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Chapter Text

The skies over Keramzin were a colorless gray, the sun hidden behind featureless clouds. The Darkling’s coach rattled through the eerily-still village that sprawled alongside the town’s main trade route. It was little more than a path of beaten-down dirt just wide enough for a wagon to pass, its mud frozen. The rolling hills on either side were covered in a thin layer of snow. It wasn’t enough to cover the top of a boot, but it was undisturbed, fluffy and blindingly white against the haze of the sky. Thin plumes of smoke rose in the distance, where the squat little buildings of another nearby village were just visible.

“It’s been a couple of years since the Second Army passed through here, General,” Abhay said, his hands tucked into the fur-lined sleeves of his red kefta. It was early enough in the winter that his skin had not yet lost its lovely copper hue, even in the limp light of a snowy morning. His dark eyes flicked between the Darkling and the road, ever watchful for dangers and inconveniences.

The Darkling hummed, her eyes on the white-topped mountains in the misty distance. “The Shu have been quiet.”

Too quiet, if her centuries of experience had taught her anything. Ravka simply did not have peaceful borders, but with the Fjerdans how they were, she had no choice but to turn her attention away from the southern border and the perpetually-scheming Shu. How incredibly ironic, that the thing she’d been waiting all her life for would be born in the one place she wasn’t looking.

“Does it worry you?”

“Most things worry me.” The Darkling turned back to him. “But if there truly is a Sun Summoner at this orphanage, I will find many of my concerns laid to rest.”

Abhay raised his eyebrows at that.

“I never took you for the religious type,” he said carefully.

“I’m not,” she dismissed. “My ancestors were searching for a Sun Summoner long before the otkazat’si thought to worship them. Before the creation of the Shadow Fold, even.”

The Sun Summoner had consumed her thoughts for most of her desperate, lonely youth, but as the years had passed it seemed less and less likely such a Grisha might ever exist. The Darkling herself was, after all, an affront of nature, the result of her grandfather’s experiments with merzost. It didn’t make much sense for there to be another like her. Still, there was no other way to tame the Shadow Fold, much as she had tried, and so she had to keep hoping. And hope she did, helpless to the way excitement floated restlessly in her chest.

The coach jolted as one of its wheels slid into a hole on the road. Abhay stuck a hand out to brace himself on the seat. “The Shu have been quiet, but the roads are still a mess,” he muttered. “It’s no wonder why my people never wander this far South.”

“The Suli are wise to stay away from the border,” the Darkling agreed. “But the Duke Keramzov is to blame for not better maintaining his roads.”

The coach slowed to a stop, and a moment later there was a knock on the window. “Moya soverenya,” one of the Oprichniki outside said, “we’ve reached the orphanage grounds.”

“Thank you, Kirill,” the Darkling answered, and unfolded the cloak beside her, picking a couple pieces of lint from the inky-black wool.

“One last question,” Abhay said, unfolding his own cloak.

“Yes?”

“Why did you bring me, and not Ivan? He was rather jealous when he heard.”

“Ivan would frighten the children,” the Darkling answered. “And he doesn’t make for very good conversation on long travels.”

Abhay laughed. “I am honored to serve, moya soverenya.”

The Orphanage at Keramzin was in a well-loved old mansion house, where Duke Keramsov himself had been raised. Despite its age, it held together remarkably well. Snow swirled around the Darkling’s feet as she stepped onto the porch, the wet cold biting her exposed cheeks. Kirill, the captain of her Oprichniki, stepped in front of her and lifted the oxidized brass knocker on the door. The sound echoed eerily over the empty, white-covered fields at the front of the house.

The door opened, revealing a woman with short, graying hair and a pale lined face. The stern set of her face reminded the Darkling of Baghra, though the woman before her—presumably—did not carry a millennia’s worth of exhaustion upon her shoulders.

“This is General Kirigan of the Second Army,” Kirill said. “We are here for the child.”

The woman curtsied, stiff with age and the cold. “You honor us with your presence, General. I am Ana Kuya, headmistress of the orphanage.”

The Darkling nodded. “Well met, Madam Kuya.” She stepped through the threshold without waiting for an invitation. There was a hum in her ears, like the dying reverberation of a church bell. Her eyes passed restlessly over the old foyer, which smelled faintly of incense and veneer. She felt the shadows within her writhe under her skin, seeking their balance. The light—the Sun Summoner was real, and they were so close that the Darkling could taste it.

“General?” Abhay prompted softly.

The Darkling turned to Ana Kuya. “Show me the child who summoned light.”

She led them down the hall, past a sitting room and a classroom with closed glass doors. Young children, none of them older than ten or eleven, crowded the doorway, cringing away when the Darkling glanced at them, searching for the one her power called to. Unease settled in her stomach. They were all so small. Their clean clothes and well-fed, round faces couldn’t quite disguise the memory of starvation and abandonment in their eyes. She itched, almost violently, to find the Sun Summoner and spirit them back to Os Alta, where they would want for nothing.

“Were you the one who saw this summoning?” the Darkling asked, shortening her strides to keep pace with Ana Kuya.

“I saw it through the forest,” Ana Kuya said. “A flash of light from within the trees. Alina and Malyen had run off again. I sent the groundskeeper after them, and that’s when it happened.”

“Do you know which of the children it was?”

“They won’t say.” They climbed the stairs to the second floor. “They’re close, those two. They only have each other.”

The Darkling grunted, unmoved by the quiet note of sentimentality in the woman’s voice. The hum in her ears had grown loud and faintly nauseating. Ana Kuya stopped before one of the doors and unlocked it. The moment the door swung open, a boy threw himself into the hall and directly into the Darkling’s legs. She staggered backwards, crashing into Kirill, who kept her upright with his great height. The other Oprichniki picked the boy up by his arms, dragging him as they herded the girl, Alina, back into the room. It was the library, rather sizable considering the region. The wall-to-wall shelves towered over them.

“Malyen Oretsev!” Ana Kuya scolded.

“Let me go!” the kid yelled, thrashing in the grip of the Oprichniki. The Darkling closed the door, cutting her eyes between it and Kirill so he knew to stand in front of it.

“Put him down,” she ordered, and the Oprichniki let him drop to the ground, where he landed with an oof. He was young, maybe eight, with a messy nest of black hair. The boy’s features—and Alina’s too, she noticed—were a mix of Shu and Ravkan, uncommon but hardly unheard of close to the border. Malyen’s eyes widened in recognition as they regarded each other.

“You’re like us,” he said. There was a beat of silence as the rest of the room absorbed the words.

“Are you incapable of using your manners?” Ana Kuya hissed.

The Darkling said nothing. He was, after all, just a boy, and she doubted he had ever seen an adult that was like him. It was not so unusual among the Grisha for one to have parents of different ethnic groups; after all, they had more in common with each other than they did with any otkazat’si.

The Darkling pulled her gloves off and tucked them into the pocket of her kefta before she extended her hand to him. After a moment, he took it. His hand was cold and inert in her hand, void of the lightning that buzzed through her fingers when she touched another Grisha. It had been a long time since she'd felt the ordinary emptiness of an otkazat’sya’s touch, and the sensation faintly disgusted her. She pulled the boy to his feet and let him straighten his clothes before she spoke.

“That is the only way in which we are alike,” she said, “Otkazat’sya.”

She lifted her gaze to Alina, who was half-hidden behind the center bookshelf. She couldn’t have run if she wanted to. Abhay was standing behind her.

“Come closer,” the Darkling said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Alina looked at Malyen, who hadn’t moved a muscle, his little hands clenched in ineffectual fists. The Darkling walked to her, kneeling so she didn’t tower over her.

“The light came from you,” she said.

Alina shook her head. “No,” she said. “There was no light. It was the sun. It was setting.”

“It was long after sunset,” the Darkling replied, not unkindly.

Alina pressed herself against the shelf. “I want to stay with Mal,” she whispered.

“Young one, there is somewhere you belong,” Abhay told her. “In the Little Palace you’ll be safe, with other children just like you.”

Alina’s brow furrowed, looking between them, and the Darkling sensed her will caving.

“Give me your hand,” she said softly.

Alina tentatively reached out, setting her hand in the Darkling’s open palm. Alina gasped, and the Darkling felt herself exhale sharply through her teeth.

This wasn’t static buzzing under her skin, the familiar hum of Grisha power. It felt like fire, a current that made her entire arm go numb. Light glowed from under Alina’s skin, warm as summer sunshine. Tendrils like vines flowed and flickered around their hands. It was brilliant, more beautiful than the grandest of palaces and the clearest Summer days. Wreathed in light, Alina looked like she had sprung from the icons at the Cathedral of Os Alta, a girl gilded in gold and kissed by worshippers whispering prayers under their breath.

This little orphan was the Sun Summoner. She was the saint from the prophecies the Darkling had written long ago. The final component—the missing piece to tame the Shadow Fold.

“At last,” the Darkling said, and let out a quiet laugh that surprised her as much as it did everyone else. “A Sun Summoner, at last.”

Alina wrapped her arms around herself, a shy smile exposing a missing tooth. The Darkling knew the dopey look on her face well. She’d seen it on thousands of Grisha children before, when they felt the first rush of the power within them. The feeling was incomparable. With one smooth movement, the Darkling lifted Alina into her arms and stood, turning back to a stunned Ana Kuya.

“This child is Grisha,” she announced. “She is a ward of the Second Army now. Pack her things.” Ana Kuya nodded quickly and swept out of the room.

The Darkling looked to her guards. “We’ll return to Os Alta at once.”

Alina had melted into her arms at first, but now she stiffened. “Wait,” she said as the Darkling walked out the door and started down the stairs. “No, wait—”

“Alina?” came Malyen’s voice from behind them.

“Mal!” Alina squirmed, evidently trying to catch a glimpse of him over the hats of the Oprichniki. “No, I don’t want to go!”

The Darkling tightened her grip on her. “You’ll make other friends, Alina,” she murmured. “The Little Palace is where you belong. It’s the only place that is safe for you.” They stepped back out into the cold to the waiting coaches, which looked like lumps of coal against the expressionless white background.

“Alina!” Malyen yelled, and there was a scuffle of boots and grunts as the Darkling’s driver opened her coach’s door. She turned back to watch the Oprichniki wrestling the boy back inside. “Let her go!”

“Mal!” The Darkling tipped her head back, narrowly avoiding being headbutted by Alina as she leaned forward, nearly sliding out of her grasp.

