That wasn’t the Fold,” he said calmly. “It merely looked like it.”

It was as if the anger drained out of Zoya all at once and she remembered who it was she was talking to. She went as white as a sheet and took one step backwards, bumping up against Nikolai’s chest, staring at Aleksander in horror.

“General –” she stuttered. Aleksander raised one eyebrow coolly.

“Lieutenant Nazyalensky?”

Zoya blanched. She dropped her head in deference, mumbling her apologies. Alina stepped forward, reaching for Zoya’s hands, desperate to win back the trust of her friend.

“I wanted to tell you, Zoya, but you must understand why we did what we did.”

Her gaze flickered to Nikolai, hoping that he would know she was talking to him, too, but he did not seem the least bit troubled by the deception.

Zoya met Alina’s eyes. Her jaw was set stubbornly, a frown creasing her forehead. She sighed.

“I get it, Alina,” she said bitterly. “I just wish you knew that you could trust me.”

Alina’s heart broke a little. Nikolai shot her an apologetic glance as he tugged Zoya away before she could say anything else that might get her court-martialled.

They rested briefly at the border camp, tending to injuries and tallying their losses. The knowledge that people had died on this mission sat heavily in Alina’s chest. It had felt awful, in her first life, leading an army against the Darkling, watching people die because of decisions she had made, and it felt just as awful now.

Zoya’s words followed her all the way back to Ulensk. A set up for you to stoke your ego. Even though she knew she had done all this to save lives – it was the only way they might avoid the bloodshed that she had seen in the years to come – she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Yes, she had been driven by a desperation to protect her people, her country, but she couldn’t deny that their little performance had made her feel good. Powerful. The realisation made her sick.

She and Aleksander barely spoke as they rode back south, but she could feel him watching her. When they arrived back in Ulensk, she jumped down from her saddle and passed the reins immediately to a stablehand, walking straight towards Aleksander’s tent without a word. He followed right behind her.

It was dark inside, and quiet. Alina fumbled with the buttons of her kefta, the laces of her boots, frustrated tears welling in her eyes.

“Alina,” Aleksander said quietly. She ignored him, wrenching her kefta open and kicking off her boots with no small amount of vitriol. One landed at Aleksander’s feet. He looked down at it solemnly.

Alina collapsed onto his bed and buried her face in her hands. Hot tears spilled out onto her palms. She had been trying so hard not to cry for their whole journey south, and she just couldn’t hold it in anymore. Aleksander pulled off his own boots, slipped easily out of his kefta, and sat on the cot next to her.

“Come here,” he murmured, gathering her in his arms with appalling tenderness.

Something in Alina broke. She sobbed against his chest – horrible, heaving sobs that wrenched their way from her chest so violently that it hurt. Aleksander shuffled backwards and lay them both down, gently, so that they were on their sides facing one another. He rubbed her back and kissed her hair and said nothing as she wept, letting her cry out all her feelings until she was empty and cold. He didn’t ask her what she was crying for. He didn’t need to.

Even when Alina’s tears finally ran dry, she couldn’t stop her body from shaking. Aleksander tightened his arms around her shivering form, pulling her closer still, and for a time Alina felt like he was the only thing in the world holding her together.

Slowly, her trembling subsided. Alina tilted her head up and found him staring at her with a mixture of understanding and pity. She swallowed hard; her throat felt like a desert.

“This was all my idea,” she whispered hoarsely. “People lost their lives back there. I did that – I knew that we wouldn’t come out of this with everyone still alive, but I wanted to do it anyway.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Alina stared at him and felt like she was staring into her own future. Aleksander had been making decisions like this every day for centuries. She had always viewed him as so different to her, had always been so quick to convince herself that she would never be like him – but, now, Alina saw something in his eyes that made her realise just how wrong she had been. Recognition.

This felt like a line which, now she had crossed it, there would be no returning from.

She closed her eyes again and took a shuddering breath in. Cradled against Aleksander’s body like this, she felt impossibly small, and impossibly close to falling apart for good.

They lay for a while longer – long enough for the awful numbness that had weighed down Alina’s bones to dissipate, and suddenly, she was just tired.

“Alina,” he said softly, brushing her hair back from her face. “I have to go to debrief with Petrovsky and Antonov. You can stay here – try to sleep, milaya.”

He pulled the woollen blankets up, tucking them carefully around her body, then draped a warm fur over the top. Alina snuggled gratefully into the warmth.

“Hurry back,” she murmured. Aleksander bent down to kiss her forehead.

“I will,” he promised, stroking her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “Now, sleep.”

Alina nodded sleepily and he smiled at this rare display of obedience. She was unconscious before he had even left the tent.

It was dark by the time she woke up, some hours later. Alina pushed herself up on her elbows and looked around the tent, blinking slowly, as she emerged little by little from her cocoon of blankets. Aleksander was leaning over the little table by the bed to light the paraffin lamp. He glanced down at her and smiled.

“Feeling any better?” he asked. Alina nodded slightly and settled back against the pillows.

“How was the meeting?” she mumbled. Her tongue still felt heavy with sleep.

Aleksander sat down on the edge of the cot and began to unbutton his kefta. The thin mattress bowed a little under his weight. “Entirely as expected. We will return to Os Alta the day after tomorrow.”

Alina frowned. “Why not tomorrow?”

He was silent for a moment, considering what to tell her. Alina raised her eyebrows in a challenge.

“Two reasons,” he said at last. “Firstly – if you want to try convincing Sobachka to stand with us after we rid the country of his useless lump of a father, this will be your final chance.”

Alina bit her lip but nodded in understanding. “Secondly?”

Aleksander smiled at her, one of those rare, affectionate smiles that kindled an unnameable emotion in Alina’s chest.

“Secondly, I want you to take a day to rest before we start travelling.”

Alina felt her cheeks heat. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m some fragile little thing.”

“There is nothing fragile about you, Alina,” Aleksander said with a stern frown. He stood up, removing his kefta, and leaned down to kiss her. “Now, will you do as your general bids you?”

She smiled a little and kissed him again. “I suppose so.”

He nodded approvingly. Alina watched as he undressed, his pale skin almost glowing in the warm, flickering yellow lamplight. He climbed into the bed next to her and she rolled happily into his embrace.

“Are you hungry?” he murmured. Alina shook her head.

“Will you read to me?” she asked, almost shyly.

Aleksander didn’t reply, but she could feel his smile. He sat up a little and reached over her for the book on the nightstand, flipping it open with one hand while the other tugged Alina closer to him, curling her against his side. He paged through the book slowly until he found what he was looking for.

He began to read. Alina stared openly as he spoke, wrapped up in the low timbre of his voice, entranced by the almost reverential way he held the syllables in his mouth. She had never really heard anybody speak Old Ravkan the way he did – because, she realised, it was his first language. He had grown up in a time when it was the common tongue of peasants and royalty alike.

Despite the fact that she had just woken up, Alina found herself lulled by the rhythm of his words, like the to-and-fro rocking of a ship at sea. Her eyelids grew heavy, her breathing slowed. She fell asleep in his arms; in her dreams, she could still hear his voice, reciting a poem whose words she couldn’t quite make out.

The following morning, Alina went in search of Nikolai.

She found him on the roof of the fort, leaning against the battlements, surveying the land that stretched out before him as if wondering what to do with it. He glanced down at her as she came to stand at his side but didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” she said eventually. “I really did want to tell you – and Zoya – and I understand if you’re still angry –”

“I’m not angry, Alina,” Nikolai interrupted. “And I never was.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Oh.”

He shrugged one shoulder, his lips curled in a smirk, but his eyes were serious. “I know what war is like. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for everyone is to lie, or mislead, or withhold. I don’t judge you for making the decision that you made. In your place, I would have done the same.”

As he spoke, Alina remembered how they had met for the first time in her previous life – how he had kept up the guise of Sturmhond long enough to take her back to East Ravka. How he had lied about his intentions, about who he really was. She had been furious when she found out, of course, but it didn’t stop them from becoming allies and then, eventually, close friends. Considering it now, she thought maybe it wasn’t so surprising that Nikolai bore no grudge against her – he said he would have done the same thing in her position, and she believed him.

Alina nodded slowly. “Well, I’m glad at least somebody is on my side in this.”

He laughed. “Zoya will come around, I’m sure. They do say distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

The thought of having to leave Zoya and return to the Little Palace while they were on bad terms made Alina’s heart ache.

Nikolai sighed softly as his gaze returned to the horizon. “When we reach Os Alta, I’ll have to go to my parents. News of my miraculous return to Ravkan soil will surely reach them, sooner or later.”

“Don’t,” Alina said immediately. “Stay in Ulensk, Nikolai.”

She looked down at where her hands rested on the worn stone battlements, ignoring the way Nikolai turned to her slowly.

“Why?”

Alina bit her lip and met his eyes again. Suspicion was written in every inch of his face. When she didn’t say anything, he took a step closer to her.

“What are you planning now, Alina? What is he planning?” he pressed. Alina sighed. She knew she should tread carefully here – subtlety had worked out well for her before, after all – but Nikolai deserved to know the truth. Or part of it, at least.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He frowned but nodded. Alina was silent for a moment as she considered her words, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the battlement.

“Do you think your father is a good king?” she said, keeping her voice low even though there was nobody around to hear.

Nikolai made a small noise of amusement in his throat. He didn’t say anything, but when she caught his eye, the answer was plain to see. Alina nodded her agreement.

“Another question,” she continued. She stared out across the landscape below them – they were looking south, the sun warming their faces, the Fold stretching out on their right-hand side as far as the eye could see. “Do you think your father is a good man?”

“Alina,” Nikolai said slowly, reluctantly. “I haven’t seen either of my parents in seven years, now.”

“That’s not an answer,” she chastised him lightly. Nikolai tilted his head, frowning, but said nothing more.

Alina took one long, shaky breath in. “Well, since you aren’t sure, I will tell you with absolutely certainty that he is not.”

Nikolai tensed but kept quiet. Alina dug her fingers into the stone, thinking about beautiful, resilient Genya, and all the other nameless girls who suffered in the same way as her.

“He is the worst kind of monster,” Alina said, her voice quiet but laced with fury. “He uses his power, his authority, to abuse the most vulnerable people. It’s an open secret in the Grand Palace. I’m sure, with all your connections and influence, you would be able to uncover the grisly details with ease. Should you wish to.”

Nikolai rocked back on his heels. Alina spared him a glance, waited to see if he was going to argue with her, demand proof, ask for more information – but he didn’t. She nodded again and stepped away from the battlement, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Final question,” she said, and she looked him straight in the eye as she spoke, offering him no way out. “Do you trust me?”

He exhaled forcefully, something that could have been either a sigh or a laugh.

“I barely know you.”

“That’s also not an answer,” Alina said with a slight smile.

Nikolai rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “I trusted you enough to follow you here, didn’t I?”

She folded her arms and scrutinised him. “I need you to trust me again. Stay in Ulensk, Nikolai. For now.”

He met her gaze, and she could see him turning her words over in his mind. For all that he acted the part of a devil-may-care prince turned adventurer, she knew he was no fool – he had to understand what she was trying to tell him.

After a long hesitation, Nikolai nodded. Alina relaxed.

“I’ll see you again before long, I’m sure,” she said with a smile. To her relief, he returned it without hesitation.

“Oh, certainly. According to my friends, I’m a damned difficult person to get rid of.”

Alina laughed. “You have friends?”

Nikolai pressed his palm to his chest and winced. “You wound me, Lieutenant Starkov.”

Later, after she and Nikolai had parted ways, Alina went back to Aleksander’s tent. He was stooped over his desk, sorting through a pile of correspondence with a frown.

“How did your discussion with Sobachka go?” he asked, glancing up as she darkened the entrance. Alina shrugged and wandered over to him.

“As well as it could have gone, all things considered,” she said. “I’ve convinced him to stay away from Os Alta for the time being.”

Aleksander tilted his head towards her, impressed. “Hmm. Good. We can proceed as planned once we return to the capital without having to worry about the tsarevich getting in our way.”

Alina pursed her lips but nodded. He saw the look on her face and narrowed his eyes, planting one hand on the desk and leaning forward.

“What, Alina?”

She shook her head. “Not now.”

He opened his mouth to press the matter, but she cut him off, gesturing to the letters laid out in front of him. “What are all these?”

Aleksander studied her for a moment before he relented, waving one hand flippantly.

“Some reports that Ivan had forwarded to me.”

“Anything important?” Alina asked.

He looked back at the desk, trailing his fingers over the letters. “Just updates on various operations that have been underway for some time. The King’s illness, of course. A Shu scientist and his son that we extracted from a laboratory in Bhez Ju. Our agents in Fjerda readying themselves to perform their ‘miracles’, as you put it.”

Alina’s ears pricked up. “A scientist?” she said, trying not to sound overly interested.

Aleksander nodded. “He’s been trying to make a cure for Grisha abilities. His son is an Inferni, and Ivan suspects that the man himself is Grisha too – an Alkemi, in all likelihood, although he has been hiding it well. Naturally, when I learned of this, I couldn’t risk Shu Han possessing such a weapon. The consequences for us would be disastrous – but Ravka could certainly make use of this scientist’s abilities.”

“So... he’s in the Little Palace, now?” Alina asked. Did she dare to hope that everything had gone to plan?

“Not yet, but he is in Ravka. They should arrive in Os Alta around the same time that we do,” Aleksander murmured, tapping his fingertips against the paper thoughtfully. “I am looking forward to meeting him.”

Alina made herself smile casually, even as her heart pounded in triumph. She knew that there was much more work to be done to relieve the tensions between Ravka and Shu Han, but at least now their means of terrorising Grisha with the drug jurda parem had been removed before they had ever laid their hands on it. It was a small step, she hoped, on the path to peace between their nations – or, at least, some sort of cordial agreement. She knew that Aleksander would never stand for the continued exploitation of Grisha in the Shu laboratories, and, indeed, nor would she, but she felt strangely hopeful that this was simply another problem that they would be able to deal with in time. Aleksander was a natural when it came to political manipulations, and Alina was beginning to realise that she might not be entirely inept, either.

The following morning, she said her goodbyes to Nikolai and Zoya, and they set off south, back to Os Alta. The journey passed in a blur of days – open road, endless blue skies, dust, rolling hills, birch woodland, and pasture as far as the eye could see. When Os Alta first appeared, a craggy grey streak on the horizon, Alina couldn’t help but grin. Aleksander noted her joyful expression and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I’m just glad to be home,” she said with a shrug. Something in his face shifted, although Alina couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, and he nodded in vague agreement.

Genya was waiting for her in the Vezda suite. She sat at the dressing table, turning a hairbrush over and over in her hands, staring out of the window at the sky over the treetops. When Alina threw open the door, she looked up with a grin.

“Alina!” Genya chirped. She pushed back the little stool and got to her feet, rushing to meet Alina in the middle of the room. “I missed you, darling.”

The two women grabbed one another in a fierce embrace.

“I’m so glad I’m back,” Alina said, resting her head on Genya’s shoulder. “I hated leaving you here, alone, to deal with – everything.”