“Get back inside, boy,” Kirill snapped.

“No! I won’t let you take her!”

The Darkling ground her molars together. “Enough,” she snapped, and the children fell still. She set Alina on the ground. “Say goodbye. Quickly.”

Malyen slipped free of the Oprichniki like an eel and jumped clear off the porch. He and Alina met in a crushing hug, and the Darkling watched Abhay’s gaze darken. She understood his discontent. Usually Grisha children were happy to come to the Little Palace. They didn’t fit in among the otkazat’si. They were demons and outcasts, safe only among each other. It was…unfortunate, that Alina had gotten attached to this boy. The Darkling derived no pleasure from tearing them apart. It was merely a necessary evil, and, after all, far from the worst thing she’d ever done.

“You’ll write,” Malyen said. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Alina answered, her voice muffled from pressing her face against Mal’s neck. “And I promise I’ll see you again.”

“Okay.” Malyen met the Darkling’s gaze over Alina’s shoulder, his eyes bright with hatred. He let go of Alina. “Go.”

“I promise,” Alina repeated hesitantly.

“Me too,” Malyen said. “Go on.”

Alina turned back and climbed into the carriage, tucking herself into the corner. Abhay followed, his features pulled into a grimace.

“This is for the best,” he said. Alina didn’t answer.

They spent the night in relative comfort at the Second Army barracks in the city. The Darkling went to bed last of her little party, as was her custom, flipping through updates from the fronts north of Chernast and in West Ravka, both along the Fjerdan border. They were dug in by Chernast, well-supplied by the city, but the First Army had suffered a mass defection in West Ravka, leaving the lines to crumple.

The Darkling penned an order to her major to bring the Second Army battalion back across the Fold. If the otkazat’si couldn’t even control their own soldiers, the Darkling was not going to waste Grisha on their pursuits.

A quiet patter of footsteps made her raise her head. Alina peered up at her, her hands grasping the edge of the desk.

“Auntie Kuya says if you read by candlelight too much, your eyes will go permanently squinty,” Alina whispered, squinting to demonstrate.

“It is bad for your eyes,” the Darkling conceded, “but I don’t have any other choice at the moment.”

Alina made a face, almost offended, and pressed her palms together for a moment before pulling them apart, summoning a little sun between her hands. She held it up, bathing the room in golden light.

“Is that better?” she asked pointedly.

The Darkling tried not to smile as she turned back to finish signing her letter. “Yes, Alina. Thank you.”

“What are you writing, anyway?”

“Letters to my commanders across Ravka.”

“Oh.” Alina was silent for a few seconds. “What about?”

“I’m ordering one to return to Os Alta, and another to…not do that.” The Darkling set her pen back in its case, grimacing at her ink-stained fingers. “Rather dull, really.” She turned to Alina. “You should sleep. We have a long day of travel tomorrow if we want to reach the Little Palace by the end of the week.”

Alina slumped, her light flickering out. “I can’t sleep,” she mumbled. “I’ve never spent the night outside Keramzin. At least, not that I remember.”

The Darkling frowned, an odd pity settling in her chest. She lay her hand over Alina’s, feeling a flood of sunny warmth at the contact.

“When I was…” She pressed her lips together. “When I was young, my mother and I moved around a lot. It wasn’t safe for us to stay in one place for long. Not with our powers. I would wake up in the middle of the night and not know where I was. It was unpleasant.”

“Yeah,” Alina said, looking intently up at her. The Darkling closed her hand around Alina’s, feeling the little knuckles press into her palm.

“You won’t have to worry about learning to sleep somewhere new once we reach the Little Palace,” she said. “You will always be safe there, and it will be your home forever.”

Balakirev was still bathed in purples and blues from the pre-dawn light when their caravan passed through the main street, east towards Os Alta. The Darkling ran a weary hand through her hair, her eyes burning with exhaustion.

There was a quiet snore from the other side of the coach. Alina was curled on the bench across from her and Abhay, a mass of dark fabrics in the penumbra. The Darkling wasn’t sure how much rest the girl had gotten last night, so she let her sleep.

“Moya soverenya,” Abhay said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. “You and the girl are Etherealki, no?”

“Mm. Summoners,” the Darkling confirmed. “Shadows and light.”

“Will she train with the other Summoners, then?”

“Yes, with her classmates at school. And Baghra, of course.”

“It’ll be hard for her, the first few weeks.”

“It’s hard for all the children,” she pointed out. “Alina will hardly be the oldest Grisha we’ve ever brought here. Some don’t join us until they’re teenagers.”

“But her powers will set her apart. Like they set you apart.”

The Darkling watched the darkened houses go by. “I’m starting to wonder if you think I’m lonely, Abhay.”

“No, my lady. To be honest, I am remembering my first months at the Little Palace. I was the only Suli child at the school. I’ll admit I was rather lonely, before I found my family among the other Grisha.”

“Alina will find her family among us, too,” the Darkling said. “In most ways she and I are no different from the other Etherealki.”

The two of them watched the sleeping girl. She had one arm flung over her head to block out the little light coming in through the windows. The Darkling pulled out her cloak and leaned forward, draping it over Alina and tucking in the sides to keep her warm. Alina sighed in her sleep, relaxing as the cloak kept the chill of the winter at bay. Feeling Abhay’s eyes on her, the Darkling sat back in her seat, stretching out her legs.

“And in most ways,” the Darkling continued, “she is no different from any child. She will sense your worry, Abhay. Keep it out of sight.”

“Yes, moya soverenya.”

Past Balakirev, the peaks of the Upper Sikurzoi rose into the lavender sky. In all her years, the Darkling had never seen the other side of the Sikurzoi, with its impenetrably-tall mountains. She knew of the monasteries on its western slopes and of the Grisha who had hidden in its caves and crevices in the centuries before she had formed the Second Army, but what lay in the East was utterly unknown to her, a mystery she hadn’t bothered to crack in her youth and now had no time to. The mountains were swiftly obscured by the pines of Ravka’s forests. The Darkling closed her eyes, the stillness of the forest and the sway of the coach lulling her into a light doze. She stirred when the coach came to a stop, lifting her head and blinking at Abhay, who was peering out the window.

“Reindeer,” he exclaimed. “Look, Alina.”

Alina pressed her cheek against the window to look, the Darkling’s cloak wrapped around her shoulders. It practically swallowed her. “Wow!” she breathed. “They’re so big.”

“They’re even bigger in Fjerda,” the Darkling murmured, leaning over to see them. The herd’s stag stood watch before the state coach, the rest of the herd loping across the road behind him. His antlers extended from his head like a crown, regarding the nervous horses with disinterest. He snorted, his breath sending plumes of steam into the air.

“Odd for him to still have his antlers this late in the year,” she said.

“Maybe he’s magical,” Alina suggested.

Abhay smiled. “Perhaps he grants wishes.”

“Perhaps,” the Darkling echoed, her thoughts drifting to a creature that had eluded her all her life. The folkloric reindeer who could grant wishes with his magical horns was Morozova’s Stag, the living amplifier that her grandfather had created during his experiments with merzost. She’d dedicated centuries to searching for him and had come up with nothing. She’d been almost certain he no longer existed. As certain as she’d been that the Sun Summoner would never come.

“Oh,” Alina sighed despondently. “He’s leaving.”

“It’s alright, Alina,” the Darkling said, settling back in her seat. “You’ll see other reindeer. In the summer they are more beautiful.”

Chapter Text

It was well after dark when the Darkling’s state coach at last passed the half-lit gates of the palace complex. The Grand Palace loomed in the distance, but closer and cozier was the Little Palace, the shelter of the Grisha and the Darkling’s beloved home. In the moonlight the golden dome gleamed beautifully, but Alina, splayed out across the seat and fast asleep, did not see it. The long gardens and the fountain outside were black silhouettes against the starry sky, as still as the snow-covered forests they had passed in Keramzin.

A handful of people awaited them on the steps: a squad of Oprichniki, there to relieve the Darkling’s guards of their duties and Iritsia, the head servant of the Darkling’s household. Abhay opened the door and stepped out, holding it for her. A gust of icy air immediately swept into the coach. The Darkling studied Alina’s sleeping form for a moment before she scooped the girl into her arms, letting Alina’s head rest comfortably against her shoulder. Alina made a little noise in her throat, curling against the Darkling as she shifted the cloak to keep Alina safe from the biting cold. Even through the layers of fabric, the Darkling felt the warmth of Alina’s Grisha powers, like she was holding sunshine itself against her chest.

“Go back to sleep,” the Darkling muttered awkwardly, stepping out of the coach. Her boots crunched as the frozen sand shifted under her weight.

“Have the rooms been prepared as I requested?” she asked Iritsia, adjusting her grip.

“Of course, moya soverenya,” Iritsia replied swiftly, curtsying. She walked in time with the Darkling up the stairs, half-leading her through the darkened corridors of the Little Palace through the doors that marked the Darkling’s own wing of the palace. Oprichniki lined the walls, still as statues.

Iritsia pushed open the tall door to the rooms across the hall from the Darkling’s, revealing a freshly made four-poster bed and all the other expected fixings of a child’s room: a child-sized desk, a wardrobe, a warm fire, and—indeed, exactly as the Darkling had requested—a dollhouse and rocking horse of the same designs as the ones she had seen in the girls’ play room at Keramzin.

With a nod of satisfaction, she set Alina down on the bed, pulling off her boots and socks and gently maneuvering the girl out of her dress, leaving her in the shift she slept in. The Darkling pulled the covers up to Alina’s chin, smoothing out the fabric before folding her cloak and, after a moment’s hesitation, leaving it at the foot of the bed.

“So it’s true, then,” Iritsia said softly. “The Sun Summoner is real.”

“Mm.” The Darkling ran her hands over the front of her kefta. Iritsia studied Alina with a mix of sympathy and curiosity. Iritsia had become a Palace servant some fifteen years ago, when she had traveled from her home along the Sokol River to bring her Durast son to the Little Palace. She had proven exceptionally dedicated and loyal, and could count herself among the scant handful who was allowed to roam the Darkling’s rooms without supervision of an Oprichnik. She looked as if she wanted to speak more, but decided better.

“I also prepared a bath for you, my lady,” she said instead.

The Darkling nodded and followed her, doing her best to keep her relief at the words off her face. She rarely traveled these days, so the tacky grime of days on the road had made her intolerably itchy. She didn’t even protest when they stepped into the bathroom and Iritsia summoned a small army of valets to help her out of her clothing. She sank into the warm water with a weary sigh, dunking herself so the servants could get to the task of scrubbing her clean. It was good to be home.

“Where is Ivan?” she muttered to herself as she leaned her head into the hands of the servant washing her hair.

“Waiting outside for you with Fedyor,” one answered promptly.

“Ah,” the Darkling sighed. “They’re going to make me pay for that.”

When she finally made it out of the bath and into her nightclothes, with a thick robe over top to preserve her decency, she found Ivan and Fedyor in her war room, Fedyor playing with one of the horse-shaped figurines that represented Ravkan battalions while Ivan scolded him. She’d left them in charge of the Little Palace in her absence. While Fedyor was perhaps too cheery, and Ivan too stern, they worked in perfect harmony together. They both jumped to attention as the Darkling entered.

“I assume since the Palace is still standing that you don’t have much to report,” she said, accepting the horse figurine from Fedyor and placing it back in its place by Chernast.

“It’s been quiet here, moya soverenya,” Ivan said. “Though I doubt it will be for much longer when news of the Sun Summoner spreads.”

The Darkling grunted, feeling her weary mood sour. “Any news from the King?”

“He expects you in his audience chamber first thing tomorrow, to discuss the issue of the campaign in West Ravka.” Ivan cleared his throat. “And the Sun Summoner, presumably.”

First thing tomorrow. What a pathetic demand from a man who rarely rises before ten, she thought. “Fedyor, you spoke to the schoolteachers as I asked?”

“Of course,” Fedyor answered brightly. “All necessary preparations have been made for the Sun Summoner to begin school as early as tomorrow.”

“Alina,” the Darkling said.

Fedyor blinked. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“The Sun Summoner’s name is Alina Starkov,” she clarified, feeling her face warm. “And she will not be starting tomorrow. I want a Healer to give her a full physical examination in the morning, while I speak to the King. Can you supervise?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Ivan, I have recalled our forces in West Ravka. I imagine they won’t return to Os Alta for another fortnight, but you should make arrangements for their arrival in the meantime.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The Darkling nodded, satisfied. “Very well. Goodnight, you two.”

Fedyor bowed. “Goodnight, moya soverenya. Welcome home.” His mouth twitched. “I hope you enjoyed your bath.”

The morning came tragically soon and the Darkling found herself wishing she had half the complacent ego of chronic oversleeper Tsar Pyotr as she wearily climbed out of bed and into her robe. There was a small mountain of correspondence waiting for her alongside her breakfast as she went into the next room. The Darkling sighed and opened a letter from one of her First Army counterparts, taking a long drink from her tea as she skimmed.

…the abandonment of the 17th and 23rd Battalions by your Second Army led to the complete collapse of the front…

I am sure you will have to answer for your decisions before the King…

“Hm.” The Darkling set her tea down, turning her head absently to let the hairdresser finish combing her hair. “He’s threatening me.”

“Who is?” Ivan demanded, materializing in her doorway.

“General Krylov,” the Darkling told him, holding out the letter. “He’s also blaming me for the collapse of the West Ravkan front, like it didn’t collapse a week ago when half of the 17th deserted into the wilderness of Arkesk province.”

Ivan read with a scowl. “This otkazat’sya would find a way to blame the Saints for his incompetence if he could.”

“Quite.” The Darkling rose and stepped behind the Shu folding screen that obscured her wardrobe, swiftly changing into her clothes for the day. “I want you with me when I meet the King.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Now dressed for the day, the Darkling stepped back out and let Ivan help her into her kefta before settling back down at her breakfast table.

“I’ll send an Oprichnik for you when I’m ready to leave for the King’s Palace,” she said, dismissing him. She ate one-handed as she went through the rest of her mail, which ranged in content from reports on the supply lines north to Chernast to a brief note from the Major she’d stationed in West Ravka informing her that they were headed southward towards Novokribirsk. The creak of the floorboards made her raise her head, and she found Alina peeking around the black-painted doorframe. The girl was dressed in the same style as the Darkling, as all Grisha dressed—a white peasant’s shirt, breeches and brand-new boots. The only thing that was missing was her sash and kefta.

“Good morning, Alina,” she said, motioning for her to enter. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Alina answered, coming to stand by the Darkling. Her eyes were trained on the stack of cheese pancakes. “It was just porridge.”

The Darkling studied her face for a moment, unsettled both by the girl’s familiarity and how effortless it felt. Perhaps it had been a mistake to give Alina the set of rooms across from hers. Nevertheless, she smeared a generous amount of jam onto one of the cheese pancakes and delivered it into Alina’s waiting hands.

Alina took a giant bite and grinned as she chewed. “Thanks.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” the Darkling replied. Alina pouted and climbed onto the chair across from her.

“Do you always have breakfast by yourself?” she asked.

“No,” the Darkling said, briefly scanning a report from Grisha examiners in Adena, who had identified a half-dozen children. She made a mental note to track down whichever examiner had done Alina’s first test the year before. “Usually I eat in the Great Room with the other Grisha, as you will starting tomorrow.”

“Will you be there?”

The Darkling glanced up from her papers. “If I’m not, you’ll know where to find me.”

“I used to steal food from the kitchens so I could have breakfast in the library,” Alina told her, helping herself to another pancake off the Darkling’s plate.

“You like to read?”

“Yeah, but mostly it was so I didn’t have to worry about the other kids.”

The Darkling felt the muscles in her jaw tense. “Were they cruel to you?”

Alina shrugged. “They think I’m weird. Not Mal, though. Mal never thought I was weird. That’s why he’s my best friend.”

“You are not weird, Alina,” the Darkling said. “You are Grisha.”

“Right.” Alina set her hands on the table, her fingers jam-stained. “They didn’t know that, though.”

“Mm.” Having finished her breakfast, she stood and gestured for Alina to follow her through her bedroom and into the washroom. She gestured at the pitcher of water and wash basin. “Wash your hands. We’re going to get your kefta fitted.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I have other things to attend to later today.”

Alina had to stand on tip-toes to reach the basin. The Darkling picked up the pitcher and poured the water for her until Alina’s hands were jam-free. Alina looked at the towel in awe as she dried her hands, as if it was the softest towel she’d ever touched. Another common reaction from newcomer Grisha children.

The two of them walked down the halls of the Little Palace. The Darkling kept a hand on Alina’s shoulder so she would not wander off, though she sensed it was perhaps unnecessary. Her palm hummed with energy where it rested against the fabric of Alina’s shirt. She would have to get used to the sensation. Alina herself seemed to glow, like the sunlight from the windows was clinging to her clothes as she passed by. Erina, the Materialnik in charge of fitting Grisha children for their first keftas, was waiting eagerly for them.

“Moya soverenya,” she greeted, bowing. “Is this the little one?”

“Yes. Alina, this is Erina, our kefta specialist.”

“Nice to meet you,” Alina chirped politely. At Erina’s beckoning she stepped up onto a stool and raised her arms, letting Erina take her measurements while the Darkling watched.

“She will wear a black kefta,” she told Erina.

Erina audibly swallowed. “Are you sure, my lady?”

“A black kefta like yours?” Alina asked, tilting her head.

“Yes. Only I wear that color,” the Darkling explained. “Except for you, now.”

This seemed to unsettle the girl. She rocked on her heels on the stool, making it creak. “Will everyone look at me like I’m different?”

“You…” The words died on the Darkling’s tongue. “You will stand out.”

“I don’t want to stand out,” Alina said, glancing shyly at the ground. “I always stand out.”

The Darkling glanced over at Erina, who had pressed her lips together into a thin line. “We could make you a Summoner’s kefta to wear to school,” the Darkling said, “and a black kefta for court.”

“The King is that eager,” Erina murmured, her brow furrowing with disapproval. The Darkling grunted. “We can make her as many keftas as you desire, my lady.”

“Not too many, at this age,” the Darkling replied. “It’d be a waste of fabric.” She raised her chin. “Very well, Alina. Within the Little Palace, you may wear blue.”

“Thank you, moya soverenya,” Alina said, a broad smile spreading across her face. The Darkling felt something stir in her chest at the sight. A dangerous fondness.

The Darkling strode through the halls of the King’s Palace, her entourage of Oprichniki bracketing her on every side. The other Generals thought her paranoid for the size of her detail in the palace, but old habits died hard, and the Darkling had nearly been assassinated within these walls more times than she could count. Over the years the palace had been remodeled and rebuilt in the fashions of the time, but the oppressive, decadent feeling of these halls remained. No Grisha willingly came here. The only ones who frequented it were herself and those Grisha who worked as palace servants. She passed the portraits of past kings, glancing up at her figure in the shadows, where the painters always put her. Where she belonged, at least according to them.

“You look very much like your mother, my lady,” Abhay remarked, looking up at one of the portraits.

“I would hope so,” the Darkling replied.

“You must not take after your father at all.”

“Abhay,” Ivan hissed. “Must you?”

The Darkling laid a hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Ivan. I never met my father, so I can’t say.”

This was true enough, though Baghra had always been quick to point out which of the Darkling’s features reminded her of her Shu father, a powerful Heartrender her mother had chosen to guarantee her child would also have power. Despite Baghra’s insistence the Darkling had never tailored the set of her eyes or her cheeks to appear more Ravkan. The process was painful and ultimately temporary as the Darkling’s bones and flesh healed themselves back into shape, and it seemed an immense waste of her time when she was already viewed with so much suspicion.

“Saints forbid I be curious about my General’s life,” Abhay muttered.

“Be curious in the Little Palace,” Ivan groused. “These walls have ears, Nabri.”

“We’re here,” the Darkling prompted them, and they both straightened, lifting their chins to look down at the royal guards who framed the doors to the King’s war room. One of the guards tightened his grip on his ceremonial spear, filling the Darkling with satisfaction. The herald slipped inside, and after a few moments the doors opened.

“General Kirigan of the Second Army,” the herald announced. The King sat in his chair at the head of the war table, crowded by First Army generals and courtiers. The Darkling bowed at the waist, her hair slipping over her shoulders and into her face. She straightened and swept it back with the same gesture.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted. “General Udom, Zhelezkin. General Krylov.”

“Kirigan,” Krylov said derisively. “We were just talking about you.”

“I didn’t know I was so popular,” the Darkling said drily, pushing past them to take her seat by the King’s side. Ivan and Abhay framed her, their presences a much-needed comfort as the heavy hatred of the First Army generals settled upon her shoulders.