A little way down the hall, she knew that Aleksander would be meeting with Ivan and Fedyor right now, briefing them on everything that happened at Halmhend, listening to their reports on everything that had happened here. Alina should probably be there for that meeting – he would expect her to be there – but nothing in the world could possibly tear her from Genya’s side right now.

Genya unwound her arms from Alina’s waist and stepped back, keeping a hold on her hands. Alina could see the differences in her – infinitesimal, only noticeable to the people who knew her the best. Alina bit her lip.

“Do you... do you want to tell me about it?”

Are you allowed to? Her eyes said. Genya smiled just a little – beautiful, as always, but with a sharpness that she tended to keep hidden. Alina could see the truth of Genya beginning to emerge, piece by piece, with every tiny morsel of revenge that she took for herself.

“Not just yet, Alina.”

They ended up lying side by side on Alina’s bed, hands joined between them as they stared up at the canopy.

“How’s Zoya?” Genya asked. Alina’s heart bumped a little painfully against her ribs.

“She’s taken to her position like a fish to water,” she said.

“As we all knew she would,” Genya smiled, and Alina nodded in agreement.

“She’ll be promoted to Senior Lieutenant before the end of the year, I guarantee it.”

Genya caught Alina’s guilty tone and turned to her with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

Alina sighed. “The mission in Halmhend – it was a cover for something else that the General and I had planned together. I had to lie to Zoya. She wasn’t very pleased.”

“This ‘something else’ – it was something big?”

Alina remembered the moment Aleksander’s shadows, a perfect facsimile of the Fold, had shorn through the clouds over Halmhend.

“Pretty big,” she conceded.

Genya winced in sympathy. “Zoya will follow orders to the letter, but she likes being in control – knowing what’s going to happen and seeing it play out, exactly so. Some strategies rely on being unknown. She may not like it, but Zoya does understand that. She’ll forgive you.”

Alina nodded slowly, then laughed. “Saints, she was furious. She even had a go at General Kirigan.”

Genya’s eyes went wide. “She didn’t!”

Alina laughed even harder. “She did. I don’t know which of the three of us was the most shocked.”

But Genya was still staring at her in horrified silence. Alina’s laugh trailed off.

“Is she...” Genya’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “I mean, what did he do?”

Alina shook her head. “No, nothing. I know that Zoya thinks, since I arrived, he doesn’t pay any attention to the rest of his soldiers, but – well, she’s still one of his favourites.”

Genya bit her lip. Alina sat up and narrowed her eyes. “Genya, what are you looking at me like that for?”

“I’ve known him longer than you have, Alina,” the Tailor said quietly. “He has his favourites, yes, but he doesn’t make exceptions for them.”

Alina blinked a few times, the movements sluggish as she considered her friend’s words. At the blank look on her face, Genya sat up and shuffled a little closer to Alina, reaching for her hands again.

“Have you ever truly considered the power that you have over him? He didn’t spare Zoya a punishment because she is one of his favourites – he did that because she is one of your favourites.”

Alina instinctively recoiled from this prospect. Power over him? She had been aware of all the ways she can coax him into carrying out her wishes, had made use of every possible weapon at her disposal – but what Genya was saying now, the notion that Alina had such influence over Aleksander’s actions that he would act in a certain way because of her, yet without her ever asking or persuading him to do so, it was completely impossible.

Wasn’t it?

Genya smiled at her softly. Alina cleared her throat.

“He doesn’t...” she began, shaking her head in frustration as she trailed off in the middle of her sentence. “It isn’t like that.”

The kindness in Genya’s eyes was unbearable. She patted Alina’s hands gently and nodded her understanding.

“Just think about it, Alina. If you are happy with things as they are, then that’s all that really matters – but it seems to me like it’s possible neither of you are being wholly honest about what this really is.”

Alina flushed and opened her mouth to argue, but Genya simply gave her another affectionate, knowing smile and slipped from the bed.

“I have to go,” she said, a tense undercurrent in her voice. “I’m needed at the Grand Palace. And I suspect if I keep you any longer our general will bash down that door himself.”

Choking down a laugh, Alina scrambled off the bed and walked with Genya to the door.

“Be careful,” she whispered. Genya tilted her head serenely.

“You know I am, darling.”

Alina leaned forward and planted a light kiss on Genya’s cheek then swung the door open. They waved at one another as they turned in opposite directions down the corridor – Alina towards the war room, Genya towards the Grand Palace.

As expected, Aleksander was in the midst of a discussion with Ivan and Fedyor. The latter, at least, looked pleased to see her when she pushed open the double doors and strode towards the map table; Ivan greeted her with a mere disapproving twitch of his brow.

Alina grinned at the open distaste on his face as she stepped right past him and flung her arms around Fedyor’s neck. He laughed and squeezed her middle in response.

“Alina,” Aleksander chided mildly. “That is no way to greet a superior officer.”

“Oh?” Alina said, letting go of Fedyor and turning to face Aleksander. “That’s not what you said to me last night.”

Fedyor had to clap a hand over his mouth to suppress his laughter. Ivan tutted loudly. Aleksander glared at Alina as she smiled sweetly, then sighed and gestured to the two Heartrenders.

“We were just discussing our success in Halmhend.”

Alina nodded; she had expected this. Fedyor shot her an appraising smile.

“It’s fair to say you’ve ruffled some feathers.”

“Has there been any word from Fjerda?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Fedyor said. “And it’s possible that they will simply refuse to acknowledge it at all. It’s interesting, though – so far, there has been no retaliation on their part.”

Alina glanced at Aleksander, failing to smother the hope that crept into her eyes and voice. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” he acceded.

Aleksander’s gaze flickered to the two Heartrenders – it was a look they both clearly recognised, because they bowed swiftly and left the war room. Alina waited a moment after the doors had closed before she spoke again.

“How fares the King?” she asked, plucking the Lantsov double eagle from its position in Os Alta and turning it over in her fingers.

“Recovering,” he said, his tone just as casual as hers. “His doctors have advised a slow return to his duties. The position of king is a demanding one, after all.”

Alina snorted. “Oh, how he suffers for his country.”

Aleksander smiled at her scathing words. “And he will yet suffer more.”

She thought of Genya, placing herself between the King and the girls he would hurt, waking up day after day knowing what awaited her and choosing to stay. She thought of the slums of Os Alta, the peasants toiling in their fields only to barely make it through the winter, children sent off to fight and die at younger ages every year – the whole of Ravka, bled dry by the excesses of their tsar. Her fist closed around the Lantsov crest.

“It will never be enough,” she muttered darkly.

Aleksander watched as fury swept over her, cold and brutal in its intensity, then dissipated, leaving only a simmering remnant of rage in her eyes.

“You are very beautiful when you speak such treason,” he murmured. The soft velvet of his voice was charged with admiration. Alina looked up at him from under her lashes. His face was open, honest, full of wanting.

Have you ever truly considered the power that you have over him?

Making sure to keep her breathing measured, Alina replaced the double eagle on the map before her, running her hands over its uneven surface.

“So, what’s our next step?” she asked carefully. Aleksander stepped around the table towards her, his eyes similarly fixed on the pieces situated on and around Os Alta.

“I intend to wait a few more weeks before we proceed. There are plans to be made in the meantime, alliances to be negotiated...”

Alina set her shoulders. “And you still intend to take the throne yourself?”

She was well aware that this line of questioning could ruin everything that was good between them, might even lead to the war she had been trying desperately to avoid. Aleksander turned his head slightly to regard her.

“Do you think there is a better person for the job?” he asked coolly. “Yourself, perhaps?”

His voice did not give away the anger and betrayal she knew he felt.

“If I did desire to be queen, would you serve me?” she asked in return. Aleksander’s jaw tightened.

“You would have me as your general, your consort – but not your king?”

Alina sighed. “You needn’t worry, Aleksander. The crown holds no allure for me.”

“Then why do you insist on snatching it from me?” he snapped, leaning forward on the table.

“It is not that I don’t think you should be king,” Alina said evenly. “It is that I don’t think anyone should be king. How can you have lived so long, seen so many rulers come and go, all of them trampling ordinary Ravkans beneath their boots, and still believe that this is the correct way to lead a country?”

She turned to him now, letting sunlight spill from her palms like molten gold. “How can you hold this level of power in your hands and still blindly bend to a system set up on the basis that a bloodline can rule over hundreds of thousands simply because it is their Saints-given right to do so?”

Aleksander reached forward, taking her hands in his, engulfing her light in a flood of shadows until it was completely extinguished.

“I do not believe that any otkazat’sya has a Saints-given right to rule,” he said fiercely. “But we are as close as it comes to living Saints, Alina – if anybody should rule Ravka, it is us.”

She shook her head at him. “Are you so short-sighted? You would bind us to our thrones for eternity. I know you crave power, but surely even you must grow weary at the thought of signing paperwork and attending balls forever.”

“If it does not appeal to you, you need not join me,” he retorted. His dark eyes were icy, his grip on her hands punishingly tight.

“Aleksander,” she gasped, trying to tug away from him. “Stop it. Listen to me.”

“I am listening,” he sneered. “I understand you very well, Alina. You do not wish to rule, but you do not trust me enough to let me do so alone.”

Alina rolled her eyes. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but she wasn’t about to admit as much.

“As always, you are overreacting,” she said desperately.

He barked a laugh and Alina shot him a withering glare.

“Am I? Well, then, by all means – enlighten me. How have I misrepresented your words?”

Finally, Alina was successful in tearing her hands from his. She did not summon light again, but she did curl them into fists, settling her weight in a defensive stance. Aleksander noted this with a disparaging arch of his brow.

“If we truly want to deliver Ravka into a new age, then we should do away with these antiquated structures of authority,” she explained, her voice raised in frustration. “How can we expect anything to change, otherwise?”

Aleksander scoffed, but Alina continued, undeterred.

“Kerch has no monarchy. They are governed by the Merchant Council.”

“Oh, yes,” Aleksander said, every word dripping with ridicule. “Kerch – where corruption, injustice and exploitation are just unheard of. You're right, Alina, it must be an excellent system.”

She glowered at him. “You are being deliberately cruel, Aleksander. I am not suggesting we adopt a similar system – the Merchant Council is still made up exclusively of men from old money. I am merely pointing out that there are other options!”

He crossed his arms, his face pinched in irritation. “You’ve been thinking about this for some time, haven’t you?”

Alina turned back to the map, briefly, her eyes roving over roads, borders, trade routes. Ravka had enemies everywhere, yet the thing which crippled it the most was the institution right at its centre. She nodded once in acknowledgement.

“Why haven’t you brought it up before?” Aleksander asked. His voice was a little softer now, but still tinged with exasperation. Alina looked back at him and raised her eyebrows.

“Are you being serious?”

He sighed. “Okay. Point taken.”

Alina hummed and looked back to the map. Aleksander followed her gaze.

“Tell me, then,” he said slowly. “What you would do.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Will you listen, Aleksander?”

“I will listen,” he assured her, a slight smile on his lips. “I can’t promise to agree.”

Alina rolled her eyes, scoffing, but there was more than a hint of amusement in the action. "I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

She placed her palms flat on the map table and blew out a long breath, collecting her thoughts.

Have you ever truly considered the power that you have over him?

“I want everyone in Ravka to have a voice,” she said at last. “There’s no easy way to achieve that, but I think, at the very least we could have some kind of council of leaders – Grisha and otkazat’sya, East and West Ravkans, nobles and commoners alike.”

Aleksander’s face gave nothing away. “And who would sit on this council?”

Alina drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “We would want a representative for each of the Grisha orders. Zoya, Genya, and David, perhaps.”

“Not you?”

She turned her body towards him, slightly, meeting his eyes with a knowing smile. “For a while, I think. Lest our enemies forget the power of the Sun Summoner.”

“And the people of Ravka will be more willing to accept a new rule if Sankta Alina is one of their leaders,” Aleksander observed. Alina tilted her head in acknowledgment.

“Besides which, I have already shown that I am strong enough to counter you. If everybody else on the council is too afraid to speak out against you, at least they know that I will.”

He smiled drily. “I see. You would not have me as your king, but your councilman?”

“You are the general of the Second Army. I think it’s only reasonable,” she replied with a smirk.

“Okay,” he said, nodding slowly. “Five Grisha. What of the otkazat’sya?”

“Nikolai,” Alina began. Aleksander scowled, and she clucked her tongue. “Don’t give me that look, Aleksander. Unless you want to incite a civil war, we need Nikolai on side – the noble families will never bend to our rule otherwise.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” he said. “However, as much as he may act otherwise, Sobachka is not a complete fool. The nobility may be easily convinced that Vasily is responsible for the tsar’s untimely death, but I suspect Nikolai will not. Do you think he will so readily agree to lead the country alongside the people who killed his father and exiled his mother and brother?”

Alina hesitated. “Nikolai is a good man, and he knows that his father is a terrible ruler. He wants what’s best for Ravka.”

Aleksander drew a breath in and pursed his lips in consideration. “Very well – assuming that Sobachka agrees, who else?”

“Some well-respected noble family’s eldest son. Preferably one with some political experience, and maybe some level of sympathy for Grisha. Another name who could convince the gentry to support us.”

“I can think of a few who would do. Go on.”

Alina swallowed. She knew that he wouldn’t like what she had to say next.

“We’d need two high-ranking officers of the First Army – at least one general, perhaps two.”

He stiffened. “Not Zlatan.”

Alina winced but nodded. Aleksander hissed angrily.

“I know, I know,” she rushed to explain. “I hate him as much as you do. But think about it – he is unhappy with the king’s rule, as are we. If we remove that and offer him a seat on the council, the opportunity to speak for West Ravka and be heard – his incentive for secession would crumble. He is a powerful voice in the west and he has a lot of followers. If he could be convinced to our side, he would make for an extremely valuable ally.”

Aleksander scoffed and shook his head. “Men like Zlatan are only interested in power, Alina. He will not want to share that with anyone else.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?” she said hotly, crossing her arms and glaring at him.

“Alina,” Aleksander sighed. She ignored him and turned back to the map, pointing at West Ravka.

“We can kill the king; we can kill Zlatan if we really want to, but if West Ravka continues to feel overlooked by their leadership – by us – who’s to say that in one generation, two, the secession movement won’t just spring up again?”

“I am not denying that,” he groaned, running one hand through his hair in exasperation. “But Zlatan is a snake. He has already tried to kill you once, and I imagine that he would use this as a chance to get close enough to try again.”

Alina considered this. “Another delegate from West Ravka, then,” she said eventually, and he nodded in relief. “And another First Army general, if they’re not all steadfastly loyal to the King.”

Aleksander’s lips quirked in a cold smile. “After the way the King has treated the First Army in recent years, I find that unlikely. There are many men who have done nothing to deserve their rank other than bear a noble name – but that is not to say that there are no competent commanders in First Army. They know full well that the King’s shoddy leadership has been responsible for the needless deaths of thousands of soldiers, and I wager they will be happy to see him unseated.”

Another beat of silence passed. Aleksander took half a step towards her.

“That’s four,” he pointed out softly. “Who would you choose for the final council member?”

Alina hesitated yet again, and he narrowed his eyes slightly.