“Sit down, all of you,” the King said, waving his hand. “Let’s talk about this business in West Ravka.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Krylov said. “Without the Grisha to hold back the Fjerdan rangers, the entire front crumpled.”

“Why did the Grisha leave, Kirigan?” the King asked.

“I ordered them to,” the Darkling answered calmly. “Major Kolomiyets informed me that two of the 17th’s battalions had deserted into the wilderness of Arkesk. I did not see a point in demanding my Grisha guard an army which is no longer there.”

The King sat back. “And you didn’t think to ask me?”

Across the table from her, Krylov smirked.

“Last time I brought a question of deployment to Your Majesty, you requested I make whatever decision I deem best,” the Darkling explained carefully. “I received this news while I was traveling, and I felt delaying orders for several more days would have put my Grisha in needless danger.”

The King nodded once. “Very well. And what of your travels, Darkling? Did you find what you were looking for?”

His eyes gleamed with shameless ambition, and the Darkling was seized with a sudden, startling urge to hide Alina somewhere these contemptuous men would never find her. She steeled herself, setting her hand flat on the table.

“I did,” she answered. “I have discovered a Sun Summoner.”

There was a round of murmurs from the table. “I thought they were a myth,” Zhelezkin muttered. He was a skinny beanpole of a man, with haunted eyes. Unlike Krylov, he had seen real war.

“Am I a myth, Zhelezkin?” The Darkling raised her eyebrow. “There cannot be shadow without light.”

“Forget myths,” Krylov barked. “Can he destroy the Shadow Fold or not?”

“She is a child,” the Darkling snapped before she could help herself. Swallowing hard, she continued, “a Grisha does not truly come into their power until adolescence. It will be some years before she is ready to face the Fold.”

“How old is she now?” the King asked.

“She is seven.”

“This is an investment of yours, I see.”

The Darkling tipped her head to the side. “What are ten years in the face of centuries of division?”

The King smiled for a moment, almost as if he was indulging her. “You have seven years before I expect her to be presented to the court. I think that’s reasonable.”

“As you wish, moi tsar.”

Chapter Text

The Little Palace was the largest building Alina had ever been in.

Each window seemed five times as tall as she was, and the halls were so wide she couldn’t touch both walls even when she stretched her arms out as far as they would go. Grisha in keftas of every color bustled through the halls, including groups of older children and teenagers. They smiled at her as she passed, their eyes all flicking down to the blue sash around her waist that Erina had given her one before she left the fitting room. Alina was too surprised by their openness to smile back. Fedyor Kaminsky, the corporalnik who had taken her to get her physical at the Infirmary, smiled widely when he saw it.

“You’re fitting right in, aren’t you?” he asked warmly as he ferried her through the Little Palace once more, a hand on her back to steer her. He had a light, patient touch, not unlike General Kirigan. Fedyor certainly smiled more than his general, but that wasn’t to say General Kirigan was stern. Alina knew the stories, of course, of the fearsome, terrifying leader of the Grisha, the strangest and most unnatural of them all. But General Kirigan didn’t seem fearsome, or terrifying, or even particularly stern. She was just…solemn.

Yes. Solemn and quiet, like an old church, guarding the little village houses in its shadow.

“Well, I haven’t met anyone my age yet,” she said, “so it’s probably too early to tell.”

Fedyor laughed at this, a rich, warm sound. “You’re right, of course, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

After her exam was done, performed by a Healer named Natasha, Fedyor returned her to her rooms and went off to attend to his other duties. Alina lasted all of twenty minutes there, smothered by the knowledge that there was an entire Little Palace for her to explore. Grabbing her coat, she stuck her head out the door and peered up at the tall, looming Oprichnik stationed outside, the same one who had walked her from Erina’s fitting room to the Infirmary to meet with Fedyor.

“Excuse me,” she said. “What’s your name?”

The Oprichnik slowly looked down. He looked to be about General Kirigan’s age, with very light eyes and pitch-black hair. “Yevgeny Krupin. Oprichnik Unit 2.”

“Am I supposed to stay in here, Mister Krupin?”

Yevgeny pressed his lips together. “You are supposed to have an escort at all times when you are outside of the Darkling’s chambers.”

“That makes sense,” Alina said. “You’re trying to keep me safe, right?”

“That is correct.”

She rocked back and forth on her heels. “Could you be my escort?”

“All Oprichniki are sworn to protect you, as the ward of our General.”

Alina wasn’t sure what ward meant, but she continued on. “Okay. Well, Mister Krupin, I’ve only been here for one day, and I haven’t seen any of the Little Palace except for three hallways. I think it would be very good—beneficial, even—for me to know where everything is. That way, if I got separated from my escort, I could find my way back to my room by myself.”

Yevgeny stared at her. “You want to explore.”

“I would like to know the layout of the building where I live,” she corrected.

Yevgeny glanced up and down the hallway, each corner marked by its still, Oprichnik guard.

“Please?” Alina tried, a final effort.

Yevgeny sighed, motioning for her to step out. “Very well. Let me show you around.”

Alina restrained herself from jumping for joy, but she couldn’t help the huge smile on her face as she pulled her coat on. Yevgeny’s stony facade cracked at this, and he smiled back, briefly, as he offered his gloved hand for her to hold.

“Where are you going, Krupin?” the Oprichnik at the end of the hall asked, stepping in front of them. He had been with General Kirigan when she had come to Keramzin—Alina remembered him trying to wrestle Mal back into the house.

“Alina wants to see the rest of the Little Palace,” Yevgeny informed him. “I am going to escort her.”

The Oprichnik frowned. “This is not what the Darkling ordered.”

“The Darkling didn’t order us to keep her locked up, either,” Yevgeny replied.

“Mm.” The Oprichnik narrowed his eyes. Yevgeny gazed back impassively.

“Alright,” the Oprichnik conceded. “It’ll be your head if she doesn’t like it.”

Yevgeny shrugged. “Off we go, Alina. Would you like to see the dome room or the library first?”

“Library, please!”

The library, Alina discovered, was very close to General Kirigan’s chambers. It was hexagonal, like many rooms in the Little Palace, and two-stories tall, each wall lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A balcony marked the second story, accessible by an iron staircase. The onion dome had been formed out of glass, and the colorless light from the wintry sky above illuminated everything, including the benches and tables in the center of the room. There were a few Grisha of all ages milling around, collecting stacks of books to carry back to their tables.

“I’ve never seen so many books,” she breathed, amazed.

“They’re all yours,” Yevgeny said. “At least, you can read every last one of them, though I don’t think even the General has done that. Seems like it would take centuries. Would you like to pick one?”

Alina didn’t have to be told twice. She ran to the lowest bookshelves, marked for children, and scanned the titles eagerly:

The Lives of Saints

Folktales of The Far North

A Child’s Mirror

The Little Science for Children

Alina chose this final one. It was thicker than the others, and the cover had the crests of the three orders of Grisha: the Corporalki, the Etherealki, and the Materialki.

“That’s an excellent choice,” one of the archivists praised as she restocked the shelf. “When you’re a little older, you can move on to the theory books.”

“Thanks,” Alina said, seized with sudden awkwardness. At Keramzin, children were expected to be seen but not heard and curiosity was not as important as proper behavior. She just wasn’t used to all this positive attention, certainly not from grown-ups she’d never seen before. She turned to Yevgeny, wondering if his presence by her side had told the archivist who she was without her having to know anything about Alina at all.

“We can keep going,” she said quietly.

“Let’s see the dome room, then,” he said, taking her hand again.

The dome room was huge and, at this unusual hour, empty. Alina stared at the four arranged tables, covered with tablecloths the same colors as the ones on the cover of her book, save for the centermost table, which was night-black.

General Kirigan’s color. So she had lied about not eating alone.

Yevgeny then took her to the children’s wing of the Etherealki dormitories. They stopped at the end of the hall, before the blue lacquered door that muffled the laughter of kids just like her.

“Starting tomorrow, these will be your new classmates,” Yevgeny said when she tried to hide behind his legs. “Go on. Try to talk to them.”

“Maybe we should go back,” Alina said. “What if the General is cross?”

“The General won’t be cross that you’re getting to know the other Summoners, Alina,” Yevgeny said, kneeling to her height. “Just try it. If you don’t like them, I promise I won’t bring you back here.”

“Well…” Alina squirmed. “Okay. Fine.”

She pushed the door open, finding it lighter than she’d expected, and took three steps inside before her courage left her. She was in a common room centered around a huge fireplace, the warmth already seeping through her coat. The floor was covered in soft, colorful rugs, and the air was thick with the smell of hot chocolate. Alina tracked the smell to an adult Summoner in a blue-and-red kefta, holding onto a tray with both hands as a dozen eager children picked steaming porcelain cups for themselves.

“Hey!” one boy cried. He had dark, shaggy hair, and his kefta was embroidered with a light, sky blue. “You got the one with foxes last time! You promised I could have it this time!”

“But foxes are my favorite animal,” the other boy protested, curls bouncing as he turned to look at his accuser. The first boy scrunched up his nose and raised his hands.

“Semyon!” the woman barked before he could do anything. The other children hurriedly backed away, one nearly bumping into Alina. “What did I tell you about summoning the hot chocolate?”

Semyon dropped his hands. “But Diana! He promised!”

“Yakov,” Diana said, the tray still held firmly in her hands, “I know we’ve talked about the importance of promises.”

Yakov glanced down at the ground, cup clutched against his chest. “But…”

“Just because you give Semyon the cup this time,” she said, gentler now, “doesn’t mean that we won’t still know that foxes are your favorite animal. It’s just being kind to your Grisha brother, yes?”

“I suppose.” Yakov sighed and held it out. “Here you go, Syoma.”

“Thanks,” Semyon said, grinning from ear to ear, and Yakov couldn’t help but smile back.

With the crisis averted, Diana raised her gaze, finding Alina still standing apart. “Hello, young one. Would you like some chocolate?”

Everyone was looking at her. There was a moment of silence, and suddenly all the kids were speaking.

“Where did you come from?”

“Are you new?”

“Who brought you here?”

“Children!” Diana called above the din. “Settle down. You all remember how you felt on your first day here, don’t you?”

The children quieted, cheeks ruddy and feet shuffling with embarrassment.

A girl about her age approached her, two hot chocolates in hand. She had warm brown skin and black hair gathered in many braids, and equally-black, clever eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Alina,” she managed. “Alina Starkov.”

“I’m Nadia,” the girl replied, smiling brightly. “You should try the hot chocolate. It’s delicious.”

She held it out, and Alina accepted it with a mumbled, “thanks.” The cup was made of fine white porcelain, painted with little prancing reindeer. Alina breathed in the spiced aroma, fascinated by its thick consistency. She took a short sip, pulling back as she felt how hot it was. Still, the chocolate coated her tongue, rich with cardamom and nutmeg and powerfully sweet.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“Have you ever had chocolate before?” Semyon asked, coming closer.

“No,” Alina said. “I used to be at an orphanage. There wasn’t any chocolate there.”

“I’d never tried it before, either, until I got here,” he said, smiling shyly. “When did you arrive?”

“Last night,” she told him. “General Kirigan brought me here.”

Yakov gaped. “The General herself?!”

Nadia made a curious noise. “What’s your power?”

Taking a moment to warm her hand on the cup, Alina turned her palm towards the ceiling and called the light. It flowed from her fingertips over her palm, swirling into a tiny sun over her hand.

Diana’s eyes were huge as she stared at it; glancing at Semyon and Nadia, Alina saw their jaws had both dropped open.

“A Sun Summoner,” Nadia gasped. “I thought they weren’t real!”

“I’m real,” Alina said shyly.

“Wow!” Semyon exclaimed. “Can you make it bigger?”

“It’ll hurt your eyes,” Alina warned him, letting the sun grow larger. The light didn’t bother her, even when she looked at the real sun that burned overhead, but Mal always complained that her powers made his head hurt.

Semyon indeed squinted, but he seemed far too fascinated to complain. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life,” he said, and Alina felt her face get hot.

“Much more interesting than being a Tidemaker,” Nadia teased.

“You can’t even see when a Squaller uses their powers!” Semyon shot back.

“If you two don’t shut up, I’m gonna throw you both into the lake,” Yakov sniffed, stepping between them.

“Language, Yasha,” Diana sighed. She had picked her way through the crowd to reach them.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Alina,” she said. “How are you liking it here so far?”

“I like it,” Alina said. “I’ve never seen such a big library before…and I’ve never had my own room, with my own toys. It's nice.”

“Where did they put your room?” Diana asked, curious.

“Near the General. She’s just down the hall.”

“Have you spoken to her?” Semyon asked.

Alina shrugged. “Of course.”

“We’ve never spoken to her!” His face had turned red.

“The Darkling is a very busy woman,” Diana said. “You’ll all get your moment with her eventually, once you learn your manners.” This was directed mainly at Semyon, who turned even redder.

Alina nodded. That sounded about right. Something told her General Kirigan would have been as overwhelmed by the relentless questions from the children as Alina was.

“The manners won’t be necessary, Diana,” said a familiar voice from the doorway, and Alina turned to find General Kirigan standing there, dressed in her midnight kefta. The metallic embroidery caught the flickering light of the fireplace, making it glint in a faded gold. The darkened corners of the room seemed darker, as if General Kirigan’s mere presence made shadow more black.

“Hello, little Summoners,” General Kirigan said. “Nadia, Semyon, Yakov, Artur, Lidiya, Ida, Yevdokia, Fyodor, Inessa.” Her eyes met Alina’s. “Alina.”

Semyon gasped so loudly Nadia startled beside him. “You know my name!”

“Of course I know your name,” General Kirigan replied, tilting her head slightly. “There are only eleven Summoners under ten years old in the Little Palace.”

“I would have thought you have more important things to do than learn our names,” Semyon said. “Important General things.”

General Kirigan knelt to their height, her long kefta pooling on the floor around her. “I may be the General of the Second Army,” she said, “but before that, I am the Darkling. Here to protect and guide you, like Diana and your other teachers. I am as much Grisha as you are.” She smiled, and it was a brilliant sight, a thousand times more beautiful than the wooden icons Ana Kuya had made her clutch in her hands and pray to.

Alina stepped closer, reaching out to run her fingers over the embroidery on the shoulders of the Darkling’s kefta.

“How was your day?” she asked shyly.

The Darkling blinked, as if baffled by the question. “Long.”

“I got a book,” Alina told her, “from the library. It’s called, The Little Science for Children.”

“Oh, yes.” The Darkling nodded, approving of her choice. “That one is one of my favorites.”

“Really?” Semyon said. “It’s so simple.”

“It is not!” Nadia said defensively. “I think it’s very good!”

Alina and the Darkling looked back at each other. Alina bit her bottom lip, trying to find a way to silently tell her that she wanted to leave. The Darkling’s mouth twitched, almost forming into another smile as she brushed her gloved fingers along Alina’s hairline, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Would you like to see the Fabrikators’ workshops?” she asked, voice quiet, only for her. “Yevgeny tells me you wanted to look around.”

“Sure!”

Alina saw the Darkling less and less as she settled into her new schedule. Every morning, Yevgeny walked her down to the school by the lake, where she studied arithmetic, literature, and Grisha theory; in the afternoon, following lunch served in the schoolhouse, they went out to the summoning pavilions to practice their application of what Alina’s teachers called the Little Science. As the sun set below the treeline, the children were swiftly herded back into the Little Palace, to wash and get ready for dinner.

That was often the only time when Alina and the Darkling were in the same room, though Alina sat with the other Summoner children while the Darkling stayed at her long black table, with her favorites of each order arrayed around her. Abhay and Ivan, a mean-looking Heartrender with nearly buzzed hair, always sat on either side of her.

Alina felt the Darkling’s eyes on her as she ate. The Darkling, it seemed, was always watching; her colorless eyes scanned the room while Ahbay or Ivan or both of them spoke to her, checking the doors, the windows, each line of Grisha in their brilliant colors. Alina wondered what she was looking for.

Tonight, as with all nights, they were served cabbage soup as a first course, followed by a fragrant, steaming meat stew poured over kasha. The food was similar to what Alina was used to eating in Keramzin, though much more generously seasoned, and always followed by dessert and tea. Alina also noticed that no one ever got sent to bed without dinner, even if they’d spent all day acting out, as Semyon often did. Like now, when he was wrinkling his nose at the dark rye bread they’d been given. He passed it across the table to her, and she happily ate it.

“Are you still hungry, Alina?” Diana asked over Nadia’s head. “You can have more if you want.”

“No, I’m okay,” Alina said quickly, even though she wanted more. She was always hungry, it felt like, but asking for seconds in Keramzin was more likely to bring out the switch instead of more food. Besides, she had always been skinny and pale. It didn’t make sense for someone like her to still be hungry.

“She wants more,” Semyon said, giving her a knowing look. He had taken an instant liking to her, not least because she ate his bread when he didn’t want it. Diana spooned more porridge and stew into her bowl, and Alina dug in, giving him a thankful smile that he returned.

Once dinner was over, Alina got to follow the Darkling through the black door to their wing of the Little Palace. Often, the Darkling was immersed in conversation with Abhay, or Ivan, or even someone Alina didn’t know yet. Tonight, however, Alina realized they were alone, save for the Oprichniki who followed them everywhere.

“Hi,” she blurted out, wincing as she imagined Ana Kuya’s reprimand for demanding an adult’s attention.

“Hello, Alina,” the Darkling answered, in that same, smooth voice as always. She turned to face her, the long panels of her kefta swishing around her legs. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Alina said, hopping closer. The Darkling smelled faintly of cedar and rainstorms, just as she had when she’d swept Alina into her arms in the library at Keramzin.

“Just fine?” The Darkling raised her eyebrows, getting down on one knee so Alina didn't have to crane her neck.

Alina shrugged. “How should I be?”

“I couldn't possibly make that decision for you.”

“I have a lot of friends now,” she tried. “People really like me. That makes me happy.”

“I sense a caveat,” the Darkling said.

“But I’m still different,” Alina sighed. Her classmates were fascinated by her powers, it was true, but Alina still felt that nagging isolation as she watched the Squallers and Tidemakers and Inferni practice side-by-side.

“Yes,” the Darkling agreed, and there was a heaviness to her voice Alina hadn't expected. “There is little I can do there, I’m afraid.”

Alina worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Did you feel like this when you were in school?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” the Darkling said after a moment, “except there wasn’t anyone else as exceptional as I was.”

“There wasn’t another Darkling?” she asked, reaching for the Darkling’s hand where it rested on her knee. Her fingers buzzed at the contact, and the light always within her suddenly seemed to be right under her skin, like with just a thought she could illuminate the entire hallway.

“My mother,” the Darkling said slowly. “She wasn’t much help.” She sighed, turning her palm up so Alina could slide her hand into her grip.

“The truth is, Alina, we are different,” she said. “We will never be like the other Grisha. We will always be more powerful, more gifted. That is why we, together, must lead and protect them.”

“I don’t think I’m very powerful yet,” Alina pointed out shyly.

The Darkling gave a flickering smile. “One day you will be. I can sense it within you. You are nothing but potential. You could grow more powerful than me, with the proper instruction.”

Alina stared at her, eyes wide. More powerful than the Darkling herself? Such a thing didn’t seem possible.

“And what happens if I become stronger than you?” she asked.

“Maybe I’ll finally get to retire,” the Darkling said wryly.

“But I don't know how to do what you do,” Alina protested, feeling a spike of anxiety. “How do I keep everyone safe? I’ve never thought about that before. I’ve only ever thought about Mal and I.”

“You don't have to worry about that yet,” the Darkling reassured her. “It will come with time. And I will stay by your side…as long as you will have me, solnyshka.”

She was teasing, Alina realized; she was smiling, one eyebrow raised. Alina bit her lip, steeling herself. She forced herself to raise her chin, looking into the Darkling’s quartz-gray eyes.

“You have to teach me everything you know first,” Alina said decidedly, “and then you can retire. I think that's fair.”

“Very fair,” the Darkling agreed. “You are a most benevolent ruler.”

Chapter Text

“More light, Alina,” Diana said. “I know you can do it.”

Alina set her jaw, the sphere of light between her hands humming its strange, discordant song. She could feel power flowing through her body, the mysterious echo which strengthened Grisha the more they used their gifts. In the three months since she’d arrived at the Little Palace, she had grown taller, her hair longer and thicker, and her cheeks rosy and chubby instead of sallow. Her command over the light within her, once mostly instinctual, had become purposeful and refined instead of fumbling.

More light. Alina called it up, her fingertips warming as the little sun she’d summoned grew larger, its tendrils brushing at her palms.