“A spokesperson from the church, perhaps,” she said. His lips curled in a disdainful sneer; she couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. “Not the Apparat, that’s for sure – somebody young, a little easier to manipulate. I hate the thought of it, but, again, I don’t want to end up fighting them. And if we can get the backing of both Nikolai and the church...”

“It might do something to calm any unrest among the people,” Aleksander finished for her when she trailed off.

She nodded. “I don’t expect that we’d be able to remove the monarchy and install a new system of government without some contention, but we should at least do what we can to make this as peaceful as possible.”

Aleksander cocked an eyebrow in amusement. “You seem very certain that you’ve convinced me, Alina.”

She frowned at him. “Have I not?”

He chuckled. “I’m not saying no.”

“But you’re not saying yes.”

“Not yet.”

Alina took a long breath in, then exhaled sharply. Not yet. She could work with that.

Aleksander, sensing the end of their debate, reached forward and lifted her hands from where they rested on the map table. He dragged her towards him, pressing her against his chest.

“I had something to tell you,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. “But you distracted me with your seditious schemes.”

She smiled and twisted her head a little so that she could see his face.

“Well?”

“I’m promoting you,” he echoed her smile. “Congratulations, Captain Starkov.”

Alina’s mouth fell open in surprise. “You’re what? Why?”

“You devised, planned, and led a successful military operation,” he said, as if it was obvious.

Her cheeks flushed pink. “I believe the next rank after Lieutenant is Senior Lieutenant, then Captain,” Alina mumbled, poking him gently in the stomach.

“Well,” Aleksander murmured, sweeping her hair back from her face as he bent to kiss her. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

After a few minutes, Alina managed to pull back. Aleksander sighed regretfully as soon as there was space between their lips.

“What now?” she asked. His arms were wrapped around her waist, hers looped around his neck so that she could play with the soft strands of hair there. Aleksander considered this for a moment before he spoke.

“Now,” he said slowly. “We continue as planned. I will think further on your suggestion before I make my decision – there is plenty of work to be done, regardless. We will wait a few weeks, a few months at most.”

“And then we kill the King?”

Aleksander’s smile was beautiful in its malice. “And then we kill the King.”

Chapter Text

The weeks passed, slowly at times, in a blur of speed at others. Aleksander hadn’t been lying – it turned out that overthrowing a long-established dynasty was something that required careful planning. Coded messages were sent, surreptitious meetings were held, tentative alliances were struck. In the meantime, Alina and Aleksander continued to argue about who – or what – would fill the power vacuum left by the Lantsovs.

She could tell he was beginning to come around to her way of thinking. It was a slow and arduous process which far too often devolved into Alina simply removing her clothes and taunting Aleksander until he conceded another inch of ground out of pure frustration. She knew how he craved her and was not afraid to use that to her advantage. The problem, she quickly learned, was that she craved him just as much – he might very quickly take that inch back with his head between his legs, teasing her until she wept and gave in.

It was a stalemate that couldn’t last. Alina would never be persuaded that a monarchy was a suitable means of ruling a country, not after everything she had seen, in both her lifetimes. On the other hand, Aleksander could see the benefits to her proposition. She knew he liked the notion of complete power – he had spent too long serving terrible men not to – but he couldn’t deny that Alina’s idea had its merits. He could still rule from within the council, even if he had to share that power with others; most importantly, it would elevate other Grisha to positions of power, too, and that was something which appealed to him.

Her strongest bargaining chip, however, was still herself.

Alina had made it patently clear that she had no interest in being queen. She had already turned the role down once before (not that she had told Aleksander this) and would do so again – did so again, repeatedly, until he understood that she really wasn’t going to change her mind any time soon. She would not be his queen. She would be his general, yes; she would be Ravka’s Sun Summoner. She would travel to Shu Han, Fjerda, and Kerch in aid of her people. She would serve him until he gave an order she refused to follow – which, if they were honest, they both knew would come to pass sooner or later – and then she would stand against him. Perhaps it wouldn’t come to war between them. Perhaps it would.

Aleksander could have the crown, or he could have Alina, but he could not have both.

She could see how he warred with himself over this, how the mere existence of his conflicting desires sickened him. It should have been an easy decision for him to make – barely a decision at all – and, certainly, to the Aleksander of old, it would have been. Wanting makes us weak.

He wrestled with his wanting while they wrestled for dominance: in his bed, in hers, on his desk, up against the wall in a quiet corridor of the Little Palace. Yield to me, she told him with her eyes, no longer needing to say the words out loud. He looked at her with so much self-loathing as he shuddered and stilled, pressing his open mouth against the bare curve of her neck to draw in heaving gasps of air.

“What have you done to me?” he whispered to her one night, as they lay curled in his bed. The air around them was heavy with darkness, a cocoon of shadows that he had drawn over them, blacker even than the midnight sky beyond the window. There was something tortured and despairing in his eyes, twin pools of breathtaking agony. Alina was certain she could drown in them. She remembered what he had told her, once, in her first life.

You might make me a better man.

And you might make me a monster.

They had both been right, in the end – these past few months, she had felt herself changing, had felt him changing, both becoming a little more like the other. She tempered his worst impulses, while he brought out her ruthless streak. Now they were neither of them a creature of either black or white. Light and dark, entwined; not quite a monster, not quite good.

She knew the moment he had yielded. Alina woke one morning in his bed, the familiar warmth of sunlight washing over her skin through a crack in the curtains. She rolled over, expecting the bed to be empty – he was always awake before her – and was surprised and a little confused when she ended up in his arms. His face was calm, peaceful, even, in acceptance of his surrender. He gazed at her with a distant look in his eyes and she wondered how long he had been lying here, just watching her sleep.

“Aleksander,” she said, a delighted smile spreading over her face.

“Don’t,” he growled, his voice strained, but Alina blithely disregarded his warning. She reached up, trailing her fingers lightly from his temple to his jaw. He sighed heavily.

“You’re not weak,” she promised. He shot her an incredulous look.

“Am I not?” he murmured, catching hold of her hand and pressing a soft kiss against her fingertips. “I could have had everything, Alina, everything I have wanted for centuries. And I’ve given it up. For you.”

“You still have everything you want,” Alina argued gently. “You will lead Ravka into a new age – you will ensure the safety of Grisha, here and everywhere. You will see your aims realised. You don’t need a crown on your head to do these things, Aleksander.”

He huffed in quiet disagreement but drew her closer to him, wrapping his long fingers around her jaw so that he could tilt her head upwards until their mouths met.

“I didn’t think I wanted... this,” he breathed as they separated again, nudging her nose with his. “Ever again.”

Alina thought of Mal, of the beautiful life they had shared together, of the yawning chasm that had opened up within her when he died. A part of herself lost, never to be reclaimed. She understood.

When, at last, they hauled themselves from bed, they dressed quickly and shared one final kiss before parting. Aleksander had meetings to attend, and Alina was expected down by the lake.

Although her training had long since concluded, she still practised with Baghra once a week, at Aleksander’s insistence. Alina didn’t mind; in fact, she often found herself looking forward to these sessions. She relished the opportunity to play with her Small Science, to test its limits and uncover new abilities – especially when so much of her life these days was taken up by paperwork, meetings, and negotiations. If Aleksander could spare any time, he would join her, and they would battle against one another. She had yet to best him, but she knew that day would come. They were evenly matched in the sheer strength of their powers; his advantage came through his centuries of experience.

Alina thought that Baghra might have warmed to her slightly in the time since she had revealed Aleksander’s true nature. Perhaps she saw the subtle changes in her son – perhaps she was glad that Alina had stayed, after all.

She returned to the war room, invigorated after several hours of summoning practice, only to find it empty, Aleksander having been called upon by the King. Alina sighed slightly at this news. He would be in a terrible mood later.

Upon their return from Halmhend, Aleksander had brought in a desk for Alina which now sat on the opposite side of the room to his own. She shrugged out of her kefta and stretched out her arms and back before settling into her seat. Her desk was neater than Aleksander’s, but not by much; she reached for her latest bundle of spy reports, groaning when she saw they were Fjerdan, and pushed aside the rest of the paper cluttering up the dark wooden surface.

She was deep in her translations when the door slammed open and Aleksander stormed furiously into the room.

Shadows flooded in at his heels, surging around him like a black tide. Alina got to her feet slowly, tentatively, but he barely paid her any notice. She followed his path through to the bedroom; he stood in the middle of the ever-darkening room, struggling violently with the buttons of his kefta.

Alina came to him quietly, pushing his hands away and replacing them with her own, gently slipping the buttons free. He allowed her to do so, stood completely still as she worked her way down, chest rising and falling in sharp, harsh breaths. When she was done, he tore the kefta from his body and flung it across the room with a snarl before turning and striding in the opposite direction.

“Aleksander,” Alina said soothingly. He pushed both hands through his hair.

“It has to be now, Alina,” he growled. “I cannot stand it any longer.”

“Then let it be now. Are we not prepared enough?”

He grunted in assent. Alina came to his side, reaching up to smooth down his rumpled hair. Aleksander sighed at her soft touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and some of the tension went out of his stance.

“I’ll send word to Genya,” he said quietly. “Everything is in place for Prince Vasily and the tsaritsa to take the fall.”

He opened his eyes and looked down at Alina. They were both aware that they stood on the precipice of an irreversible change – once they stepped forward, there would be no going back.

Almost as if he could see where the conversation was leading, Aleksander leant back, his face closing over, and brushed past her as he began to pace the room again.

“Aleksander,” Alina said, quiet but firm.

He paused mid-step to shoot her a scathing glare. She gazed back at him, imploring, and he blew out a frustrated sigh before sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. He gripped the bedsheets tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

“If we are truly going to deliver Ravka into a new era, we need to rid her of her ghosts,” Alina explained gently.

Aleksander shook his head vehemently. “It would leave us vulnerable.”

“It would not,” she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest. “It would leave our armies free to better guard our borders. It would open up the west to us – give us access to the True Sea. It would curb the secession movement. You know this. You do not cling to it for any true strategic reason – only personal ones.”

The truth was hard for him to hear, but he needed to hear it. Alina walked towards him, slowly, ignoring the look of resentment that crossed his face.

“Ravka will be stronger without the Fold,” she said. “You will be stronger, Aleksander.”

She saw his reluctance, and, in a way, she understood it. She understood how it must feel to have a life defined by destruction and loss, to take that and make something from it. Something real and lasting: a wall, a shield for those who have been hunted since the beginning of time. An undeniable, constant reminder of the power that Grisha have.

Alina leaned forward and cupped his face in her hands.

“Let me destroy it.” Let me destroy its hold on you.

His hands encircled her wrists. His eyes, dark and sorrowful, met hers.

“Let me destroy it,” Alina repeated, her voice barely a breath. “And we will build something new in its place. Something beautiful.”

He could not say anything. He would not agree, even though she knew some part of him longed to. It was simply beyond him.

Alina slept in his bed again that night, and when she woke the next morning, he had already risen. She found him in the dining room, exactly where she had expected he would be. He didn’t notice her at first, absorbed as he was by his newspapers, and she took a moment to admire him. The morning sunlight caught in the fine edges of his hair, turning them from black to spun gold. Her heart clenched at the thought of what she was now about to do.

He looked up as she sat down in her customary seat and reached for the jar of honey.

“Good morning, Alina,” he said, casually, as if he was not planning to order the murder of their king today.

“Good morning, Aleksander,” she replied, equally casual, as if she were not planning to betray him today.

They ate in silence for a while, Alina running her eye over the missives from Shu Han while Aleksander worked his way through the pile of newspapers.

“I am meeting with Ivan and Fedyor today,” he said, as he folded the rustling pages of the Ravkan Herald and set it down in front of him. “To apprise them of our plans. They both know, of course, but I have tried to limit their involvement thus far. If we are moving forward with this, they will need to know all the details.”

Alina nodded. “You wanted to protect them?”

“Yes,” Aleksander confirmed. He poured himself another cup of tea and sent a tendril of shadow across the table, curling around the honey pot and drawing it towards him. “But it's more than that. Nobody involved in this knows enough to betray the full scope of our plans, if they were ever discovered.”

“Nobody but us,” Alina pointed out, and he smiled at her over his teacup.

“Ah, but we would not be discovered.”

Alina laughed. “Do you want me to join you, at the meeting?”

“Do you wish to participate?”

She shook her head at him in mock disapproval. “I will do as my general bids me,” she said with a sly smile. Aleksander tilted his head and arched one eyebrow.

“How very unlike you.”

Alina snorted into her tea, prompting a brief smile from Aleksander.

“You may join us, Alina, but you have heard all this before. I shan’t command you.”

Alina nodded slowly as she set her cup back on its saucer. “In that case, I’ll see if Genya can be spared from her duties for a while to sit in the gardens with me. A moment of peace before... everything.”

Aleksander inclined his head and Alina stood up from the table, pausing on her way to the door to plant a kiss on the side of his head. She pressed her nose into his dark hair, her fingers tightening slightly on his collar as she inhaled, desperate to commit the scent to memory in case he never let her close to him again. He turned his face towards her and she kissed his lips – sweet, tender, regretful. Forgive me, the kiss said.

She stepped back and smiled at him with joviality she did not feel. His dark eyes were fixed upon her, inscrutable. He was so beautiful.

It physically pained her to walk away from him, to go back into his bedchamber and change into sensible trousers, sturdy boots, her kefta. Clothes for travelling.

Alina took a deep breath and left the room, trying to make her pace unhurried as she crossed to the double doors and stepped out into the hallway. The oprichniki smiled at her and she smiled back, as she always did, before turning down the corridor towards the staircase. Only once she had emerged into the palace gardens did Alina start walking a little faster. She wove her way through the flower beds and hedges towards the garish domes of the Grand Palace.

The Grand Palace was a maze, and Alina was lost almost immediately. Fortunately, a footman spotted her loitering in the main hallway and took pity on her obvious bewilderment; he pointed Alina towards a receiving room by the entrance and scurried off in search of Genya.

Alina sat on one of the overstuffed settees and tried not to fidget. After a few interminable minutes of waiting, the door swung open and Genya stepped inside.

“Alina?” she said, confused but smiling nonetheless at the sight of her friend. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I need you to tailor me,” Alina blurted out. Genya’s eyebrows shot upwards.

“Whatever for?”

“Don’t ask,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Just – make me look less like me.”

Genya looked unconvinced. “I don’t have my kit with me, but I suppose I could go and get it...”

“No,” Alina said hastily. “There’s no time. Just do what you can.”

The Tailor stepped forward and brushed her fingers slowly over the roots of Alina’s hair.

“What’s the rush, Alina?” she asked quietly.

“I can’t say,” Alina replied. “Just – trust me, please. And don’t tell anybody about this.”

The frown on Genya’s face deepened, but she nodded. After a few minutes of working on Alina’s hair, she moved her light touch to the contours of her face, following the curve of her eyebrows, cheekbones, and lips.

Genya stepped back and ran a critical eye over her handiwork.

“You still look like you,” she said after a moment. “But not immediately.”

“That’s perfect, Genya,” Alina sighed in relief. She leapt to her feet and placed a firm kiss on Genya’s soft cheek. “Thank you.”