“Excellent,” Diana said. “Send it forward, now.”

Alina did so, the sun unraveling as it spun away from her, arcing over the frozen surface of the lake, where it shone brightly, fed by the setting sun.

“Moves just like water,” Semyon said. He stood by her shoulder, watching with the same delighted fascination as the first time he’d seen her power. “You’d make a great Tidemaker.”

Alina grinned, careful to not lose control over the light. “You think so?”

He shrugged, his ushanka sliding on his head as he did. “Well, sure!”

“What do you know about being a great Tidemaker, Syoma?” Yakov interjected. “You’re nine.”

“So are you!” Semyon shoved him lightly, and Yakov batted his hands in return. They were best friends, though it was hard to tell sometimes.

“Hey, stop,” Alina protested. She summoned up a tendril of light, sending it swimming between their faces, distracting them enough to stop bickering. It brushed against Semyon’s nose, making his entire face twitch.

“It’s so warm,” he said. “Like summer.”

“I can warm you up if you’re cold,” Yakov said, reaching out to pass his fingers through the light. It fizzled away into nothing. “And I won’t set your kefta on fire this time, I swear.”

“You nearly burned the entire pavilion last time, Yasha,” Nadia said. There was a miniscule tornado sitting in the palm of her hand. A tornado, much like a bright sun, was all about control and strength, and Nadia was the farthest ahead of their cohort, a naturally-gifted Squaller.

Alina was getting there. Slowly. She kept the Darkling’s words close to her heart. Her difference had a purpose. If she couldn’t fulfill that purpose—if she let the Darkling down—she would just be strange again. Strange and useless, as Ana Kuya had called her.

“Alright, Summoners,” Diana called. “Let’s get back inside. It’s almost time for dinner.”

Alina and her class trudged back towards the Little Palace, leaving the glittering lake behind. As always, they went first to the common room of her class dormitory, setting them free to play. Today, she, Semyon, Yakov, and Nadia settled at a table near the fireplace to play knucklebones. She and Yakov were no good at it, but they were both mainly there to watch Semyon and Nadia play. They were knucklebones masters, like Mal had been. Unlike with Mal, however, Yakov and Nadia didn’t ignore her just because she was sitting next to a boy who was more gregarious and athletic than she was. They looked at her too, actually wanted to be friends. She was still getting used to it.

“Ugh, no!” Semyon cried as one of the jacks rolled off the back of his hand.

“It’s okay, Syoma,” Alina comforted him. “You got five!”

“Nadia got six,” he said despondently, setting them aside and scattering the remaining jacks across the table.

“Nadia has bigger hands,” Yakov pointed out, chewing on a nail. Nadia glanced down at her hands, then back up at them, perplexed.

Alina turned her attention back to Semyon, who was rolling the ball in his hand in silent preparation. With a confident nod, he let it fall out of his hand, bouncing off the table once as he scooped up a jack before catching it again. He continued in this fashion, unusually quiet, until all the jacks and the ball sat cradled in his hand.

“How do you do that?” Alina asked, scooting closer.

“You just have to do it a lot,” Semyon replied. “You can have my set, if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure! I’ll ask Diana to get me another one.” He beamed at her as he pushed the jacks and the ball over to her. “Go on, try it!”

Alina gathered the jacks up in her hand and looked uncertainly up at Semyon, who was nodding excitedly. Behind him, the door to the boys’ dorm room slammed open, and a man with white-blonde hair stood in the doorway, dressed in strange, dark clothes; otkazat’si clothes, not the livery of the Little Palace servants, certainly not the kefta of the Grisha.

There was a gun in his hand.

Shots rang out, and screams; Alina jumped, or fell, under the table, and Semyon tumbled down too, landing heavily on her, his head jammed against her neck. She heard Yevgeny shouting, the roar of Diana’s fire, more screams, one from Nadia as she cowered, clinging to Yakov.

The door to the common room boomed as it hit the wall, and the room was filled with grown-ups in a way it never was, Heartrenders and Summoners, all of them joining Yevgeny in restraining the blonde man, who was shouting in some foreign language. Alina’s heart pounded. The air was acrid with the smell of gunpowder. The pistol lay discarded on the floor, kicked away as two Heartrenders hauled the now-limp attacker out of the room.

Diana dropped to her knees beside them.

“Syoma!” she cried. “Oh, Saints!”

Alina looked down, her arms instinctively tightening around him. Her hand felt warm, and sticky. Semyon made an odd noise against her, a wet wheeze, and suddenly Alina understood.

“We need a Healer!” Diana wailed. “Quickly!”

“Give him to me.” A Heartrender appeared beside them, peeling Semyon off her. His head lolled, wide eyes still open, face pale. He seemed so scared, and Alina felt her eyes burn with tears just at the sight of it. Her mind was scrambling to make sense of what had happened. Acting on instinct, she called on her light again, summoning nothing more than a flickering candlelight that she brushed over Semyon’s white cheek.

“Warm,” she saw him mouth as the Heartrender carried him away, running out the door like there was a demon on his heels.

“We must get the other children to the dome room,” Yevgeny told a stricken Diana, tugging Alina out from under the table and into his arms. He gave an unusual grunt of effort at the gesture, and there was a growing bruise on his jaw. “Come, Yakov, Nadia.”

“Is Syoma okay?” Yakov was shaking so hard his voice trembled. Diana picked him up, pressing Nadia against her side until a Squaller came and lifted her into his arms.

“We’re going to do everything we can,” Yevgeny said swiftly, as Diana made a wounded noise, clutching Yakov closer against her chest.

The entirety of Alina’s class was quickly carried to the dome room, where it seemed all of the Second Army was congregating, hundreds of frightened faces. Many of the children were crying, and some of the teenagers too. The Darkling stood among them, an inkstain of black in a riot of color, face hard but calm as she gripped the shoulders of a dust-covered teenaged Durast, speaking slowly but firmly to him. His eyes, huge and white against his gray face, never left her face. Students and soldiers alike crowded around her, desperate for something solid amidst the chaos. Heart pounding, Alina scrunched her eyes closed, forcing the tears back.

I need to be strong, she thought. Like the Darkling. I need to be strong for all of them.

“Alina?” The Darkling was suddenly right there, one gloved hand on her back, and Alina couldn’t help but reach for her, her will to be brave caved in as quickly as it had come at the sight of sure safety in the Darkling’s hold. The Darkling’s eyes widened at the gesture, but she accepted Alina from Yevgeny anyway.

“I’m scared,” Alina said, her voice cracking.

“I know,” the Darkling said softly, settling Alina on her hip. “Is this blood? Are you alright?”

“Semyon was shot,” Yevgeny informed her. “Irakliy rushed him to the infirmary.”

“There was an intruder in the children’s dormitory?” There was a savage edge to the Darkling’s voice, and Alina pressed closer into her, overwhelmed by the sudden change from gentle to rageful.

“A Fjerdan.”

“Like in the Workshops.”

“Moya soverenya—”

“Go,” she said. “Ivan and Abhay are searching room by room, with the rest of your unit. Take Unit Three and start searching the grounds. No one leaves this room until we know it’s safe.”

“I thought here was safe,” Alina whispered.

The Darkling squeezed her so tightly it almost hurt.

Semyon didn’t make it.

Those were the words the Darkling said to her two days later, sitting her down on a divan in the Darkling’s office and kneeling on the floor before her.

“I’m sorry, Alina,” she said. “The Healers did everything they could.” She pressed Alina’s hands, closed in white-knuckled fists, against her forehead, as if she were praying before an icon. “I’m so sorry.”

Alina just sat there, staring blankly at the Darkling’s face.

She knew what death was, of course. She understood that every mirror in the Little Palace had been covered with black cloth and each clock stopped for the two Fabrikators who had been killed by the bomb planted against the outer wall of their workshop, to prevent their spirits from lingering among the living. Death, she knew, was what had taken her parents, with their blurry faces and forgotten voices. And now death had taken Semyon. Alina understood this, in its factual terms.

But Semyon’s death meant he was never coming back. She was never going to see him again. He wasn't going to smile or laugh or give her his dinner rolls, he wasn't going to wrestle with Yakov or play knucklebones with Nadia. His absence was immense, and it was horrible. This was what Alina couldn’t wrap her head around.

“Why?” Alina gasped, trying not to cry. “Wh-why did this happen?”

The Darkling considered her question for a moment. The flat light, or perhaps exhaustion, had turned her eyes from their usual quartz gray to the dull color of gravel. She was wearing a kefta Alina had never seen before, black embroidered on black, and her long hair was tied up, which made her look even more severe than usual.

“We were attacked by Fjerdan drüskelle,” she said. “Grisha hunters. This happened because they hate us, Alina. It's the only motive they need.”

“But Semyon was just a kid,” she protested. “He didn't do anything.”

“They don't care.” the Darkling looked away, eyebrows coming sharply together in a scowl. “They don't think we're people.”

This was too much. Alina squirmed out of the Darkling’s grasp and jumped off the divan, walking an aimless circle around the Darkling’s great war table.

“I know it's hard to hear, Alina,” the Darkling said, following her. “But it's the truth. This is what Grisha face every day, outside these walls…and sometimes within them, too.”

“Is that why the Second Army exists?” Alina asked weakly, tears streaming silently down her face. “To fight Grisha hunters?”

“The Second Army exists to protect Ravka,” the Darkling said, “and the Grisha.”

“Well, where were they?” Alina spat, kicking the table. It was an unfair question. She knew it was unfair, but she said it anyway. She was angry, and the anger had nowhere to go. And the Darkling—she had promised!

“I don't have any good answers for you,” the Darkling admitted, which made Alina angrier.

“I want Syoma,” she cried, covering her face.

“I know.” Opening her eyes, Alina found the Darkling crouched near her, though not close enough to touch. The Darkling looked impossibly sad, drained of what little color she had, like she had become a shadow of herself.

“I’m sorry,” Alina sniffled, walking forward and wrapping her arms around the Darkling’s shoulders. The Darkling stiffened, as if surprised by the motion, but still hefted her up and returned to the divan, sitting heavily with Alina in her lap.

“Whatever for?”

“I wasn't strong. I couldn't keep Syoma safe.”

“That's not your responsibility yet, Alina. It’s mine.”

“But you weren't there. One day you’ll die, too, won't you?” Alina sniffled again. “And then it will be my job.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the Darkling said, pressing her bare fingers against the nape of Alina’s neck. The familiar buzzing-warmth of the Darkling’s amplifying power flowed through her, but it didn’t reach the cold grief in her chest. “Not for many more decades. I will take care of you.”

“Everyone dies eventually,” Alina replied. “Even Grisha. Even Darklings.”

“That doesn't mean I’m going to die anytime soon.”

“I don't want you to ever die. I don't want anyone to die.”

“That's not an option,” the Darkling replied, in that gentle way she liked to say horrible things.

“When I’m stronger, will I be able to keep people from dying?” Alina asked, face pressed into the embroidered shoulder of the Darkling’s kefta.

“You will be able to keep others from hurting them,” the Darkling said, after a beat of silence.

“So how do I do it?” Alina raised her head, looking right into the Darkling’s eyes. “How do I become as strong as you?”

The Darkling gave a long exhale, eyes growing darker and duller. “You train,” she said. “With someone who is more powerful.”

The very next day, Alina stood outside of the stout little hut on the far edge of the lake. The hut was no larger than the smallest house in the village around Duke Keramsov’s estate, and had no windows, not even in the door. Yevgeny opened it for her, and she was buffeted with a wave of hot, dry air.

“Close the door, girl,” snapped a voice from inside. “You’re letting the heat out.”

Alina hauled the door closed, casting the hut’s single room into almost total darkness, save for the light of the fire roaring in the central stove. A woman in a dark kefta sat in a chair as close to the stove as one might dare, the faint light from the flames flickering over her black hair. Alina thought she must have been an ancient crone, older than even Ana Kuya, until she stepped closer, and the woman lifted her head to squint at her. She did not look much older than the Darkling, if that. Her eyes were as black as her hair, stark against the smooth porcelain of her skin. So this was the mysterious Baghra, the woman who had made the Darkling press her lips together in a thin line before she’d spoken her name.

“Hello, little Sun Summoner,” she sneered.

“Hi,” Alina replied politely, standing up straight with her hands behind her back as Diana expected her to. “My name’s Alina.”

“I know what your name is.” Baghra picked up a cane and tapped the chair across from her. “Sit.”

Alina sat.

“Call the light,” Baghra ordered. Alina obeyed, casting strange shadows on the walls of the hut with her little sun.

“Again. Make it brighter, faster. Again. Faster.”

Alina bit her bottom lip in concentration, the orb between her hands almost burning-hot as she pushed it to be brighter and brighter. Remembering one of Semyon’s motions, she tugged her hands down in an arc around it, feeling the light stretch and expand. She looked up at Baghra, expecting approval.

The cane came down hard on her palm, making her yelp.

“Ow!” They were plunged back into blackness as Alina released the light, and the cane came down again, somehow finding her hand in the dark. “What did I do?!”

“You stopped summoning,” Baghra snapped. “You should have command over your light in all circumstances, little Summoner. One day you may be injured, and alone, and you will have no one to defend you but yourself. No Diana, no Oprichniki, no Darkling…just you and your power. What good will you be if a little swat makes you lose your concentration?”

When they hurt Semyon, you didn’t do anything, a voice murmured in Alina’s mind. You were too busy being scared. Useless.

“I…”

“Try again,” Baghra interrupted.

The rest of the hour passed in much the same fashion, until Alina’s hands were covered in welts. Alina sat as stiffly as she could, tamping down on the urge to rub her hands to soothe the pain or otherwise hide them in the sleeves of her kefta. With Ana Kuya, such a motion would have just gotten her beaten again, and Alina had already realized that Baghra was of much the same mind.

“How long have you been here?” Baghra asked.

“Three months,” Alina replied, voice cracking.

“Three months, and this is all you’re capable of?”

“Diana said I had learned a lot.” Alina looked down at her knees, feeling tears well up in her eyes. Had Diana lied to her, just to make her feel better?

“At this rate, you won’t be good for anything more than parlor tricks,” Baghra scoffed. “You are the Darkling’s investment, girl. Do you want to embarrass her before the King?”

“No!”

“Then fix it. Next time I see you, you had better be capable of something of use, or I will tell the Darkling to take you back to whatever hole she found you in and wait for a half-decent Sun Summoner to come around. Understood?”

Alina nodded jerkily, wasting no time to flee the claustrophobic hut. Yevgeny’s eyes widened when she stepped outside, taking in her sweaty, tear-stained appearance.

“Do you want to go back to your room?” he asked after they had stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Alina nodded again, chin trembling. Yevgeny scooped her up and carried her back into the Little Palace, past what seemed like an endless number of Second Army soldiers in their heavy corecloth keftas, guarding their only home with tight, angry faces. Everywhere there were reminders of the attack on the Little Palace and its victims. The two Fabrikators who had been killed in the attack on the workshops had been buried that morning, but Semyon’s death yesterday meant the Grisha were still very recently bereaved.

Alina felt a fresh wave of misery rise up within her. Baghra was right. She was useless, utterly useless, while the Darkling was trying to handle something much bigger and much more important than her. How could she demand the Darkling’s attention, or a space in her life? She was nothing more than a scrawny orphan from Keramzin. She wasn’t gifted like Nadia, or tall and strong like Yakov, or clever and funny like Semyon. She was worthless.

Yevgeny set her down outside her room and she didn’t have a voice to thank him, closing the door behind her and curling up in her bed with her boots still on. Her entire chest was burning from the urge to cry, but she couldn’t find it in herself to let the tears come and reveal her misery and weakness so obviously. At Keramzin, crying about one’s treatment was seen as ungratefulness, and just got you treated worse. Besides, there was no reason for her to cry, really. Baghra was no worse than Ana Kuya on her bad days. Alina had just gotten too used to bright, smiling Diana and quiet Yevgeny. Too used to the Darkling’s dignified, gentle patience.

And what would the Darkling think if she saw Alina like this after one afternoon with the Little Palace’s best instructor? Baghra’s words would come true in a second; she’d see how weak Alina was, how useless, and send her back to Keramzin, where only Mal would be happy to see her. If he was happy to see her. If he wasn’t, Alina would have nothing, and no one. Not one person in the universe who wanted her around.

Chapter Text

In the bowels of the Little Palace, the Darkling had unleashed her Corporalki on the captured drüskelle.

In charge was Abhay, enraged by the brazen nature of the attack and the startling sensation that it could only have happened if they had been betrayed by someone within these very walls. The youngest of her favorites by several decades, he was as eager to please her as to drag every last agonized syllable of confession from these drüskelle, and the Darkling needed that kind of efficiency. He’d recruited Irakliy to help him in the interrogation, the Heartrender who had tried so desperately to save little Semyon, who was now—like the rest of them—burning for revenge.

And revenge would come. As soon as they had a little more information.

The Darkling’s centuries of experience told her conventional torture—those brutish, bloody tactics of the otkazat’si—rarely yielded useful information. Her Heartrenders had instead spent decades developing ways to alter a prisoner’s physical state without spilling a drop of blood. A way to make even the most reticent witch hunter start talking.

Abhay, arms still crossed, extended the first two fingers of his right hand, and the drüskelle tied to the chair in front of them let out a distressed huff as his face turned pink, then red.

“No need to be scared, my friend,” Abhay said with a smile, his Fjerdan refined and perfect. “I’m not doing anything your body hasn’t experienced before. Your heart beats much faster than this when you run, or swim in those freezing lakes of yours.”

“You’re an abomination,” the Fjerdan snarled.

Abhay glanced at Irakliy, their signal to have Irakliy exert his own influence over the drüskelle’s black heart, slowing it as Abhay tried to speed it up. The sensation was absolutely nauseating, not to mention painful, and the Darkling watched with distant pleasure as the murderer before her groaned in pain, his dirty blonde hair falling into his face as he squirmed. His eyes met hers, somehow finding her in the darkness outside his cell where she’d settled down to watch, and she saw, finally, a glimmer of fear within him.

“Careful not to kill him, Abhay,” she said, in Suli.

“Of course, moya soverenya.”

“Play with him a little longer,” she instructed. “Make him feel helpless.”

Beside her, Ivan made a dissatisfied noise. He was restless. The dust had scarcely settled in the Workshops when he’d started begging her to send him north with a strike force to any of the known drüskelle bases along the border.

“I will burn it to the ground with everyone inside and plant your banner in the ruins,” he’d said, gripping her arm tightly. This attack against their home had shaken him more than usual, because Fedyor had been caught in the blast. It was the Darkling who had sent him to collect samples of the Fabrikators’ latest work improving the Grisha corecloth from which they made their bulletproof keftas. He’d suffered a broken arm, a relatively minor injury, but a stark reminder that he might have lost his life had he been any closer. The entire ordeal had Ivan baying for blood, but the Darkling had carefully peeled his hand off her and told him to be patient.

Ivan’s patience was in short supply on a good day. In the near century of Ivan’s service to the Darkling, the Little Palace had never been attacked, and no child of the Second Army had ever lost their life to a drüskelle. She didn’t have it in her to be annoyed by his frustration. She felt that same anger in herself, with herself, every time she remembered Alina’s stricken face when she’d told her Semyon was dead.

The Darkling was no stranger to bouts of self-loathing, but this wave had come on particularly strong, impossible to compartmentalize when her traitorous mind lingered so constantly on her young and heartbroken charge.

She had promised Alina the Little Palace was safe, and she had failed to keep that promise. So when Alina had demanded to learn faster she’d felt compelled to send her to Baghra, the woman who had made the Darkling the Summoner she was. Alina was a survivor, beginning to realize the world the Grisha lived in. If the Darkling could only nurture that righteous anger, steer it in the right direction…they would be unstoppable.

If Alina didn't hate her and see her as a failure for being unable to keep Grisha safe.

“Got an opinion, Ivan?”

The Darkling blinked, surprised to see Abhay in front of her, scowling.

“This is taking too long,” Ivan snapped. “Three days have passed and we still haven’t responded. We’ve done nothing but make this animal sweat!”

“That animal is going to tell us who sent him and his allies in Ravka who got him in to the Little Palace.”

“When? Tonight? Tomorrow? In a month? News will reach the Ice Court any day now, and the longer we remain silent, the more they’ll be tempted to send more drüskelle!”

“The only thing you’ll achieve running blind into the Tsibeya is get yourself killed. Are you that eager to have the Darkling bury you?”