Genya squeezed her hand, concern apparent in her eyes. “Whatever you’re doing, Alina – you’ll be safe, won’t you?”

“I will. I promise.”

With that, Alina tugged her hands gently from Genya’s grip and fled from the Grand Palace. It was easy to slip past the guards unnoticed, bending the light to make herself invisible as she made her way through the grounds towards the overturned tree they had used to sneak out into the city. It felt so long ago, now.

She paused a moment on the other side of the wall to catch her breath and figure out her next steps.

Ryevost. Hopefully Mal’s unit would still be there – if not, she would at least be able find out where he was currently stationed. She was going to need him for this.

Alina twisted her palms to cloak herself again. Her black kefta was instantly recognisable; she was going to need to find a change of clothes.

In the outer ring of the city, by the main gates, she slipped into the city guards’ garrison. Their stables were big enough and busy enough that Alina suspected it would be a while before anybody noticed that a horse had gone missing. She kept herself hidden as she darted into one of the smaller buildings, then set about saddling a horse. It was a little more difficult when she had to bend the light to conceal the horse and tack as well as herself, but she was by now well versed in pushing her summoning to an almost unconscious part of her thinking so that she could focus on other things.

The last thing she did before leaving the stable was to steal the dusty travelling cloak that had been hung over one of the stalls. She bundled up her kefta and tied it to the saddle then threw the cloak over her shoulders and hauled herself up onto the horse’s back.

Even as she made herself and her mount invisible, Alina could do nothing to quieten the clip-clop of hooves; she was relying entirely on the noisy hubbub of the garrison being enough that nobody would notice the sound of an apparent phantom horse.

She held her breath as she urged her horse forward. They passed through the garrison and the gates without attracting any attention other than one confused stablehand – a young boy, whose head followed the noise of hooves on cobbles as she passed – who was quickly scolded by his superior for daydreaming.

Alina only let the invisibility fall away when the gates of Os Alta were far behind her. She leaned forward and clicked her tongue, spurring her horse into a canter, then a gallop. Aleksander would notice she was missing before long; she had no time to waste.

Her cheeks were wet. She wasn’t sure when she had started crying, but suddenly the tears just wouldn’t stop. Alina let them fall, streaming down her face, dripping from her chin. She had promised herself that, this time, she wouldn’t run away from him – yet here she was, galloping away from Os Alta. She didn’t want to think about the hurt she would cause him, the betrayal he would feel when he realised that she had vanished, but it plagued her incessantly.

Alina bit down on her tongue and fixed her gaze on the road ahead of her. Ryevost. Mal. The Fold.

He would forgive her. He would. She didn’t know what she would do if he didn’t.

Ryevost was a short distance from Os Alta – a day’s ride, if she took the risk of sticking to the main roads. It was still morning, the sun not yet at its zenith, and she knew she probably had a few hours before Aleksander started searching for her, so Alina decided she would keep to the Vy for a while longer. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and the capital as she possibly could.

Alina reached Balakirev by mid-afternoon. The little town was a bustle of activity – the streets jammed with carts, livestock, and people. She tried her best to skirt around the busiest neighbourhoods, unwilling to be slowed down any more than she already had, but did pause momentarily outside an inn so that her horse could drink from the trough there. Alina leaned over to inspect her reflection in the surface of the water. Genya had turned her hair a dark, murky reddish-brown, sharpened her cheekbones and changed the shape of her lips. It was disconcerting – not quite the face of a stranger, but not quite herself, either.

She grabbed a handful of straw and quickly brushed down the flanks of her horse, who nickered in quiet appreciation.

“We need to keep moving,” Alina murmured, half to her horse, half to herself. Her body already ached from the morning’s ride and there was nothing she would like more than to walk off the stiffness in her legs, but the knowledge that there were almost certainly several dozen soldiers on her tail by now was enough to have her climbing back into the saddle with a pained sigh.

Alina left Balakirev and travelled north. This road was not as busy as the Vy, but she still passed plenty of farmers, merchants, and the occasional band of First Army soldiers.

By nightfall, she was exhausted, hungry, and sore all over. She knew she couldn’t be far from Ryevost now, but when she passed an inn on the side of road – a squat, whitewashed building with a thatched roof, warm light spilling invitingly through the windows – Alina nearly sobbed with relief at the thought of a few hours of rest.

The innkeeper showed her to a tiny room on the top floor and Alina passed out on the firm straw mattress almost immediately. She started awake just before dawn, heart pounding, roused from a nightmare in which Aleksander had stood before her and plunged a blade into his heart. She glanced out of the window, almost expecting to see a regiment of Second Army marching down the road towards her, but the only figures in sight were a few farmers and their donkeys, hauling laden carts to Ryevost for market.

Alina didn’t have time to eat breakfast. She exchanged a few of her coins for a loaf of bread and some apples from the innkeeper’s wife, then headed out into the gentle hush of the early morning. The air was warm but heavy, thick with a humidity that promised rain. Overhead, the sky was still dark, lit with only the barest smudge of brightness on the horizon in the east.

Her horse seemed disgruntled to have been risen so early; Alina could sympathise, but if Aleksander had not immediately divined where she was going, he certainly would have by now. She couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

Alina was barely conscious for most of the ride to Ryevost. She was so tired that, several times, she nearly fell asleep in the saddle, only jerking awake again when her horse bucked nervously as her weight slipped to one side. But the blooming daylight did a little to keep her energised, and by the time the sun had risen fully and Ryevost appeared in sight, Alina felt much more alert.

Once she was through the town gates, she slipped down from her horse and made her way through the narrow streets on foot. The dampness in the air had broken into a light but insistent rain. Alina tugged up the hood of her borrowed cloak.

Ryevost was still just waking up and Alina passed very few people as she headed towards the makeshift barracks in the northern part of town. There was something about the not-yet-broken tranquillity of the morning, an unusual, sleepy stillness that wreathed the town, combined with the rain that slowly soaked through her clothes and hair and pattered softly on the cobblestones – something that instilled within Alina a deep sense of peace, entirely at odds with the fraught nature of her predicament.

The First Army had taken up residence in what seemed to once have been a large townhouse – although the paint was now peeling and moss and ivy clung to the brickwork, the remnants of its grandeur remained. The building was several stories high, constructed around a central courtyard which now served as a mess hall, and adjoined several outhouses and stables which had been similarly appropriated.

The entrance to the courtyard was guarded by two tired-looking soldiers. They eyed Alina sceptically as she approached, clutching the reins of her horse.

“I’m looking for Malyen Oretsev,” she said. “He’s a tracker with the thirty-sixth – he was stationed here, last I heard, but that was a while ago...”

“Thirty-sixth, you say?” one of the guards said, stifling a yawn. “Sure, their trackers are here. Heading north in a few days. Want me to go get him for you, sweetheart?”

Alina tried not to bristle at his condescending tone and nodded gratefully. “Thank you. Tell him it’s his... sister.”

She almost balked as the word left her mouth, but she needed Mal to know that it was her and that she was here in disguise. The last thing she wanted was to travel all this way only for him to blow her cover in front of an entire First Army base.

A few moments later, he appeared on the heels of the guard, looking irritated and still half-asleep. His anger evaporated when he laid eyes on Alina and did a double take. She saw understanding flood his gaze as he put the pieces together: she had been tailored, and she hadn’t given her name to the guards. She wasn't meant to be here.

He rushed towards her, leading her a little way from the soldiers, but not out of sight.

“Alina,” he hissed, eyes wide. “What in the hells are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” she said quietly. “I have to get to the centre of the Fold. The heart of it.”

Mal made a choked sound of dissent. “Why would you want to go into that saintsforsaken place?”

“I’m going to tear it down.”

He was silent for a moment. “You think you can do it?”

“I know I can,” Alina said with far more confidence than she felt.

Mal chewed on his lip, casting an anxious glance at the guards over her shoulder.

“I want to help you,” he said, lowering his voice again. “But you would have me abandon my post. I’d be tried as a deserter.”

She shook her head slightly and reached into her pocket. “I thought of that. Here – orders from the general of the Second Army.”

This – the folded square of slightly crumpled parchment, sealed with black wax and stamped with the image of a sun in eclipse – was her final act of betrayal. The message she had penned just before she left Os Alta, trying her best to emulate Aleksander’s elegant cursive, was a concise note explaining that the Second Army had need of the same tracker who had aided them some months previously.

She passed it to Mal surreptitiously, so that the guards wouldn’t see. Mal tucked it quickly inside his jacket.

“The heart of the Fold?” he asked, after a moment of silence. Alina nodded. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to make out some distant sound, then blew out a breath in resignation.

“There’s a church, just north of here – I’ll meet you in the cemetery. There are hunting trails in the forest there that will get us to the Fold without using the main roads.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he rolled his eyes with a smile.

“You know I’d do anything for you, Alina,” he grumbled good-naturedly as he tugged her into his arms. She fell happily against his chest, squeezing him around the middle until he laughed breathlessly.

They drew apart. Alina gathered her reins in one hand.

“I’ll see you at the churchyard,” she whispered, and he nodded as he walked back towards the barracks, waving over his shoulder with an easy smile as if she really was just a concerned sister checking up on him.

Alina waved back, waiting until he had vanished from view before she turned and led her horse down the street. She found the church without much difficulty. The cemetery was little more than a jumble of mossy gravestones – overgrown with tall grass and dense clusters of rowan trees, it was almost indistinguishable from the forest beyond the crumbling stone walls. Alina sat down at the foot of one of the rowan trees, nestled in a comfortable coil of roots, and waited.

She must have fallen asleep, because suddenly Mal was shaking her shoulder, his face drawn with tension.

“Alina,” he said. His voice was low but urgent. “We have to go. Now.”

She blinked once, then gripped his hand and let him pull her to her feet. They left the churchyard wordlessly, slipping through a break in the ancient wall and melting into the dense woodland beyond.

The first part of their journey passed in silence. The hunting trails were just wide enough for the horses, but they had to ride in single file. Alina could tell that Mal was on high alert, constantly turning his head from side to side, one hand resting on his pistol at all times. Seeing how nervous he was set Alina on edge, too; every shadow in the forest became Aleksander, every snapping twig or rustling branches became a legion of Heartrenders sent to kill them both.

Around noon, they stopped by a stream to refill their canteens and let the horses drink. Mal reached into his pack and passed her some hardtack.

“Alina,” he said eventually. “What did you do?”

She frowned at him. “What?”

Mal shook his head in disbelief. “There were Grisha in the town – they came to speak to the commander just after I left. They’re looking for you.”

Alina’s stomach lurched unpleasantly. “Oh, Saints.”

“Did you run away from the Black General?” he asked slowly.

Alina sighed. For a moment, the only sounds were the babbling of the brook, the faint shifting of the horses in the leaf litter, and birdsong ringing out in the branches overhead.

“He doesn’t want me to destroy the Fold,” she said at last. Mal frowned, uncomprehending.

“What? Why not?”

Alina shrugged half-heartedly. “Some notion that it can be used to protect Ravka. Especially after what we did in Halmhend.”

His expression soured somewhat. Alina pressed on.

“He doesn’t see that peace won on the basis of fear and intimidation will not last. I have to destroy it – Ravka has suffered enough.”

He has suffered enough, Alina thought quietly to herself. She stared down at her hands.

Mal scratched at the dirt in front of him. “There’s talk among First Army. They say you’re tumbling him,” he muttered sullenly.

“Soldiers gossip, Mal,” she shot back. “It doesn’t make it true.”

“It is though, isn’t it?” he said, lifting his head to meet her eyes. Alina looked away and he nodded to himself. “I thought so. You told me it wasn’t like that.”

“And it wasn’t,” Alina insisted. “But then it was.”

Mal made a disgusted noise in his throat. “I don’t understand how you could –”

“I know you don’t!” she spat, throwing her hands in the air. “That’s why – oh, Saints, Mal. Forget it.”

They fell into an awkward, prickly silence. Mal stared resolutely at the horses, resting by the river, his face thunderous. Alina could imagine that she looked similar.

“Mal,” she said quietly, reaching for him hesitantly. “There are parts of me that nobody but you will ever know – because they could never understand. And that is sacred to me.”

He frowned at her but allowed her to take hold of his hand. Their fingers twined together automatically; in the same instant, Alina remembered being a child, running hand in hand through their meadow as they laughed, and being an old woman, sitting by his side in the parlour, enjoying a rare moment of quietude.

“But in the same way,” she continued. “There are parts of me that only he can fully understand. He knows me in ways that you don’t, Mal – he sees me in ways that you can’t. I raged against that for so long. But it’s the truth, and I just couldn’t avoid it for any longer.”

Mal squeezed her hand and sighed. He still couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I hear you, Alina,” he mumbled. “I just hope – ah, never mind.”

She waited a moment, begging him wordlessly to tell her what he needed to say, but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t. Alina wasn’t entirely surprised. Mal hadn’t been particularly expressive at this age.

“We should go,” she whispered, when it became clear he was simply going to stew in silence. He nodded gratefully.

They scrambled to their feet, scrubbing the dirt from their clothes as best they could, and walked back to the stream where the horses waited patiently. Mal shot her a grin, a spark of nervous anticipation in his eye.

“The Fold awaits,” he said drily. Alina grinned back.

They stuck to the hunting trails, weaving their way through the woodland as they travelled west. It was a less direct route, so it added an extra day to their journey, but they did not encounter a single other person. Mal was always able to track down food for their evening meal, though they did not risk a fire most nights. He would take first watch, and Alina would waken after a few hours to sit up until dawn, listening to his soft snores and the sounds of the forest coming to life around her. It was a strange and beautiful few days of a closeness with him that she had missed desperately, despite the fear of discovery that snapped constantly at her heels. They spoke no more of Aleksander, or of their own relationship, and the tension that had sprung up between them did not rear its head again.

It took them several days to reach the Unsea.

They left the horses in a copse of scrubby birch trees and walked the barren expanse of wasteland that stretched up to the edge of the Fold. They stood there for several minutes, just looking into the turbulent mass of shadows. It shifted and seethed; a living thing, a darkness that called to her, beckoned her in. From this close, they could hear the awful shrieks of the volcra within.

“We need to go south,” Mal said, shattering their speechlessness. “To reach the heart.”

“How far?” Alina asked.

“Not far. An hour’s walk.”

Alina nodded. “We should go in now. Travel south from inside the Fold.”

Mal looked at her as if she was insane. “You want us to walk for an hour in there?”

“He can’t follow us inside,” she said in a quiet voice. “At least I can kill volcra, Mal. I know what I’d rather run into right now.”

His face was unreadable, but he nodded. “Right then. In we go.”

Alina’s heart hammered against her ribs. She reached for Mal’s hand, and he took it gladly.

Together, they stepped into the Fold.

Chapter Text

Alina fought the urge to hold her breath as she walked into the Fold. Its darkness wasn’t like the darkness of night, or shadow – it had weight, substance. It writhed and churned around them, brushing over the exposed skin of her face and hands in a way that made her shudder.

She no longer feared Aleksander’s shadows, for she could always feel him within them – a familiar presence that, though terrifying to others, had become a comfort to her. But the Fold was different. Hewn from merzost, it was its own creature. The blackness that swept over her, filled her lungs every time she drew breath, was thick with the burning agony of grief, loss, desperation and rage that it had sprung from. It was overwhelming.