The Darkling rubbed her forehead with her pointer finger, trying to relieve the pressure in her skull. Exhaustion had lowered her defenses, and she found herself grimacing at the unwelcome mental image of lowering her loyal Ivan’s coffin into the ground.

“Are you so eager to keep cowering in this dungeon, trying to wring information from a cockroach?”

“I am following orders!”

“You are wasting everyone’s time!”

A lance of pain through her skull at the raised voices. Gritting her teeth, the Darkling brought her hands together, calling on the shadows of the room to answer her. A subtle manipulation was enough to make the darkness rumble, loud enough to silence her arguing Grisha.

“Ivan,” she said. “Abhay. Now is not a good time to test my patience.”

“Moya soverenya,” they both mumbled, appropriately contrite.

“We cannot afford to preoccupy ourselves with revenge entirely,” she continued. “One or ten or a hundred dead drüskelle will not bring back our brothers and sisters. Our priority is to uncover the weaknesses in the Little Palace’s defenses and make her impenetrable. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, moya soverenya.”

“Good.” She went to speak again, but her heart seized up in her chest, a wave of alien grief washing over her and leaving her gasping for air.

“My lady?” Abhay laid a hand on her shoulder, very nearly startling her.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Tired, as we all are.” She needed to get out of this dank, wet dungeon. “I have other things to attend to. Don’t kill each other.”

“I can escort you back to your quarters,” Ivan offered, brow furrowed.

“I want you to stay here and help Abhay and Irakliy,” she replied. “Don't look at me like that, both of you. I am perfectly fine.”

Turning away from their confused, worried faces, she made for the stairs, emerging in the quiet hallway behind the Oprichniki barracks. That’s where she nearly slammed into Yevgeny, still in his winter coat and with the flaps of his ushanka turned down. She had not seen much of him since she’d assigned him as Alina’s personal guard. He was good with children, being the eldest of a family of ten, and absolutely ruthless.

“My lady,” he exclaimed. “I was looking for you.”

She sighed, head still pounding. “What is it, Sergeant?”

Yevgeny cleared his throat, his urgency vanishing. “I…it’s Alina, my lady.”

“Is she alright? Where is she? Who did you leave guarding her?”

“She’s safe, ma’am, Kirill is watching her. I thought I should inform you that,” he cleared his throat again, “Baghra made her cry.”

Of course she had. Baghra was horrible.

And yet the Darkling’s legs were already taking her towards Alina’s room.

She threw open the door without knocking and found the girl curled up on her bed, a little lump of Summoner blue amidst the white sheets. The terrible ache in her chest intensified by a thousandfold just looking at her, and she was paralyzed for a moment, hand still on the doorknob.

“Alina?” she called uncertainly. Alina’s body jerked, startled, and she leapt to her feet, tugging her kefta down and standing ram-rod straight next to her bed. Her face was splotchy and red, her chin trembling uncontrollably when she met the Darkling’s baffled gaze. She looked down, hiding her face.

The Darkling gave a final glance back at Yevgeny and Kirill, a silent order to not let anyone disturb them, and shut the door behind her. Limbs leaden with anguish, she sat down on Alina’s chest of things, pushed against the foot of her bed.

“Look at me,” she said. Alina kept her eyes down. Sighing, the Darkling tugged her gloves off and reached out to touch her, laying her hand against Alina’s sun-warm cheek and turning the girl’s head until she had no choice but to look at her. There were tears in Alina’s eyes, but she was holding her breath to keep from crying, her entire body held so tense that the Darkling couldn’t help but admire the girl’s dedication, resisting even the rush of certainty and calm brought by the Darkling’s amplifying touch.

“Tell me what she said,” the Darkling prompted softly.

“N-nothing. It’s nothing.”

“I’ve known Baghra a very long time, Alina. She says many things, and they are never nothing.”

Alina inhaled sharply, a shudder going through her.

“She said that, um,” she choked out, “if I didn’t get any better, she’d tell you to send me back to Keramzin.”

The Darkling saw red. She gave a light tug on Alina’s kefta, all the girl needed to jump into her arms. It was several more breaths before the Darkling could think again, her reasoning wiped away by the surge of impotent rage, and she realized abruptly that Alina was now bawling, her face pressed against the Darkling’s neck. She moved Alina’s hair aside and laid her hand on the nape of Alina’s neck, relying on her most dangerous, guarded gift to soothe her.

“Breathe,” the Darkling murmured. “It’s alright. I’m not going to send you back to Keramzin, solnyshka. no matter what that old woman tries to tell me.”

Alina couldn’t reply, but she pressed even closer, somehow, gripping a fistful of the Darkling’s kefta. The Darkling felt awkward, graceless as she rubbed Alina’s back. She wondered if it would ever come naturally to her; Baghra had certainly never held her as she cried, so she was forced to imitate what she had observed elsewhere, a stumbling pantomime she could only hope Alina actually found comforting.

“There is no one else in the world like you, Alina,” she continued, “and I have been waiting a very long time for you. The last thing I’m going to do is throw you away.”

“Promise?” Alina rasped, so small and so warm—so filled with sunlight—against the Darkling’s chest. Her closeness, the Darkling found, kept the despair at bay.

“I promise,” the Darkling said. She shifted to look at Alina’s face, wiped the tears from her splotchy cheeks with her thumbs. “One day, you and I are going to change the world.”

The Darkling did not let Kirill accompany her on the walk from the Little Palace to Baghra’s hut. The wind and the cold bit at her ears, a reminder that she had not grabbed her ushanka before stepping outside, but one which was lost in the burn of rage in her lungs.

She wrenched the door open, the wave of dry, hot air feeling like a slap, and slammed it shut behind her.

“I’ve half a mind to make you step outside and do that again,” Baghra said from her usual spot by the fire.

The Darkling whipped her head around. “I’ve half a mind to throw you out of the Little Palace!”

Baghra raised her eyebrows, and the Darkling’s black hatred grew as a small, childish part of her recoiled at the motion.

“How dare you tell Alina I would send her back to Keramzin,” she snarled. “What is wrong with you? She’s seven!”

“Oh, please.”

The shadows in the already-dim hut leapt up the walls, crawling along the low ceiling like many-tentacled sea monsters.

“I sent her to you for practice,” the Darkling hissed. “Not to be tortured.”

“Do you want her to be spoiled, or do you want her to be useful?”

“Her strength will come in time. I want her to be disciplined, and confident. Not terrified I’m going to abandon her.”

Baghra stretched her legs out. “Don’t tell me you’ve started playing house.”

The Darkling glowered at her, refusing to justify that with a response. Baghra gave her vicious laugh, standing, her cane tapping lightly on the ground.

‘You’ve grown fond of her, haven’t you?” Baghra jeered. “That sweet, orphaned girl.”

“Watch it,” the Darkling warned, feeling as taut and dangerous as a drawn bow.

“Do you really think you’re going to win her love by pretending to be gentle, and tender? I know you. You’ll run out of patience soon enough.”

“I’m out of patience with you,” she fumed.

“Of course you are. That’s always been your downfall, girl. You don’t have the patience. Certainly not to be a mother, to Alina or anyone else.”

I don’t want to be her mother, the Darkling thought, but something about the accusation razed her, like a fire razed a forest, leaving charred trunks and ash in its place. She was, all at once, impossibly empty. The shadow of something real, which she could only dream to become.

“Sooner or later,” Baghra continued, “you’ll run out of that gentleness, and Alina will find out what you really are.”

“And what am I?” the Darkling barked. “A monster? An abomination?”

“You tell me, General Kirigan.”

She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “I am what I have had to become, to keep our kind safe. Alina will understand.”

“Yes, because children are so understanding.”

“More than many adults are,” the Darkling growled.

“And do you think she’ll understand when you tell her who you truly are? Your real age, and how many times you’ve faked your death? Will she still understand when you tell her who created the Shadow Fold? When you tell her the volcra were once human, until you came along?” She tipped her head. “No. You haven’t gotten that far.”

“She is seven years old.”

“With all of eternity ahead of her.” Baghra raised her eyebrows again. “Tenderness will not prepare her for immortality. I did not raise you to be some sweet, nurturing woman following a hapless child around. I taught you to survive.”

“If we want this world to change,” the Darkling said, “we must think beyond survival.”

“The world cannot be changed, girl,” Baghra snarled, making the Darkling twitch backwards. “When will you learn?”

With a huff of life-ending frustration, the Darkling turned and yanked the door open again.

“Never,” she threw back over her shoulder. “You’ll bury me before I give up like you have.”

She didn’t want for Baghra’s response, storming off into the woods that hugged the lake. The sharp scent of cedar and pine in the air was a gentle prompt to breathe, and she leaned against a slender larch to do just that, eyes screwed tightly shut. The Etherealki cadets of the upper school were practicing in the summoning pavilions, and the faint sounds of their laughter floated through the trees to her, the only noise beyond the whisper of the trees and the creak of the snow shifting under her weight.

That old bitch is going to kill me from stress before the Fjerdans get a chance, she thought, so drained the idea of walking back to the Little Palace seemed an impossible task.

But she had work to do.

Sighing, she trudged back up the hill to the Little Palace, where Abhay and Ivan were seemingly waiting for her.

“News?” she asked, letting them follow her towards her quarters.

“That drüskelle pig gave us the location of his base in the Tsibeya, and says there’s a contact among the Grand Palace servants who let them in,” Ivan told her, and then, “why did you go out without your hat? There’s snow in your hair.”

The Darkling ran her hands through her hair, shaking it out with a grimace. “Nevermind that. Where is this base? Is it on our side of the border?”

“It's just south of Halmhend.”

“Disputed territory, then.” The Darkling clicked her tongue. “Tell me about these contacts. What part of the Grand Palace do they work at? How did they have access to the Little Palace?”

“He said they were groundskeepers, my lady. Fedyor has already been dispatched to speak with the chamberlain, so he’ll release them to us for questioning.”

She nodded. “Good. Abhay, you and Fedyor will take lead on questioning the groundskeepers. Ivan….” She stretched her fingers out, feeling the pull of the shadows, the darkness within her.

Baghra was wrong. She was wrong about Alina, wrong about the Darkling, certainly wrong about the world. It could be changed. One way or another, she would transform it. At any cost.

“You are right,” she said. “The Fjerdans need to feel what we felt. If the only language they speak is the language of blood, then you and I will make them bleed.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Ivan said, with a grim satisfaction.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” she said. “After the funeral. Gather the best of the Etherealki and Corporalki.”

“Yes, moya soverenya.”