They stayed close to the edge of the Fold, always within reach of the outside world. The darkness swallowed the sound of their footsteps in the bleak, grey sands; if not for the unnatural loudness of her breathing and the occasional distant screech of volcra, Alina would have worried that she had lost her sense of hearing altogether.

She kept a tight grip on Mal’s hand. She could feel the thrum of his amplifier, buried somewhere deep down beneath his skin; the longer she held him, the stronger the pull of it became, scratching at the part of her that craved its power. Alina forced herself to ignore it, to focus instead on putting one foot in front of the other and following Mal as he led them south.

They hadn’t been walking for long when Mal froze, turning his head skyward, his eyes searching the darkness intently. Alina’s heart jumped up into her throat. A chill swept over her body at the sound of frantic wingbeats and a human-like cry, much closer than she was comfortable with. The volcra had found them.

In less time than it took her to suck in a terrified breath, Alina summoned a dome of light to encase both her and Mal. The volcra that had been circling lower, lower, pulled away with a pained scream, retreating back into the blackness. Mal blew out a shaky breath. He and Alina shared a glance, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly, then they resumed their steady march across the sands.

“We have to go further in,” he said after a while. “We’re getting close to the centre.”

He led them away from the Fold’s outer edge. Even under her shield of sunlight, Alina felt as if she was being consumed as they walked deeper into the darkness. She made it a little brighter, a little warmer, and tried to draw comfort from that and the feeling of Mal’s palm pressed against hers.

She knew they had reached the heart of the Fold when Mal’s pace began to slow. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, his head tipped to one side as he looked around, searching for something in the midst of this never-ending hell she had pulled them into. Alina pushed her dome out further, casting light upon their surroundings, and she saw the ruins of what had once been a huge building – now reduced to nothing more than rubble, half-buried in the grey sand.

They approached slowly. Alina dropped Mal’s hand and wandered among the worn stones. Over four hundred years earlier, Aleksander had stood in this very spot, torn apart by sorrow and despair, pouring all his pain into the world for everyone else to feel.

The sheer force of his suffering hit her like a fist in the chest and a few tears slipped down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly before Mal could see.

“This is the place,” she said softly. “This is where it was created.”

“And this is where it will be destroyed,” Mal responded, his voice fierce. “You can do it, Alina. I know you can. End this.”

Alina turned to him, swallowing hard, unable to see anything but the image of his blood spilling over their joined hands as he slumped in her arms, dying. She looked up into the blackness beyond the soft golden glow of her shield, cursing this place for devouring so much and still demanding more.

Not this time, she raged internally. You will not take anything more from me.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, pushing her light outwards, letting herself feel the unbearable ache of loss in the darkness that surrounded her. It had been twisted and distorted by merzost, but, beneath it all, there was still a kernel of Aleksander there – the last vestiges of a very lonely, very scared little boy. The broken pieces of himself that he had buried in the Fold, along with his grief.

Alina latched onto it and let her light go, burning away the shadows laden with centuries of pain and anguish – Aleksander's, hers, Ravka’s. She abandoned her control and let herself rage through the darkness. Enough. No more.

For a moment, she felt unstoppable. Then the Fold started to fight back.

She drew on the power that welled in the deepest part of herself; at her throat, the antlers were white-hot as the supernatural strength of the stag fed her own. But it was all in vain – she could feel her light faltering, struggling to carve its way through the terrible, smothering darkness. She had given it everything, and it still wasn’t enough.

Alina looked instinctively to Mal. His face was bathed in the glow emanating from her own body, his eyes wide; astounded, awed. Her Mal, who had let her drive a knife in his chest to bring down the Fold and win the war. Her Mal, who had come back to her, who had loved her and held her even when she was no longer special. Her Mal, who lay by her side every night, who knew her favourite flower, how she took her tea, what kind of weather she liked best, which song she would sing when one of the children had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep.

Her Mal, who had died. Her Mal, who was gone forever.

With a sudden awful clarity, Alina remembered what Baghra had told her, the very first time she had tested the true extent of her power after having captured the stag. With the amplifier humming in her chest, a strength and control she had thought lost, long ago, readily at her fingertips, Baghra had looked at her and known the truth.

There is something holding you back, girl. Something you haven’t let go of yet.

Mal. Her Mal.

She gasped in horrified realisation. Fragments of knowledge, memories – from this life, from her first life – came together in a single instant and she understood.

The Fold was a thing of loss, something born in a single outpouring of pure, unadulterated grief. She had destroyed it in the same way, with the same emotion. The power to bring it down had come from the firebird, not just because it was the final amplifier, but because it was Mal – because he died by her hand, because she watched as his life slipped away, held him, sobbed his name. The Fold had felt her pain, in that moment, and had recognised it.

Like calls to like.

The tears that had been gathering in her eyes started to fall, faster and faster until her vision blurred.

She had given up so much already, but the Fold demanded more.

The one thing she couldn’t bear to lose, the thing she had clung to, the thing that had sustained her through this nightmare of her own making. Because even now, even after everything, she still wanted so desperately to spend this second lifetime with Mal. To love him again.

Or so she had believed.

She had come back here so certain of it. She would destroy the Fold, see Ravka’s future safe and secure, and then they would have the life they had always dreamed of – they would travel, see the parts of the world that they had never quite managed first time around. Then they would settle down somewhere, a farm, maybe, have children of their own. Mal would age, and Alina would slowly stop summoning, so that she could age alongside him. She would die first, this time; she was determined not to watch that again.

It had been so clear. So simple. But at some point in the past year, that dream had become unattainable. It had happened so quietly that Alina had not even noticed.

The realisation hit her, now, with such force that she crumpled to the ground.

Mal ran to her, reaching for her. The concern in his eyes was utterly unbearable.

“Alina?” he asked frantically. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Mal,” she sobbed, her chest heaving, her breath ragged and raw. “If you ever loved me – you have to tell me now.”

He stared at her. “Wha – what?”

“Just tell me!” she cried. Sunlight was still surging from her outstretched palms, flowing out into the darkness around her. She knew that she had not yet illuminated even half of the Fold – it was hungry, swallowing her brightness with glee, and she was so tired.

Mal knelt before her and cupped her face in his hands. She thought that he must have seen it in her eyes – the end – because his self-consciousness cracked apart and he leaned towards her with a fervent kind of despair she wasn’t sure she’d seen before, even in their first life.

“I love you, Alina,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see it – to see you. But I see you now. And the truth is, even though I haven’t always known it, I have always been yours. You are all I’ve ever wanted. You are the whole of my heart.”

He kissed her, and for a moment the rest of the world faded into silence. His palms were rough, calloused, against the skin of her cheeks, his mouth warm against hers. The last few slivers of Alina’s sweet, idealistic dream slipped through her fingers and shattered.

They drew apart slowly, each inch of distance between them breaking her heart a little more.

“Do you –” his voice broke and he swallowed hard. “Do you not love me, then?”

Alina smiled at him through her tears and reached out, trailing her fingers across his cheek. She shook her head.

“In another life, we were so happy together, Mal. But it can’t be. Not in this one.”

She let her eyes fall closed, resting her forehead against his, and let herself sink into the memories she had gathered during their life. Memories which would fade, and be lost to her, just as he had.

He holds the ladder for her as she paints curling vines around the cornice in the dining room. The ladder is old, rickety; he wobbles it teasingly and she shrieks, then they both laugh.

She stands silently in a doorway, watching as he comforts Demyan, their newest arrival. Demyan is a quiet child, shaken by the horror he has lived through, and frightens easily. Mal lifts the crying boy into his arms and walks to the window, pointing out all the different trees in the woods beyond, the flowers in the meadow, the birds in the sky. The child quietens the longer Mal talks, but Alina can hear the thick undercurrent of grief in his voice, the reminder of what he once had.

Misha sits them down one evening, fidgeting nervously in a way he hasn’t since he was a young boy, and tells them he has met a girl he’d like to marry. Mal leaps up to hug Misha, laughing in delight, while she presses him to tell her everything, and then suddenly they are all three of them crying.

It is early autumn, and they are hard at work in the field behind the house, collecting their first ever harvest. She stops momentarily to watch him. He is so handsome in the sunlight, she thinks – his skin darkened by so many days outdoors, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling all the more as he squints against the glare to grin at her.

She sits in a patch of sunlight, mending a torn pair of trousers. The sound of children playing drifts distantly through the house. He brings her a cup of tea, perches by her side, tells her of his day. He is so rarely still – always moving, always finding something new to do – and she relishes this moment, just the two of them. There is grey in his hair, and in hers. She wonders where all the years have gone.

These things had never happened; now, they never would.

A fresh tide of grief swept through her. She threw back her head and howled into the void.

Take them. Take them all.

And suddenly, light exploded from within her, so intense that Mal was knocked back a few metres onto the sand, shielding his eyes. Alina had felt empty, drained, convinced that she had scraped up every last drop of the power that hummed in her bones, pooled in the base of her stomach – now, she was brimming with light. It roared through her and spilled out into the shadows, cutting them apart effortlessly, growing brighter and hotter with every passing second.

The Fold rumbled and groaned as it was set ablaze.

Alina set free all her rage, her sorrow, her despair. She had held on to this vision of the future, a bright, beautiful thing, for long enough; now, she let it go, let it burn up in the inferno within her soul. She took the life she could have had and gave it up to the Fold.

Alina was breaking apart. All the things that held her together, all the things she was defined by, turned to ash and she was consumed by the unstoppable force of her loss, of everything that had been taken from her. She did not call to the sun; she became the sun, and it became her.

She screamed as the confines of her body dissolved.

I am ruination.

The world went white.

For a long time, there was nothing.

The first thing Alina was aware of was the shallow movement of her chest as she breathed. Then, the feeling of sand in her mouth, scraping against her cheek. Then, daylight.

She coughed and tried to sit up. It hurt.

Mal was by her side in an instant, helping her up. There was a strange look on his face.

“Alina,” he breathed. “You did it.”

All around them, the Fold was unravelling, crumbling, the darkness melting away to nothingness. Alina tipped her head back, felt sunlight warm her skin, saw the clear, blue sky overhead. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to shed a few silent tears.

“What did you do?” Mal asked, his voice laced with quiet wonder. Alina was too devastated to reply. She let herself tilt forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder, and his arms went around her immediately, rubbing her back comfortingly

What would they do now, she wondered. What would they be now?

As she knelt there in the circle of Mal’s arms, she felt something settle within herself. Acceptance, perhaps, making room for itself alongside the grief. The pain of relinquishing her fearsome grip on loving him was so raw, but she knew that it would not last forever – she would always love him, her husband, in a way, but not in the way she once had. Not ever again.

And then, as if summoned by the direction her thoughts had begun to turn in, she heard it – carried on a warm breeze across sun-soaked dunes, the sound of Aleksander yelling out her name.

“Alina!”

She stiffened in Mal’s arms and sat up, turning wildly towards his voice, her eyes wide and her breathing strained. Mal let her go; she barely looked at him as she scrambled upright, knowing that the betrayal in his eyes would be too much for her to handle right now.

Alina rose in the middle of the golden sands that had once been the barren ground of the Fold. She stumbled a little as she set off at a run, the weight and motion of her body suddenly unfamiliar to her, tearing across the dunes, oblivious to everything else but the overpowering need to find Aleksander.

Her heart constricted when she saw him in the distance – a blot of black against endless gold and blue. He wheeled around, as if he could sense her coming, and stood completely still as she barrelled towards him, kicking up clouds of sand in her urgency.

Alina came to a slow halt in front of him, arrested by the way he looked at her. Aleksander so rarely let his emotions show on his face, and when he did, it was normally short-lived. But now his anguish was on full display.

“Alina,” he said, his voice broken with anger, disbelief, desolation. “What have you done?”

“I had no choice,” she whispered.

He turned his face upwards and sighed. “Blue sky.”

Assaulted by memories, by the magnitude of all she had lost in her two lifetimes, Alina’s knees buckled. Aleksander caught her automatically.

“You ran from me,” he said, a quiet accusation. He was furious – she could feel it in the tension of his body – and she couldn’t blame him.

“You wouldn’t let me go,” she countered.

“You disobeyed me.”

Alina nodded, unable to stop the tears that gathered in her eyes and spilled over. “You wouldn’t listen, Aleksander.”

He growled and pulled her forwards, squashing her against his chest. His arms were like vices around her.

“Look at what you did,” he breathed. His voice was hoarse, but he didn’t sound angry anymore. Alina risked a glance up at his face; he was gazing at her as if he wasn’t quite sure she was real. Reverent.

“I did it for you,” Alina said. A confession. There would be no more hiding from the truth of her feelings for him. He breathed out, slowly, his grip on her body relaxing. Only his eyes betrayed his surprise at her unprompted candour.

They both turned towards the sound of footsteps approaching through the shifting sand. Alina frowned at the sight of Ivan with his hand wrapped firmly around Mal’s upper arm. Mal struggled a little, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Guilt curdled unpleasantly in her stomach.

“Moi soverenyi,” Ivan said stiffly. “I found the tracker.”

Mal looked between Alina and Aleksander and said nothing. Aleksander straightened up, his expression darkening, and fixed Mal with a glower.

“He comes with us,” he ordered. Alina tried to pull away from him, but his embrace had suddenly become a restraint. His hands curled cruelly around her shoulders and he turned around without another word, propelling her across the sand – east, towards Os Alta. Alina let herself be led, resigned to her fate.

They walked until sand gave way to grass. Fedyor waited there with a squad of oprichniki; the strain on his face dissolved instantly into relief when he saw Alina.

Aleksander motioned to an oprichnik who promptly brought a horse to them. Having still not loosened his grip on her, Aleksander made to lift Alina onto the horse – she cast him a scathing glance and he stilled immediately.

“I can mount a horse on my own,” she said softly. He tilted his head in acquiescence, and she shrugged out of his hold, lifting herself smoothly into the saddle. Not seconds later, Aleksander climbed up behind her. Their bodies were pressed together, her back against his chest, his arms looped around her waist to hold the reins. Almost as if he couldn’t help himself, Aleksander dropped his head to brush a kiss against the back of her neck. The fleeting contact of his skin against hers was just enough for her to feel the maelstrom of emotions that he struggled with – she was exposed to it for barely a second, but it was strong enough to set Alina’s mind reeling.

Aleksander turned to his Heartrenders.

“Send word to the scouts. We’ll go as far as the inn at Kotsky today. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

He nodded towards Mal, who met Aleksander’s searing glare with indifference. Without even waiting for Fedyor and Ivan to confirm that they’d understood his instructions, Aleksander clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward; Alina clutched the front of the saddle reflexively as they lurched into motion.

They galloped across the rolling fields, lush green grass that rippled like water in the wind, travelling south and east until they converged with the Vy. The other travellers on the road scattered at the sight of the Black General, unmistakeable in his kefta.

Alina leaned back into him, acutely aware of the closeness of his body to hers, the motion of their hips pressed up against one another. She was struck suddenly by the feeling of having come full circle – in her first life, at the beginning of everything, she had been foisted unceremoniously onto a horse to be cradled protectively in Aleksander’s arms as they rode towards Os Alta. She had been so young, then, so scared of what the future held for her. In all her wildest dreams, she would never have imagined this.

The familiarity of his body behind her, the shifting of his chest as he breathed, was so at odds with the wordless anger that radiated from him; the stiff, distant way he held her. Fresh tears sprung to Alina’s eyes. She scrubbed them away with the heel of her hand.

They rode all day, until the sky behind them was riven with gold, amber, and red. Aleksander pulled them off the main road and the horse trotted wearily down a narrow track towards a small cluster of buildings surrounded on all sides by fields of golden corn. He jumped down from the saddle and reached both arms expectantly towards Alina. Normally, she would protest, but she was exhausted, and she craved his touch. His face was set in a careful mask of detachment, but he held her tenderly against his side.

The familiarity with which he had referred to this place – Kotsky – to Fedyor and Ivan made Alina think that they stopped here regularly on the journey between Kribirsk and Os Alta. The way the innkeeper straightened up at the sight of him confirmed this.

“General,” she said, surprise evident on her face. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I apologise for not sending word ahead, but I found myself in... extraordinary circumstances,” Aleksander murmured, glancing down at Alina as he spoke.

“It’s not a problem, General, I assure you,” the woman smiled slightly. She was a little on edge, but clearly habituated enough to his presence not to seem outright terrified. “How many rooms will you need?”

“At least three.”

She nodded and beckoned for them to follow her up the stairs.

“Your usual room is free,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “And I have three other rooms currently unoccupied on the same floor. Will that do?”

“That’s perfect,” Aleksander replied in the same smooth, polite tone. “Thank you.”

She nodded and gestured towards the nearest door. “The rest of your entourage will arrive shortly?”

“I expect so. Will you see them to their rooms?”

“Of course, General,” she nodded again, smiled at Alina, and vanished back down the stairs.

Aleksander removed his arm from Alina’s waist and opened the door for her. She stepped inside; the room was plainly furnished but comfortable. The windows faced east – the sky was dark, now, a deep, vivid indigo scattered with the silver light of constellations. Alina walked over and rested her hands on the windowsill, staring out into the night. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. Behind her, she heard Aleksander close the door and turn the key in the lock, then take a few steps towards her.

“Alina,” he said quietly. His voice was flat, without inflection.

“I know, Aleksander,” she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning forward until her forehead pressed against the glass. “I know.”

She turned slowly, chewing on her lower lip. He remained, motionless, in the middle of the room. She couldn’t bear the look on his face but she forced herself to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

Something flashed behind his eyes – there and gone again in an instant.

“You’re sorry?” he hissed. “Alina, do you have any idea what you put me through?”

His composure cracked, revealing the fury, the bleak despair beneath. Alina shrank back against the windowsill as he stalked towards her, gripping her chin with his hand and dragging her face towards his.

“When I realised you were gone – that was one thing. But when I realised where you had gone, that you had run to him –” Aleksander broke off, shaking his head. “I never should have trusted you. I never should have given you so much freedom.”

Alina trembled violently, overwhelmed by the onslaught of conflicting emotions that surged into her where he held her face.

“Will you let me explain?” she whispered. His mouth twisted.

“You think you can explain this?”

“Yes!” Alina cried, summoning the strength to take hold of his wrist and tear his hand from her skin. “I can. But you need to promise to listen to me.”

Aleksander laughed bitterly. “I have promised you enough, Alina.”

She tore her cloak from her shoulders and pulled viciously at her sleeves, baring her forearms, then held her hands out with her palms to the ceiling. A gesture of supplication.

“You don’t have to take me at my word. Just listen – you’ll know that I’m telling the truth.”

After a long moment of hesitation, Aleksander curled his fingers around her wrists. Alina took a long breath in, aware that she was about to open her soul to a man who could destroy her, in every meaning of the word, with little more than a flick of his fingers.

“When I was in the Fold,” she began quietly. “I could feel your pain. It was everywhere – it had taken on a life of its own, a form, but it was yours, Aleksander. The kind of pain that comes from loving someone and losing them.”

An image of Mal, the last glimpse she got of him as he kissed her goodnight before he died in bed next to her, flashed before her eyes. She had loved him and lost him – three times, now.

Aleksander didn’t speak. Through the sharp ache in her throat, Alina struggled to take another breath.

“I’ve been lying to myself,” she whispered hoarsely. “For months. Running from a truth that I didn’t want to, or couldn’t, accept. But there, in the face of it all, I couldn’t deny it anymore.”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly, pressing dimples into the skin. Alina let her armour be stripped away, piece by piece, casting aside everything she had ever used to conceal herself from him, letting him feel what she felt, right at the centre of her being. The only thing she was sure of, now. She had never felt so exposed in all her life.

“Mal was all I had ever wanted,” Alina said. Tears were running freely down her face, now. “And I didn’t know to not want him. To not want that life I had dreamed of, for as long as I could remember. Even when I had changed – when the things I truly want had changed – I still believed I wanted that life. Do you see?”

She wished she could take him in her arms. She wished she could turn away so that she didn’t have to see the look him in the eye as she confessed everything to him. She wished she could do anything but stand in front of him and cry and pretend that his hands around her wrists were what was keeping her here, as if she wasn’t held prisoner by her own heart.

Alina sucked in air. It did barely anything for the painful constriction in her lungs.

“I was clinging to something long since passed, just like you were. Because I don’t want Mal, Aleksander, and I can see that now. I want you. I chose you. And now... now, the things we were both holding on to, they’re gone. That’s what really tore down the Fold. That’s why I did it – more than anything else, it was love. My love for you.”

She wanted to say more, but her words failed her. Aleksander stood completely still, staring at her in silence, stunned, horrified.

Overcome by embarrassment and regret, Alina turned her face away and tried to pull her hands free from Aleksander’s grasp.

“Alina –” he said desperately, his voice choked. She screwed her eyes closed.

“Alina,” he repeated. “I – look at me, please.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she did so. Aleksander gazed at her, stricken – Alina didn’t think she had ever seen such sorrow in any person’s face before. He opened his mouth to speak, but he must have been equally as lost for words as she was.

Her skin aflame, Alina tried to turn away again. Aleksander made a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and dropped her wrists, reaching instead for her face.

“Just – come here,” he pleaded, and cupped her cheeks between his palms.

Instantly, Alina was hit with a torrent of emotion, the force of it so strong that she stumbled backwards against the windowsill. Desire, longing, adoration, affection, and love. These were all feelings that she was familiar with, but – were they hers?

Terrified of what she might find, she brought her eyes up to meet his. His eyes – normally so controlled, impenetrable, unfathomable. Alina thought she had seen through his mask before, but now she realised he had only ever let her see another, carefully wrought performance. A little more honest than what he presented to the rest of the world, but a performance nonetheless.

Now, though, now he looked at her with so much naked emotion that Alina knew this was the truth of him – the truth he hadn’t wanted her to have. The truth she hadn’t wanted to look for. Now, he stood before her, his many layers of protection abandoned. Begging her to see. Begging her to understand.

Alina understood. He couldn’t tell her he loved her – not yet. But he could let her feel it. It raged beneath her skin, as bright and devouring as her own. Alina would let herself be swallowed by this. By loving him, and knowing that he loved her just the same.

She laid her palms flat against his chest, right over his heart. Aleksander let out a small sigh. It was a sound of release, the last few threads of all that he had been holding back finally cut loose.

Alina leaned forward and pressed her lips against his – gently, insistently. He tilted her head upwards and deepened the kiss, his hands sliding round to cradle the back of her head, twining his fingers through her hair.

“Tell me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Tell me you don’t want anything but this.”

She could feel his fear, a cold thing reverberating through the connection between them. Fear that he would open himself up to her only to be hurt and betrayed. She was afraid of exactly the same thing.

Alina gripped the collar of his kefta fiercely. “I don’t want anything but this.”

He hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her up so that her hips pressed hard against his. With a gasp, Alina threw her arms around his neck and circled his waist with her legs, cleaving to him as he carried her across the room to deposit her gently on the bed.

It was different, now, without the weight of their secrets between them. They divested themselves of their clothes, and it was just as urgent and voracious as it always was, but there was a warmth, a soft tenderness in their touches and movements, something confessional, sacred, in the way they came together on that bed. A shift in the way they held one another, vulnerable in the knowledge that the truth of them had been excised and laid out, irrefutable.

They kept their bodies close together, skin against skin. The connection flared, thrown wide open, until Alina lost sight of what was her and what was him.

“Alina –” he gasped, and she could hear how he was fracturing, overwhelmed by the enormity of giving in to something so gentle and good.

“Don’t,” she pleaded. Her hands skated over the skin of his back, palms against his shoulder blades, pushing him deeper into her. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned and let his head fall forwards, kissing her fervently.

“Tell me again,” he begged. His voice was full of broken edges.

Alina trailed her fingers over the fine angles of his face, drinking in the way he looked at her, his dark eyes full of wild abandon.

“I love you,” she said, pressing her forehead against his. “And you love me.”

Afterwards, Alina curled herself against his chest and wept. He held her close, kissing her head, rubbing her back, whispering reassurances in Old Ravkan, so quiet that she could only make out snatches of words.

She didn’t remember falling asleep – one moment, she was in Aleksander’s arms, tired and hollow having cried herself out, and the next, she was waking up to an empty bed.

Panicking, Alina sat up and summoned light to the dark little room. Aleksander was at her side in an instant, brushing straggles of hair back from her face with gentle hands.

“It’s alright, milaya,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

She relaxed against him. “Where did you go?”

“To get more candles,” he said, gesturing into the dimness. “And some food. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Alina admitted with a grin.

Not having the energy to get dressed, she pulled one of the soft woollen blankets from the end of the bed and wrapped herself in it. Aleksander resumed lighting the candles as she shuffled across the room towards the little table.

“How long was I asleep for?” she asked.

Aleksander blew out the match and came to sit next to her. “A few hours. Ivan and Fedyor arrived not long ago.”

“And Mal?”

He regarded her with a neutral expression. “Yes, and Malyen. I spoke to him.”

Alina took a sharp breath in, unable to smother the fear that crawled up her spine. Would he still hurt Mal, even now? “You spoke to him,” she repeated dully.

“He’s fine, Alina,” Aleksander reassured her with a slight smile. “He told me what happened in the Fold.”

“Oh.”

Aleksander tilted his head to one side. “You forged orders from me so that his commanding officer would release him from his post?”

Alina tensed. She had almost forgotten about that. “I did do that, yes. I’m sorry.”

To her surprise, his smile only widened. “Of all the things I could be angry about, Alina, that is the least of my concerns. If anything, I’m impressed.”

“Will you let him go?” she asked nervously.

“I’ll consider it,” Aleksander said. He nudged her plate towards her. “Now, eat.”

The food was simple but hearty – a stew of turnips, potatoes, and meat, served with fresh bread. Alina devoured her bowl, soaking up the last of the stew with the chewy crust. When she finished, pushing her plate away with a contented sigh, she looked up to find Aleksander watching her with some amusement. Alina blushed.

“That was undignified,” she mumbled, and he laughed.

“Alina, you’ve just done something requiring more power than almost any other Grisha in history has been capable of wielding,” Aleksander said gently. “The Small Science feeds us, yes, but controlling it on such a tremendous scale takes significant effort. It’s hardly surprising that you’re hungry.”

She shrugged a little. He watched her curiously, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.

“Can I ask you something?” he said at last.

“Of course,” Alina replied with a frown. “Anything.”

“Did you use merzost?”

She breathed out slowly. “No.”

His eyebrows twitched, but the rest of his face remained carefully impassive. Alina clicked her tongue in irritation.

“What’s that look for?” she asked. He sighed and passed a hand over his face.

“I am staring down a future where I am no longer the most powerful Grisha to have lived,” he admitted quietly.

Alina was stunned. “You don’t mean that,” she said, automatically rejecting the possibility. He looked up at her with a wry smile.

“Alina,” he said patiently. “You destroyed something that took merzost to create through only your sheer strength of ability. You have been training for a year. Do you really think I don’t mean what I say?”

She considered this. “Oh,” she murmured. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Muffled voices and laughter drifted through the floor.

“If I had to be second to anyone,” Aleksander muttered drily. “I’m glad it would be you.”.

“I’d prefer us to be equals,” Alina replied, failing to curb her self-satisfied smile. “You needn’t worry, Aleksander. Power aside – it will be centuries before I can match you in skill.”

He mirrored her smirk. “I shall enjoy besting you while I can, then.”

Alina’s smile stretched into a sharp grin – a taunt, a challenge. She pushed herself out of her chair and clambered inelegantly onto his lap. He tugged questioningly at the blanket she was swaddled in, and in response she shrugged it off, letting it crumple soundlessly on the floor.

“Come to bed, Aleksander,” she whispered, her lips inches from his. He smiled and obliged.

When Alina rose, slowly, from her slumber the following morning, for a moment she forgot where she was and what had happened.

The room was unfamiliar – Aleksander’s arms wrapped loosely around her were not. She tipped her head back to look at him and found that he was already awake, staring at her intently, fondly.

Then she remembered everything.

Her cheeks grew warm with a rush of blood and she buried her face in his chest. He chuckled – Alina would gladly go to war to hear that sound every day for the rest of her life – and kissed the top of her head.

After a few moments, she peeked up at him again.

“Everything will be different now, won’t it?”

He smoothed down her tangled, sleep-mussed hair. “I expect so.”

She hummed softly, trailing warm golden strands of light across Aleksander’s bare chest as she idly ran her fingers in circles over his skin. He shivered slightly under her touch and reached down to snatch her hand away.

The Black Heretic was ticklish. Alina filed this information away for later.

“We should get back on the road soon,” he said. “It will take us several days of travelling before we reach Os Alta.”

“May I have my own horse today?” Alina asked, and he smiled.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

They dressed and made their way downstairs. Fedyor and Ivan were already waiting in the small courtyard, an irritated-looking Mal stood grumpily between them. Alina tried to catch his eye but he resolutely ignored her efforts.

Aleksander folded his arms and regarded Mal dispassionately. After an uncomfortably long silence, his gaze flicked to Fedyor.

“See Corporal Oretsev returned to his unit in Ryevost,” he said coolly. “You can tell his commanding officer that he performed his duties more than adequately, and I may call upon his skills again.”

Both Alina and Mal whipped their heads towards Aleksander in shock. Alina was rendered speechless; Mal, after struggling with an open mouth for a few moments, recovered control of his limbs and snapped into a perfect salute.

“Thank you, General,” he said, and Aleksander narrowed his eyes at the grudging tone of voice but nodded brusquely. He turned to Alina, placing one hand on the small of her back – a pointed gesture, which would have had her rolling her eyes if she wasn’t still astounded by his uncharacteristic act of kindness – and guiding her across the yard to where two horses stood, saddled and waiting.

He didn’t insist on helping her up, just stepped away and mounted his own horse without a word. Another offering of freedom which would have been unthinkable just days before.

The journey back to Os Alta was uneventful, for the most part. They stuck to the main road, accompanied by Ivan and the oprichniki, stopping each night at some inn or guest house. Each morning, Alina woke up cradled in Aleksander’s arms, and each morning the jolt in her heart as she found him gazing down at her became a little less startling.

As the neared the city gates, the Vy became more crowded. Travellers looked up as they passed and whispered to one another.

Alina slowed her horse to a trot as they entered Os Alta. People stopped in the middle of the street to point and gape at her – it only got worse as they moved further into the city. The oprichniki moved seamlessly into a tight formation around her.

“Word of your actions in the Fold has spread,” Ivan muttered. He clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward, pulling alongside Aleksander who rode a short distance ahead of them, surveying the crowds with contempt.

They turned onto the Grand Mile, the capital city’s main street – a wide, cobbled boulevard stretching from the Grand Cathedral to the palace gates – and were instantly forced to halt. The street was jammed with people, all of them craning their necks, eyes wide, towards Alina.

Aleksander turned back towards her with a look of exasperation. Inwardly, Alina felt the same – she had been travelling for days, she was tired and dirty, and she wanted nothing more than to go home. But she couldn’t let any of that show; instead, she took a deep breath in to steady herself, and plastered a demure smile on her face.

“Let me through,” she murmured to the oprichnik nearest her. He looked unconvinced, shooting a glance at Aleksander for confirmation.

Aleksander took in her expression of false piety, the determined set of her shoulders, and nodded once at the oprichniki. They moved aside, allowing Alina to walk her horse forward. She paused at Aleksander’s side.

“Ride with me,” she whispered, a quiet plea, and to her relief he nodded his agreement.

They moved down the Grand Mile and the masses parted before them, kneeling as she passed. Whispers of Sankta Alina swept through the crowd. People were weeping silently, staring at her with fervent devotion, mouthing prayers.

“Summon for them,” Aleksander said under his breath. Alina frowned at him, and he lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “They worship you. Use it.”

Alina gritted her teeth, but she knew he was right. If she could ensure the allegiance and support of practically the entire capital city – commoners and patricians alike – with one simple display of saintliness, she would do well to take advantage of that. As much as she was averse to becoming an object of idolatry, faith was a powerful weapon.

She twisted her palms against one another and spread her hands. Light bloomed above the heads of the crowd, all the way down the Mile, prompting gasps and shouts of exultation. Since the Fold, summoning had become so easy, almost instinctive, requiring little more effort than breathing. She barely had to reach for it anymore – it was just there, ready to be commanded, indelibly entwined with the fibres of her being.

With a slight motion of her fingers, the lights flared brighter, then dimmer, then began to twinkle like stars in the night sky. Alina glanced at Aleksander and found him watching her with approval.

They arrived at the palace gates and were swiftly ushered inside by a squadron of harried-looking guards. As soon as the gates closed behind them, Alina kicked her horse into a canter, eager to return to the familiarity of the Little Palace. Home.

She jumped down from her horse, abandoning him to the care of stablehands, and rushed inside. Aleksander followed close behind her.

“Alina,” he called, and she could hear the laughter in his voice, but she paid him no mind. She needed a bath, she needed to sleep in her own bed, she needed a drink –

A nervous Heartrender stood outside the door to Aleksander’s war room.

“General Kirigan, sir,” he said as they approached. “The King has demanded your presence – and that of the Sun Summoner.”

Alina came to a halt, her heart sinking. Aleksander swept right past her, throwing open the double doors, sparing not even a glance for the poor Heartrender.

“Thank you,” he said calmly. “We will take it under advisement.”

The Heartrender bowed and scurried away as Alina followed Aleksander inside. The doors slammed closed behind her.

“Is that... wise?” she asked. Aleksander’s nostrils flared.

“He will only berate the both of us for acting without his express permission and then will try to take credit for the whole thing. The man will be dead before the end of the month – I have no qualms about offending him now.”

Alina nodded slowly. “Has Genya...”

Aleksander untied his cloak and threw it over one of the chairs by the fire. “I am just about to send for her. I would have done already, but I was slightly distracted by the recent disappearance of my Sun Summoner.”

He glared at her, but there was no real heat in it. Alina smiled.

“I’m not yours,” she said with a scoff. Aleksander came towards her, both hands sliding around her waist to pull her against him.

“Yes, you are,” he murmured, gazing at her possessively. “And I am yours.”

She lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him softly. When she pulled back, he was smiling.

“Get some rest, Alina,” he said, nodding towards his bedroom. “You’re exhausted. I’ll call for food and a hot bath once I’ve dealt with the things requiring my immediate attention.”

“You’ve been travelling just as long as I have,” she pointed out.

“I am well acquainted with a lack of sleep,” Aleksander said. “I don’t tire so easily, these days.”

“You work too hard.”

“Hmm,” he kissed her forehead and released her with a sigh. “Perhaps.”

He nudged her in the direction of his bedchamber and Alina was too weary to argue. She stripped off her mud-spattered clothes and crawled into his bed, nearly weeping at the bliss of it – familiar sheets, the scent of him all around her.

Alina hadn’t meant to fall asleep – she'd picked out a book from his shelves, a collection of Ravkan myths and folklore, and had settled herself comfortably in a nest of pillows to read, but the long days on horseback had worn her out completely. She didn’t even make it through two pages.

She was roused some time later, muzzily aware of the mattress shifting as somebody else climbed into bed next to her. Aleksander reached for the book, still open in front of her, and huffed a laugh.

“While this is certainly not the most riveting account of Ravkan legend I’ve ever read, I didn’t think it was that dull,” he chuckled. Alina glared at him blearily even as she folded her body against him.

“Your problem is that you think you’re funnier than you are,” she grumbled. He laughed again, louder this time, and Alina hid her smile in his chest.

A moment passed in relaxed silence. Aleksander ran his fingers soothingly through her hair as he paged through the book, and Alina rose slowly from half-sleep into wakefulness.

“It’s done?” she asked quietly, wondering if Genya had already been and gone while she snoozed, one room away. Aleksander nodded.

“I’ll send word to our future council members tomorrow. We’ll be ready to take control after the tsar dies, hopefully with minimal bloodshed.”

Alina pushed herself into a sitting position. “How does it feel?”

Aleksander pursed his lips slightly. “Conflicted.”

“Conflicted?” Alina asked with a confused frown. “About seeing all your plans come to fruition, after all this time?”

“Your plans, Alina,” he corrected, not unkindly. “You have singlehandedly obliterated my plans. You barged into my life, tore them to pieces, and left them burning in your wake.”

Alina flushed guiltily. “Well, my plans were better.”

He threw her a withering look but did not contradict her. Alina sighed and clambered stiffly out of the bed, stretching out the painful crick in her neck.

“Don’t deny it,” she said, wandering to the wardrobe to pick out a clean kefta. “This way, you get almost everything you had wanted, but you also get me.”

“I would always have had you, Alina,” Aleksander responded in a level voice. “It may have taken some time, it may have taken centuries, but you would have come back to me even if I took the crown. There is nobody else like us. This is, and has always been, inevitable.”

Fury lanced through Alina, cold and sharp, at his casual dismissal of everything she had sacrificed to be here in this moment. She spun to face him.

“No, it’s not! Nothing about this was inevitable – it was my choice, one which I did not make lightly. Don’t you dare talk about inevitability, or fate, or destiny, because I have seen your destiny, Aleksander.”

No grave.

She stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop any more words from spilling out. Aleksander looked taken aback by the vehemence of her outburst.

A moment passed in which the only sound was of Alina’s jagged breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. He shook his head mutely.

Alina abandoned her search for a kefta and walked back to the bed on unsteady legs, climbing onto his lap and pressing her face into the curve between his neck and his shoulder. She knew that Aleksander wouldn’t forget what she had said – one day, she would have to tell him the truth – but he seemed content to let it go for now. He held her close while hot tears slid from the corners of her eyes, soaking into the black fabric of his shirt.

When, at last, she felt a little less fragile, Alina lifted her head. He was looking at her with so much concern, her heart nearly broke.

“I think you said something about food and a hot bath?” she asked quietly, and he smiled.

“Of course, my little Saint. Whatever you want.”

She took in a deep, steadying breath, and regarded him carefully. “Whatever I want?”

He nodded. Alina leaned in, the barest hint of a smile teasing her lips.

“Be very careful, Aleksander Morozova. I might just hold you to that.”

Chapter Text

Alina sat very still, facing into the light of the rising sun.

She had woken early, before even Aleksander had stirred. The dawn was quiet and still. Alina was sure she could have rolled over and gone right back to sleep, but instead she pushed the sheets back and slipped from bed, careful not to disturb Aleksander as she did so. She wandered from the room, nodding sleepily at the oprichniki, who seemed surprised to see her at this hour, and headed down the corridor in search of a secluded spot.

On the top floor of the Little Palace, at the end of a hallway she had never been in before, she found an alcove with a large, curved window which looked out over the palace grounds to the east. Alina perched on the windowsill, curling her body easily into the little space, and let the light of the early morning wash over her. Deeper in the Little Palace, the servants were already busy, the oprichniki were making their rounds, but this wing seemed to be nearly deserted. Alina wrapped herself up in the hush, the solitude, and gazed out of the window. The future stretched out before her, infinite.

Soon, she knew, she would have to return to it – the world she had shaped, the life she had chosen. But for now, Alina contented herself with these few moments of peace, suspended in the gap between what was and what would be. She stared at the sky and thought of nothing but the sun on her skin.

Everything was going to change, now, and there would be no coming back from it. No second – or, rather, third – chances. Maybe once, it would have terrified her; now, she welcomed it.

The King was dead. The illness which had seen him bedbound a few months earlier had returned with an intensity which had killed him in a matter of days. Shortly after his death, it was discovered that Prince Vasily and the Queen had conspired together to poison the King. Many people at first refused to believe that such treachery could have come from the King’s own family, but the evidence was damning: a vial of the substance used to poison the tsar was discovered in Vasily’s chambers, combined with testimony from palace staff and aristocrats. Vasily had a loose tongue when he was drunk – which was almost always – they said, and he could often be overheard mumbling about being fed up with waiting for his father to die; everyone knew how the tsaritsa despised her husband for shaming her so often, for having his way with serving girls, courtesans and whores and not even bothering to hide it.

The poison, of course, had been planted – the testimonies were entirely genuine. The cracks in the royal household had existed for a long time, and Aleksander was only too happy to dig his fingers in and rend them apart.

Queen Tatiana and Prince Vasily were spared execution, on account of their royal blood and the unrest such an action would cause in an already tumultuous political landscape, and instead were sent into exile, never to return. The crown would have passed to the younger prince, but Nikolai refused it outright. The Lantsov dynasty had ruled Ravka for generations, he said, and all it had given them was a country crippled by debt and a royal family that tried to tear itself apart. It was time for change.

And so, the High Council of Ravka was founded.

Nikolai’s initial reaction to the idea was cold, to say the least.

He had been summoned back to Os Alta when his father fell ill, only to find most of the royal household confined to their quarters under a quarantine. He hadn’t been able to see the King before he died, and only had the chance to speak briefly to his mother and brother before their trial and extradition, so when Alina had called him to the war room one afternoon to make their plans, he hadn’t exactly been happy with her.

“I know he wasn’t a particularly good ruler,” he had said, his arms crossed and his voice icy with hurt. “But you can’t truly expect me to face you knowing you’ve just had my father assassinated and act like I’m okay with that?”

Alina met his gaze stoically. Aleksander had offered to be the one who had this discussion with Nikolai, but Alina knew, if she were to have any hope of salvaging their friendship, it had to be her.

“I had nothing to do with his death,” Alina said gently, aware that this was only partially true. “I wanted the monarchy gone, true, but I am not a tyrant hell-bent on wiping out your entire family.”

Nikolai flinched. Alina did her best to sound a little more sympathetic.

“I only wanted something better for Ravka, Nikolai, I swear it. But who am I to stand between the people who have suffered such horror at the hands of your father and their chance at retribution?”

“And you expect me to believe that Genya Safin was not working on the orders of General Kirigan?”

Alina froze. “Where did you hear about Genya’s involvement in any of this?”

Nikolai raised his eyebrows. “I am not a fool, Alina,” he said quietly.

“I know you’re not,” Alina sighed. “I just wanted to protect her.”

“I’m not going to do anything to harm her,” Nikolai said. Alina regarded him without speaking for a moment, until she was certain that she believed him.

She took a deep breath. “Genya... Genya had made up her mind a long time ago. For what she has been through – there is no world in which she would not have taken her revenge, regardless of what the General did or didn’t order her.”

“The fact remains that that man arranged my father’s death. And now you bring me here to ask me to sit on a council alongside him and the woman who dealt the blow.”

Alina pursed her lips. “Do you know how she did it?”

He glanced at her sideways but said nothing, and Alina nodded slowly, taking this as an answer.

“Maybe you should ask her. I’m not going to beg, Nikolai, but I will be honest – I want you on this council, and I think you want to be on it, too.”

Nikolai pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side. “I want what’s best for Ravka.”

“As do I,” Alina said emphatically. “As do we all, in fact. You don’t need to make up your mind right now – take some time to think about it. Talk to Genya, Nikolai, and then tell me your decision.”

As she stopped talking, they had slipped into a silence which, although not quite comfortable, was at least no longer overtly prickly. Nikolai had exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders unravelling, and walked over to lean heavily on the map table.

“Do you have anything to drink?” he had asked then, glancing up at Alina grudgingly. A small smile quirked at her lips, and she nodded.

“Kvas?”

This got the desired reaction.

“Saints, no,” Nikolai had exclaimed, and then they had both laughed. When he left the room a few minutes later, having tossed back the half-glass of vodka she offered him with a wince and a cough, Alina had felt the strain in their friendship lessen ever so slightly. It wasn’t quite what it had once been – that, she supposed, was to be expected – but it was a start.

Not long after Nikolai departed, Aleksander had returned to the war room. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Alina lounging at her desk, cradling a glass of vodka, and had promptly poured one for himself.

“How was your talk with Sobachka?” he had asked, curiosity clear in his voice.

“You should really stop calling him that,” Alina chided softly. “You’re meant to be working together. As equals.”

“I have no equal but you, Alina,” he said, crossing the floor with long, unhurried strides.

Alina had rolled her eyes and smiled. “It went – fine, I suppose. He’s not convinced yet, and he’s not best pleased with either of us about the way we went about this whole thing, but he’ll come round. For Ravka, if nothing else.”

Aleksander leaned over the desk until his nose hovered inches from hers. “Well, he’d better hurry up. The aristocracy are getting restless – they want him crowned sooner rather than later.”

“I know,” Alina murmured, sitting up a little straighter so that their lips brushed. “But they’re just going to have to learn some patience. And so are you, Aleksander.”

He tutted. “Oh, my Alina, I can assure you – I am well versed in patience. Or do you need me to remind you?”

She had smiled slowly and placed her glass down on the desk. “Yes, please.”

It had only taken three days before Nikolai had returned to the war room with his answer. Alina and Aleksander had been stood at the map table, arguing in lowered voices about whether or not to send more agents into Shu Han, when there was a knock at the door.

Nikolai’s face tightened when he saw Aleksander, the man who had orchestrated the downfall of his family dynasty, but he had cleared his throat and said his piece, his voice calm and even the whole time.

Alina had smiled in relief. Aleksander left her side and walked slowly to the cabinet against the wall behind her, drawing out a bottle of his best brandy and three glasses.

“Have a drink with us, then,” he had said, extending the bottle to Nikolai. “And we’ll tell you our plans for the council. I would welcome your input.”

The strange thing was, Alina thought he might actually be telling the truth.

It was not the smoothest start to their partnership, but she knew it would get easier as time went on. They had continued talking, planning, long into the night – by the time Nikolai had finally left, the brandy bottle now completely empty, they had agreed to send word to their chosen council members, to meet with each of them, alone, before convening the council in full for the first time two weeks to the day.

That had been two weeks ago.

Now, Alina sat with her chin propped on her knees, watching day break over the Little Palace. The water of the lake looked like a pool of liquid gold, shimmering and rippling in the slight breeze. At the horizon, the clouds were aflame, burning red-hot like coals. Summer was ending, autumn creeping towards them – she could see it in the slowly lengthening nights, feel it in the chill bite of the air in the mornings.

She didn’t really know what to expect of their first council meeting. None of them had done this before – there were sure to be teething problems, in a room full of people who had either never held power before in their life or had previously held or aspired to much more power than they were currently being given. Never mind the clash of personalities. She had begun to wonder if her idea was, in truth, an awful one.

It had been Aleksander, of all people, who assuaged her worries.

“This is going to work, Alina,” he told her in bed the previous night, when she had voiced her concerns aloud. “I have no doubt about it.”

She had only nodded, pressing her face into his arm, and he had descended for a few moments into a thoughtful silence.

“Do you know,” he continued. “For the first time in centuries, I feel... not quite hopeful, but not far from it.”

This quiet revelation – spoken softly, as if in fear that saying it too loud would cause everything to crumble – had been enough to bring tears to Alina’s eyes. Thinking about it now, the tremulous optimism that had threaded his voice, made her glow with warmth, almost matching the bright golden disc of the sun as it edged its way over the horizon.

They had a lot to be hopeful about, Alina thought. The messages coming from Fjerda were promising; all over the country, now, people whispered of the Sól Sënje, the saviour of Halmhend. Sënje Alina the benevolent – Sënje Alina the vengeful.

And there were more miracles. Small things, nothing like what had happened at Halmhend – but if a Saint could save the people of Halmhend, then why not Gäfvalle, Kirkjanes, Eynholm? When the crops that had been blighted by an early frost sprang back to life overnight, when a lake which had been barren for years filled with fish once again, when a hot spring which had long since dried up suddenly burst forth from the earth – could these things not be miracles, too?

It was impossible to deny that the winds of change were stirring in Fjerda. Alina could tell that Aleksander was quietly surprised to see it happen so quickly – he had never really expected this ploy to work, after all, and had mostly agreed to it for the sake of placating Alina. But it seemed that their actions in Halmhend had sown the seeds of a new era for Grisha in Fjerda, though it was too soon to say for sure whether those seeds would take root, whether they would grow into something meaningful and lasting. She intended to do everything in her power to make certain they would.

Meanwhile, tensions with Shu Han had not entirely dissipated, but had at least eased somewhat. Word of the siege on Halmhend, then the destruction of the Fold, had quickly reached Ahmrat Jen – two demonstrations of Grisha power on such an immense scale had unsettled the Taban queen enough that she had pulled back on the escalating aggression along the border.

“It won’t last,” Aleksander had muttered with a sigh. “She will wait until she has a new way to attack us, a new weak spot to exploit. And then we will have no way to fight back.”

He had said this last with a pointed look at Alina. She merely scoffed and waved a hand, drawing a blinding arc of light with her fingers.

“We have plenty of ways to fight back, Aleksander – more even than they do. You know what Nikolai and David have been working on.”

Alina barely understood what the former prince and the Durast were talking about, most of the time – they got so excited in one another’s company and the combination of Nikolai’s natural boyish zeal and David’s hyperfixated mumbling became completely unintelligible. But from the pieces she had managed to scrape together, the technologies they were coming up with would put anything in Fjerda and Shu Han to shame.

Besides which, she knew that Shu Han’s greatest asset – Bo Yul-Bayar, the scientist who would have given them jurda parem – had been stolen from under their noses before they were even aware of his talents. Now, he worked for Ravka; already, he had come up with a remedy for the wasting sickness which had afflicted her in her childhood, sparing their agents in Shu Han and Fjerda the risk of being forced to use their abilities to stay healthy while undercover in a place where such a thing could get them killed.

Hopeful. It was a sentiment that Alina could share. The future was uncertain – she had changed so much by now that she had little idea of what might come next. There would surely be events that she hadn't predicted, some tragedies that she could do nothing to prevent; the thought of that left her ill at ease, floundering, for several days, in the vast, unknowable nature of the universe.

It was strange to remember suddenly that she had lived an entire life like that – taking each day as they came, the good alongside the bad, and carrying on. But that was what she would have to do from now on – from today.

The sky overhead had gone from peachy pink to a pale, dusty blue as the hues of daytime began to seep through the warm, watery dawn. Aleksander would be waking soon.

Aleksander.

Her thoughts stilled on him, as they so often did. She could still scarcely believe that he was hers, even when she woke up in his bed every morning, even when he looked to her for approval in every meeting they stood in together, even when he groaned her name as he came undone inside her.

Sometimes, Alina wondered when it was, exactly, that she had fallen in love with him. In her first life, it had been almost immediate. She had been so young, then, and drawn to him by a force more powerful than she could understand – not to mention the fact he had been an incorrigible flirt.

It had been different this time. A slow, gradual unravelling.

He had asked her, the night before, what she had meant about his destiny.

They had been sprawled out in his bed, naked, having just made love. The sky beyond the windowpane was growing dark, but neither of them had moved to light the candles just yet.

Alina had known this moment was coming from the way he had looked up at her as she straddled his hips; something in his eyes, in that moment, told her that he had waited as long as he could, and now intended to unburden her of her secrets.

She was surprised at how easily she accepted this. It had grown tiresome, she supposed, knowing that even now there was something unequal between them. So, when he propped his chin on his palm and gazed down at her, still tangled up in his sheets and breathing heavily, Alina had smiled softly and agreed to one final confession.

The room was quiet while she gathered her thoughts.

“I had a dream of the future,” she began. Once upon a time, this would have felt like a half-truth, but not anymore. What was that future to her, now, but a dream? Intangible and fading faster with every passing breath. “I saw my whole life. Everything. The way it was meant to happen.”

“What happened?” he asked, twirling a long strand of her hair between his fingertips. “What did the future look like?”

Alina told him.

She told him about the day she had tricked her way on to the skiff, how they had been attacked, two markers in, after the blue light at the mast died and one of the First Army soldiers lit a lantern.

At this point, Aleksander’s eyes had snapped to hers, and she knew he was remembering their first meeting.

“The blue light,” he said slowly. “That’s why you were dragged into my tent. You were acting on what you saw in your dream.”

She nodded, smiling a little at the memory.

“How did you know it was real?” he asked with a frown.

“I didn’t,” Alina replied honestly. “Not really.”

Aleksander blew out a breath. She could see his mind racing.

“Go on,” he said.

She told him about being rushed to the Little Palace, the drüskelle attack, about how she had struggled to summon at first. How alone she had felt. Aleksander listened carefully, his fingers still moving gently through her hair, his face fixed in a mask of concentration.

When she told him about how he had kissed her at the winter fête, he smirked.

“That sounds like me,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “Besotted by you in every possible future.”

His smile had faded when he heard what came next – Marie’s death, Mal showing up with the location of the stag, Baghra’s revelation. Alina tried to keep her voice steady as she told him how, hurt and betrayed, she had run from him, vanishing into the night. He grew paler and paler as she recounted the weeks that had followed: tracking the stag across the permafrost with Mal only for Aleksander to kill it himself, how he had forced the collar onto her and bound her powers to his control, the journey through the Fold where she had watched, helpless, as he massacred Novokribirsk. How they had fought – how she had abandoned him there to die in the darkness.

“Alina –” he choked, looking faintly ill. She laid a hand gently on his chest.

“Let me finish,” she said, soft but adamant. He swallowed hard and nodded.

He had lain completely still and silent while she told him the rest. The sea whip, Sturmhond, the Little Palace, the Spinning Wheel, Keramzin. His nichevo’ya – the use of merzost which began to kill him slowly, eating him up from the inside. Genya, Fedyor, Baghra, Nikolai, Ana Kuya, and all those who suffered and died at his hands, caught up in the war between them.

As she started to tell him about their final battle in the Fold, her voice had caught, and she stopped, mid-sentence, to steady herself. Aleksander was like a statue in her arms – rigid and unmoving.

Alina was suddenly no longer sure she could do this.

He deserves to know, she thought. He deserves to know what kind of person I am.

As if from a distance, she heard herself start to speak again. The story poured out of her: walking into the Fold with her friends and the Soldat Sol, cloaked and invisible. Finding his skiff, empty, realising it was nothing but a trick, that he had lied to her, again, and she had been foolish enough to believe him, again. The battle that ensued – her friends, falling and dying around her. Mal pressing a knife into her palm. Don’t let it all be for nothing. Plunging the blade into his chest, holding him as he took his last breath. Light, power, a flood of it, a dam breaking – then nothing.

She had watched Aleksander closely, expecting some reaction when she revealed that Mal was the firebird, but he remained motionless, save for the juddering rise and fall of his chest.

“It was merzost,” she had continued. His bedroom was by now completely engulfed in the inky blue of twilight. Alina could have summoned light, but she didn’t bother; she wasn’t afraid of the darkness these days. “Combining the three amplifiers. Your mother warned me it would have a price, and she was right. It took my summoning. I wasn’t Grisha anymore. I wasn’t anything.”

He had exhaled forcefully at that, horrified.

“I had to end the war, so I put a knife in your heart. I think, in a way, you were glad – not to be left alone,” Alina murmured, her voice hoarse and unsteady. She pressed her fingers against his chest, tracing the line where the blade had gone in, feeling the beat of his heart underneath. Alive.

“I made you hate me,” he said woodenly. Alina shook her head.

“No, Aleksander,” she smiled sadly as she remembered Baghra’s last words to her son. “I loved you. It just wasn’t enough.”

Aleksander’s eyes had fallen closed and a pained expression crossed his face. “What happened then?”

“What do you mean?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her guardedly. “That wasn’t the end of your life. What happened?”

Alina blinked in surprise. In her mind, that had been the end of the story – everything afterwards had been domestic and uneventful.

But she satisfied his curiosity, telling him about her marriage to Mal, their return to the orphanage, the hundreds of children they cared for, their life together. Her breathing hitched when she spoke about Mal’s death – waking up one morning to find him gone. The crushing loneliness of it.

Aleksander sat up abruptly, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and sitting there with his head in his hands. Alina felt bereft without his body next to hers.

“I don’t understand,” he had said in a hollow voice. “If you saw this future – why not just let it happen? You were happy. You had the life you always imagined you would have.”

Alina sighed softly. “Yes, I was happy. But the cost was so great.”

A moment passed in which neither of them spoke or moved.

“Saints are supposed to suffer for their people,” Alina said eventually, so quietly that she wasn’t sure he would hear. “But – I failed. I didn’t deserve that happiness.”

Aleksander made a noise of protest and turned partially towards her. His eyes were full of pain. He was, she knew, all too familiar with self-loathing.

“Alina,” he murmured gruffly. “How could you think that?”

She just shrugged awkwardly, trying to brush it off. “I wanted to save their lives. I knew I had to do things differently – change the future. Make it better.”

His face softened. “You’re so... good.”

“I am selfish,” Alina countered. “And stubborn. And hypocritical.”

“If those things make you a bad person, Alina, how would you describe me?” he asked, and she had flinched, unable to answer.

Aleksander turned his body a little more. The faint glow of moonlight lit him from behind, giving the impression that he was outlined in silver fire.

“You knew,” he whispered brokenly. “You knew all along what I was – what I am – and you fell in love with me anyway?”

He sounded like he didn’t really believe it, like she might be about to reveal that it had all been an elaborate ruse, that, of course, she could never love somebody like him.

But the truth was rarely so straightforward.

Alina leaned forward, brushing her fingers over the skin of his cheeks. He took hold of her wrist and guided her hand back to his heart. Her pulse thrummed in his grip. She opened up the connection between them and let him feel everything.

“Yes,” she said simply, because what else was there to say?

He brought his mouth to hers, grabbing her waist with his free hand and pulling her across the bed towards him. He was soft and warm, sharp and fierce, demanding, pliant, all-consuming, loving, and completely, utterly hers.

She had sighed slightly when he pulled away, taking her face between his palms and holding her gaze. His eyes were grave.

“I will do everything I can, for the rest of my life, to make sure you never have cause to regret it.”

Alina hadn’t known how to respond to that other than to kiss him again, longer and harder than before. She had crawled backwards across the bed, taking him with her, needing to be closer, to remove the last remnants of space between them. To become one with him.

“I love you, Aleksander Morozova,” she whispered. She wanted to capture the look in his eyes, the way his lips parted ever so slightly, so that she could relive it over and over again.

He had lit the candles, afterwards, and they lay curled up against one another in a drowsy silence, each with a book in their lap. Alina thought that, if this is what eternity looked like, she might be okay with that.

She would never keep another secret from him. They were equals, now, in every way, and there was nothing more she could want.

That was what she had thought to herself last night. Now, bathed in the death throes of another perfect sunrise, she mulled it over a little more closely.

You had the life you always imagined you would have. That’s what Aleksander had said to her, the previous night – and she hadn’t disagreed with him, but now...

Had it been the life she always imagined? Maybe, but it hadn’t really been what she had wanted. More that it was the happiest outcome she could see for herself, growing up in an orphanage, in the First Army, while she was in love with her best friend.

And she had been happy – she would never think of her years with Mal with anything other than fondness and love. But had it been her dream? It had been Mal’s dream, really, something she had just sort of absorbed along the way. She wasn’t even sure she had known what her dreams were. She wanted to see a little more of this world they lived in – but beyond that, there was nothing.

Dawn cracked apart and day rushed to fill its place.

She knew that she didn’t want to stay embroiled in politics forever. Maybe after a few years, a decade, once Ravka was no longer constantly teetering on the brink of war, she would leave. Maybe she could even convince Aleksander to come with her.

And after that?

Alina considered the kind of life she and Mal had led, and the possibility of having something like that with Aleksander. A home of their own. Marriage. Maybe even a family.

She shrank away from the thought, a knee-jerk reaction, the wound of having Mal ripped away from her still too fresh for this to feel quite right.

Not in this lifetime, she didn’t think.

But then, she and Aleksander would have plenty of lifetimes.

The Little Palace was coming to life, now, noise and movement filling the corridors beneath her. Somewhere deep in her chest, she could sense that Aleksander had woken up. He would be looking for her – they had so much to do.

The future rolled in like a wave, ready to break.

Alina closed her eyes. She took a breath in, long and slow. She climbed down from the windowsill and went to face the new world.